A Wish come True?

Running his manicured fingernails through his luscious, salt and pepper gray hair, Captain DeLeón takes a moment to laugh at himself.

A hundred men had been sent to him from the capital. A hundred good men and a hundred more to follow, with orders to travel through the Halfling strip into the Fey lands. His instructions are to form the first line of defence against the possible, Sir Briefadel led, demon incursion. To act as the protectors of the Fey Demi-goddess called Estrid, her entourage and the ‘Eternal pool’!

As a man… an admittedly vain man in his forties, he’d been sorely tempted, since having it’s existence confirmed by the Eighth-Elf; Rifkin, to travel there and search for it himself, just to sample its age retarding waters and stop the lines at the corners off his eyes spreading ever further or deeper.

Now though, despite the accuracy of the map he’s just been handed alongside his new orders, he suddenly finds himself a lot less eager. This is more like a suicide mission than an assignment. If the demon army does come via the dimensional portal beneath the magical pool, he and his two-hundred men will probably be no more to them than a bump on their path to Cottis.

The irony that he’ll almost certainly die defending a pool that he hoped would extend his life, isn’t lost on him.

Still, an order is an order and, if he’s anything, it’s a loyal soldier and he’ll do his very best to hold that line. With enough preparation time, perhaps he can even make the battle legendary and his death and the deaths of his men… costly.

Perhaps his name will live on in heroic stories, even if he himself, does not?

The worst laid plans of Hags and Witches

Leaving the glaring adventurers standing far below, as she spirals upwards through the night rain, Megarna scowls in irritation. Mallophor and Danté had been right, there had been no sign of the Elven Archer; Arowe. Worse, whoever this Dwarven War-priest replacement was, if left unchecked, he was surely going to become an ongoing problem. 

None of Viccissa’s prediction's had ever mentioned a Dwarf or Cleric being involved, and her new augur recruit; Kasandra, could only recently, give even the vaguest of information. It was as if he’d been maliciously thrown into the established flow of fate, like a large rock tossed into the stream of destiny, disrupting its proper path and, potentially, altering its final destination.

What did this mean to her Mistress’s; Hetzabah’s carefully conceived plans? What did it mean to her Mistress’s Master; Zartak’s endgame?!

On a more personal note, Megarna coldly considers how a Clerics involvement might negatively affect the quarter-century old trap she’d laid for the traitoress’s son; Fortu… 

Although, she hadn’t even known his name back then.

Suddenly reversing her frown, the old Witch cackles loudly.

“It matters not, I did as my Mistress; Hetzabah commanded and gave the Gladiator one more, final, final, final chance. The next time we meet will certainly mean his death and the deaths of all of his associates. Viccissa’s cage can remain just a… Dead end.”

Race to save Murmel!

Another looooooong and unresolved all combat session, but you’re painfully close to victory.

Will ‘is-he-or-isn’t-he-there’ Banaal be able to save his own stubborn ass?

Will ‘I’m the door!’ Fortu continue ‘Great cleaving’ through whoever/whatever advances toward him.

Will Liga Bur ever sacrifice the warm and cuddly protective cover of his nigh indestructible hound and risk actually getting injured?

Will Rifkin’s ‘Alarm stone’ ever stop its annoying shrieking?

Will Locket ever manage to hit anything with his crossbow?

Did his brothers; Ringo and Chape, go overboard by boarding over the first floor windows?

Is Deo being a good doggy and comforting poor frightened Rebecca in the attic?

With vast area spells, freakishly high Armour classes, massive damage output and incredibly high Hit points, you may just pull through…

Below are all my currently available dates over the next two months.

Check your diaries and let me know when you’re free to resolve this bloody mess of an encounter. Next session will hopefully be more talky-talky, less choppy-choppy.

October

24th  Saturday 

25th Sunday

November

7th Saturday

8th Sunday

21st Saturday 

22nd Sunday 

28th Saturday

29th Sunday 

Edit: We have an early winner!

Sunday the 25th of October. 9am start.

(I’m currently available for that date but I’ve got a possible, personal hiccup. We’ll say it’s on until/unless I say otherwise.)

Bunch of Queries

A few unknown questions came up during the last session and I mostly hand-waved them away, but now that I’ve a little more (out of game) time…

(Core book reading and internet sleuthing.)

Banaal’s almost forgotten ‘Cloak of Etherealness’.

Although it’s a magical item and requires no material components or somatic gestures, it still requires a Standard action to activate AND deactivate.

The activation command word is: ‘Otherworld’ as you raise the hood over your head.

You become both invisible, inaudible AND ethereal.

You exist simultaneously in both worlds. Gravity doesn’t affect you but momentum still does.

You can move (half base speed) in any direction; up, down, left and right etc.

You can only hear and see sixty feet, and only then in muted… tones.

Force effects spells from the material plane (such as Magic missile) can still affect you but it doesn’t work in reverse.

You can use the cloak for a total of ten minutes a day but you can break that up into ten one minute blocks.

