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?”

The Brutalist

Fingers frozen mid-chord, Rifkin watches in horror as one of the men facing Fortu, flops to the floor in bloody, bisected pieces. A knife in each of his, now entirely separated, hands.

He’d obviously been a villain; his words and actions had clearly demonstrated that, but still…

Fortu simply hadn’t liked the way they were dressed or how they were sitting and confronted them on a mere suspicion. The, potentially paranoid, suspicion that these two men were working against him. A reasonable man might have tried to subtly question them. A logical man might have restrained himself from trying to punch them with a mailed fist in a public bar. A sane man wouldn’t have drawn his enormous Bastard sword and cleaved the first of them in two!

The second of the men surrendered immediately. Rifkin couldn’t blame him. Fortu had cut through his partner as if he’d been made of butter!

Then, ignoring all the screaming locals and a hissing cat, Fortu had then grabbed the remaining man by his throat and marched him to the town stables, where several soldiers of the FarHaven garrison were currently guarding Cookie’s wagon and Estrid’s barrels.

The Dwarf; Banaal had tried to pacify the barkeep with a generous (but not ostentatious) bribe, while the pragmatic Liga Bur had hurried out after Fortu to help calm/explain the situation to the hamlet guards.

Blinking, Rifkin attempts to regain control of his rapid breathing. 

Since joining this ragtag group over half-a-year ago, he’d seen many terrible, terrifying things. Brutal violence and graphic injury, but this?

Did it matter that Fortu’s confrontational instincts had been absolutely correct? Is it justifiable to use extreme and deadly force against evil people or is it somehow, equally evil?

Despite himself, Rifkin feels the beginnings of a song composing itself in his head and he whispers the title out loud…

“The Butcher of FarHaven.”

A Servant of Two Masters

It’s the third night out from Scarborough toward Cottis, and despite spending the night under the sloping thatched roof of the huge, outlying; Clark & Sons farmyard barn, the added security of their three new Lord Urdurel guards and the comfort of Cookie’s large, covered wagon, the perpetually angry Fortu has another of his hyper-vivid dreams. Or perhaps, this time, it’s just a nightmare bound to the recent loss/theft of the three Briefadel mercenaries they’d saved months ago, combined with two distorted and disturbing memories…

After mercilessly cutting down the runaway soldier during Spider Murphy’s forest ambush, Fortu suddenly and inexplicably finds himself in a warm, sunlit glade, facing the beautiful Fey goddess; Estrid. They stand, face to face, eye to eye, mouths… lips just inches apart, close enough to kiss, yet her expression reveals a combination of consternation and confusion. 

"You slaughtered that defenceless human! He’d dropped his sword and surrendered. Surrendered! I don't see how a good person could do such a thing?"

Over Estrid’s pale shoulder, Fortu recognises a couple of armoured figures standing silently in the distance. The larger of them is male, beastial and warlike, while the other is feminine, refined but, perversely, also warlike. Of the two though, only the beast-like one is smiling with approval.

Eyes snapping open, Fortu hears those words echoing in his mind. But in truth, she hadn’t said them. She’d never said them. He had. They were his words, said months ago, to the eighth-Elf; Rifkin, when the goddess Estrid had ordered the merciless execution of four of the surrendered Human invaders of her glade.

Why then, had he murdered that unarmed and cowering soldier? What was the difference? What was his defence? Was it somehow morally justifiable when he did it but not when she had? Was it true for the beaten, bound and broken Wizard Moody too?

Glancing around the large, lantern-lit barn and his sleeping teammates, he becomes uncomfortably aware that he’d been far out of sight of the others when he’d caught up to that soldier and they’d never really questioned him on what’d happened. 

Fortu guessed that his teammates had assumed it was just a desperate encounter, man verses man, sword against sword but, for whatever reason, he’d not expanded upon that presumed falsehood or revealed the actual truth.

But what was the truth?

The truth was that soldier had laid in wait, with dozens of his sword-mates and crossbowmen, to ambush and kill him and his companions.

A greater truth was that the outclassed soldier had fled too late and raised his hands, only when cornered.

The absolute truth though, was that he’d butchered a defenceless young man after he’d dropped his sword in terror and unconditionally surrendered.

Wiping away the patina of sweat from his furrowed brow, Fortu silently asks himself the obvious question:

‘Was Estrid right to execute the surrendered men who’d invaded her glade and slaughtered her people, or was he just a hypocrite for doing the exact same thing, not just once now, but twice?!’

