The Black Fief!

[blackadder23]

(Actually we already played this session, because I'm running a week behind in writing these. That means I already know who lived and who died. But for the sake of simplicity I'm going to pretend otherwise. Hopefully I'll eventually get two written in one week and everything will be back in sync!)

I'm pleased to announce that we now have a sixth player, giving us what I consider a quorum! So no more NPC's are needed (knock on wood). Since we were right in the middle of an adventure, the new player generously agreed to take over Arn (at least for the time being - he's under heavy pressure to play a thief class in the future!) Here is the roster for the second part of "Messiah of the Orcs":

Anya, a Common Cleric of Artemis (3rd level PC)
Arn the Axe, a Viking Fighter (1st level PC)
Elena Pandoros, an Amazon Witch (1st level PC)
Ginnungagap the Hyperborean, a Warlock (3rd level PC)
Lars Larsson, a Viking Fighter (3rd level PC)
Tobasko, an Ixian Berserker (1st level PC)

I haven't yet awarded experience, so obviously no one has gained a level. They killed quite a few orcs and zombies (Hey, didn't Tobasko get bitten a few times? Hmmm...) and picked up a bit of cash and a lot of stolen souls. Poor Tobasko was left buck naked by the green slime and had to scavenge some orc-gear. Plus, you know, zombie bites.



Now we'll see if I'm still up to the task of handling six players!

[Ghul]

It's my perfect number of players, six. The only thing you have to be careful of is quiet players becoming quieter. Keep them engaged and involved by putting them on the spot (within the game, in a fun way).

[joseph]

Another great session in the bag, looking forward to your next recap!

[blackadder23]

Thank you! It should be up in a day or two (although I'll still be a week behind ).

[blackadder23]

“Messiah of the Orcs Part 2”

Shaking off their shock, the party rushed down the weird twisting stairs of the Purple Tower and through the gathering gloom back to the place where they’d tied their horses. To their utter horror, they discovered a griffin [the worst random encounter imaginable under the circumstances] devouring their next-to-last horse while the surviving horse screamed in fear. The winged beast, gorged on horseflesh, turned and roared at them. The party pelted the griffin with quarrels and sling stones; already satiated on the flesh of six dead horses [and rolling badly for morale], the beast took wing and disappeared into the night. The party stood aghast at the realization that only one mount, the dappled mare of the late Conan, still remained to them. Ginnungagap shook off his dismay and shouted for Elena, the lightest of the group and able to see in the dark thanks to Grimalkin, to take the mare and ride like the wind to warn Strongfort of the coming orc attack. Meanwhile, the rest of the party would follow the orcs on foot. Elena took a deep breath, then nodded and swung up onto the mare. Grimalkin climbed onto the horse’s head – the better to guide his mistress in the dark – and Elena dug in her heels and sent the dappled mare galloping in the direction of Strongfort [thereby splitting the party, which I really don’t like, but which couldn’t be avoided].



(Artist's depiction of the notorious "Horse Eater" Griffin)

After Elena departed, the remaining adventurers prepared to follow the orcs. Tobasko took three steps and then collapsed to the ground [having failed two of the saves against the zombie bites he suffered earlier]. Anya rushed to his side and realized he was burning with fever and mumbling deliriously; she peeled back an eyelid and saw darkness seeping into the whites of Tobasko’s eyes. Anya speculated that the soulless condition of the zombies they fought must have been contagious and transmissible by bites. Fortunately, no one but Tobasko had been bitten. Unfortunately, though Anya had healed the physical bites, she was too low in the hierarchy of Artemis to cure the underlying disease. Ginnungagap shrugged and stated that they should “put their good friend out of his misery” before he became a soulless husk as well. Lars nodded and raised his bastard sword for a coup de grace. Arn [now a PC] grabbed his wrist and offered an alternative suggestion: why not have Tobasko drink some of the soul substance they’d recovered, to see if it would reverse his condition? The others shrugged and allowed that it was worth a try. Arn and Lars poured a jar of luminous soul-fluid down Tobasko’s throat, causing him to convulse and sputter. Anya checked his eyes and shook her head; he was still becoming a zombie. Arn and Lars then poured a second jar down Tobasko’s throat. [I ruled it would only work if Tobasko drank two jars, passed two poison saves, and took d6 damage per jar. If he failed the saves, he would die on the spot.] Tobasko convulsed and twisted horribly and then [having passed both saves] vomited forth a large quantity of some sinister black ropy substance, followed by an even larger quantity of glistening white soul-fluid. Then he lay on his side, panting from the exertion [and the damage he suffered]. Anya checked his eyes and gasped with relief to find them clear. She called on Artemis to heal Tobasko of his physical injuries, warning the others as she did that she would be unable to heal anyone else that day. The party, including the recovered Tobasko, then moved out in pursuit of the orcs.

Two hours later, Elena neared Strongfort and was heartened to see the place still standing. She shouted for the guards to admit her, Grimalkin adding his own caterwauling from his perch atop the mare’s head. The amazed guards opened the gates just enough for her to enter, and she frantically told them that the orcs were out and would soon be attacking the fort. Elena followed the guards up a ladder and onto the parapet, where one of the guards began to blow a warning horn while another notched an arrow fixed with an alchemical star-ball. The archer fired the star-ball into the air where it exploded in a flash of bright green light [and now Elena’s player wants some star-balls]. In that brilliant green glare, orcs could be seen just a hundred yards away, creeping across the fields on their bellies with blades in hands and shields on their backs. The dozen or so guards stationed on the wall shouted in alarm and began to rain arrows and quarrels down on the intruders. The orcs withstood the first few casualties, but broke and ran after the seventh died, with an eighth struck dead by a quarrel in the back. Red-faced (and haired) Cullum, the garrison commander, climbed to the parapet clad only in a pair of shorts. He listened in growing awe and fear as Elena blurted out the whole story about the swine daemon, the horrible dehumanizing process he had perfected, and the daemonized orcs which had yet to make an appearance. Just as she finished, one of the guards shouted and pointed across the fields. All of the farms outside the fort were burning; they had been spared as the orcs approached, so as not to warn the fort by fire or smoke, but now they faced the full wrath of the frustrated attackers. Elena closed her eyes, and clapped her hands over her ears to shut out the screams of tortured men and women that were clearly audible from across the fields.

Meanwhile, the rest of the party had reached the orcish camp, and crept as close as they dared given that four of the five were clad in noisy plate mail. A large red silk pavilion was visible, the top decorated with bleached human skulls. Rank, sulfurous smoke rose from a fire hole in the roof of the pavilion, and a pair of the garish red daemonized orcs stood guard at the tent flap with glaives. The party held a brief discussion of what to do next, but realized they could decide little without more information. It was decided to send a scout into the pavilion protected by the invisibility potion that Lars had liberated from the bandit fort. Tobasko immediately volunteered, given that the others would have to remove their plate mail and he didn't have any; Anya protested, saying they should draw lots, but was overruled by the other three who were more than happy for Tobasko to assume this task. Tobasko gratefully removed the reeking orc-armor and helmet, and more regretfully set aside his huge scimitar. Lars handed Tobasko the potion and the magical dagger Ullrsthing, urging him to plunge the latter into the swine daemon’s heart. Tobasko quaffed the potion and vanished from the sight of his companions [thereby forcing me to split the party into three parts – sigh].

Tobasko crept low across the ground to the pavilion, alert for signs of any other orcs. He saw none, although he could hear shouting and screaming from the direction of the fort. Tobasko tensed as he drew near the two savage guards with their burning orange eyes, but they were oblivious to his presence. Tobasko slipped between their crossed pole arms and into the red pavilion. Inside the tent was hellish, with reeking fumes of sulfur and a multitude of candles that cast a sanguinary light. At the far end of the pavilion, on a pile of scarlet cushions with gilded threads, lay a colossal red-haired boar surrounded by heaps of picked bones. That sleeping horror could be none other than the daemon swine! Tobasko debated returning to the others, but decided he could end the fight then and there with a single dagger blow. Invisible, Tobasko crept toward the enormous boar with dagger raised to slash at its exposed throat. Just as he got close enough to strike, Tobasko became aware of four small glowing eyes watching him. Two piggish daemonic familiars, with hatefully human hands and faces, crawled out of the cushions on either side of the sleeping boar. They could clearly see Tobasko, and began to snarl and squeal hideously. The eyes of the daemon swine snapped open, and those burning orbs seemed to bore into Tobasko’s brain and seek to drain his will. But Tobasko shook his head [having made a successful save vs. charm] and his mind was his own again. Man and daemon swine watched each other for a long moment and then, with a cry of defiance and berserk rage, Tobasko threw himself at the hulking monstrosity on the cushions.

Elena and Cullum stood on the parapet and watched the last of the burning farms fall into smoking ruin. Forty Kelts now manned the walls of Strongfort, armed with bows, crossbows, and firepots. Large fires had been lit in braziers atop each of the corner towers, and the fields outside of town were in murky gloom rather than utter darkness. Elena clutched Grimalkin and whimpered as a mass of slowly-marching figures emerged from the shadows. It was all two dozen of the daemonized orcs, marching six abreast with shields and scimitars strapped to their backs and wood axes in their hands. As soon as the first rank of scarlet-fleshed orcs stepped from the shadows, the archers began to pour arrows and quarrels into them. The daemonized orcs missed nary a step as the missiles ripped into their flesh. The Kelts redoubled their fire in growing terror, and the relentlessly-approaching red orcs soon resembled pincushions. But not a cry had passed their lips, and they still came remorselessly on. As the daemonized orcs grew close enough, Cullum shouted for the use of flame. Firepots and flasks of alchemical oil (including one thrown by Elena) arced through the air to land among the crimson orcs. Fire burst all around them, wreathing the oncoming creatures in flames; yet they still gave not a cry, and walked without harm through the flames. The daemonized orcs were hefting their axes and eyeing the wooden stockade, now no more than fifty feet ahead of them. Cullum shouted that the orcs were bewitched and only magic could harm them. Perhaps the witch could do something? Elena met the expectant gaze of those around her and just shook her head; she had no more spells prepared, and in any case she knew no spells that could harm such creatures as these. All she could hope to do now was die at the side of brave men. Cullum nodded grimly and promised that no orc would take Elena alive while he still had a sword in his hand.

Meanwhile, the rest of the party became concerned at Tobasko’s long absence. Lars suggested that perhaps Tobasko had returned and was watching them invisibly as a prank, which suggestion earned a sour look from Ginnungagap. Anya opined that she had known it was a mistake to divide their strength, and that they needed to enter the pavilion as a group and confront the daemon swine. Ginnungagap offered an alternative proposal: run like mad for Strongfort. Anya refused to leave Tobasko behind, and pointed out that they would never make it through a countryside swarming with orcs with a daemon swine and his imps at their backs. Ginnungagap grudgingly agreed: “Let’s kill the son of a [slang term for prostitute] then.” The adventurers inventoried their available gear, knowing that normal weapons would do nothing to such a daemonic being. Ginnungagap had the magic sword Ymirstongue, but all their other blades were forged of mundane metal. They had carelessly failed to supply themselves with any silver daggers or bolts. Anya mistrusted her usual sovereign remedy (alchemical oil) because she feared the daemon might be immune to flames [it wasn’t], so she distributed vials of holy water to her companions along with a few hastily-muttered blessings. The party looked at their paltry supply of possibly-effective weapons with something approaching despair; then they squared their shoulders and marched together on the red pavilion.

Elena pressed her hands against her ears, trying to shut out the sound of axes striking the stockade wall and the horrible laughter of the scarlet-fleshed orcs wielding them. The Kelts were still occasionally firing arrows or bolts down at the creatures demolishing the wall, but with no more effect than before. Across the field dozens of other orcs could be seen gathering just out of bow-shot, waiting to pour into the town once the wall was breached. Just when all hope seemed lost, Elena felt Grimalkin pawing at her leg. The cat circled her feet twice and then padded over to her pack, which it proceeded to paw frantically [a hint from the referee perhaps]. Elena followed the cat and knelt by her pack. Inside were six jars of the soul substance that had been extracted from the daemonized orcs, as well as from dozens of hapless human victims. Elena held the softly-glowing jar in her hand for a long moment, considering. Finally she smiled; it was worth a try, wasn’t it? She walked over to the edge of the parapet, took aim at one of the crimson orcs gleefully chopping down the stockade, and hurled the jar squarely at its face. The jar shattered loudly and sprayed the daemonized orc, whose face instantly dissolved like wax in a fire. The howling beast dropped to the ground and Elena, heart leaping, hurled another jar down at their attackers. Two of the daemonized orcs were splashed by the soul-fluid, and they tumbled to the ground as their heads dissolved. The remaining red-fleshed orcs [having failed a morale check] dropped their axes and fled back across the field as the newly-heartened Kelts loudly jeered their cowardice and mocked their ancestry.