If you ‘solidify’ inside a solid object, you take 1d6 for every five feet you’re shunted to safety.

Fighting defensively.

If you use this style, you gain +2 to your Armour Class but suffer a -4 to hit with all attacks that round. You can combine this with ‘Combat expertise’ if chosen. Henshaw exploited this tactic fanatically.

The ‘Total defence’ action.

Total Defence means putting all your effort into protecting yourself at the expense of attacking. It’s a ‘Standard action’ so you’re still able to take a single ‘Move action’. +4 to your Armour Class but not attack. You cannot combine this with ‘Combat expertise’ or ‘Fighting defensively’. You also can make no ‘Attacks of Opportunity’.

Dispel magic.

Scott/Liga Bur tried this (experience bonus) nice idea against the possession of the Red-eyed Orcs. I was impressed with the thought process AND the fact that you were actively trying to liberate the Orcish slaves.

Good job!

Sadly for you and the Orc meat puppets, this is a (Spell-like effect) deeper magic by a Creature with a caster level of twenty! This means (even if I allowed it) you’d have to beat a Thirty-one!

Holy Smite

Fourth level Cleric spell that does 4d8 damage to evil creatures and characters in 20’ radius burst AND it blinds for one round. 180’ range for centre. Will save for half damage and no blindness. Good characters are unaffected and Neutral characters take only half damage (a quarter if saved).

Cleave and Greater Cleave.

I muddied the water by adding regenerating creatures and allowing you to use the cleave action on them, with the proviso that taking them down to -10 would activate a further cleave. I was mistaken. If you down an opponent, you activate the cleave but you do not get one for killing an already downed opponent. You can target a downed opponent but killing him won’t trigger a further cleave action.

High Armour Class protects against critical hits.

With three Party ‘Armour Classes’ in the twenties, I was statistically hitting you guys about one in five attempts. I also realised on my occasional natural twenties, that even when I critical hit, I would generally miss on my ‘confirmation' hit. Meaning that a high Armour class also offers a pretty decent protection from those double and triple damage attacks!

Bardic ‘Inspire Courage’ ability.

Sadly, this bonus moral +1 applies only to Melee Attack and Damage rolls within hearing range (300’). It does not affect spells. :(

Anything else  I’ve forgotten?

Crimson Mist

As the sun dips down below the mountains and the veil between worlds weakens, the six, deliberately dismembered, Orc bodies are swallowed up by dark shadows and the pools of sticky blood start to stir. The decapitated torsos and severed limbs shudder and twitch but they’re incapable of housing any form of life now. Broken vessels beyond repair.

Instead, in silent frustration, the dark red blood rises like vapour from the useless corpses, coalescing into an unsettling red mist before slowly, deliberately, creeping up the mountain path in search of fresh hosts. 

(S)Elf Abuse

The Older Grey-Elf; Tamerlane, finally finishes his lengthy explanation, to his recently returned son, before falling silent.

“So you understand now, when I came to see your Mother's people that century-and-a-half ago, we were trying to recruit the High-Elves into attacking Theranthor. The Demon Prince, or so we thought, was semi-permanently dealt with and we’d spent the last hundred years secretly undermining the great Blue Dragon’s support and power. The Grey are more thinkers than fighters though, and we couldn’t do it alone.”

Sitting across from his Grey Elf Father, Arowe pushes his glass of wine away from him. It’s a fine, dry white, but it currently tastes like vinegar in his mouth.

“You tried to recruit the High-Elves to attack the Dragon for you, after actively defending her from them? No wonder you were thrown out of Glendorne’. It wasn’t just the man I thought was my Father who despised your people. Pretty much everyone I knew growing up in Glendorne spoke angrily about the treacherous Grey. ‘Worse than the Drow’ they’d say! Everyone except my Mother, and now, after meeting you, I fully understand why.”

Tamerlane has the grace to place his glass down, unfinished.

“There’s a greater reason why your people… Your Mother’s people hate us. We didn’t just align ourselves with Theranthor, we actively protected her. We fortified her body with our spells. We bolstered her lightning breath with our enchantments. We defended her from all attacks… Even when those attacks were from the other Elven races. She HAD to live long enough to destroy Zartak’s material plane form and drive his essence back to the Nine hells!”

Arowe finds himself scowling. He hadn’t realised until he’d arrived at the mountaintop city of Falutin, how much prejudice against the Grey Elves had permeated his Sylvan heart.

“There HAD to have been a better way?!”

Tamerlane just shakes his head.

“You’ve seen the Tapestry. We had no choice. If the High Elves hadn’t tried to attack her directly while Zartak was still active on this plane, we wouldn’t have been forced to counter-attack them in Theranthor’s defence.”

Arowe bristles.

“It was years before I was born, but I heard the stories. Your people killed hundreds of my people! Uncles, Aunts and Cousins!”

It’s Tamerlane’s turn to get angry.

“Your people?! You’re not ‘Your people’. You’re half ‘My people’. They attacked us! Killed us! I am sorry for all the deaths… On both sides. Unlike the Orcs and the Humans, there are too few of us to spare in unnecessary battles.”

