Fright for the Knight

 

After Doberman barrels into the surprisingly shocked Sir Briefadel and his voluptuous, dark-eyed mother, battle is joined. The open mouth shaped observation platform is small though; too small to allow easy access and Hetzabah and Sir Briefadel exploit that fact, refusing to get drawn away from the partial safety of the toothy edge, leaving no opportunity for flanking or double-teaming. The Party’s numbers do give them the edge though, enabling Liga Bur and Barbella to race back into the tower and out onto Dulcetta’s outstretched hands. Eventually the evil Mother and Son duo are forced to jump to the relative safety of the darkness below but not before Arowe, Liga Bur and Barbella get their long (and cross) bow shots in to surprisingly good, near fatal effect.

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!”

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. 

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!

Reflections in the Dark: Arowe

Loosing yet another shaft from his suddenly righteous 'Oath-bow', Arowe howls in a fury that surprises himself, as the arrowhead, shaft and flight pass harmlessly through, the already badly injured Sir Briefadel's heart, as if he were already a ghost! 

Unlike the sinisterly intelligent rapier; Arogon Feybane, that had sought to influence Arowe to act out its own rampantly anti-Fey agenda, the magical bow seems to have just exponentially amplified his own anger toward the vile Human Knight.

Leaning precariously over the ledge, literally holding on by his fingernails to the metaphorical skin of Dulcetta’s stone teeth, the Elven Archer howls again as the ethereal trio of Knight, Witch and Nightmare horse, pass through the illusionary veil surrounding the tower and out of his sight. In apoplectic frustration as much as anything, Arowe clamps his jaw shut, releases his tenuous grip and falls toward where he last saw the heavily armoured Fortu disappear into the inky darkness below. 

Despite his rage, Arowe safely assumes that, if the fierce updraft could support his weightier, heavily armoured friend, it’ll comfortably cushion his fall. He’s instantly proven correct; a little too correct however. The upward blast rips up at his pink, silk shirt and chaff’s his delicate Elven skin but he barely begins to drop at all! Fortu seemed to be falling at about half of gravity's natural rate, Arowe’s falling at only about half of that!

Finally though, the finely boned Elf descends through the top layer of darkness, but Arowe realises that he won’t finish up at the same place as the ex-Gladiator. The tower had already rotated several degrees before he’d dropped after his Human travelling companion.

Eventually, landing lightly on his feet, Arowe strikes one of his remaining stowed Sun-rods and the warm, orange light pushes the darkness back a little. The blackness surrounding him is more like a thick fog, but his acute Elven eyes still enable him to see, perhaps ten feet ahead.

Calling out to Fortu confirms his initial assessment; this sight and sound dampening black mist is not remotely natural.

Now, alone in the dark, with no audience to impress, Arowe's mind begins to drift. In his eagerness to seek out adventure, he’d skipped past any possible humdrum encounters with the normally dull Humans. His High-born, High-Elf Father had warned him against getting too involved in the short-term matters of the short-lived Humans, so he'd skirted the cities, even the famed capital; Cottis, with its elaborate and towering architecture said to rival that of the Dwarven citadels, and aimed straight for the Feylands at the western border of Stowan.

As an educated Elf, Arowe had heard of Lord Urdurel of course. He would be an old man now, but only by Human standards. As an Elf child, Arowe had loved hearing the exciting tales of daring heroics and epic battles during the Human's early reign. Approximately fifty years ago though, things suddenly changed. The military expansion stopped and instead, an enforced peace fell across the conquered kingdoms. There was, he remembers, a short resurgence of bloody violence but it only lasted a few years and it was mostly targeted towards his own people. Interestingly, after which, the injured King Urdurel laid down his sword and gave up his crown, returning his conquered lands to their (confused but grateful) surviving heirs.

During his journey through the hundred-and-sixty-mile span of Stowan however, there was one aspect of the erstwhile kingdom, that had captured his attention. The whole realm seemed to frown upon the use of magic and, though Witchcraft and Sorcery were permitted, its practitioners were closely monitored and heavily restricted. 

As he yells out for the unresponsive Fortu again in the darkness, Arowe is still surprised by the obvious ire still apparent in his voice. He’s never, in all his long life, felt this angry before and the fact that he’s now unable to act upon it, burns at his Elven soul!

Too Fat too Furious!

With the flame creature; Dijonn burning hot and bright from the torch held tightly in his fist, Liga Bur leads his teammates up the cold, slightly spiralling, stone steps. At the top, they come to an open doorway but, sensing danger, the Halfling allows his bigger comrades; Fortu and Doberman to stride past him and into the vast, windowless but worryingly empty room. There's nothing there though, no walls other than the outer ones and no furniture of any description. No furnishings at all except a series of oversized, gold framed paintings lining those otherwise bare outer walls.