Meanwhile, the other party members moved closer to the pavilion, trying to stay out of sight of the two guards. Once they were in crossbow range, the adventurers sent a hail of quarrels in the direction of the two daemonized orcs. To their surprise and dismay [because I was running Elena in a different room and the other players weren’t aware of what she learned about the daemonized orcs], the quarrels stuck harmlessly in the garish red flesh of the orcs. The scarlet orcs bellowed in rage, lowered their glaives, and charged. Ginnungagap chanted the words of a magic missile spell, then cursed profusely as it sputtered out due to his heavy plate armor – his second spell in a row to utterly fail. Then the daemonized orcs were upon them, slashing viciously with the bladed pole arms. Arn and Lars desperately chopped at the gruesome red orcs, trying to hold them at bay even though their weapons were useless against daemonic flesh. Anya chanted a prayer to Artemis and summoned a weird war hammer of electric blue light. At her gesture the hammer descended and squashed the head of one of the scarlet orcs like a ripe melon. The other orc struck Lars a savage blow, which was fortunately turned by the adventurer’s armor. A moment later Ginnungagap ran the daemonized orc through with Ymirstongue; the creature spewed black ichor from its mouth and tumbled dead to the ground. The weird war hammer flickered out of existence as Anya bemoaned having to use it on minions rather than the daemon swine. Despite the loss of this magical weapon [which probably wouldn’t have gotten through the daemon swine’s spell resistance anyway], Ginnungagap raised his dripping sword and led the party into the red pavilion.

At Strongfort, Elena and Cullum peered into the gloom, trying and failing to see what the orcs were doing back in the shadows. Elena pointed out that she had but four jars of the soul substance left, which couldn’t possibly destroy all of the daemonized orcs if they attacked again. Cullum answered that they would have to pray that the orcs believed they had more. Just as he said this, the orcs began to appear across the fields in front of Strongfort. Each pair of red-fleshed orcs now pushed a wheeled mantlet draped with animal hides as they silently and grimly advanced on the fort. Behind them came a mob of lesser orcs, brandishing their axes and spears as they howled for blood and human meat. Cullum shouted for the archers, who immediately swept the field with arrows and quarrels. But most of the missiles stuck harmlessly in the mantlets, or struck the daemonized orcs who simply ignored the mundane shafts. A handful of the other orcs fell dead, but the rest jeered and snarled as they followed close behind the line of moving mantlets. As the orcs drew nearer, the remaining firepots and flasks of alchemical oil were hurled on Cullum’s command. Several of the mantlets were struck, but they were draped in wet hides; only two burst into flames, and the crimson-fleshed orcs that had been pushing them simply ran behind one of the other mantlets. As the orcs bellowed and brayed, Elena looked down at the four remaining jars of soul-fluid, then met Cullum’s eye and shook her head. Doom was upon them all, and wouldn’t be long delayed.



At the red pavilion, the other adventurers parted the curtains and stepped inside, ready to do battle. They were greeted by the sight of Tobasko lying dead on the floor, his guts torn out by savage tusks. The two pig-familiars were rooting around in his intestines, their faces smeared with blood; as the party entered, the familiars raised their monstrously human faces and squealed in derision. In the shadows at the rear of the pavilion stood the enormous red boar, sizzling black blood dripping from the two dagger wounds Tobasko had inflicted before he died. Ginnungagap met the luminous orange eyes of the daemonic boar, and immediately felt a powerful will attacking his own. Ginnungagap shook off this momentary hypnosis [having made his saving throw] and then, with an ancient Hyperborean battle cry, rushed directly at the daemon swine; his companions were but a step behind. The colossal red boar charged the party with a hideous bellow, while the blood-splattered familiars fled for safety in the pile of scarlet cushions. As the boar drew nearer, Ginnungagap’s companions hurled three vials of holy water; one missed, but the others exploded on the daemon swine, sizzling horribly and drawing a bellow of agony from the creature. Then the creature was on Ginnungagap, who swung the glowing blade Ymirstongue in a vicious cut. The deceptively quick boar ducked under the blow and dealt Ginnungagap a bone-jarring blow. Ginnungagap staggered back, spitting blood, and nearly lost his grasp on the magic sword which was their sole hope.

Lars spotted the magic dagger Ullrsthing lying near the cushions, and rushed to retrieve it while Arn and Anya distracted the daemon swine with ineffectual attacks with their mundane blades. The red boar bellowed and slashed savagely at Arn’s stomach; Arn stumbled backwards, blood pouring through the armor on his abdomen, and then collapsed to the ground. A second later Ginnungagap thrust his blade into the daemon swine’s side, drawing a hideous squealing shriek from the beast. Anya smashed a vial of holy water in the daemon swine’s face, causing it to burst into white flames. The red boar began to run around the pavilion, head ablaze and squealing horribly. Ginnungagap chased the daemon swine, hacking at it with his sword, and he was joined a moment later by Lars with the gleaming magic dagger. Anya, with no more holy water to hurl, rushed to Arn’s side. Her companion was badly wounded and coughing blood, but alive; bereft for the moment of healing magic, Anya could only bandage his wounds and pour a mouthful of strong wine down his throat. As she did so, the end came: the stumbling daemon swine, blinded and unable to strike its tormenters, finally fell in a flurry of blows from the magic blades. The great red boar gave a last terrible squeal and then lay still on the ground. This task accomplished, Ginnungagap and Lars went to the pile of cushions with the grim intention of executing the daemon swine’s evil familiars. But as they moved aside the cushions, they found only a pair of pig skeletons bereft of flesh or hair; the hands and faces of the skeletons were subtly and hatefully human.

At the fort, Elena stared down at the orcs in depair, listening to their axes biting into the stockade wall. She had hurled the other four jars of soul substance and managed to destroy two of the daemonized orcs, but now the garrison of the fort was without effective weapons. As Elena hugged her cat and prepared herself for death, there suddenly came a horrible bellowing and squealing from below [unbeknownst to Elena’s player, this was just as the daemon swine was struck down]. Before the amazed eyes of the Kelts, who a moment before had been resigned to death, the garish red flesh of the daemonized orcs began to melt and run like wax, leaving deformed skeletons that collapsed to the ground. The other orcs screeched in horror and fled into the night, several of them falling to arrows and quarrels fired by the jubilant garrison. The messiah of the orcs had fallen, and Strongfort was saved.

The next morning Elena found herself approaching the orc camp, accompanied by Cullum and a detachment of warriors from the fort. In the middle of the camp the red pavilion had been reduced to ashes, along with the corpse of the daemon swine and his two awful pig-familiars. Elena’s companions greeted her warmly, though she was saddened by Tobasko’s death and chagrined to learn that Anya had convinced Ginnungagap to burn the remaining jars of soul-fluid in order to “lay those poor lost spirits to rest”. Elena was less unhappy to learn that the daemon swine’s dehumanizing apparatus – a great crystal hypodermic needle and some inexplicable alchemical substances – had met its end in those same flames; some things were just too dangerous to keep around. Nor was she displeased to see the chest of gems and magical items her companions had removed from the pavilion (Lars and a wounded Arn were currently sitting on it and getting drunk on “medicinal” wine). Cullum hailed the party with profuse apologies for his former rudeness. Ginnungagap told him to think nothing of it – just as long as the adventurers were paid. There was a great deal of laughter and joking from the Kelts at this. They then accompanied the party back to town, carrying the wounded Arn in a place of honor and dragging the chest of jewels and sorcerous trinkets behind them.

This was a hairy one, with the players split into three different places at one point. It was exhausting for me, but well worth it as it kept the players ignorant of what had happened elsewhere, with amusing consequences like Anya and Ginnungagap burning the jars of soul substance. (I still hate splitting the party though.) Tobasko fell in glorious single combat with the daemon swine, and his player is under heavy pressure to play a thief so the party can have some stealth capabilities! Elena and Arn gained a level, and the others probably didn’t. With more characters gaining levels and Elena now in possession of frost-wand, you can bet the threats they face will be increasing – and soon.

[joseph]

Having the party split up like that is always tough on the DM - its sometimes hard to keep all your plots progressing evenly and also difficult to maintain the player's attention, its easy to spend too much time with one member or group at the expense of others. Nevertheless, it often leads to a very rewarding experience for all involved, allowing players to pursue their character's goals while at the same time contributing to the story in a way that broadens the game dramatically.

Your campaign sounds fantastic, another well gamed and well written recap!

[blackadder23]

Here is another new monster for your reading pleasure.

Daemonized Orc (Undead Class 13)
No. Encountered: 1d6 (2d10)
Alignment: Lawful Evil
Size: M
Movement: 40
Dexterity: 10
Armour Class: 6
Hit Dice: 2
No. of Attacks: 1 (weapon)
Damage: (per weapon +1)
Saving Throw: 15
Morale: 10
Experience Points: 68
Treasure Class: L; C, O, Q (×10), S

It is well known that orcs in Hyperborea were born of unholy relations between half-blood Picts and swine daemons. What is less well-known, and still more terrible, is the fact that the human portion of these creatures can be extracted, leaving only the daemonic heritage. This is done through the use of a cryptic alchemical apparatus (akin to a gigantic hypodermic needle made of crystal), accompanied by infernal incantations; the humanity is drawn from the orc in the form of a softly-glowing white fluid. Approximately 50% of orcs who undergo this process will die, but the others become daemonized orcs. (A human who is forced to undergo this process always dies and rises as a zombie.) Daemonized orcs are almost seven feet tall, with bright red skin, exaggerated porcine faces, evil grins, and burning orange eyes. They always have grisly wounds in the middle of their foreheads where their humanity was extracted. Daemonized orcs are immune to both mundane weapons and fire, and are even more given to torture and man-eating than their ordinary kin. These foul beasts are usually found as elite leaders of orcish tribes or personal servants of swine daemons.

Special:
• Hit only by silver or magical weapons.
• Immune to magical or mundane fire.
• Suffer standard damage from holy water. The luminous fluid extracted from them during the dehumanization process will cause like damage if it splashes them.
• Infrared vision (as the spell) to 60-foot range.
• −1 “to hit” when exposed to bright light.
• Daemonized orcs are always linked to the patron creature who removed their humanity (usually this will be a swine daemon, but it could be a human sorcerer or the like). If that patron is ever slain, all daemonized orcs under its patronage immediately fall dead and melt away to disgusting goo.

[odysseus]

Sounds like a lot of fun (except maybe for the GM who had to work double due to the split) and curious to see of the player will give up to his peers pressure and play a char with thief abilities.

[blackadder23]

He agreed to play a scout (basically a ranger/thief).

Here is the roster for the next session:

Anya, a 3rd level Common Cleric of Artemis
Arn the Axe, a 2nd level Viking Fighter
Borgo the Orc-Eater, a 2nd level Half-Blood Pictish Scout
Elena Pandoros, a 2nd level Amazon Witch
Ginnungagap the Hyperborean, a 3rd level Warlock
Lars Larsson, a 3rd level Viking Fighter

The party spent two weeks in Strongfort while Arn and Elena trained for the next level (at this rate, they'll probably get to the Black Fief just in time for Lady Rhiannon's funeral). Because everyone else is at least second level, and because the player has already run a couple of first level characters, I allowed Borgo to start at second level with a bit of extra cash. The party had a decent haul of loot, but it almost all went to replacing their depleted supplies of incendiary oil and holy water and adding some silver to their arsenal. Oh, and replacing the horses which the griffin ate (Elena kept the dappled mare and named her Alarum). They also picked up a couple magic items, making the magic item count as follows: Anya has a scroll of protection from lycanthropes, Arn has a +2 spear which he nicknamed Belly-Tickler, Elena has a frost-wand, Ginnungagap has the +1 sword Ymirstongue and a potion of gaseous form, and Lars has the +1 dagger Ullrsthing. I also granted Borgo a +1 dagger which he nicknamed Scalp-Taker. Ginnungagap got sick of spell failure and returned to wearing splint mail. Elena's player demanded that I add Grimalkin to her "official" portrait, and I complied with that request.

[blackadder23]

“Inhabitants of the Purple Tower”

After two weeks of feasts thrown by the grateful Kelts, the party was rested, resupplied, and recovered from their ordeal. They were sitting in the common room early in the morning, enjoying mugs of ale with their new comrade Borgo and discussing their next move, when they were hailed from across the room. Diarmid the ranger, whom they had previously encountered on the Strongfort road, approached their table accompanied by a beautiful but grave-looking little girl with white hair and violet eyes. Ginnungagap noted immediately that this child of eight or so was a fellow Hyperborean. Sitting at the table and helping himself to a cupful of ale from their pitcher, Diarmid gruffly saluted the adventurers for the recent deeds of valor which had saved Strongfort. Ginnungagap shrugged and noted that they had been well-paid, and would soon be on their way. Anya chided him for his surliness and thanked Diarmid warmly. Asked how things had gone with him, Diarmid reported that he had just returned from Hawkford with two hundred mercenaries, which put the fort in a far better state of defense than before. He then introduced the child, who had been watching the conversation silently, as Angelica, a poor waif he and the mercenaries had found wandering in the wilds outside the fort. The little girl had not given any account of what had happened to her, nor said much at all beyond her name.