Arowe nods as he calms himself down.

“My Mother used to say that it was a consequence of our long lifespans; Elven children are few and far between.”

Tamerlane mirrors Arowe’s nod.

“Exactly right. Your Mother was always clever… for a High-Elf. That was why, as a race, we had to be practical in our decisions.”

Despite the unconscious but obvious insult aimed at his Mother and the High-elves in general, Arowe smiles ironically at his Father’s assertion.

“Your ‘practical’ decision has come back to haunt you now though, hasn’t it?”

Tamerlane’s grey eyes cast downward, just for a moment.

“Unfortunately, despite our plan succeeding and the Great Dragon; Theranthor defeating the Demon Prince in their final battle. It has made us enemy number two on Zartak’s hit list. Only the relentless Orcan hordes angered him more. It’s almost certainly why he’s using them as meat puppets now to herald his return.”

Cometh the Darkness

Grott-Warren is much as you’d expect of a mining town, even a silver mining town, other than the fact that it’s (almost) completely deserted.

Despite following his parents into the clergy, Banaal was still a Dwarf and all Dwarves knew mining, deep, deep in their bones. These mines are obviously still paying out and this town should be bustling with life.

The town is small though, with the miners generally living beside their current ‘live’  mines and only coming into town for entertainment and supplies.

Now though, from what the evidence shows, everyone, other than the little girl; Rebecca, is likely dead. The coal in the blacksmith’s forge has cooled to warm ash, showing that it’s not been tended in days and almost every ground floor door and window is smashed in. And, most obviously, despite the absence of bodies, there’s blood literally everywhere! 

From the gruesome half-eaten hand you found on the first of the Red-eyes Orc, you suspect what vile purpose the Human and Dwarven corpses are being used for.

It’s still two hours before sunset though, giving you all plenty of time to roughly re-secure the lower floor of the ‘Silver Cave inn’. There’s piles of fresh timber in the general store supply shed, plus hammers and plenty of nails. 

After all the broken furniture is cleared away, everyone could easily fit within the stone walls of the, could be re-fortified, tavern, even Banaal’s faithful mule; Murmel could squeeze in.

There’s also coins in the till and two locked safes in the general store and empty guard house. There’s even several abandoned crates loaded up with silver ore!

Banaal can’t help feel the pull of the silver in his Dwarven soul.

The only other obvious option left open to them is to follow the multiple drag tracks leading away from the town. After a brief search, it becomes apparent that they all converge together into just four bigger trails, each one, presumably, leading to a separate mine

It’s hard to guess the total numbers involved but it’s likely scores… Possibly even  a hundred of them. A daunting number, especially considering the soon to come darkness.

Before she falls asleep beside him, the town’s lone survivor; Rebecca answers all the questions Banaal asks of her, but she’s just six-years-old and a lot of what’s happened is beyond her experience and understanding. It’s obvious though, that her parents locked her in the tavern attic, before they were killed, in a desperate attempt to save her.

Now her tiny, traumatised life is in the hands of the adventurers and, even if they survive this night, it’s still four more nights and days to Chaval; fortified mountaintop capital city of Agentia.

Grayeux Tapestry

Standing in the large, magically illuminated circular room, side by side with his newly discovered Grey-Elf Father, Arowe examines the section of the vast tapestry indicated. The whole tableau is about eight feet tall but is sewn into a hoop-like circle, covering everything except the single entrance. From start to finish, the mostly monochrome tableau must stretch out over several hundred yards.

“What is this place?”

Tamerlane places a reassuring hand on his son’s well-muscled, bow-strengthened shoulder.

“This chamber is called ‘The Circle of Time’. The tapestry was woven by a group of our women over a millennia ago. Women obsessed with their task… Possessed by it, some say. It shows the history… And future of my…of our people.”

Arowe draws his keen eyes back to the tapestry.

“So what exactly is it that I’m looking at?”

Tamerlane tilts his elegant, silver haired head to one side.

“Do you not recognise your pink shirted self?”

Looking again, Arowe’s eyebrows shoot up at the rare splash of colour.

“Yes, that’s me and my friends, but I’ve never fought those weird six-legged panther creatures before…”

And looking further along.

“And I’ve never crossed a river on a burning barge either!”

His, recently reunited with, Father nods. 

“These battles were fated to happen and yet, somehow they didn’t… At least not to you. You were never meant to come here. We were never meant to have met and yet, for some unknown reason, the future’s been disrupted.”

Slightly confused, Arowe pulls a quizzical expression.

“Is that what the first Grey Elf meant when he said ‘I shouldn’t be here’?”

The older, Grey Elf nods. 

“You being here disrupts the grand scheme of what’s meant to happen and what’s not. Although I am glad of this chance to see you, I fear your presence, in a place you were never destined to see, will have long term ramifications on both the Grey Elves and the future of Fissa.”

Running to the end of the tapestry, Arowe comes to the final scene; A huge demon leading a vast army of red-eyed Orcs.