As Fortu enters, his newly illuminated Bastard-sword also helps light the dark chamber but only the sensitive eyed Arowe is able to make out all of the paintings clearly. On each of the four tall walls, hang three or four large and skilfully painted portraits. Undoubtably masterpieces by Human standards. Each of them depicting the same beautiful woman in various poses; Riding side-saddle atop a powerful white horse, fussing an enormous dog, walking hand in hand with a solemn looking crowned man and, the largest one, depicting her cradling a rosy-cheeked, new-born baby. She is perhaps somewhere in her thirties in all these paintings but beyond her long fair hair and full bosom, it's her gentle smile that catches your attention. Warm and wise, yet Arowe gets the distinct feeling that the artist somehow, despite their obvious skill, still failed to do it justice.

It wasn't the oversized paintings that had triggered Liga Bur's 'danger sense' though, it was the soft growl from Mir Hundur and the black and grey checkerboard flagstones on the floor. An unnecessary pattern seemingly dividing the empty room into sixty-four separate sections. It's just a feeling though and although he pauses, sensing a possible trick, it's not enough to prevent the less concerned Arowe following the more heavily armoured Fortu and Doberman through the stone doorway.

Fortu gets about a third-way across the room towards the exit on the opposite corner, when there's an ominous click from above...

Spears suddenly spike down at Fortu and Arowe. The Elf gracefully dances back into the safety of the doorframe but Fortu lurches forward out of the way of the first one, only to spring a second and then a third! Now sprawled on the floor, Fortu's forced to rely on his heavy, enchanted armour to turn the spear's metal tip, and thankfully it does. Looking back up, the Human Gladiator realises that he's less than twenty feet from the next doorway and stairwell. He's closer to that one than the one he entered from but the spear-traps behind him are sprung and therefore safe for the moment.

The rotund Doberman though, suffers a different fate. The dark flagstone slab beneath him literally splits open and he falls downward and out of sight before he even has a chance to react. Bellowing in anger rather than fear, the screaming Doberman falls much further than he expected to. Far, far downward, accompanied by a shower of tiny, brightly coloured gemstones. Sliding down for maybe thirty feet, the wide-eyed, roly-poly, rage-filled Warrior's wide-set frame starts to grind against the smooth stone tube, slowing him enough, that he's able to grab onto the suddenly open lip of the wide vertical pipe.

Hanging in the darkness by just his chubby fingertips, the fat Warrior hears the gemstone gravel land with a series of gentle plops and sploshes onto something way down below him. Something wet!

With his stubby legs thrashing uselessly in the dank air under him, Doberman gazes back upwards through the long vertical tube at the tiny spot of light high above him. Adjusting his grip and his attitude, the now frightened Fighter, unsure how long he'll be able to hold on, calls upward. 

"Hey yoooou guys!"

Forty feet above him, even as the heavily armoured Fortu struggles back to his feet, the five sprung traps suddenly reset. The four triggered spears retract back into their hidden ceiling holes and the star-shaped pit trap snaps closed again, sharply and instantly cutting off Doberman's plaintive cries. The joins are so perfect, it's almost impossible for Liga Bur to see that they were there at all!

It Liga Burns!

The battle is over and the four Mace-hand-maidens lie slashed, smashed and broken but still weirdly upright on their bronze rods and rails. The newly rescued and fiercely flaming Dijonn dims down slightly to preserve the remainder of his already mostly used-up torch, allowing Liga Bur to relax his slightly singed but rigidly straight arm and unsquint his eyes against the heat and brightness. 

With now no immediate threat, the alert Elves, Arowe and Rifkin search the dank, moss covered walls for any hidden mechanisms or traps, while Fortu and the three Scarborough soldiers stand guard. Liga Bur though, takes the opportunity to learn what he can from his newly acquired 'servant'. Dijonn's bigger than before but his burning form is completely translucent with no physical body beneath his Orange flame and when he speaks, his voice is like the hiss and crackle of burning logs and sticks.

"I've been imprisoned here for what feels like a century by the vile Lord Urdurel. His son passed through here perhaps a week ago but ignored me, even as I pleaded for his help. Like Father, like scum, I suppose!"

"How could I tell? They looked alike, although the son seemed strangely older than his father. Actually, in hindsight, it has been a long time. Perhaps Lord Urdurel is long dead by now..."

"This Tower. 'Dulcetta's Tower' was named after his first wife and enchanted and booby-trapped by Gnomish arcane engineers, before being transported here... Wherever 'Here' is? It's a prison for Hetzabah; Lord Urdurel's second wife. Punishment for murdering his first wife and his teenage daughter; Lamenta."

As soon as Arowe finishes sabotaging all the secret mechanisms he'd found, he signals the all-clear and Liga Bur uses Dijonn's fiery light to lead them all up the steep, curving, stone stairway. The Gimlet-eyed Halfling leads them upwards, rather than down after heeding Dijonn's fearful warning of "The horrible Wetness" below. 

As the Party slowly ascend, centipedes and beetles scuttle into cracks in the stonework and several small black rats scamper away from the noise of the heavy, armoured footfall and the light of Dijonn's searing flame.