Anya knelt before the child and touched her gently on the shoulder, asking why the girl had been alone in the wilderness. Angelica looked at the floor for a long moment, then shrugged and quietly said her parents were dead and her home had been burned by “marauders”. Borgo spat and stabbed his dagger into the table, muttering that he would kill the orcs who did such things. Anya glared at him until he put his weapon away, and then she hugged the child, noting how thin and light the girl was. Diarmid said the girl needed to be taken to the Black Fief, to be placed under the protection of Lady Rhiannon and the high druid Gwydion. Mayhap, he suggested, the party might take the girl with them on their journey to that very place? The adventurers excused themselves to discuss that question well away from Angelica’s hearing. Borgo stated bluntly that he was no babysitter and wouldn’t be responsible if the girl witnessed him cutting hearts from orcs and eating them (as he was wont to do). Anya looked at him with distaste and then pointed out that this was a soul in need. In his turn, Ginnungagap pointed out that the party wasn’t a charity. Anya replied that the girl was one of Ginnungagap’s own kind, but he just shrugged in response. Neither Lars nor Arn was enthusiastic about escorting the girl, but signaled they would do as the others thought best. Finally Elena said that she, too, felt great sympathy for the girl; and yet, theirs was a very dangerous path, and they were as likely to get the child killed as not if she accompanied them. To this Anya reluctantly agreed, since the others were all against her, and they told Diarmid they couldn’t help. The ranger said he understood, and that he would find the girl housing in Strongfort until such time as he could take her to Greenlee. Diarmid then took his leave with the grave-faced young child, who said quietly that she “hoped to see them all again soon”.

Having disposed of this matter, the party then discussed their next move. They were prepared and more than prepared to leave for the Black Fief – and the sands of Lady Rhiannon’s life were passing quickly through the hourglass – yet Ginnungagap proposed one further delay. They had not explored the upper half of the Purple Tower, and he felt strongly that its evil reputation might hide great wealth. Anya was at first unenthusiastic, since she felt their presence in the Black Fief was urgently demanded, but Ginnungagap won her over by pointing out that dangerous creatures might still lurk in the tower, threatening Strongfort and (he added shamelessly) the little girl they had just met. Resolved to clear the place of any such fiends, not to mention any portable valuables, the party made ready to depart for the Purple Tower. They supplied themselves well with weapons and adventuring gear but (mindful of the hungry griffins that apparently lurked near the tower) they decided to leave their horses in the stable and the bulk of their travelling gear in the custody of garrison commander Cullum. It seemed unlikely that the fort would fall in their absence, freshly-supplied with mercenaries as it was, nor was it likely that the Kelts would betray their saviors. So the party girded their loins, hoisted their packs, and began the journey across the rolling heath to the Purple Tower on foot.

Two hours passed, and the party was more than halfway to the tower without incident. It seemed like a pleasant stroll on a cool but sunny day. Then the party became aware of flapping noise, faint at first but growing louder by the moment. A dark cloud appeared on the horizon and quickly revealed itself to be massive reeking flock of blood-drinking stirges. Ginnungagap shouted for the party to prepare their bows, and for Elena to take cover. As the feathered horrors grew nearer, however, Elena raised the ivory wand she had retrieved from the swine daemon’s treasure and spoke the word of power. A glittering silver cone of glacial cold sprang from the sapphire tip of the wand and engulfed the stirge flock. Twenty or more stirges tumbled dead to the ground, coated with rime and frozen solid, while the few survivors wheeled and fled into the distance. Lars laughed at the dead monsters and kicked one across the heath, but Ginnungagap chided Elena for wasting the precious magic of her wand on mere vermin that they could have killed with quarrels. Elena retorted that this was easy for him to say, clad in metal as he was, but she wasn’t letting those “flying leeches” anywhere near Grimalkin or herself. She then went to fetch the aforementioned cat, who was trying to gnaw the stiff frozen corpse of a stirge. Elena scruffed her familiar and told him to stop before he broke his teeth.

Proceeding without further encounters, the party reached the sinister, twisted-looking Purple Tower a little after noon. The party entered through the back door, which still stood ajar as they had left it, and carefully searched the levels they had previously penetrated. They found nothing but orc-filth and a few scattered coins. Halfway up the tower they began to enter unexplored territory, and prepared for the possibility of attack at any moment. The rooms of the next level showed signs of ransacking by orcs, with crude orc-weapons lying about and the rotting remains of orc-rations hastily discarded; Borgo fingered the bundle of orc-scalps hanging from his belt and muttered darkly to himself. The stairs to the next level were blocked by a large door, of the same weird ebon stone as the one that guarded the rear entrance. Across the door was an obviously new wooden bar, crudely bolted into the unsettling purple stone lintel on either side of the black portal. Furthermore the bar was painted with two red orc-runes which Borgo identified as meaning “warning” and “death”. The party exchanged uneasy glances at the fact that the orcs had taken so much trouble to prevent entry from higher in the tower. Finally Ginnungagap shook his head, denounced all orcs as cowards anyway, and ordered Lars and Arn to pry the bar from the door. This they soon accomplished with their hardened iron pry bars, and Borgo bent to listen carefully at the door. But he shrugged, hearing nothing except (perhaps) a very faint moaning noise. Ginnungagap boldly pushed the door open and led the party into darkness.

Beyond were dark and twisted tunnels, thick with dust and obviously untraveled for many centuries. The sickly purple walls seemed to swallow light, and the party’s torches shed less and less illumination the further they penetrated into that immemorial place. All around them was a palpable sense of oppression and hostility, as if unseen hands opposed their passage and unheard voices whispered for them to turn back. Grimalkin was goggle-eyed and puffed to twice his normal size; Elena snatched him up and hid him in her cloak, making soothing noises to calm the agitated cat. The party walked through a series of corridors and rooms, up ramps and stairs, finding nothing but dust and the growing purple darkness. As they neared the top of the tower – as best they could estimate in that nauseous violet gloom – their torches were illuminating less than ten feet in every direction. They couldn’t even be sure of the size of the space they had entered. Around them was a stirring in the darkness, and the hostile whispering became unmistakable. The adventurers brandished their weapons, cold blue light spilling from the blades of their magical swords and daggers. Then came the purple shadows, cold and dark, with the grotesquely-elongated shapes of men and the hateful voices of the unquiet dead. As the pest-gulfs vomited forth these forms of unholy darkness Grimalkin voiced an unearthly shriek, Anya cried aloud to Artemis for succor, and the warriors snarled their defiance as they sprang to meet the dark shapes with gleaming blades in hand.



The next nightmarish minutes seemed to last an eternity, as the party fought to push back the hateful purple darkness that sought to swallow them. The shades wailed and clutched at the living folk with elongated fingers of darkness, and the adventurers felt their marrow freeze and their strength ebb at this touch. Yet still they fought, slashing through the sickly violet shadows with blades that gleamed and flashed in the darkness, sending their attackers wailing back into the purple gloom. Anya fought with a weird war hammer of living blue flame she had called forth, and before that mighty weapon no shade could stand. Elena didn’t waste the power of her frost-wand, for such abominations of the Black Gulf were surely insensate to cold, but rather hurled holy water into the mass of roiling purple shadow which seethed and scattered at its touch. For a moment the decision hung in the balance, as the adventurers grew so weak they could scarcely raise their weapons. Yet their indomitable wills supplied what their chilled bodies lacked, and under the bite of their shining blades the shades that inhabited the Purple Tower dissolved into freezing miasmal murk and the suffocating darkness began – at first imperceptibly, and then more and more quickly –to roll back.

Finally the adventurers stood triumphant, shaking with cold and weakness but unbowed. The unnatural darkness was gone, leaving only normal shadows cast by the flickering light of their torches. They were in a large chamber of purple stone, with a high vaulted ceiling and walls carved with runes and symbols incomprehensible to them all. On the far side of the room was a heavy door of dark stone, set with some strange mechanical apparatus. As most of the adventurers dropped to the floor to rest, swig wine, and recover their strength after their terrible ordeal, Elena (who had huddled in the middle and remained untouched by the purple phantoms of darkness) went to examine the curious apparatus attached to the enormous ebony door. Ginnungagap weakly told her not to touch anything, but Elena stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes at him. She studied the device attached to the front of the door carefully, while a now-recovered Grimalkin lashed his tail and coiled around her legs. The device was a horizontal brass metal balance arm some three feet long, set into the middle of what appeared to be the latch for the double stone doors. On the left end of the arm was attached a small statuette, some four inches in height, depicting a beautiful youth with a lyre; though not by any means an expert on Hyperborean religions, Elena recognized this easily as an image of Apollo. Along the top of the balance arm there were nine small identical circular depressions; judging from the size of the round base of the Apollo statuette, Elena deduced that another such figure was meant to be placed in each depression. On the bottom of the balance arm was a small lever.

Elena strolled back to her prostrate companions and announced that they needed to find nine little statues to open the door. Lars replied that he was going to fill his belly before he grubbed around looking for a bunch of idols. Elena shrugged and joined her companions on the floor, as they lit more torches to keep back the dark and enjoyed a miserable repast of iron rations. Fortified and recovered at last, Ginnungagap went with Elena to examine the strange mechanical latch on the door. He agreed with Elena’s judgment that nine idols were intended to be placed on the balance arm and the lever then pulled. No doubt the statuettes needed to be in some exact order, or there would be unpleasant consequences. Unfortunately the balance arm was already perfectly horizontal with only the Apollo idol attached, so there would likely be no visual clue as to whether the order was correct. Ginnungagap pushed at the heavy stone door and judged it unlikely they could open it with the tools available to them; they would need to work the lock to get inside. Borgo joined him and checked for obvious traps on the door and lock. He found nothing [with me rolling behind a screen of course], but Ginnungagap remained convinced that there would be dire consequences if they tried to break the elaborate locking mechanism or failed to work it properly. Meanwhile the other players had been searching the room carefully, and Arn found a section of flooring that sounded hollow when he stomped on it. Prying at the purple flagstone with the point of his dagger, Arn flipped it open on a hinge, revealing a hidden space.

As the others crowded around to see his discovery, Arn carefully removed a small, heavy bronze chest from the secret space. He set the chest on the floor for Borgo to examine for traps, but nothing was found. Arn then used the tip of his dagger to quickly flip the lid open. Inside were nine statues of nickel of identical height to the Apollo statue: an armored warrior with a sword, a beautiful naked seductress, a crowned king, a farmer with a sickle, a horned and bearded man clutching a treasure chest, a merman with a trident, an old man with an hour glass, a pregnant mother, and a youth with a winged hat. Ginnungagap removed a couple of the idols and noted ruefully that their bases were identical; further, they seemed to be of slightly different weights, making it probable that their placement on the balance arm was just as crucial as he’d feared. But how to determine that order? The party carried the chest full of statuettes over to the door and pondered the question. Finally Anya had a thought. Surely this tower dated back to a time when Hyperborea was still part of Old Earth. Though despised by most modern Hyperboreans, Apollo had been the chief god of Hyperborea before the coming of the glaciers, and had been the god of the mythical golden sun that shone on Old Earth. Since it was well known [especially to players who actually live on Earth] that the sun of Old Earth was circled by nine planets, perhaps the balance arm was a model of Old Earth’s solar system, and the trick was to place the idols in the order of the gods who corresponded to the planets of that system.

Ginnungagap then suggested Anya should be able to answer this riddle, given that she was a godly woman. Anya retorted that she was a priestess of Artemis (who was not represented among these idols), that her faith held Apollo to be a buffoon, and that she knew very little about the ancient gods of Old Earth. The adventurers then spent some time examining the idols and holding an animated discussion about their possible order, relying on scraps of lore they had heard about the worlds that swam in the darkness near Old Earth. [The players seemed unsure both about the order of planets in our solar system, and about which idol might represent which planet. They particularly weren’t sure whether Saturn or Uranus was the Roman version of Cronus.] Finally the party decided on the following order from closest to furthest from Apollo: youth with a winged hat, beautiful naked seductress, pregnant mother, armored warrior with a sword, crowned king, old man with an hour glass, farmer with a sickle, merman with a trident, and horned and bearded man clutching a treasure chest. Anya then insisted that they draw lots to determine who would pull the lever while the others retreated to the relative safety of the corridor outside. Borgo was selected for that task, and (after again checking the lever for some kind of trap) agreed to pull it once the others had reached safety. As soon as they turned their backs, but before they took even a single step in the direction of the hallway, Borgo reached down and yanked the lever. The mechanism whirred and clanked, and then the huge door swung open with a great groaning sound. The rest of the party glared at Borgo, but he just shrugged and gallantly gestured for them to go first through the door.