“Do we win?”

Tamerlane unhurriedly catches up.

“As you can see, the tapestry’s predictions are coming to an end, and for the first time in a millennium, we literally have no idea what’s going to happen.”

Moral and Actual Bankruptcy

“What do you mean ‘Danté’s dead’?!”

The two old men bristle at each-other, each one blaming the other for the far away failure of a third old man.

“Exactly as it sounds. Our secret deal with the Assassin has ended in abject failure.”

Dunning and Kruger have never particularly liked each-other or had any respect for the other’s opinions. Both men originally sought the Stowanian crown for themselves and then, after Urdurel’s peace offer, both men thought that they’d be the first choice to be his named successor in place of his murdered daughter and disavowed son. 

It’s fifty years later now though, fifty years of weaselly sycophancy and slyly currying favour. Decades of promoting their own self interest, while actively undermining each-other. Despite both men holding positions of great influence and prestige within the country, second only to Lord Urdurel himself, that promise of absolute power is still, frustratingly, beyond either of their reach.

The initial speaker; Dunning, whispers a second question.

“Do they know we were behind the attack at the border?”

Kruger purses his already wrinkled lips.

“No. No, I don’t think so. Danté’s association with the Witches is smokescreen enough.”

Both old men fall silent for a moment before Kruger continues.

“If we don’t find a way to stop Urdurel, he’s going to bankrupt the whole Kingdom. The army is swelling to a size that the realm can ill afford to pay for long and he’s sent those adventurers off to offer full payment for that ridiculous prison tower, plus interest, to the Gnomes of Ambergis!”

Dunning responds with an equally bleak tone.

“Poison’s failed repeatedly and, unless we find another way to… stop him, there’ll soon be nothing left for either of us to inherit, even if those accursed demons are beaten back.”

Not Small - Father Away

Sitting in his oddly perfect but dull chamber, Arowe is startled by a sharp knock from outside. Despite the general condescension he’s received from the Grey Elves, they’ve treated him… cordially… mostly, and he’s felt safe at least. Rather than being a prisoner, the lock on his private chamber door is, reassuringly, on the inside.

Standing up, Arowe walks slowly to the barred entrance and slides back the bolt, before drawing open the door. Outside, he finds himself eye to eye with a thin but handsome Grey Elf, perhaps an inch taller and a century or so older than himself.

“It’s gratifying to see you inherited both my height and your Mother’s beauty.”

Arowe takes a step back further into his room. He’d come all this way, primarily to enlist the Grey Elves into the coming war, but also to discover his true ancestry. He hadn’t expected to meet the man so quickly though and felt somewhat unprepared.

“You’re my real Father?”

Looking the Grey-Elven man up and down, Arowe takes in the slender but athletic frame and well defined jawline. It’s like gazing into an unfunhouse mirror, where the colour and joy had been almost completely drained out of the reflection.

After a long pause, in which both men assess each-other, the Grey Elf claiming to be his Father, speaks.

“Look at us. Look at you. Can there be any doubt? Despite your name and title, your bloodline is as much Grey than High.”

Arowe instinctively moves forward to hug the tall Elf in front of him but stops short, as the other Elf’s response isn’t inviting. Instead, he gestures for his… Father to come in and sit down.

“Why was I not told of this before? Why didn’t you claim me? Why did I have to endure the contempt of my… High Elf… Father…”

Arowe falters.

“I’m sorry. This is quite unsettling. I don’t seem to have the vocabulary needed.”

The slightly older Grey Elf reaches out his fine boned hand and places it reassuringly onto his son’s.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. Allow me to fill in a few of the blanks. My name is Tamerlane, and the last time I saw your Mother; Lissomny, was the day you were born.”

Another uncomfortable silence settles over the two men, until Arowe eventually breaks it.

“Why?”

Tamerlane sighs.

“I was an ambassador for my people, looking to recruit the High Elves to our cause, but when I was introduced to your Mother, I was instantly smitten. As you know though, romantic relationships between our species is forbidden. That said, Lissomny and I would have braved the prejudice if the High Elf council hadn’t decided to break ties with the Grey. Not just break off diplomatic relations but to outright condemn us. I was driven out of Glendorne and your Mother, as a High-born Elf of the city, had no choice but to remain.”

Arowe takes in the story with a puzzled look.

“But you said you saw me when I was born?”

Tamerlane continues.

“I secretly stayed in communication with your Mother but she’d already settled on a practical plan moving forward. Despite my objections, she married a grasping minor High Elf noble, to give you a chance of a good life. I think she hoped that your Grey heritage wouldn’t present itself quite so obviously though.”

The handsome Grey Elf falls silent again for a moment.

“I slipped into the city unseen and made it to your Mother’s bedchamber. You were asleep in the cradle next to her. She let me hold you but insisted that her plan was the correct one and she was already married. Was this… Filligren not even a little good to you?”

Arowe twists his mouth, trying to find something kind to say about the cruel and petty man who he’d thought had been his Father. Tamerlane spares him the grief though.