Then, the deeper and more profound one:

‘After all his of protestations, all his claims of honour and righteousness, despite his brutal, loveless upbringing; did he actually crave violence? Did he seek it out? Was he, in fact… an evil man?”

The (Apparent) Allies

Rifkin: 

Born and raised in the backwards, sister-wife village of Loretto by his Human Mother. Rifkin’s Quarter-Elf, travelling minstrel Father was killed by his Mother’s close-minded, inbred relatives while she was still pregnant with him. Loathed by the villagers for being different, the teenage Rifkin took his Father’s mandolin and left the moment his Mother died. Though cowed by the constant beatings of his youth and timorous by nature, Rifkin still sought adventure and used his good looks, natural charm and musical skills to earn a living.

Estrid:

A powerful, magical and long lived Fey creature, beautiful but righteous, Estrid, as ‘goddess’ of the pool, guards the magical glade, deep in the Feylands. She protects both her people and the mysterious portal beneath the life extending properties of the crystal clear waters themselves. She granted the outlander adventurers ’Champion’ status and her protection within the Feylands in exchange for their help. Now though, Estrid’s concern and priorities have changed with the return of the adventurers and their alarming news.

Thornberg:

A haystack of a man and powerful member of the ‘Circle of the Scale’ Druidic order. Thornberg (and his gigantic bear; Bamse) has recently spent a year of his life in a bubble in time, teaching the Halfling outrider; Liga Bur, the secrets of the ‘Green’. He has grown fond of Liga Bur over those twelve months and wants to keep him close but still respects the scarred Halfling’s desire for both justice and independence.

Tsigan:

The Centaur Prince, initially an enemy, has become a powerful ally to the Party, alongside his noble Father and the rest of his semi-savage herd. Despite his rescuing of Rifkin, under the Calcientan suns, he still feels indebted to Fortu, Arowe and Liga Bur.

Magritte: 

The dashing but pragmatic Satyr has formed a liking and an admiration for the adventurer, especially Fortu. A nimble, talented warrior and potion keeper, he also has the ear of (the occasionally suspicious and often ferocious) Estrid.

Henshaw:

A mercenary from a family of mercenaries, Henshaw is lean, tall, surprisingly intelligent and, perhaps as a consequence of that intelligence, overly cautious. Although a self-professed ‘Bad-guy’, his recent association with Fortu, Liga Bur, Arowe and Rifkin has caused him to re-evaluate some of his previous life choices.

Barbella:

Lifelong friend of Henshaw, Barbella is a thief of the lowest order. A goatee sporting, gold-toothed mugger and backstabber, he is however surprisingly skillful in several useful areas and loyal, at least to Henshaw.

Doberman:

As dumb as he is fat, Doberman is almost too stupid to be considered merely ‘retarded’. Treated as an imbecilic but tolerated pet by Henshaw and Barbella, he is strong, round and relentless in a fight. 

Dijonn:

A small but psychopathic fire elemental, left behind in the desert oasis when the Party was forced to travel through the water filled passageways between dimensions. It has, however, sworn a ‘life debt’ to Liga Bur when he was rescued from a hundred years trapped on a meagre wick in the ‘Singing tower’.

Lightning Tree:

Though a monstrous, flesh eating tree, it possesses a fine mind and a surprising store of knowledge. It also, weirdly, considers Fortu its friend for sparing its life and still waits patiently in the Fey forests for his return with that promised meat.

Shananaghan:

One of the two remaining ‘summoning’ charms on Rifkin’s bracelet, the tiny but foul-tempered, gossamer-winged Pixie has decidedly mixed feelings about the Party. Non-Fey creatures, especially Humans, are the hated enemy but the goddess; Estrid has ordered him to assist the Party to the best of his ability when summoned and, although begrudgingly, he’ll do it for her.

Lorellie.

The second and last of the two remaining magical charms on Rifkin’s bracelet, the flirtatious, small, green-skinned and fin-toed Nixie is more Fey-curious about the outsiders than antagonistic. Physically weak but a powerful swimmer and natural water breather, she may yet prove vital in an aquatic environment.