Beyond the vast stone door was a wide vaulted hallway that spiraled up to the top of the tower. The party moved warily forward, alert for the possible return of those shades of purple darkness. Yet nothing molested them, and they soon found themselves in the highest part of the tower, a round room with weirdly carven walls and a great purple-black domed ceiling. As the adventurers looked about for either opposition or treasure, Grimalkin began to caterwaul, every hair on his body standing on end. The party instantly assumed a defensive formation, back to back with weapons drawn, while the howling cat cowered at their feet. Then, to their horror, the fires of their torches began to steadily dwindle away, becoming the size of candles in a matter of seconds. A moment later the torchlight vanished entirely, along with the glow from their magical blades, and the party was plunged into utter darkness. There they remained for a long moment, eyes straining to pierce the unrelieved gloom, nerves screaming at the prospect of imminent attack. They became away of an unpleasant slithering noise, like a great bulk being dragged over flagstones, and a sickly flapping like a gigantic pair of leathery wings. Then a vast pair of orange eyes, shining like lamps, opened in the darkness not twenty feet from them, and a voice reeking of greed and ennui seemed to come from every direction at once: “Hello again! Did you bring... a sacrifice?”



The party was stunned by both the titanic burning eyes and the bizarre and incongruous statement the entity had made. When none of them made any reply, the inhabitant of the Purple Tower spoke again: “That’s quite all right. You can choose from amongst yourselves. I’ll wait.” As most of the adventurers stood silent in dismay, Arn made a half-hearted attempt to advance on the unseen creature with his magical spear Belly-Tickler; Ginnungagap grabbed his wrist and violently shook his head. After drawing out the silence for a long moment, the thing in the dark gave a great wheezing laugh: “I’m only jesting with you. Don’t be spoilsports. But enough of these pleasantries. Do you have it?” Anya shook off her paralysis and said they didn’t know what the creature was talking about. The vast orange eyes narrowed angrily: “Don’t try to cheat me! We have an agreement! Give it to me!” Ginnungagap spoke up and insisted the party had never made any such agreement. The unseen entity bellowed angrily: “You can’t fool me! I know you’re the ones who made the agreement – I recognize the little one! Give it to me now… or I’ll be forced to take it from you.” At this threat the blazing eyes seemed to grow larger, and the party quailed back as they prepared their weapons for hopeless battle. Then Elena stepped forward, brandishing her frost-wand angrily. They had no idea what the entity was talking about, she cried. They’d made no agreement with the creature, not ever. Elena proclaimed that she was a woman of her word, and didn’t appreciate anyone saying otherwise – man or demon. The other adventurers gaped at her outburst and prepared themselves for the worst.

The entity was silent for a long moment, and then the great orange eyes settled into suspicious slits: “If you’re not here to honor our agreement, why are you here?” Ginnungagap stated they were there to clear the Purple Tower of dangerous creatures and loot. The thing in the darkness chuckled: “Loot. You fourth dimensional creatures are so limited. Very well; you may leave without appeasing me… this time. Never return here until you have it. And don’t make me wait long. Don’t make me… come searching for you. And next time... bring a sacrifice.” There was a great gust of foul wind, and then the party’s torches flared back to life. Just for an instant they could faintly see an enormous dark shape in the room before them, like an afterimage on the eye. It was something like a great black toad, with vast gelid wings that filled the room from one wall to another, eyes like burning lamps, and an immense greedy maw twisted into a permanent smirk. Then the entity was gone, if indeed it ever truly had been there. Elena staggered and nearly fainted at the sight of exactly what she had addressed so impertinently. The others steadied her and then, without any exchange of words, headed swiftly for the exit from the Purple Tower. All thought of treasure was forgotten; they just wanted to be well away from that place of incomprehensible madness. They just wanted to return to Strongfort, for a last night of feasts and willing Keltic women, before departing post-haste for the Black Fief in the morning.

Four hours later the party trudged into sight of Strongfort, stomachs growling and packs still empty of treasure. Arn stated that he was for a hot fire and a mug of ale, to which Lars eagerly agreed. But at that moment, as they beheld the fort in the early evening light, the party realized something was wrong. No living thing was in sight, and columns of black smoke rose from several points in the fort. The party drew their weapons, assuming the orcs had returned and attacked the fort in their absence, and rushed to the front gate. The great oaken portal had been torn from its hinges – apparently from the inside – and lay scorched and smoldering on the ground. Warily the party crept into Strongfort, and beheld a scene of horror. The corpses of men, women, and children were sprawled all over the ground inside the fort. Many were horribly burnt and lay still smoldering; others were bloated and black-faced, seemingly slain by poisonous gas. Still others appeared to have been struck dead by bolts of lightning. Most of the buildings inside the fort had either been burned or somehow smashed, and smoke still rose from the ruins of the common house. As the adventurers gaped in horror, Elena and her familiar rushed to the stables to check on their horses. She emerged weeping and retching, crying that the horses had all exploded inside their stalls; Grimalkin trotted at her heels with a length of horse-intestine in his mouth. Borgo had been studying the ground inside the fort, and he reported that there were two sets of tracks everywhere amid the death and ruin: the bare feet of a child, and some strange prints he couldn’t identify. As best he could determine, they seemed to be the tracks of some gigantic deformed rat.

Finally the party reached the barracks, and here the dead mercenaries lay in heaps, either burned or battered into bloody unrecognizability. The barracks itself was still standing, if barely, and nailed to either side of the door were the corpses of Cullum and Diarmid. Six words had somehow been seared into the door which hung lopsided from its hinges:

YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE BURNED MY HOUSE.

Sick with horror and disbelief, the party scavenged what gear they could before fleeing into the growing darkness. They didn’t stop to sleep until they had put several miles between themselves and that ruin of death and destruction.

[blackadder23]

Last session was the first one where the party gained no treasure at all, and in fact lost their horses and some stored equipment. But the XP from fighting the purple shadows put Anya, Arn, and Elena over the top to the next level. The party is obviously in no position to train, but I agreed to waive the training costs and time on the theory that their characters are being forged in the crucible of adversity (or something like that). That means the roster for the next adventure is as follows:

Anya, a 4th level Common Cleric of Artemis
Arn the Axe, a 3rd level Viking Fighter
Borgo the Orc-Eater, a 2nd level Half-Blood Pictish Scout
Elena Pandoros, a 3rd level Amazon Witch
Ginnungagap the Hyperborean, a 3rd level Warlock
Lars Larsson, a 3rd level Viking Fighter



The party has decided to press forward for the Black Fief, rather than return to Hawkwood and answer some uncomfortable questions about what happened to Strongfort. Time will tell if they make it, or get into still more trouble on the road.

[Ghul]

Great work as usual, BA23. I think (for me!) one of the most amusing parts was when the horses got eaten by the hippogriff. That was pure excellence.

[blackadder23]

Oct 22, 2013 21:48:12 GMT -6 Ghul said:

I think (for me!) one of the most amusing parts was when the horses got eaten by the hippogriff. That was pure excellence.

Thanks! I rolled that as a random encounter and thought "What would be more entertaining than a monster just swooping out of the sky and attacking them? Oh yeah, if it ate their horses." You should have seen their faces!

[Ghul]

Oct 23, 2013 8:02:59 GMT -6 blackadder23 said:

Oct 22, 2013 21:48:12 GMT -6 Ghul said:

I think (for me!) one of the most amusing parts was when the horses got eaten by the hippogriff. That was pure excellence.

Thanks! I rolled that as a random encounter and thought "What would be more entertaining than a monster just swooping out of the sky and attacking them? Oh yeah, if it ate their horses." You should have seen their faces!

I know exactly what you mean -- when you're the DM, sometimes it's the little things that are most amusing. That's why it struck me. Despite all the great stuff going on in the campaign -- and there is a lot -- that was a moment that truly made me LOL when I read it.

[odysseus]

Quite another good session. At this rate, they might give up buying horses to save their gold.

[blackadder23]

Oct 28, 2013 15:10:43 GMT -6 odysseus said:

At this rate, they might give up buying horses to save their gold.

They said something like that! They've also been racking their brains trying to figure out how an eight-year-old could be such a powerful sorceress. They have two theories:

1) She was born with an adult mind (like the baby in Ray Bradbury's "The Small Assassin") and an unbelievable aptitude for magic.

2) The child body is actually inhabited by the mind of a much older magician (a la Lovecraft's "The Thing on the Doorstep").

I'm not saying which (if either) of those is correct, but I admire their ingenuity. Much like the reason that no one can hold the Black Fief without dying, and the nature of the bargain that the party made (will make?) with Xathoqqua, this is a mystery that only further play can unravel.

[blackadder23]

(Note from last session: purple shadows are like regular shadows, only much more fabulous. Feel free to borrow this festive notion!)

“Uncanny Valley Part 1”

Three days after the massacre at Strongfort, the party was still trudging along the wagon track with silent rolling hills on either side. The adventurers had said little to each other in that time, each brooding on the weird and horrible events that had surrounded their time in Strongfort. As the third day drew to a close, the wagon track sloped down into a copse of trees. Weapons drawn and alert for danger – indeed, almost eager for some physical foe to slay to relieve their collective melancholy – the party entered the woods. They were scarcely under the shadows of the trees before a familiar voice hailed them. The adventurers turned, brandishing blades and bows, only to see the nameless druid they had met weeks before in Hawkford sitting high in a tree branch, puffing on his pipe and watching them steadily. Ginnungagap stepped forward and angrily demanded what the man wanted. The druid blew orange smoke rings and mentioned that the bridge was out. Ginnungagap asked what business that was of the druid’s, and the druid replied that the party might expect to get wet. Ginnungagap sarcastically thanked him for the warning, then pointed out that, if the druid was really so anxious to be helpful, he might have warned them of what was going to happen in Strongfort. The druid replied mildly that he had told them not to trust anyone, and that included himself.



Anya laid a hand on Ginnungagap’s arm to forestall another rude outburst, and thanked the druid for his advice and the token of introduction he had previously given them. It was particularly valuable since their letter of introduction (and even, worse, their draft of credit) from Cullum had perished amid the ruins of Strongfort. The druid inclined his head and said the token would come in handy “eventually”. Anya didn’t like his use of the word “eventually” and said so. The druid smiled and said it would be of great help when they “eventually” reached the Black Fief. In the meantime, he warned, they should heed his words: when two forks beckoned, they must take the one on the right. Swelling with indignation at this cryptic nonsense, Ginnungagap went to climb the tree and seize the druid. The druid blew a cloud of white smoke from his pipe, and where he had once sat was now a snow-white owl. The owl took flight in the gathering dusk, leaving a trail of blue smoke rings behind. Ginnungagap made as if to fire at the owl, but lowered his crossbow when Anya gave him a severe look. At least, she said, they now knew to take the right fork when such a choice was presented to them. Ginnungagap replied in a surly tone that he would do the opposite of anything the nameless druid advised. Who was to say the druid wasn’t an enemy, perhaps in league with the demon-child Angelica? Anya pointed out that, if the druid truly was a foe, perhaps he was counting on exactly that sort of contrariness. Ginnungagap rolled his eyes and wished all prophets dead at the bottom of the sea.



The next morning, after an uncomfortable night sleeping with roots as pillows and a miserable breakfast of mammoth jerky and sour wine, the party gathered their gear and began to trudge down the wagon track once more. They had gone less than a mile before the trees fell away on either side of them, leaving them standing on the edge of a ravine. The ravine was some hundred or more feet wide, and the bottom of it was filled with churning water; it was the Year of the Hare, early spring in the 13-year cycle of Hyperborea’s seasons, and the melting snows of the Spiral Mountains filled many such ravines and gullies with deadly torrents. The broken remnants of a crude wooden bridge could be seen, apparently destroyed by the recent flooding (if not by a more malign power). The party conferred briefly and decided that, since tossing a grappling line that distance was out of the question and swimming the raging torrent seemed a foolhardy proposition, their only option was to build a raft. Borgo, wise in woodcraft, took charge of the process, with Lars and Arn wielding axes to fell trees at his direction. Ginnungagap and Anya worked to construct the raft from the cut trees and a coil of hemp rope, while Elena supervised the entire process with a sleeping Grimalkin draped across her shoulders. At one point Arn remarked that it was perhaps fortunate that they had no horses, since building a raft to accommodate such animals would have been much more difficult. This earned him a glare from Elena, who was still mourning the grisly demise of the dappled mare Alarum, and Arn returned abashed to chopping the trees.