“Lissomny assured me that it was all for the best, but I see now that I should have fought harder for you. Fought harder to be in your life. I’m so sorry… my son.”

Eternally Ancient

Lord Urdurel’s hand trembles as he gulps down his morning goblet of the magical Fey water and he feels it literally wash away the weight of the previous day. As an added bonus, the water is so pure and so clear, any attempt at poisoning it have, so far, proved impossible.

At almost a hundred years old, his eyes aren’t what they were and he has to stretch out his arms to focus on the crepey, liver-spotted skin of his boney hands.

To live endlessly as a feeble and arthritic old man? To exist eternally but in constant pain? To endure day after day, week after week, month after month, without any hope of finding love again or fathering more children?

Eternal youth is a blessing, but eternal old-age?

Placing the clear, crystal goblet down on his bedside dresser, Lord Urdurel stiffly clambers out of his bed with just one resolve.

“This doesn’t have to be forever. I just have to survive long enough to protect my kingdom, my legacy and my people.”

(S)Elf Respect

Standing in the austere stone hall, waiting to be received by the Elder Lord’s of Falutin, Arowe fusses with the now frayed cuffs and collar of his (long passed its best) pink shirt. Despite his extremely long lifespan, he’s never been the most patient of Elves.

He’d only arrived at the Grey Elven fortress a day ago but he’s already been surprised by what he’s seen and experienced.

After spending his youth physically looking down on all his Elven peers and then, as he grew older and taller, his elders, Arowe is amazed to find himself of a ‘normal’ height in this Elven stronghold. Even the women are only a few inches shorter by average. Their style and manner however are decidedly different from his own upbringing. His flamboyant pink shirt, despite being dulled by months of hard travelling, is still garish compared to the, well-tailored but deadly dull, design of their clothes. In fairness though, the Grey Elves’ pale skin, silver hair and flat personalities match their dress sense seamlessly.

He’d also worked out that the sniggering cry of ‘Hey-boy’ wasn’t a call to attention, but actually an insult term aimed at his mixed Elven heritage; Half High and half Grey. For whatever reason, Elven species interbreeding with other Elven species was viewed with more than a certain level of measured scorn. What was the phrase he’d heard repeatedly in older childhood, when members of the other Elven races visited Glendorne?

‘Keep your hands to yourselves, when you’re with the other types of Elves.’

Eventually, the overly large, double doors swing open and a silent underling ushers him into the hall of the Grey Elders.

Walking in, Arowe senses their judging eyes boring down upon him and he feels, every inch, the half-breed his ‘adoptive’ Father despised so much.

Arowe finds himself standing alone, centre stage in some sort of brightly lit court, with a circle of five austere Grey Elves seated high above, literally and metaphorically looking down on him.

After the servant backs out and closes the large doors behind him, a steady voice rings down from one of them.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Squinting up through the spotlights, Arowe attempts to identify the speaker of that odd opening statement and braves an answer.

“I was sent by Estrid of the Fey. She told me that my Father… My real Father might be here. She also said that your help will be vital in the coming demonic invasion.”

Another voice barks out from above. A woman this time.

“You are young, but perhaps old enough to remember the Great Dragon’s reign. As a member of the High Elves, you’ll probably have a strong opinion on the choice the Grey made in supporting Theranthor.”

Arowe nods. His Father… Adoptive Father; Filigren had hated the Grey Elves, ‘Blood traitors’  he’d called them. They’d actually petitioned the High Elves to join the ancient Dragon; Theranthor in battle against the Demon; Zartak. While all the other Elven races were fighting both enemies on two fronts, the Grey went out of their way to protect the Blue tyrant and in turn, they were protected by her.

Yet another voice joins the conversation.

“Yes, we aided the great and evil Blue Dragon. I think it wouldn’t be too arrogant to say that we actively and effectively turned the tide of the war in her favour.

Arowe has heard the argument before. The Grey had apparently sent emissaries to all the Elven races, asking them to side with the Great Blue Dragon, but all of them, from the Wood to the High, even to the shadowy Drow, refused. A choice between two monstrous tyrants, wasn’t a choice they could stomach. True Elves could never be willing slaves!

A forth voice calls out.

“It wasn’t just the other races of Elves we approached. We petitioned the Dwarves and Gnomes too. All the long lived races. You see, as long lived as we are, we could afford to be patient, to outlive and outlast our opponents, and as phenomenally long lived as a Dragon is, they are still, ultimately, mortal. We could just wait, the already ancient; Theranthor out. Zartak on the other claw was… is an everlasting, immortal Demon…”

Calling up from his small stage, Arowe sneers.

“So you just chose the lesser of two evils?”

Finally the fifth voice rings out, but this one sounds slightly different. Male but with a hint of emotion… Pride?

“Exactly. We chose the pragmatic path, we chose to stand with the evil that could… that would die. A tyrant that we, as a people, as the long lived Grey, could survive!”