The Circle of the Scale

A brief three chapter recap…

Module 1: The Rat King

The recently freed Human Gladiator; Fortu, the thrill seeking Elven Archer; Arowe and the Orc raised Halfling Tracker; Liga Bur met up, travelling on foot through the region of, magic-use-restricted, Stowan, toward Scar Borough. Though cautious at first, they found themselves bonding after rescuing a naked, demi-elven Bard; Rifkin from a band of bandits, lead by the Afro-haired; Spider Murphy. Only he escaped the slaughter by taking to the trees, after swearing his revenge on Rifkin.

In town, the newly formed, four-man, Party encountered the usual corrupt town guards and spent some time at the town fete, where they met a worryingly convincing fortune teller; Madame Morgana, a troop of acrobat Halflings and several travelling merchants, including potion seller; Al-Khemi.

Then, hired as a group by the leader of the small town; Sir Briefadel, to discover what happened to Rat-catcher; Hamlyn and why an outlying tannery hadn’t made two scheduled deliveries. The Party found everyone dead, including the hung-by-the-neck; Hamlyn and were soon set upon by a crazed old Druid leading a mass of rats of various sizes. The battle was fierce but, despite being bitten and infected, the four adventurers managed to kill Koenig and survive. On their return to town, they passed on a map they’d found and the magical set of ‘rat summoning’ panpipes to Sir Briefadel.

Module 2: The Wolf Pact

Impressed by the Party’s tenacity, Sir Briefadel recruited them to accompany himself and his personal Wizard; Egrow-the-Magnificent, to find the magical pool deep within the Feylands shown on the map. 

During their horseback (aside from the Mir Hundur riding Liga Bur) journey, they encountered wild boars, bears and a little fox before finally arriving at a hidden glade. Once there, they battled strange hybrid creatures, such as the owl-horse; Howl, the orc-scorpion; Scorcion and the half-halfling, half-human; Three-Quarterling. Sir Briefadel took great delight in crushing the pacifistic, in-a-fish-form Three-Quarterling and killing him. Slightly disturbed by his behaviour, the Party searched the Three-Quarterling’s comfortable and fortified den. Enraged by finding ‘the wrong pool’ Sir Briefadel commissioned the Party to search on without him, as he rode back with Egrow to Scar Borough.

Travelling on with a rescued, old hawk-dog; Dawk, the Party encountered a tribe of Centaurs lead by the handsome; Prince Tsigan and after sparing their lives, were invited back to speak to his Father and chief; Rozinante. Though suspicious, the Party were welcomed and actively helped by the inner group of malformed Centaurists.

Next came a malevolent talking tree and then a wolf-pack, led by the Werewolf; Kane. Those battles were hard and the Party were lucky to escape unscathed. Then came the Dryad archer ambush and the discovery of the second magical pool and its Fey goddess guardian; Estrid.

But before trust could be earned from either side, the glade was overrun with Human soldiers! Sir Briefadel had planted a small scrying device, hidden in one of the horses saddlebags and used his Witch ally; Morgana to help him create a portal, linking Estrid’s glade to the Courtyard in Scar Borough. The battle was fierce and brutal with the tiny Fey Pixies, Nixies and Dryads trading their lives for their Queen. Realising the treachery, Fortu found himself fighting back-to-back with the charming Satyr, Magritte and Liga Bur and Arowe picking off the Human soldiers from protected positions atop the rocky formations. Despite their ‘cold-iron’ weapons though, the Human soldiers were quickly overwhelmed and it became apparent that they were just being used as a distraction so Sir Briefadel could reach the pool unconfronted. He and his, suspiciously clever Hawk, successfully made it through the hidden dimensional gateway, deep below the pool but the ‘Wizard’ Egrow was caught and stopped by Liga Bur.

Realising his dire situation, Sergeant Philco and a few of his men surrendered but they were butchered anyway, alongside their blinded Captain and the bleeding Egrow. Fortu was appalled but wise enough to keep the worst of his anger to himself.

Module 3: The Givrad Void

In exchange for her gratitude and the lives of the three surviving town guards; Henshaw, Doberman and Barbella, the Party agreed to help Estrid and persued the dastardly Sir Briefadel through the void. Whatever plans he had, he mustn’t be allowed back through the portal!

After a disconcerting journey, the, now enlarged, Party travelled to an ice world called Kik-ri, where they encountered a gigantic, burrowing insectoid monster and a friendly Frost giant called; Droofin.