At length a raft large enough to accommodate all six of them was finished and dragged to the edge of the ravine. Borgo lowered a weighted rope to test the depth of the water, and determined that it was more than twenty feet deep. That ruled out poling the raft, so the party worked on creating six crude paddles. They anchored the raft firmly to the edge of the ravine with a length of strong rope, then pushed the vessel over the side. It fell ten feet to land with a mighty splash; fortunately the knots tying the logs together held, and the raft – though it strained at the anchor rope – was not swept away by the raging current. One at a time the adventurers climbed down the anchor rope to the waiting raft, each carrying a paddle on his or her back. As Elena climbed down Grimalkin clung to her, howling madly at the water churning all around them. Once everyone was secure on the raft, Arn swung his axe and severed the anchor rope with one blow. The raft immediately shot down the ravine, carried along by the torrent of water pouring down from the hoary heights of the Spiral Mountains. The adventurers began to paddle madly, making for the other side of the ravine. The raft slowly crept toward the far side, but meanwhile the party was carried further and further into the unknown depths of the canyon. Several times the raft came very close to being smashed on trees floating in the mad white waters.

Suddenly Anya, who was paddling at the front of the raft, shouted that she saw something. A hundred yards ahead of the party the ravine was filled with a pale mist, faintly luminous with uncanny and indescribable colors, and the raft was being swept straight toward it. Elena cried that she didn’t like the looks of the mist, to which Ginnungagap heartily assented; he urged the others to row as hard as they could. As the raft was washed closer and closer to the shimmering unnatural-looking mist, it also drew within striking distance of the far side of the ravine. Ginnungagap took a grappling line, one end of which was secured to the raft, and hurled it at the rocks above. But [Ginnungagap having failed at an extraordinary feat of dexterity] the grappling hook fell just short and plunged into the frothing waters. As Ginnungagap desperately sought to retrieve the line for another throw, the raft plunged into the softly glowing mists. For a moment the party seemed to be suspended in time and space, in a white void where their shouts and the maddened screeching of Grimalkin echoed only faintly. Then the raft landed with a jarring thump, as if it had plunged several feet, and all the passengers were hurled into the water. As they struggled to the surface, the adventurers quickly realized they hadn’t landed in the cold wild white waters of the ravine, but rather a warm shallow river that drifted lazily along. Indeed, it appeared that they were no longer in the ravine at all.



As the party struggled back to the gently bobbing raft, they took in their surroundings with surprise and wonder. They were in a narrow river valley, wholly unlike the rocky ravine they had been plunging through just a moment before. Behind them the valley was wreathed in the same kind of faintly luminous mists they had entered in the ravine. Low hills rose on either side of the river, green with the vegetation of high summer. Indeed, though it was early spring and still quite cool in Hyperborea, the climate in the valley was balmy and pleasant. As the party huddled on the raft (along with a soaking wet and thoroughly angry black cat), they slowly drifted around a bend in the river. A building came into view: a great stone mill, without visible windows or doors and with an enormous waterwheel turning slowly on the river side. The adventurers roused themselves from their amazement long enough to paddle and put some distance between themselves and that menacing wheel. As they did, they spotted a number of people dressed in plain homespun garb. They were wielding crude farm implements as they worked lush-looking fields. Some of the farmers looked up as the raft drew near, waved cheerfully, and returned to their work. Glancing at each other uneasily, the party paddled their raft to the shore near the farmers and anchored it to a rock with the grappling hook.

As the armed adventurers approached, one of the farmers set down his hoe and met them with a warm smile. This dignified-looking elderly Viking identified himself as Jormungand and welcomed the party to the valley. Anya (wisely assuming the role of interlocutor in place of the damp and indignant Ginnungagap) asked Jormungand what place this was, and how the party had come to find themselves there. Jormungand said the valley had no name, but was a very special place – a place of peace, away from the strife and danger that afflicted the rest of Hyperborea. As to how the adventurers had come to be there, it was by virtue of the glowing mists which appeared in Hyperborea from time to time. Those who entered the uncanny mists found themselves in the valley, as Jormungand himself had when his longship was swept into a strange glowing fog on the waters of the Striped Gulf decades before. In fact, most of the people who lived in the valley had come there in just such a way, save only a very few who had been born there. Life in the valley was long and free of disease and injury, Jormungand explained, so few of the inhabitants bothered to have children. Now the party had come to the valley, and could join their blessed and harmonious community.

At this Ginnungagap could no longer contain himself, and thrust Anya aside. He sarcastically thanked Jormungand for the invitation, but declined it in no uncertain terms. He demanded to know how the party might leave the valley. Jormungand shrugged and said that they could not. Ginnungagap asked if Jormungand intended to stand in their way, and the Viking shook his head emphatically. Those who dwelt in the valley, though they were of many races who were at dagger’s-drawn in Hyperborea, had renounced all violence and strife. No one would lay a hand on the adventurers. Yet still they could not leave, for it was contrary to the law. Ginnungagap demanded to know whose law. Jormungand answered that it was the law given them by the “old man in the mill”, and it had but three precepts: all were welcome in the valley, none must do violence in the valley, and none could ever leave the valley. Ginnungagap pointedly said that the third rule was likely to lead to a violation of the second, and soon, if he didn’t get some satisfactory answers. He then demanded to see this “old man in the mill.” Jormungand replied that no one ever saw or spoke to the “old man in the mill”; his laws had been handed down for as long as anyone alive in the valley could remember. Incredulous, Ginnungagap asked how the farmers knew the “old man in the mill” was still alive, or had ever existed. Jormungand simply replied that they believed, and the party would soon come to believe as well. He then gave a cordial wave before returning to his work, and the adventurers noticed for the first time that he and the other farmers were all tattooed on their left hand with the image of a waterwheel.

The party stepped away from the hard-working farmers to confer on what they’d been told. Borgo immediately suggested seizing some of the farmers and torturing them for the information he was certain they were withholding; Anya stated bluntly that she wouldn’t allow this. Lars said it would shame him to attack such inoffensive people – their plain dress and slave-marks clearly marked them as thralls, unworthy of feeling a Viking’s blade – to which statement Arn offered a somewhat lukewarm agreement. Elena looked around the beautiful green valley and wistfully said it might not be so bad to stay in such a peaceful place, free of monsters and horse-killing midget magicians. Ginnungagap harshly contradicted her, saying he didn’t believe for a moment this place was what it appeared to be; there was no such peace anywhere on Hyperborea. But even if it truly was a paradise for its inhabitants, the party had places to go and adventures to undertake. Anya offered her opinion that the inhabitants were deluded and worshipping an abandoned mill as an idol. Therefore, no “old man in the mill” would try to stop them if they broke the “law” against leaving the valley. It was only a matter of finding the easiest way to do so. To this the others agreed, and they began drawing up their plans.

The party paddled to the far bank of the river and set up a camp in which they could sit and suspiciously watch the mill and the cheerful farmers. Borgo and Arn then scouted the hills on both sides of the river, alert for danger or treachery. They encountered none, and returned a few hours later with a report. The valley was about a mile wide and two miles long, with the meandering river dividing it lengthwise. The hills that flanked the river ended abruptly in walls of shimmering mist. Borgo had entered the mist, with Arn holding a rope tied around his waist, and had gone as far as the rope would allow without seeing anything but a featureless expanse of white. Similar mists blocked both ends of the river, leaving the entire valley circled by the uncanny fog; indeed, even the sunlight from above was diffused, making it difficult to judge the time of day or even whether the sunlight was a wholesome red color. Borgo and Arn had also seen more of the inhabitants of the valley on both sides of the river, farming and fishing with hand-woven nets, and estimated that there were two hundred or so. They seemed to have no homes or other structures, but rather slept on the ground without fear of danger or violence. Indeed, the only building anywhere in the valley was the antiquated-looking mill. Ginnungagap scowled at this report and sent Borgo and Grimalkin to examine the mill itself. They circled the great structure, trying to find any secret entrance or even an opening small enough to admit a cat. They found nothing but solid stone walls, although they did receive many cheerful waves from the industrious farmers.

Stymied, Ginnungagap finally proposed the simplest solution: simply float out the far end of the valley on their raft, and follow the river to freedom. Elena pointed out that if leaving were that easy, others would have done it. Ginnungagap retorted that the inhabitants were superstitious fools, afraid of an imaginary “old man in the mill”; it was their fear that kept them chained in the valley. Bold adventurers would succeed where tremulous cowards failed to even try. No one else had a better idea, so the party loaded their gear back onto the raft and prepared to depart. The farmers had gathered to watch, though they made no move to interfere, and Jormungand repeated that no one could leave the valley; the “old man in the mill” had decreed it. Ginnungagap replied that there was no “old man in the mill”, and cast off from the shore. The party floated on their raft past the huge shadowy mill with its great groaning wheel, and continued down the river toward the shimmering wall of mist. As the unnatural glittering mists prepared to swallow them, Ginnungagap shouted for the party to brace themselves. But this time there was no plunge, merely a slight jarring thud before the raft was clear of the mists. The adventurers sighed with relief to find themselves floating serenely on a calm river with green hills on either side. Their relief turned to disbelief and then horror as they rounded a bend and saw the ancient mill with its slowly turning wheel ahead in the distance. From the shore, Jormungand and the farmers smiled and waved a greeting.

Ginnungagap brought the raft into shore and dismounted, sword in hand and murder on his mind. As he and the others drew near the smiling inhabitants of the valley, the adventurers were startled by a sound from the mill: a great braying horn, blowing over and over and echoing throughout the valley. As soon as the horn began to sound, the inhabitants of the valley dropped their tools and then carefully laid down on the ground, curling into fetal positions. The bewildered adventurers looked wildly about, weapons in hand but nothing to strike apart from dozens of harmless, passive farmers and fishermen. Meanwhile the great hidden horn continued to sound over and over. Then there was a loud clattered from the mill, and small vents opened all along the edge of the roof to discharge streams of dark dust into the air. The reddish-brown powder began to fall all around the party and Ginnungagap, tasting it on his tongue, shouted that it was the sleep-inducing russet lotus of Hyperborea. Already the men and women on the ground had fallen into a peaceful enchanted slumber. The adventurers struggled to stay awake as the dust blew into their noses and mouths, but [having all failed their poison saves over the course of three rounds] one by one they dropped to the ground in graceless heaps. The last thing any of them heard was the ceaseless braying of the gigantic horn inside the mill.

When the party regained consciousness, the valley was once more peaceful and quiet; all traces of the russet lotus had seemingly blow away in the mild summery breeze. The adventurers staggered to their feet, and saw facing them all the inhabitants of the valley, each one smiling and nodding in welcome. At their forefront was Jormungand, hands spread in greeting: “It is well, my friends. You didn’t believe in the Old Man in the Mill, and you sought to leave this miraculous place. But the Old Man has pardoned you, and chosen you as his own. You belong to us now.” His smiling compatriots all nodded and softly repeated: “You belong to us.” The adventurers realized with a start that they had been stripped of armor, arms, magical impedimenta, adventuring gear, and all other possessions save a rough garment of homespun cloth. Their raft was gone from the river. And on each of their left hands was blazoned the sign of that great slow-turning wheel.



TO BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT SESSION!

[blackadder23]

Last session there was (for the first time) no combat and no treasure gained. In recognition of this I awarded double participation XP, which put Arn and Ginnungagap over the top to 4th level! Once again, I waived the training requirements because of the tremendous adversity the characters have been facing (pressure makes diamonds, after all). That makes the current character roster as follows:

Anya, a 4th level Common Cleric of Artemis
Arn the Axe, a 4th level Viking Fighter
Borgo the Orc-Eater, a 2nd level Half-Blood Pictish Scout
Elena Pandoros, a 3rd level Amazon Witch
Ginnungagap the Hyperborean, a 4th level Warlock
Lars Larsson, a 3rd level Viking Fighter



A sorry-looking lot, aren't they? Almost like plucked chickens. No weapons, no spells, no allies... how will they get out of this one? Stayed tuned and find out!

[odysseus]

I really like this last development.
Nothing worse to a group of adventurers than a peacefull place and its welcoming inhabitants.
Astonishing Farmers and Shepperds of Hyperborea

[blackadder23]

“Uncanny Valley Part 2”

The next few weeks were a very different life for the former adventurers. They slept on the ground in the warm and fragrant open air, heedless of any danger. Each morning they rose at dawn, having neither drunk nor wenched the night before. They breakfasted on simple fare, chatting pleasantly with the friendly and cheerful farmers of the valley. They then took up hoes and rakes – rather than their accustomed swords and axes – and tilled the soil for long hours beneath the pleasant warmth of an unseen sun. As the humans worked, Grimalkin sported among the sweet grass and wildflowers. When dusk came they gathered once more with their fellow farmers to feast on vegetarian stews and talk at length about nothing in particular. Then they sprawled on the soft turf once more to sleep, until the sun rose above the encircling mists and the time came to do it all again. And through it all, like the ticking of a clock, they could clearly hear the creaking of the great mill wheel. It was a dull life, but a pleasant and safe one. To some, perhaps many who suffered amid the tumult and violence of Hyperborea, it might have seemed a paradise.