Countdown to Sundown

We finished the last session in the mountains of Agentia. Specifically, the almost entirely empty and abandoned mining town of Grott-Warren, but you suspect that whatever killed the townsfolk, will return come nightfall.

As for the next online game, I’ll only offer up two possible dates for August, so as to maintain my monthly ‘mental health’ gap between sessions. After that we have September to try. Are all of you free for the morning of any of these weekend dates?

August 

Saturday the 29th

Sunday 30th

September 

Saturday the 5th

Sunday the 6th

Saturday the 12th

Sunday the 13th

Saturday the 19th

Sunday the 20th

Saturday the 26th

Sunday the 27th

My preference is August, but as I’m only offering up one possible weekend, I’ll understand if we fall into September. 

Edit: Already down to just three weekends.

Second Edit: Thanks for all of you responding so quickly. Long (7 week) wait until our next session. I’ll see you all on Sunday morning of the 27th of September!

Meditations on Evil

It’s been several weeks since they parted ways with the adventurers but Henshaw can still feel the influence that the Bard; Rifkin and the others had on him. Seeking out Barbella one evening, he asks his friend’s help in understanding his recent confusion.

“Are we defined by our actions or our impulses? Do you think we are born with our natures set and that they’re beyond our control?”

Barbella is a clever man but not so taken to angst-ridden introspection as his friend.

“You’re asking ‘if you were born evil; if it was your fate like, and you ‘ad no control over it, would you actually be evil or just an innocent puppet of the gods and demons what made you’?” 

Henshaw tugs at his blond thatch.

“I guess so. The Human gladiator; Fortu was a lot like us. Driven by his more beastial urges, but he seemed to be the master of them… more often than not. Could we not decide to do the ‘right thing’ as easily as taking the easier, more self-gratifying… more profitable path?”

Barbella scowls.

“I don’t like your intellectual flights of fancy. If our actions are set according to predetermined nature and the gods, then they cannot be evil. I’m just a man who enjoys killing, but I didn’t choose my preferences, so surely, rationally, I shouldn’t be punished for them?”

The newly promoted Captain Henshaw breathes heavily.

“Imagine if Doberman chanced upon a buxom servant girl, wedged front half in and plump bottom out of a low, ground floor window. She can’t get no traction with her legs and her arms are too puny to push or pull herself free. She’s completely trapped and calling out for help but there’s no one around but ‘im. We both know what he’d do, but is it right just because ‘it’s his nature’?”

Sergeant Barbella grins at the thought, a couple of his gold teeth flashing briefly in the remains of the daylight.

“Nice image but yeah. Doberman would be just acting on his base animalistic instincts. He’s too dumb to consider the victim. He’d just see it as an opportunity too temptin’ to pass up.”

Henshaw straightens up in his chair.

“See, that’s exactly the problem. You and I are smart enough to empathise and understand the consequences of our actions against that poor, beautiful, fictitious girl. A dangerous imbecile like Doberman must be controlled and held to account… held in check by men like us.”

Barbella stops grinning.

“You’ve always been more concerned with rules and laws than me but I’ll always be your friend. We’ve both done bad things in our lives, terrible things, but it’s always been about surviving in this brutal, dog-eat-dog world. I don’t share in your ‘crisis of faith’ though. I’ve done what I’ve done to get by and I’m not sorry. Killing’s what I’m good at and I won’t apologise for it.”

Henshaw places a hand on the back of Barbella’s neck and pulls him forward until their foreheads are pressing together.

“Doberman’s just a dumb brute but, you and I, we’re not just products of our pasts. We’re clever enough to see what we’ve done, what we do, is wrong. Surely, we can change… If we wanted to? Become better men?”

Unkempt Contempt

Liga Bur had encountered several Orcs on his travels since being driven from his Dark-Star clan in the Broken lands, beyond the boarders of so called ‘civilisation’. Young Orcs selling themselves out as mercenaries or guards. In the Human lands, they’d been a surprising number of Half-Orcs, rejected by their tribes or raised by their Human Mothers. None of them were fully accepted by the Humans though. They’d always felt a certain level of fear and distrust.

Understandable, considering the general Orcish reputation, but unfair never-the-less. As a Halfling, raised by Orcs, Liga Bur understood their mindset. He understood their specific morality and the pride they had in their race, their tribe and their emblems.

The seven ‘Orcs’ he’d encountered today though, shook him to his core. He’d always assumed that the silent Red-Eyes that drove his Father’s Dark-Star tribe further and further into the inhospitable Dead-Lands were just one, unwaveringly evil tribe. They all wore the same dark colours with a red circle on their chests. These ones though, they looked and acted so similarly; Silent, fearless and with eyes showing no iris or pupil, just blood-red sclera, but their tribal colours and emblems didn’t match. 

Although he hadn’t recognised any of them, he’d counted at least four different tribal symbols and rather than seeming proud of them, these Orcs seemed less than indifferent to them. Contemptuous even! 

No Orc, not even ones from the lesser tribes, would behave that way.