Then they travelled to a three-sunned, desert world called Calcinta. After a skirmish with a group of human, snake and monkey zombies, they were back on Sir Briefadel’s trail and Liga Bur led them to an oasis, where they met a strange but welcoming merchant of magic; Whackeem. After that Arowe killed a highflying hawk before the Party were hunted down and captured by its owner, a wrathful slaver, Magician; Moody and his mounted swordsmen. Only Rifkin managed to escape, thanks to the aid of the (magical bangle) summoned Tsigan.

Fortu then realised, to his horror, that he (and his companions) had been returned to the slave arena. After several fraught death-matches, the Party managed to escape during an attempted city revolt and Rifkin’s cleverly timed rescue plan. They then, by an accident of fate, encountered and captured the very slaver that put them in that predicament. Moody pleaded for his life, but after unwillingly guiding the Party to the, apparently mythical ‘Singing Tower’, Fortu slit his throat.

More giant insectoid, pounce-predator creatures caused a moment of fright and the strange, targeted and protracted, dream harassment of Liga Bur, but the Halfling Ranger still successfully led the Party to the mystically shrouded tower.

Dulcetta’s tower itself was full of traps and tricks but it also acted as a prison to several other apparent malefactors, such as Dijonn the tiny fire elemental and Pardrik the teenage ghost guard. After rescuing them and evading the living green slime, Fortu, Arowe, Liga Bur, Rifkin, Henshaw, Doberman and Barbella finally caught up with Sir Briefadel again and his beautiful, raven-haired Mother. After rejecting his offer to join him, there was a brief melee, after which they fled on flying horseback.

Giving up any hope of still being able to track them down, the Party headed back to the void and to Estrid’s pool, where, despite their failure, they were welcomed with open arms, genuine smiles, music, sex, food and wine.

Liga Bur was forced to sacrifice himself for his friends though, after the mighty Thornberg demanded restitution for the deaths of three of his brothers. The Halfling was forced to give up his lance, his bow and a year of his life to join Thornberg’s Druidic brotherhood; ‘The Circle of the Scale’.

Now though, decisions must be made.

Next…

Module 4: Return of the Demon

The End or the Beginning?

It’s early morning, with the dawn sky still hazy with the rising golden sun still partially hidden behind the trees. Although there are several of the Fey creatures still enjoying the gentle music, wine and each-others company, the Elven Arowe is the only member of the Party still conscious when the large, shadowy oak tree at the edge of the clearing, opens up again and the mighty Thornberg steps through. The Archer hurriedly shakes the nearby Fortu and Rifkin awake and the three of them try to peer around and behind the enormous Druid and his shaggy, over-sized, brown bear to see if their Halfling friend; Liga Bur is still with him. All of them break into relieved smiles at the sight of their diminutive scout companion, but… 

…

He looks tired somehow, weary.

…

No, not tired.

…

He looks older.

…

Older and wiser.

The Greatest Gift

After watching their Halfling boss disappear through a magical oak tree with the huge Druid, Henshaw finds himself clambering to his armoured feet. Neither he or his two mercenary associates have said more than a few words since their return to the Fissian Feylands, but Henshaw can’t seem to stop himself now.

Approaching the Fey goddess; Estrid, his path is immediately blocked by one of her uncannily aware Dryad protectors and, in response, several yards away, the equally-alert Barbella half draws his enchanted cold-iron short sword. Thankfully for them both though, the goddess of the pool, with a slightly sardonic expression, waves her guard away.

“What is it that you want Human?”

Henshaw gnaws nervously at his bottom lip for a moment before replying.

“… I just wanted to thank you,.. In person like.”

Blond Henshaw is a lean but tall man; possibly as tall as Fortu but the goddess meets his gaze without having to raise her chin.

“Thank me for what?”

The lanky soldier licks his sore lip before responding.

“For me life, your majesty. Considering what Sir Briefadel had us do, I know letting us live couldn’t have been an easy decision.”

The stern expression drifting from her face, Estrid smiles slightly and her transcendental beauty warms his soul.

“You know, it was your Human patron; Fortu and the ever-so-slightly-Elf; Rifkin who pleaded for your lives? Without their interference, I would gladly have let you and your brothers-in-arms, bleed out on the battle field.”

The straw-blond soldier rubs his, suddenly hot and itchy ear, before answering.

“That just makes it more important that I thank you. I ain’t exactly what you’d call a good man, but what we done…  it was wrong and… and I’m sorry for my part in it.”

The goddess, her face softening further, seems to look past his eyes and deeper into his very thoughts..