But not to the party. They considered themselves to be prisoners, and the Old Man in the Mill (whoever and whatever he might be) to be their warden. So by day they smiled and dissembled contentment, but by night they plotted in whispers. Handsome Arn took a bath, picked a bouquet of wildflowers, and seduced Ophelia, a young woman who had been born in the valley and visibly chafed at its restrictions. She confirmed for the party that she had never seen the Old Man, nor had anyone now living to her knowledge; nonetheless he must be real, for the mill released the lotus of sleep whenever there was violence (or the threat of violence) in the valley. Offenders were disarmed, or otherwise pacified, as they slept. Beyond this, the Old Man made no demands on the inhabitants of the valley; indeed, he seemingly had no intercourse with them at all. Ophelia reported that the other young folk of the valley were also anxious to leave their placid life behind and see the outside world. Hearing these tidings, the adventurers conceived a desperate plan to overcome the Old Man in the Mill and win their freedom.

The next day dawned like any other day, and the party talked cheerfully at breakfast before taking up their tools in seeming readiness to work the fields. But they had concealed certain items on their persons, items crucial to their scheme. As they worked, returning the friendly greetings of the farmers on all sides, the adventurers casually drifted closer and closer to the mill. When they were quite near the mill indeed, Ginnungagap began to sing a bawdy tune in Hyperborean as he worked, the other party members joining him in a ragged chorus. At this prearranged signal, the young folk of the valley, who had been tilling the soil a bit further from the mill, began to shout and squabble. Jormungand rushed over and attempted to reason with them, but one of the young men shoved him rudely aside. Within moments their supposed dispute had escalated to actual blows. As fists struck flesh, the colossal horn inside the mill began to bellow and the sleeping-dust vents opened. Most of the farmers obediently dropped to the ground and curled into fetal positions, and the party members did the same with alacrity. As they did so, however, they surreptitiously placed damp rags over their mouths; even Grimalkin buried his muzzle in a small cloth.

The russet lotus dust began to rain down on the valley, covering the sprawled farmers and the still-squabbling youths who dropped heavily to the ground. The party breathed evenly through their rags, and remained awake and watchful behind slitted eyes. For long moments the party feigned sleep and waited; the only sound was the gentle breathing of the farmers all around them. Then came a soft creaking from the mill, followed by tentative shuffling footsteps. The adventurers continued to play possum as a shadowy figure walked slowly among their sprawled forms, headed toward the slumped bodies of the young folk. Just as the slowly-creeping figure passed them, Borgo sprang to his feet and made a savage attack with a club he had concealed in his clothing. The man from the mill [having been the victim of a successful backstab for near-maximum damage] gave a muffled cry and fell forward with blood streaming from his scalp. The remaining adventurers dropped their pretense of slumber, and Anya shouted angrily that the party had agreed not to kill the Old Man unless it was necessary. Borgo shrugged and replied that he had found it necessary. Anya knelt and turned the stricken man on his back, cursing her lack of a holy symbol that made healing prayers impossible. Their victim was an incredibly ancient man with long dirty-white hair and nails, dressed in tattered rags. He had been carrying some unknown chemical concoction in a glass jug, which had fallen to the ground and shattered. The elderly man struggled for breath as Anya cradled him, and managed to stammer a few words: “…fools…don’t let…escape…” Then he slumped in her arms, and the Old Man in the Mill was dead. The great blaring horn gave one final cry, and then fell silent.



The young folk, who had also been feigning sleep with rags over their mouths, had joined the party; unused to violence, they wept in horror at the corpse on the ground. Ginnungagap impatiently delegated Anya to comfort the sentimental youths while he and the others investigated the mill. As the party had expected, a cunningly-concealed secret door now stood open on the side. They brandished their farming tools as weapons and crept cautiously inside. The lower half of the mill was one enormous room, dark and gloomy, built of stone with thick rafters supporting a stone ceiling. The room was mostly empty, and there was no sign of the party’s gear or raft. However, against one wall there were stacks of empty barrels and several coils of rope. Lars suggested the watertight barrels might be lashed together into a makeshift raft, to which the rest of the party immediately agreed. Anya had come into the mill with the teary-faced young folk, and Ginnungagap immediately put the youths to work (along with Arn and Lars) on building a large raft from the barrels. The other four adventurers, accompanied by the prowling black cat, began to search the room for any access to the second level. Borgo eventually located a secret door in the east wall, and beyond it is was a shaft containing a sturdy wooden ladder to the upper floor.

The four adventurers warily climbed the ladder, Grimalkin clinging to the back of his mistress Elena and greedily lapping the blood he drew thereby. At the top of the ladder was an iron-bound wooden panel, which Borgo opened gingerly after a fruitless search for traps. The adventurers climbed cautiously into the vast upper works of the mill. It too was one huge room, but rather than being gloomy it was softly lit by a pale silver-white radiance. The source of the glow was a crystalline globe, some ten feet in diameter and filled with pulsing and shimmering mists not unlike the ones that encircled the weird valley. It hung suspended from the ceiling, and above it was spread a vast arrangement of huge brazen gears, all of them turning slowly in time with the enormous creaking mill wheel outside. Beyond this strange device, the upper room contained a bed, a wardrobe, shelves filled with oddments, an iron strongbox – and, to the delight of the party, all of their stolen gear in a great heap. The four adventurers were soon rearmed and reequipped, and shouted for Arn and Lars to come and gird themselves as well. The Vikings did so, leaving the hard-working and compliant young folk to complete the barrel-raft outside. As his companions studied the titanic machine set into the ceiling with awe, Borgo knelt and examined the strongbox. He could find no traps in the lock or latch, and he went to work on the lock with his recently-recovered tools. In no time he had it open, and the party crowed with delight to find a small fortune in jewels and a number of gold ingots.

Having loaded their persons with treasure, the adventurers turned their attention to the other item in the strongbox: an ancient handwritten journal. The cramped script meant nothing to Borgo, but when he handed it to Ginnungagap the warlock immediately recognized it as Esoteric Hyperborean, a tongue favored by wizards, sages, and madmen. The journal was not easy to read, being rather wild and discursive, but Ginnungagap was able to extract the gist of it. The Old Man had come to the valley many years before, “when it was still truly a part of Hyperborea”, in search of a burning stone that had fallen from the heavens. The Old Man discovered this intruder from the Black Gulf, lodged still-smoking in the earth, and moved it into an ancient abandoned mill for study. His journal recounted a series of alchemical experiments, in which he exulted at the “unprecedented reactions” and “miraculous properties” of the stone from the stars, and spoke of a dazzling “white flame from the depths of the Black Gulf”. Later entries became more circumspect and pessimistic, with statements like “not what I thought it was” and “can’t let it escape”. Then there was a long and not particularly clear entry about somehow “bending” the river valley, so that one end touched the other end in dimensions unseen by mankind. The Old Man wrote several times that “the prisoner must never leave” and “the prisoner is the lock and the key to the lock”. Near the end of the journal the Old Man wrote “some may enter the valley, but none may leave” and “I can never leave, and I can never allow any of them to leave.” This final statement, which closed the journal, was underlined several times.

Having pondered this eldritch tirade, the party debated their next move. Ginnungagap pointed out the obvious: the machine above them was somehow responsible for the mists that encircled the valley and prevented them from leaving. Destroy it, he urged, and they would be free at last. Anya agreed that the machine was no doubt responsible for their inability to escape the valley, but she didn’t relish all this talk of a “prisoner” that must not be allowed to escape. What if some daemon were confined in the valley with them, and breaking the machine would release it? Ginnungagap retorted that the only prisoners that concerned him were the adventurers themselves, and if the valley truly held a daemon that was the more reason to depart with all possible dispatch. Elena hugged Grimalkin to her chest and said she would do as the others thought best. Lars stated he wanted to get back to some place with strong drink and harlots, to which Arn (after a glance over his shoulder to make certain Ophelia couldn’t hear) heartily assented. Borgo, who had been cleaning his nails with his dagger during the debate, scowled and said they should smash the globe and have done with it. With everyone against her, Anya put aside her forebodings and agreed to destroy the machine; inwardly she prayed to Artemis that they weren’t making a deadly mistake.

The decision made, Ginnungagap raised his repeating crossbow and fired three bolts at the luminous globe. To his surprise, the bolts shattered like toothpicks on the fragile-looking crystal. Lars then tossed his grappling hook into the brazen gears, meaning to bring the apparatus to a halt. But the huge gears crushed the hook to bits which rained down on the Viking’s head, provoking Borgo to sardonic laughter. Elena stated that this was the right approach, but they needed something harder; to wit, she suggested using one of the magical blades, since these were forged from preternaturally hard steel. An animated discussion then followed as to which magical weapon would be potentially sacrificed. The sword Ymirstongue and the spear Belly-Tickler were ruled out due to their high effectiveness. That left a choice of two magical daggers, and their owners Lars and Borgo drew lots [i.e., rolled dice] to see which would be risked. Lars lost, so his dagger Ullrsthing would be used instead of Borgo’s Scalp-Taker. With no little grumbling, Lars tied the palely-glowing blade to a ten foot wooden pole they had found in the corner. Arn and Ginnungagap then hoisted Lars into the air, and he was just able to reach the high ceiling and jam Ullrsthing between two of the slowly-grinding gears.

The magical dagger caught in the gears, and the whole vast apparatus ground to a halt. For several heartbeats nothing happened, and then the globe flared with a brighter light and shattered to pieces, leaving a glowing ten foot cloud of white mist in the center of the room. Lars tried to yank the dagger free, but it was stuck fast. As he struggled with it, the cloud suddenly flared into a blaze of white flame – so bright the adventurers could barely stand to look upon it – and began to buzz like a thousand hives of bees. Lars was still yanking at the imprisoned dagger, and his comrades shouted for him to leave it before unceremoniously dumping him on the floor. Regaining his feet, Lars joined the other adventurers in sending a rain of quarrels and arrows into the buzzing pillar of dazzling white fire. Many of their half-blind shots missed, and the rest of the missiles melted like wax on contact with the eye-searing inferno. Then the white flame flared higher, and the brazen gears and the flagstones of the floor began to melt and run. The party decided that discretion was the better (or in this case, perhaps the only) part of valor, and fled pell-mell down the ladder with a shrieking Elena in the lead. Buzzing like a million daemonic flies, the white flame entity followed.



The adventurers rushed out of the mill, toward the riverbank where their young allies were pushing a large raft made of lashed barrels into the river. The party immediately saw that both ends of the valley were now glowing with shimmering white light. Ginnungagap shouted for the others to get aboard the raft and head downriver. A moment later, the front of the mill burst into flames as the dazzling white flame entity melted the stones themselves. Half of the valley youths fled, howling with fear, but the others joined the party members in launching the raft. The white flame entity swept toward them, touching some of the farmers that still lay asleep on the ground. Each farmer who was touched burst into a cloud of white salts [because a single level drain was fatal to them]. Wide-eyed with horror, the party realized they weren’t going to get the raft launched before the blazing entity overtook them. Elena flourished her wand and unleashed a sparkling cloud of glacial cold; but though several sleeping farmers were incidentally turned into frozen mummies, the ice flashed to steam on contact with the white flame entity and did nothing to halt its advance.

Ginnungagap looked at Anya for a long moment before curtly telling her to get the others to safety. Then he raised Ymirstongue above his head and charged the onrushing white flame entity. His first slash tore through the white flames, and for a moment the entity seemed to waver. Then it lashed out and struck Ginnungagap, wreathing him in white flames that drained away his strength and very life. Arn tried to go to Ginnungagap’s aid, but Anya shouted not to let their comrade’s sacrifice be in vain. The adventurers, aided by Ophelia and three other valley youths, managed to get the raft in the water and clambered aboard. They looked back as the raft drifted away in the current, and saw Ginnungagap still burning like a pale torch, though his flesh was not consumed. A moment later the white flame entity [having drained three levels from the warlock] once again assumed the form of a luminous mist which was swiftly drawn inside Ginnungagap’s eyes and mouth. Ginnungagap’s body tumbled to the ground, still smoking and glowing faintly, as Anya pounded her fist on the raft and Elena wept openly. Their last sight of the valley was of the burning mill and the farmers lying dead or senseless on the ground. Then they were swept into the shimmering curtain of fog, and their world turned to white light.