He’d instructed his friends to dismember the, somehow not-quite-dead-or-alive bodies. Hopefully that’ll be enough to stop them rising again, like the ones who’d attacked his adoptive family so relentlessly all those many months ago.

The Gods Above and Below

“Your… supposedly unaware,‘not-so-free-willed’ vassals are becoming increasingly suspicious of your ‘heavy handed’ involvement.”

Moradin glares angrily around at the gathered gods, but while the others remain silent, it’s small Yondalla who responds calmly but firmly.

“Impossible. We have kept out touches feather light.”

The Dwarven god barks out a deep laugh.

“Feather light? Your Halfling; Liga Bur feels the weight of the world pushing down on him and the Elf; Arowe was so sure of Solonor‘s Interventions, he was deliberately attempting impossible ‘trick-shots’ just to prove himself wrong!”

The Elven god of Hunting; Solonor Thelandira, responds directly.

“He was a supremely skilful archer regardless of my help. And I sent him on a separate quest to prevent any possible cross contamination.”

Moradin turns his stare to the beastial; Erythnul.

“The Human you selected also suspects your influence.”

The huge Bugbear’s face twists and changes with every thought.

“True, his night-time visions of past, present and future are much more enlightening than I’d.., than we’d expected.”

Standing tall behind him, the striking, golden goddess; Mayaheine steps forward.

“Fortu was the obvious choice. As a male though, we just didn’t expect our, seemingly ignorant blunt instrument to exhibit such sensitivity to the dream-state .”

Moradin’s stern expression breaks for a moment in surprise.

“Didn’t expect? Didn’t expect?! That dark talent boils deeply within his very blood!”

Yondalla lifts her chin defiantly.

“Well what of your Dwarf? Does he not suspect your obvious involvement? Did he not realise that it was you who unveiled that Assassin? Does he not feel your heavy hand pushing him onward?”

Moradin laughs again. Wider and louder this time.

“Of course he does! Banaal’s my Cleric. Everything he does is under my influence and his every action is done in my name!”

Yondalla pauses for a moment.

“Perhaps you’re right. It’s against all the celestial rules and laws, but considering the lead the Demon Prince has on us… Perhaps the time for subtlety is behind us? Perhaps we should reveal ourselves? Perhaps our help can be a little more… overt?”

From the shadows, a huge, eye-patch wearing Orc god steps forward and growls.

“It’s about time!”

Son of a Witch!

Quickly rereading Fortu’s letter while the others prepare to move on, Rifkin feels the high quality parchment between his sensitive thumb and fingers.

‘My Darling Little One,
I’m so sorry that I couldn’t be there for you.
I’m sorry that I missed sharing in your laughter or comforting you when you cried.
I’m sorry that my selfish choices made life hard for you.
Know though, that you were born from love and that love is everlasting.
If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, follow the map and come find me.
Once there, light one of the candles.
There is much I need to tell you.
Love,
Your Mother;
Viccissa.’

Carefully refolding the paper along its original crease-lines, the Bard places the letter gently back in the compartment on top of the silver music box. Alongside the equally well preserved map showing the location of Viccissa’s apparent grave and under the four magical (presumably ‘speak to the dead) candles.

If it’s to be believed, the letter raises a few concerning questions. 

Firstly the three digit code: 142. How did she know his name would end up as two numerals pronounced together and why did she think that he’d somehow remember that her pet name for him was ‘Little one’?

Rifkin smiles at the pragmatistic Liga Bur’s no-nonsense suggestion. The Halfling always surprises him with his cool head and often brutal rational. No wonder the powerful Druid; Thornberg chose him back in the Fey lands. If two sequential numbers were known, the remaining options were only one to ten.

Brilliant!

Secondly, what important information could Fortu’s mother possibly have to impart on her son, a quarter of a century after her death?

And thirdly, why would her old ‘Den-mother’; Megarna bother sharing this information? By the tone of Megarna’s voice, when she delivered the silver box, there was no love lost between them. It even sounded like they’d hated each-other!

If Fortu decided to visit his Mother’s burial site now though, it would take him a month or so to get there… 

He’d effectively be taken off the board and his fighting skills that had proven themselves vital, especially after the loss of the Elven Archer; Arowe and Liga Bur’s transformation from Ranger to Druid.

Banaal and Liga Bur had been wise to take precautions though. A silver music box from Fortu’s infancy, just happens to turn up at the (almost) exact time and place as this mysterious Viccissa predicted?

Rifkin gently closes the lid and the heart-shaped clasp clicks back into place. Instinctively testing a theory, he tries to reopen it but, just as before, the heart resists. Only Fortu was ‘allowed’ to open the box.

Another mystery. Did the Witches manage to open it? Did they know what the letter said? Did they perhaps tamper with it in some way?

It’s all so unlikely, and yet he’d heard plenty of stories in his travels about witches foreseeing the future in knucklebones and chicken blood. There’d even been a mad woman in his own home village, who swore she could tell your fortune just by looking at tea-leaves!