“I… believe you. You and your fellow soldiers invaded my glade. Attacked us without provocation and killed dozens of my friends but I also now know that you were lied to and duped by your own so-called leader.”

Taking Henshaw’s face in her gentle hand, the goddess’ expression becomes fully beatific and his eyes well up in response.

“He did but ‘I woz just following orders’ ain’t no excuse. You chose forgiveness, despite the righteousness of your anger.”

Estrid’s smile falters a little at the Human’s earnestness.

“That isn’t entirely true. I merely used your lives as a bargaining tool to secure the adventurers’ aid. Still, I’m surprisingly glad that I did and that you and your two compatriots survived.”

As Henshaw wanders back, slightly dazed, to his friends, the goddess of the pool’s eyebrows contort a little in confusion. Did she, inadvertently, with her cynical, selfish act, ironically turn a sinner’s soul toward the light?

The Final Session

As promised, the warm evening is full of wild music and wilder dance, with Fey wine flowing freely and both savoury and sweet treats laid out on every raised surface. Rifkin adds his voice and music to Magritte’s melodies and the Fey adjacent Arowe enjoys the wanton dancing and uninhibited ‘gifts’ of the Dryad women.

Despite his deep-rooted suspicion and rejection of the aromatic wines, Fortu still finds himself intoxicated by the charm and warmth of these strange woodland creatures. Creatures that he would have considered dangerous enemies just a month ago.

Liga Bur too enjoys the sudden change of pace and environment. Regardless of his ghostly guard; Padrik, the Halfling hadn’t slept easily in weeks, ever since he was first targeted by the nightmare Hag. Here, surrounded by enchanting pixies and nixies, he finally feels safe.

It’s Arowe though, who notices that there’re only three Dryads present, and casting around, he sees for the first time, that one of the four large oak-trees in the glade is dead and withered. He also realises that a new sapling is growing in its shade and beside that sapling is a shy little dryad girl. She appears to be about eight-years-old but Arowe knows well enough to understand the different growth rates and life expectancies of certain Fey.

The three Human mercenaries though are quieter, well aware that they’d attacked their hosts (and killed several of them) the last time they were here. One thing is certain though; all seven of them; Human, Elf and Halfling, are changed men. How could they not be? They’ve explored strange new worlds together, encountered bizarre creatures and discovered new civilisations. They’ve seen horrors and wonders beyond their imaginations and travelled to where few men have ever been before!

Love is in the Air

The octopus-armoured Fortu, eagerly (but unnecessarily) supported by two of the fawning, small but perfectly formed, amphibious Nixies, finds his footing, wades forward up the gentle slope and breaks the surface of the magical pool. Just drinking a mouthful of the enchanted water refreshes him as much as a full nights rest and he feels the aches and stresses from the previous day, wash away as if they’d never been. As the water cascades off of him, leaving him completely dry, he hears the exquisite voices of the Fey creatures singing in harmony. Looking up, he sees three of the Dryads, the smiling Satyr; Magritte and, in the centre, the beautiful ‘goddess’ herself; Estrid. They’re standing in a semi-circle, waist-deep in the water, with their hands outstretched in welcome.

Even as the Four Nixies swim up and down the underwater, hundred foot pipe, retrieving the less submersible Party members, Fortu, despite his distrust, can’t help but gaze upon Estrid. Her beauty is beyond compare, with flaming locks of auburn hair, ivory skin and, her (previously terrifying) eyes are of emerald green. Though not a man comfortable with the ‘gentler’ emotions, Fortu reflects upon the difference between the tall and athletic Estrid’s and overly curvaceous Hetzabah’s beauty; Estrid’s seems to fill his heart, whereas Hetzabah’s seemed to fill an entirely different organ, about two feet lower down.

The heavily armoured, but strangely unencumbered in the water, warrior, accepts Estrid’s proffered hand and allows her to pull him forward. She stands about the same impressive height as him in the water but her kind smile is like a breath of Spring and Fortu, for a moment, forgets why he was so angry with her.

Behind him, two of the Nxies emerge with his Halfling friend and his slobbery dog, before the small, green-skinned women dive back down to retrieve the others.

Liga Bur looks about himself suspiciously, but on seeing no signs of aggression, treads water while holding onto his soggy, doggy-paddling companion. The welcoming choral song the Fey creatures are singing is warm and genuine and even the ever-vigilant, Orc-raised Halfling feels himself lull a little.