The adventurers awoke, who knows how much later, stiff and shivering with cold. The sky was dark, and around them were fields of ice and snow as far as the eye could see. There was no sign of any river, but the shattered remnants of their barrel raft lay all around them. Stirring herself from the frozen ground, Anya instructed Arn and Lars to break up the barrels and build a fire. They must, she speculated, have been transported many miles – to the Plain of Leng, perhaps, or the icy heart of the Spiral Mountains. They needed fire for heat and to ward off the many horrible predators known to frequent those locales. While the Vikings did as she asked, assisted by Ophelia and the three other valley youths who had escaped with them, Anya checked her comrades for injuries. Elena had suffered none, though she huddled weeping with Grimalkin and said but little. Borgo was sharpening his dagger and only sneered at Anya’s concern. Thus rebuffed, Anya sat in the darkness, her back turned to the others, and quietly wept. By the time she had regained her composure, the bonfire was blazing and Ophelia was cooking a stew from barley and turnips she had brought. The party and their new companions huddled by the fire and shared this meager breakfast as they waited for the dawn to come.

[joseph]

Whoa! Ginnungagap perished! Fantastic session recap, keep it up!

[blackadder23]

Thank you!

I haven't awarded experience for the gold and jewels the party recovered - since they may well all perish before they get a chance to cash them in - and they ran like rabbits from the only major foe they encountered. I did award some XP for the death of the Old Man in the Mill, but needless to say no one gained a level. The party isn't really in a situation where they can add a PC (none of the clueless farmers who escaped with them could reasonably be converted to a character class) so Ginnungagap's player is going to sit in on the next session and kibitz until the situation allows for me to include him. That means the roster is now as follows:

Anya, a 4th level Common Cleric of Artemis
Arn the Axe, a 4th level Viking Fighter
Borgo the Orc-Eater, a 2nd level Half-Blood Pictish Scout
Elena Pandoros, a 3rd level Amazon Witch
Lars Larsson, a 3rd level Viking Fighter



Will anyone escape the glacial wastes alive?

[blackadder23]

“Fire and Ice”

By the time the sun rose, unseen behind the dark clouds, the bonfire had burned down almost to ashes. The ill-clad valley youths shivered under the winter blankets generously loaned to them by the adventurers (apart from Borgo, who deliberately kept his blanket in his pack and strolled about as if it were as warm as the Year of the Crab). The party members looked at each other and saw faces that looked pale and sickly in the sunlight, which seemed at once unnaturally harsh and unusually wan. Shaking off her deep melancholy, Anya suggested that they plan their next move. Without food and warmth their charges would surely die, and the adventurers not long after. Borgo pointedly stated that the young folk weren’t his charge, and furthermore he would eat them when they died. Ophelia gasped in horror and buried her face in Arn’s chest, provoking the Viking to shake his magic spear Belly-Tickler threateningly at Borgo. Anya glared and said no one was getting eaten, at which Borgo turned and stared contemptuously off into the distance. Elena, who had been stroking Grimalkin while the cat sat purring by the dwindling fire, asked what they were going to do. Lars said they needed to determine where they were, which would tell them where they needed to go.

Anya turned and asked Borgo, who was still staring off into the distance, if he could discern their location. After all, he was the scout. Borgo shrugged and said he had no idea, except that it was unseasonably cold (to say the least) for the Year of the Hare and they must, therefore, be somewhere in the heart of the Spiral Mountains. Who could guess where a magical gate, such as Anya had led them into, might have deposited the party? Anya curled her lip in disgust and asked what use Borgo was after all. Borgo turned to her with a smirk and replied that he might not know where they were, but he did see their salvation. Following the pointed finger of the keen-eyed scout, the adventurers saw a dark shape moving across the ice fields in their general direction. Within moments it became clear that it was an enormous four-tusked wooly mammoth superior, one of the largest and most dangerous animals in Hyperborea [at 16 hit dice]. As the rest of the party stared in awe, Borgo pointed out that this was thousands of pounds of meat and warm furs. Its arrival at that moment might even be considered a sign from the gods – if the adventurers were bold enough to seize the chance fate had given them. The adventurers looked at each other for a long moment, but they realized they had little choice; their options were to bring down the great beast, or freeze and starve. Leaving the valley youths huddled by the dying fire, the party went to launch their desperate attack.

Borgo led them over the snow and ice at a diagonal across the mammoth’s path, until they reached a point upwind of the beast where it could not scent them. Then he instructed the others how to bury themselves in the snow so as to be least visible. Once concealed, the party waited for the enormous creature, whose footfalls seemed to shake the very earth, to come within range of their weapons. At a cry from Borgo, the adventurers sprang from the ground and [having achieved surprise] raked the gigantic mammoth with arrows and quarrels. Anya launched a rain of sling stones, while Elena spoke a word of power and called forth a cone of supra-arctic cold from her frost wand to engulf the beast. As she did so, the wand turned brittle and exploded into shards of ice – its power exhausted. The great mammoth staggered, shafts protruding from almost a dozen places on its body and its fur hung with icicles from the wand blast, then bellowed with rage and charged to the attack. Borgo backpedaled, still loosing arrow after arrow, while Anya, Arn, and Lars bravely charged the enormous beast with spear and blades in hand. As it reached them the maddened creature swung its tusks and tossed Lars like a rag doll, while Anya and Arn hewed and stabbed desperately at its thick hide. Fighting her terror and the urge to flee, Elena chanted an eldritch incantation; a ray of enfeeblement sprang from her finger and struck the mammoth, causing it to stumble with weakness. Anya caught the mammoth’s next weakened (though still bone-jarring) blow on her shield, then drove her sword into its bowels. Arn continued to desperately and repeatedly stab with Belly-Tickler, while Borgo sent more shafts into the mammoth’s already arrow-riddled hide. The mammoth staggered a few more paces, then gave a last plaintive bellow and fell dead in the snow.

Anya ran to Lars, who lay bleeding as Elena struggled to staunch his wounds with mixed success. Anya fell to her knees and spoke a mighty healing prayer to Artemis. Within moments Lars, though far from completely restored, was able to stagger to his feet and join his companions in what turned out to be several hours of activity. Borgo expertly butchered the titanic mammoth, blood running from the raw chunks of meat he stuffed in his mouth while performing this task. Arn and Lars assisted him, and also tried to recover as many arrows and bolts as possible – particularly the special quarrels used by the repeating light crossbows, since those were bound to be in short supply in these regions. Unfortunately, many of the light shafts had broken on the ice or the mammoth’s thick hide. Meanwhile, Ophelia and her four young companions – eager to ingratiate themselves with these ferocious outsiders who held the lives of the valley folk in their hands – worked industriously to tailor cloaks and breeches of mammoth fur. Alchemical oil was applied to a pile of mammoth bones, and soon thick mammoth steaks were being eaten half-cooked by the party; a sheepish Arn found himself being hand fed morsels by a giggling Ophelia as she sat in his lap. While the others ate, Borgo – who had already feasted well on raw meat, as was his wont – labored to create two sturdy travois from long mammoth bones and squares of mammoth hide; these he piled high with chunks of meat for their journey. Even Grimalkin had his fill of entrails, and passed out contented in a heap of intestines. By the time the unseen sun set, the party and their wards were able to sleep warmly-clad and with pleasantly swollen bellies.

When the sun rose, still shrouded in black clouds, Borgo greeted the other adventurers with a new wolf’s-tail tied among the scalps on his belt. Borgo had drawn last watch, and in the small hours he had spotted a pack of wolves creeping toward their camp – drawn, no doubt, by the scent of all that mammoth meat. Rather than awaken anybody, he had simply shot the alpha wolf dead and put the rest to panicked flight. After a breakfast of mammoth meat – still satisfying, if not as savory as the day before – the party gathered their gear and prepared to depart. With deep regret the adventurers abandoned the four huge yellow ivory tusks, which were impractical to carry with survival hanging in the balance. Borgo believed he could estimate north from the direction of the rising sun, even though it looked quite odd that morning behind its shroud of clouds; the adventurers would head south, away from the central peak of Mouth Vhuurmithadon, and thus toward warmer lands. Or so they hoped. Ophelia’s companions from the valley, strong and willing, dragged the two meat-laden travois; Ophelia walked with them and supervised their labors, pausing every now and then to make eyes at Arn. The adventurers flanked the valley folk, weapons at the ready, alert for predators attracted by their sanguinary food supply. Borgo scouted a little ahead of the group, bow in hand as he searched the horizon for the least sign of danger. But nothing threatened the party as they slowly trekked across the snow fields, and their expedition soon took on the semblance of an outing, with the young folk chatting gaily and Grimalkin bounding through the snow in pursuit of bits of raw meat tossed by Elena.

As the strangely harsh sunlight began to fade on the cloudy horizon, the party struggled up an icy slope with the intention of camping at the top. When they reached the summit, however, they spotted several figures in the distance. The party quickly assumed a defensive formation around the valley youths and the food-laden travois. As the interlopers drew nearer in the gathering dusk, the party noted their slouched posture, overhanging brows, dirty animal skins, and stone spears. Undoubtedly these were cave-men! Borgo nocked an arrow and prepared to fire, but paused when Ophelia cried that more of the brutes were creeping up the slope behind them. The party was surrounded by dozens of the apish creatures. With little choice, Anya told her companions to hold firm as she walked forward, hand empty and extended, to parley with the apparent leader of the cave-men. That hulking brute, neck hung with strings of teeth and face painted with ochre and vermillion, brandished a heavy stone-bladed axe and eyed Anya suspiciously. His squat compatriots waved spears and clubs, and gibbered as they slowly closed in on the party. Anya attempted friendly greetings in several languages, but the leader seemed not to understand. Then – just as the cave-men appeared poised to charge, and the adventurers prepared to meet them in a hopeless battle – their chief spotted the gear tattooed on Anya’s hand. His eyes widened, and he raised his arms with a single shouted word. The other cave-men fell back a few steps, though they still brandished their weapons and kept wary eyes on the party. The chief hurried away with his retainers, and was gone for a quarter hour. During that time the party lit torches and held a staring contest with the knots of cave-men all around them in the growing gloom. In time the chief returned, accompanied by a much taller figure with the arms and armor of a civilized man. In the light of the torches, the party saw that his left hand bore the same tattoo as all of theirs did. As the torchlight fell full on his face the adventurers gaped in surprise, for it was Ginnungagap – whom they had thought slain in the Valley of the Mill – who walked at the cave-man’s side. [At this point Ginnungagap’s player, who had been forewarned that something like this might happen, rejoined the game.]

Anya took an uncertain step forward and asked if it were truly him, or some shade from the Black Gulf. Ginnungagap replied that he was as alive as any of them. Elena asked how he had found them. Ginnungagap responded that he had awakened after the white flame touched him, and had seen their raft being swept into the white light. He had plunged into the river and swum desperately after them. He had passed through the light, and found himself lying on snow and ice surrounded by dozens of hooting near-apes. Arn asked how Ginnungagap was still alive after meeting so many of the brutes; the warlock replied that the cave-men had been superstitiously awed by his sudden appearance and his strange armor, and had treated him as a guest of sorts. Lars asked whether the cave-men would therefore offer them shelter. Ginnungagap shrugged and said he could understand a little of what the brutes said – it was a degenerate dialect of Hyperborean – and he knew they had been debating whether to seize him and sacrifice him to Yug. Even if the cave-men granted them shelter, it would be treacherous “hospitality” unless the party somehow earned their gratitude. Anya asked how they might do that, and Ginnungagap explained that a sacred jewel had been stolen from the cave-men. If it could be recovered, the apish brutes would undoubtedly regard the party as sacrosanct thereafter. Borgo, who until that time had said nothing, asked outright how the warlock had survived being attacked by “that horrible creature”. Ginnungagap frowned and said the white flame had been no horrible creature, but a prisoner like themselves. It had only wanted to communicate, not attack, and its intentions had simply been misunderstood. Undoubtedly it had escaped the valley at the same time they had, and returned whence it came before being wantonly imprisoned by the evil Old Man in the Mill.

The party then stepped aside to confer without the warlock [and I actually sent Ginnungagap’s player out of the room for this]. Borgo immediately pointed out that they had actually seen the white flame entity enter Ginnungagap’s mouth and nose, and their former comrade was undoubtedly possessed by a space daemon. Probably this supposed quest for a jewel was simply a pretext to lead them into the wastes and slay them. Borgo advocated immediately attacking and killing Ginnungagap, if that were possible. Anya admitted that something clearly wasn’t right about their companion, but she didn’t feel comfortable simply attacking him. Lars agreed that the time wasn’t right to attack Ginnungagap; only he could communicate with the cave-men, and such a deed would likely bring the whole mob down on the party. Elena muttered that she sensed great strangeness and the workings of the Black Gulf, and Grimalkin hissed in agreement. Arn, shaking a clutching Ophelia off his arm, said he was willing to fight – but also willing to simply find the accursed jewel for these hooting apes, and earn a warm place to sleep without too much bloodshed. Borgo pointedly said that he wasn’t about to turn his back on this so-called Ginnungagap, and he warned the others not to do so either. Anya then offered a proposal: they would accept Ginnungagap back into their group, and go after the jewel as he had suggested. But Arn and Lars would watch the warlock at all times, and be prepared to strike if he proved treacherous. To Borgo’s displeasure, the others agreed to adopt Anya’s plan. She then told Ginnungagap [whose player had returned] that they would join him in a quest for the jewel. Ginnungagap relayed this information to the chief, who howled with glee while his comrades shook their weapons and gibbered in a near frenzy. Within moments the adventurers were dragging their travois through the snow once more, surrounded on all sides by cave-men who hooted and gabbled in the darkness.