Could this Viccissa see the future? Could she have passed this gift down to her son? Fortu’s fevered dreams did seem to often lead him to truths he shouldn’t rationally know. Almost like he himself was a… a…

A Fortune teller?

…

A Fortu.. ne teller!

Rifkin gasps as he almost drops the precious silver music box.

“It can’t be!?”

Fairer Sharer

Without the surprisingly trustworthy Henshaw to help him, Rifkin counts out the gold coins by himself into seven equal piles. Seven equal piles for seven men? No, as the Triplets still refuse to accept any extra gold for their service. It still feels wrong to exclude them but he allots, as agreed, double shares to Banaal, Fortu and Liga Bur and keeps a single share for himself. Then, he sorts out the magical equipment. 

The two daggers are deceptively powerful but not really the style of anyone here. They could make useful back-up weapons though.

The glass web-wand is tragically, unusable by anyone here. It’s a bit like the ‘Burning-hands’ wand they got from Sir Briefadel’s fake Wizard squire; Egrow. Only usable by Wizards or those especially skilled with magical devices.

The poison vials are also dangerous to use, unless skilled with their storage and application. 

The twenty-four flaming crossbow bolts though, are usable by Fortu, Banaal AND the Triplets… Could this be another way of ‘sneaking’ them a little more help?

Despite still not using his, potentially cursed, magic ‘Vampire’ sword, Rifkin’s finger trails along Danté’s black, oily Leather armour. It’d helped him slip through Liga Bur’s entanglement spell but it was worthless to his teammates…

(After a few conversations.)

Current gold totals

Banaal:
Gold: 1606gp
10 gems (worth 100gp each)
4 gems (worth 50gp each)

Six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Fortu:
Gold: 1934gp
6 gems (worth 25gp each)

Liga Bur:
Gold: 411gp 

Rifkin:
Gold: 1550gp
7 gems (worth 25gp each)
+1 Leather armour (improved Slickness)

Ringo:

Six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Locket:

Six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Chape:

Five +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

+1 Heavy metal shield.

In addition:

Two +3 medium sized magic Daggers

Five vials of (handily labeled) Blue Whinnis poison

Wand of Webs

Fourteen Masterwork daggers

Fey Contract

As the strange, ethereal songbird disappears in a puff of pale blue smoke, the enigmatic Estrid examines the wax seal on the envelope left in its place. 

‘R’?

Tentatively breaking the seal, the tall and beautiful Fey woman unfolds the letter.

‘For the attention of Estrid; guardian of the pool. I have received your messengers and tasted your magical waters. I’m an old man who did not expect to see another summer but, as you know, war is coming. A war against a shared enemy. I’ve agreed to send you a battalion of my men; they should arrive within the month. Gods willing that it will be soon enough. I also agree to prevent any further incursions into your land from my people. In return, all I ask is that you maintain your current borders and furnish me with an ongoing supply of your rejuvenating waters. Regards, Lord Urdurel.’

The Satyr; Magritte canters over.

“Good news? We certainly need some.”

Estrid smiles reassuringly.

“It’s from the almost-Elf; Rifkin. I’m quite surprised how good his writen Sylvan is. The adventurers succeeded. Their Lord Urdurel has agreed to our request and we shall have our Human guards within one full cycle of the moon.”

The swarthy and hirsute Satyr pulls a worried face. 

“It’s been weeks since the adventurers returned through the pool. Do you think we have that much time? Can we really trust Humans to help us?”

The goddess of the pool smiles cynically and shrugs.

“Alas my curly-horned, cloven-hooved friend; what choice do we really have?”

Half-Casters

Of all the races of Fissa, from the Elves, Orcs, Dwarves and Halflings etcetera, the Humans are the ones most prone to mix their bloodlines with other creatures. Half-Orcs, Half-Elves, even the Half-Dwarven; Dueregar! 

It also isn’t just the bipedal creatures of the world. Beasts and monsters also found their way into Humanity’s gene-pool. The reasons were varied and the couplings were often brutal and uninvited but regardless, they sometimes managed to produce mixed-breed offspring.

Most of these couplings resulted in freakish abominations but, depending on the other parent, sometimes they resulted in marvels. The most famous of these rare combinations are Humans with Dragons. Just a drop of Dragon blood running through a Human’s veins, opens up the possibility of reality-bending Sorcerous powers. Spellcasting ability without the need to spend decades studying or relying on dusty old books. 

A lesser known combination though, also gives rise to magical talent and knowledge. If your bloodline has been infected by that of Fiends, then magic comes easier, but usually of the dark variety. The blood from evil Demons and Devils usually comes with equally dark thoughts and feelings. Rather than Sorcerers, this dark blood, in the female line, gives rise to Witches!

As for the unfortunate male descendants, they’re generally far less ‘blessed’. Their blood legacy is often just uncontrollable rage, omni-directional hatred and rabid self-destructiveness. They rail against the world and everyone in it, without ever understanding the root cause of their own dark motivations. Only the strongest of them, the most righteous, have any hope of overcoming their… unnatural nature.