Fortu and Liga Bur are soon joined by Arowe and Rifkin and all of them have been guided to the safety of the grassy bank before a coughing and spluttering Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman break the surface of the crystal-clear pool.

Still (mostly) wearing the same uniforms that they attacked the Fey in, the three soldiers weren’t given the magical, water-breathing Nixie kiss and are choking by the time they escape the hundred-foot deep, underwater sinkhole pipe. The four Nixies roughly pull them to the shallower water but their actions are obviously begrudging and Fortu is coldly reminded of the general ill-will felt between the Fey and Humans.

Still, when Estrid finally speaks, her voice is soft, like Summer rain.

“Welcome home my champions. We have much to discuss, but before we’re forced deal with the evil that’s to come, please rest after your arduous journey, share our food and enjoy our music, wine and… our company.”

Fortu feels a wave of confusion wash over him as he battles conflicting emotions. The goddess; Estrid seems so different this time around; kind, generous and objectively, (whatever he may think of her past actions) breathtakingly lovely.

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!

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.

(Near) Death by a Thousand Cuts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Thorn(berg)y Issue

With his heavy brow knitted in a suspicious frown, the Druid Thornberg transports himself and his massive bear from the goddess Estrid's grove, through the mystical green pathway. The journey is quick but not instantaneous and the very large Druid is puffing heavily by the time he and his animal companion emerge from the single large Oak tree in the Three-Quarterling's far distant, hidden and magical glade.

Thornberg is a truly massive man; dressed in the simple brown vestments of his brotherhood. A head and shoulders taller than the six-foot tall plus Fortu and at least a hundred pounds heavier, but he's still dwarfed by his brown furred guardian. The mighty Grizzly bear sniffs the air and grunts softly and Thornberg's broad shoulders relax. If Bamse's trusty nose senses no danger, then there's no danger to sense.

There are a few bizarre looking creatures milling around by the pond but none of them make any threatening movements or show any signs of aggression. Mostly untroublesome insect mixes but there are a collection of about a dozen curiously quacking fox/duck hybrids that waddle on their webbed feet towards him.

Thornberg can't help but smile momentarily, despite the sombre reason for his visit.

A flock of Fucks!

His grin abruptly fades though as he turns and directs his attention back to the grim task at hand. The big man and bigger bear spend the next ten minutes or so, retracing the Three-Quarterling's last few hours of life but Thornberg curses when he comes across the bodies of the tiny, smeared and dismembered Scorcion and arrow peppered, feathered horse Howl, before finally discovering the unmarked mound of soil covering the pulped remains of his small friend. There's barely enough of him left to recognise and far too much time has passed for any sort of reincarnation spell. The mixed Halfling/Human is beyond his powers to save.

Despite this though, Thornberg still continues with his investigation. From previously speaking to the simple souled, winged Dork, he was already certain that the adventurers were lying about what happened here and was determined to discover the full truth. After instructing his bear Bamse to guard the entrance, Thornberg ducks his head and squeezes his bulky frame through the unlocked, arched door in the cave, deep behind the vertical rocky wall. Bending low to accommodate for the much smaller Druids dwelling, Thornberg searches the place as best as he's able. There was no battle here but the place has obviously been searched, with desks broken into and secret hatches and hiding places found. No battle that is, until he discovers the yellow and black striped corpse of the poisonous Beer lying in the iron-barred cellar below. Sword slashes across its chitinous torso and four arrows still protruding from the creatures shaggy head, one of them piercing deep through its big, buggy, compound eye and into its tiny brain.

Four finely fletched Elven arrows...

Pushing back outside and into the sunlight, Thornberg finally whispers a few secret Druidic incantations and breathes a semblance of sentience into the tree he'd recently emerged from.

"Tell me friend Oak... What exactly did you see here?"

Back in the Green

Even as he's advising Rifkin on how to find his way, Tsigane feels his burning back and shoulders start to cool. He tries to wish the Bard 'good luck' but he can't be sure if he heard it. The Demi-Elf will certainly need it.

Unsquinting his eyes for the first time in an hour, the chestnut coated Centaur circles around, trying to get his bearings. He's back in the Fey wilds but astonishingly, exactly where he was. Despite running for the best part of an hour, he's travelled nowhere, not even a hoofstep in his own world!

Tossing his head in disbelief, Tsigane finds the nearest pool, wades straight in and immerses himself completely. The cool water stings his sun blistered skin but after the initial bite, it soothes him. It'll take a few days, but he'll be fine. Gulping down on the water between chokes, The centaur thinks of his Father. He wouldn't yet know that his son was missing, let alone settled their debt with the Goddess of the Pool.