Soon the air became warm and faintly smoky, and the snow and ice grew less underfoot. A dark mound, with occasional flashes of orange light at the top, rose in the distance. As the party grew nearer with their escort of gibbering brutes, they saw it was a small volcano, and by no means an inactive one; smoke was thick in the air, and licks of flame rose occasionally from the top of the cone. Ginnungagap explained that the cave-men lived nearby, in a crude encampment of hide tents, and worshipped the glowering volcano as an avatar of Yug. Anya asked where in Hyperborea they were, but Ginnungagap could only shrug; he had asked the cave-men that question, but they didn’t seem to understand his geographic references at all – which was probably not unusual for a tribe of apish savages. In any event, something had descended from the volcano a few moons earlier, leaving numerous dead in its wake and the sacred red jewel taken. Lars asked exactly what that “something” had been, and Ginnungagap confessed that he didn’t understand the word the cave-men had used. It had been something nasty, at any rate, and the jewel would lie within its volcano lair. Soon the party reached the sprawling encampment, where grubby cave-children hid from them in terror and brutish cave-women leered openly at them. The party spent the night in a reeking hide tent under heavy guard; they kept a watch themselves, and not idly – several times during the night, an apish face peered into the tent with possibly-murderous intent, only to retreat when it saw an armed and wakeful guard. As well, the other adventurers kept a watchful eye on Ginnungagap that night.

The next morning the party was greeted under overcast skies by the cave-folk chieftain and his entire retinue of ugly armed brutes. After much abusive sounding speech in his own crude language (which Ginnungagap either couldn’t – or didn’t bother to – translate) the chief raised an arm and pointed dramatically at the glowering volcano. The adventurers gathered their courage and then began their trek with a loose mob of shambling near-apes all around them. The valley youths walked in the wake of the party, for Ginnungagap had assured his companions that they would be eaten by the cave-folk if left behind. The adventurers were forced to leave their precious mammoth meat in the camp, and they had little doubt that the cave-folk would feast on it in their absence. Still, this probably made no difference; if they retrieved the jewel they would be fed and feted by the cave-folk as divine messengers, and if they failed they would likely be dead anyway. As the party drew nigh the foot of the volcano, their escort fell back, hooting and jeering, and let the adventurers continue on their own. A gentle slope rose to a large, obvious cavern mouth halfway up the side of the volcano. Anya mistrusted the ease of this, and asked Borgo to scout for another entrance. The scout grudgingly went to comply while the rest of the adventurers concealed themselves among some jumbled boulders. Borgo returned and said he had found another way into the volcano: a low tunnel, barely tall enough for a man to walk upright (although Borgo pointed out that “those half-apes would have little trouble”). It sloped upward as far as Borgo could see.

The ascent into the volcano was a nightmare. The tunnel, or more accurately lava tube, was as tight as Borgo had warned. Worse, it was stiflingly hot and filled with choking smoke. Ginnungagap went first at the urgent invitation of Arn and Lars, the glow from the magic sword Ymirstongue just barely illuminating the smoky darkness in front of him. The Vikings came next, their weapons aimed as much at the warlock’s back as at any threat that might emerge from the gloom. Next came a gasping Elena and a coughing Grimalkin, and then the five weeping valley youths, who only quieted when Borgo – walking just behind – threatened to kill them and eat their livers if they didn’t be silent. Anya brought up the rear, ever alert for any danger from behind. The hellish climb up the claustrophobic tube seemed interminable, but at long last they came into an open space. They could scarcely breathe easier there, however, for the atmosphere was hotter and smokier than ever. It was a great sultry cavern with a soaring ceiling, illuminated fitfully by a burning pool of lava in the center. Other lava tubes (and larger tunnels) could be seen exiting the cave on all sides. But the party paid scant heed to those, for not far from the lava pool lay a pile of glittering gems, including a melon-sized crimson specimen which could only be the sacred stone they sought. Also scattered around the infernal pool were the scorched and broken bones of men.

Arn started forward to seize the jewels, but Anya halted him by declaring there was surely some trap here. It was time, she suggested, for Borgo to earn his keep by scouting. Borgo responded with an unqualified refusal; let the better-armored warriors collect the gems, he said. Anya sneered at his cowardice, but the scout seemed unconcerned. Ginnunagagap finally said impatiently that he would get the stones, and the Vikings offered to provide backup. The three men crept warily toward the pile of stones in the seemingly empty cavern, weapons in hand (and in the case of Arn and Lars, aimed at Ginnungagap’s back). Borgo nocked an arrow ready to fire, while Anya gripped her sword and Elena clutched Grimalkin and quietly comforted the sobbing young folk. Ginnungagap reached the jewels unhindered, though sweat ran from his face in the heat, and knelt to retrieve them as his two companions remained on the alert for danger. When Ginnungagap’s fingers brushed the stones, the flames above the lava suddenly flared, and waves of heat like a furnace assailed the warriors. As the three men staggered back, faces streaming sweat and armor growing unbearably hot, the dancing fire above the lava coalesced into the form of a creature. It was a great serpent, thirty feet long, with the legs and gape-jawed head of a lizard. Mottled was its hide in the red, yellow, and orange colors of leaping flames – the same flames that now wreathed the beast in a fiery nimbus. The adventurers stumbled back from the cache of gems, and the terrible fire salamander of Hyperborea came close behind them.

Despite the nigh-unbearable heat that surrounded them, the three warriors struck at the blazing creature with spear and swords. Where their blades cut, burning blood spilled forth on the cavern floor. Borgo let fly arrow after arrow, though his shafts seemed to glance off the fiery hide of the salamander. Elena cried an incantation and sent forth a ray of enfeeblement, but the gloomy beam had no obvious effect on the infernal entity [because it saved successfully]. The salamander struck with fangs and blazing claws, and Lars staggered back with beard singed and cloak ablaze. Still, he managed to stay on his feet and hew at the flaming daemon with his sword. Anya shouted a battle cry to Artemis and then, heedless of the heat that now filled the cavern, rushed forth to strike at the salamander with her own blade. Meanwhile Elena pushed Grimalkin and the screaming valley youths back into the relative safety of the lava tube. Now assailed by four doughty adventurers armed with steel that dripped burning blood, instead of the apish men with stone spears it was accustomed to prey upon, the salamander wavered and seemed about to retreat into the lava pool. The issue still hung in the balance for a moment, as the injured Lars was forced to quit the battle for the shelter of the lava tube. But Arn drove his spear Belly-Tickler into the throat of the salamander, which opened its jaws in agony with a hiss like steam escaping a geyser. A moment later the salamander flashed into a blaze of fire and disappeared. The burned and battered adventurers looked at each other, nearly disbelieving what had happened. The fire elemental was slain and the jewels it had guarded were theirs.

There was great feasting and shouting in the encampment when the adventurers placed the enormous red jewel in the hands of the cave-folk chief; the other gems had lined their own pockets. All the best meats were offered to the party, and the cave-women who danced naked around the scarlet stone made eyes at the young valley men and (much to Ophelia’s displeasure) Arn as well. Though she still didn’t trust him, Anya argued to the other adventurers that Ginnungagap should not be harmed. He had shown great boldness in the cavern and, possessed by a space daemon or not, she trusted him more than she trusted Borgo (who was less than pleased to hear this; to his further displeasure, the rest of the party agreed with her). The chief made a long speech promising that the party would have food and shelter in perpetuity. They would be under the protection of all the cave-clans, unless of course they were so foolish as to venture into “the forbidden place”. Anya immediately asked for clarification on this last statement, and once Ginnungagap translated, the chief looked shocked and motioned for the party to follow him. Leaving the feasting and merrymaking behind them, the chief and his bodyguards led the adventurers out of the camp and across the snow fields. After half an hour they reached a glacier, and labored slowly to the top. As they neared the top, the chief gestured for them all to crouch as low as he did. Once they had barely cleared the crest of the glacier, the chief pointed to the ground below and whispered “the forbidden place” in his savage tongue.

The party stared at what lay below, shock turning to fear and superstitious awe as deep as that felt by any cave-man. It was just a building, a tall tower, which stood somehow miraculously free of snow and ice. But this tower was far from unknown to them – it was the Purple Tower, which stood in the Gal Hills and which they had invaded twice not a month earlier. But now it rose brightly-colored and unworn, its top crowned with a lambent crimson flame – and now the surrounding Gal Hills were somehow covered by glaciers hundreds of feet thick. Just as the adventurers had begun to come to terms with this unexpected aberration, the clouds parted for the first time since they had arrived in this mad land of ice and snow, and their superstitious awe was redoubled. For they were bathed, not in the sanguinary light of Helios, but in a harsh bright dazzle such as none of them had ever seen. And when they raised their eyes, they saw – not a cool, bloated, red sun clinging to the horizon – but rather a high, hot, and utterly alien yellow sun.

Ginnungagap is back! OR IS HE? Oh, and I think the party may have found themselves in the time of the glaciers. Pity about that. I gave out treasure experience, since the party now has a safe (?) haven, as well as experience for the two hard core beasts they slew this week. Lars gained a level (actually I’m not quite sure how Arn got ahead of him in levels in the first place – I suspect either I or one of the players made a mistake somehow – but those are the breaks) as did Borgo, and Elena is getting close. The fourth level characters still have quite a ways to go. Also, the party has plenty of money (gems and “gold nuggets” from the cave-folk), though there’s really nothing good to spend it on. What will happen next? Only Xathoqqua knows!

[blackadder23]

The gang's all here! (Or are they? Heh heh heh.) I imposed a three month rest and recuperation on the party to compensate for all of the levels they gained without training. After all, there's no hurry to get to the Black Fief now; they have thousands and thousands of years to make the trip... (Heh heh heh.) Anyway, after that enforced leisure the PCs are no doubt raring to go in the next session. The party now consists of the following:

Anya, a 4th level Common Cleric of Artemis
Arn the Axe, a 4th level Viking Fighter
Borgo the Orc-Eater, a 3rd level Half-Blood Pictish Scout
Elena Pandoros, a 3rd level Amazon Witch
Ginnungagap the Hyperborean, a 4th level Warlock (or something)
Lars Larsson, a 4th level Viking Fighter

[blackadder23]

Just a quick note to say that this campaign isn't dead, and neither is this journal. I just really haven't had time to write up the sessions (I think I'm four behind now... groan ). But hopefully I can now resume weekly updates, starting this week.

[odysseus]

Glad to hear that. I thought it was the christmas truce at your table.

[blackadder23]

Jan 11, 2014 14:00:39 GMT -6 odysseus said:

Glad to hear that. I thought it was the christmas truce at your table.

Ha ha no, we did play twice in December. I just haven't had a chance to write them up.

In other news, I didn't get one written up this week either because a local idiot chemical company dumped thousands of gallons of toxin into the municipal water intake (I wish I were kidding - 300,000 people can't use their water here). But I hope to do better next week.

[Ghul]

Jan 11, 2014 19:02:40 GMT -6 blackadder23 said:

Jan 11, 2014 14:00:39 GMT -6 odysseus said:

Glad to hear that. I thought it was the christmas truce at your table.

Ha ha no, we did play twice in December. I just haven't had a chance to write them up.

In other news, I didn't get one written up this week either because a local idiot chemical company dumped thousands of gallons of toxin into the municipal water intake (I wish I were kidding - 300,000 people can't use their water here). But I hope to do better next week.

Saw it on the news. Nasty.

[Ghul]

Jan 6, 2014 11:50:23 GMT -6 blackadder23 said:

Just a quick note to say that this campaign isn't dead, and neither is this journal. I just really haven't had time to write up the sessions (I think I'm four behind now... groan ). But hopefully I can now resume weekly updates, starting this week.

Maybe do the first two (or three) in brief, glossing over the details, and do one of your more lengthy treatments for the last session? Just a suggestion . . .

[blackadder23]

Jan 11, 2014 20:42:00 GMT -6 Ghul said:

Maybe do the first two (or three) in brief, glossing over the details, and do one of your more lengthy treatments for the last session? Just a suggestion . . .

I hate to do it, because a bunch of juicy things happened, but I may have to.