Smiling broadly, Tsigane shouts out to the bright blue sky through the green canopy.

"Our blood debt is paid and I still live!"

Rolling to his four feet, the Centaur clambers out of the water and heads back to his camp. Rozinante must be told and Estrid must be updated of her Champions... Progress?

Midnight at the Oasis

It's been four days since the seven members of the newly expanded Party left the double-dead Druid's portal well, but despite the oppressive heat above and energy sapping sand below, the group is surviving fine. Thanks, in part, to Liga Burr's impressive sense of direction (despite the alien astrology), the weeks supply of magical water found in the tent and the Fey food gifted by the goddess of the pool; Estrid.

During the journey, Liga Burr and Rifkin have taken the time to study the magical scrolls and maps found on Zephyr's bookshelf and discovered them all to be useful and, better yet, usable.

Divining the passage of time here has proved difficult though, due to the constant light from the multiple moons and suns. Also, unfortunately because of the heavily armoured Fortu's slow pace, it's nearly midnight when Liga Burr spots the mid-journey oasis.

The small patch of green seems incongruous amid the seemingly endless expanse of golden, barren sand surrounding it.

Despite the still twilight sky, lit by three various sized moons, a campfire is clearly burning and as the Party approach, Arowe spots three still-living versions of those ugly horses tethered. Standing in front of them, a rotund, tanned but red bearded man is waving a greeting. His posture and broad smile appear welcoming but the two large, heavy-set and armed Orcs flanking him seem 'slightly' less so.

"Blessings upon you my friends!" He calls out.

Survivor's Guilt

Despite the bitter cold, Liga Burr finds it easy to follow the irregular bloody crimson smudges against the stark whiteness of the icy ground. The path forms an almost perfectly straight line, like joining red dot-to-dots. Additionally the trail seems to be pointing toward a strange looking structure at the bottom of the distant mountain range.

Although Sir Brefadel's wound seems to be slowly healing, there's enough blood still seeping to make tracking easy. 

Far too easy. 

With his companions fallen a little behind, the rough Halfling's mind wanders back to their recent meeting with the Goddess of the Pool.

'A Halfling abandoned as a child', she'd reminded him.

'Last of the Darkstars' She'd called him.   

How had she known these things? Had none of his tribe managed to escape the accursed Red-eyes? Was Madh Boss truly dead?

The battle-scarred Halfling's eyes momentarily burn with hot tears before the frigid atmosphere freezes them in place on his eyelashes.

He'd hoped, despite his adoptive father's last words, that they'd somehow found a way to escape. Had he really lost another family?

Was he cursed to survive the slaughter of every group that accepted him? Like a Harbringer of destruction, had he doomed his new friends just by joining their little group?

A sense of responsibility gnaws at his tattered soul and he unconsciously reaches across to his heavyset hound; Mir Hundur and grasps a fistful of comforting warm fur.

The Goddess, the King and the Prince

King of the nomadic centaurs; Rozinante, listens carefully to the small songbird warbling into his slightly pointed ear. Immediately, after hearing the message, he sends a young guard to run and fetch his eldest son.

Less than an hour later, his handsome heir, pushes aside the heavy, draped cloth and enters the tent.

"Tsigan, my beloved boy. I've just been contacted by Estrid."

Tossing back his long and luscious, chestnut mane, Prince Tsigan frowns.

"What is it Father? Has the Goddess of the pool requested our aid?"

The silver haired Rozinante, smiles wryly.

"Not... directly. It appears that she's passed on her magical charm bracelet, and with it our promise, to the very adventurer you very, nearly killed just a few weeks past."

The heavyset centaur's frown softens.

"You mean Arowe of Glendorne? Why, in Skerrit's name, would she have done that?!"

The old leader of the centaurs, strokes his wild beard a while before answering.

"I can only guess that the Goddess had dire need of the elf's help. Help that she had to barter heavily for. Apparently, she sent the whole lot of them down through the underwater portal and out into the void beyond."

Tsigan, scrapes the ground with his hoof.

"So, now those four adventurers can magically summon me from anywhere, anyworld, for a single hour, in a time of need?"

Rozinante nods.

"Considering she sent them into the Givrad void, I imagine, when it comes, wherever it comes from, it'll be in a time of desperate need!"

Smiling widely to reassure his Father, Tsigan reveals a set of perfect, pearly-white teeth.

"Well Father, if that's the Goddess' will, I'll be ready. Our blood debt will be repaid in full, even if it costs me my life."

The remnants of Rozinante's smile fades completely in response to his son's bravado and an expression of grim resolve replaces it.

"I pray, for my heart's sake and for our people, that it won't come to that."

Bird Brain!

Standing alone by one of the floating, spiralling portals, Sir Briefadel gulps down a curing potion and waits impatiently for his hawk's return.
It seems like an age for him, but he knows that, for his hawk; Syphonie, it can only have been a few minutes.
Time runs much faster in the void between worlds. By all his research, about sixty times faster. A minute outside the Givrad void is equivalent to an hour within.
Looking back over his shoulder, he glances at the portal he'd originally arrived through. Just the remains of the giant cockroach-like creature he'd dispatched on the floor but no sign of his brightly coloured assistant Egrow or, more importantly, no sign of any pursuers.
Scowling, Sir Briefadel accepts that if Egrow hasn't made it by now, he must have been captured or killed.
The Pool guardian and her Fey creatures would've been extremely wary of leaving the Green. It would be improbable but not impossible.
The duped adventurers though... He'd spotted them fighting against his soldiers. The ex-gladiator Fortu, actually battling against his men, fighting back-to-back with a ram-horned Satyr.
They must have turned against him.
No real surprise there, but would they be vengeful enough to chase him down the submerged pit though?
Would they have the moral and physical fortitude?
What would be in it for them?
Sir Briefadel pointlessly checks his weird map for the third time. He knows where he has to go.
Suddenly, the hawk he'd been waiting for, erupts out of the water, lands on his outstretched gauntlet and screeches.
Under his helmet, the human's brow knots above his eyes...

"You did what?!"

"You left the bloody rag behind?!"

"Right on the false path you'd laid?!"

"You idiot! They'll know they've been duped!"

"I don't care that a scary owl dived at you!"

"I don't care that it was bigger than you!"

Spinning on his armoured heel, Sir Briefadel strides back to one of the other portals.

"Come then Sephonie. It might still gain us a few extra hours head-start. Hell, we might be lucky and no-one will follow us at all!" 

"Best scenario of all; They blunder into frigid Kik-ri and the giant Remorhaz swallows them all whole..."

Another quick look back and the heavily armoured Sir Briefadel and his fantastically well-trained hawk, dive through the new portal and silence falls upon the void once more.

Practical Diplomacy

Double checking his restocked potion bandeliers and hitching his refilled quiver and longbow up across his wiry shoulders, Magritte risks posing the question he'd been delaying asking...

"After everything you said, everyone you killed; why did you allow those three Human soldiers to live?”

The ram-horned Satyr looks genuinely baffled, but the achingly beautiful Estrid calms him instantly with a gentle touch of her pale hand on his darkly tanned arm.

“I understand your confusion Magritte and, truth be told, I’m not all that certain if it was a wise decision or not, but we had to convince the Human Fortu that we are on the side of the angels. The barely-elf Rifkin did his best to persuade his companions, but that gesture of 'mercy' could only have helped our case."

Magritte gnaws at his bottom lip for a moment…

"You’re the goddess and I bow to your judgement, but I’ve got a really baaaaad feeling about this."

The Loyalty of Dogs

Ears down, Mir Hundur lies silently as he watches his master and the group he leads prepare themselves to enter the water.

Swimming is fine; he's a good swimmer but they want to go deep down into the darkness below and at that realisation, Mir Hundur starts to tremble.

Sensing his dog's anxiety, Liga Burr catches the goddess' eye and they both walk over together. The Halfling's small, reassuring hand automatically grasps a handfull of scruff at the back of Mir Hundur's thick neck and Estrid gently strokes the big dog's maw.

In the language of the Fey, the statuesque water nymph whispers magical words as she simultaneously breaths softly into the dog's great face. It's only when it stops that Mir Hundur realises that he'd been shaking.

Then his master speaks in their secret shared language. He tells him what they need to do and how deep they'll have to swim. Mir Hundur has never swum that deep and doesn't know if he can hold his breath that long but listens until his master finishes his lengthy explanation.

Finally, after Liga Burr stops speaking, Mir Hundur responds...

"You want me to dive for you? Don't you know that I'd die for you?"