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3/10/2014 1:18 pm  #1


The Black Fief Campaign

Far north in the Gal Hills, where the mists rise all day from rolling fields of heather and sedge, lies the Black Fief. Here can be found some of the finest farming and pasture in Hyperborea, as well as mines of iron and silver. There is but one problem: for as long as anyone can remember, whoever has accepted lordship of the Black Fief has died in nine months. Only the mad or the insanely courageous would mount the throne in Caer Carneddau, save it were unwillingly...

Six months ago young Lady Rhiannon the Fair was wed against her will to Lord Llewellyn the Bloody-Minded, who had lately accepted the Black Fief on a drunken dare. One month ago Lord Llewellyn was killed in a hunting accident, and Lady Rhiannon inherited the accursed lands. Now she is marked for death in less than a year. Rather than surrender to merry-making or madness as most heirs have, Rhiannon has chosen to invite adventurers from all over Hyperborea to the Keltic town of Greenlee and her brooding hill fort of Caer Carneddau. This has a two-fold purpose: to push back against the bandits and monsters that have come to threaten the Black Fief over years of uncertain rulership, and to seek some way to exorcise the curse that hangs over her lands. Anyone who finds a way to lift the curse has been promised a rich reward. If no solution can be found, in eight months Lady Rhiannon's cairn will join the hundred others that encircle Caer Carneddau... the latest victim of the Black Fief.


“The Forsaken Outpost” (played 08/18/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

Anya, a 1st level Common Cleric of Artemis
Borghast, a 1st level Viking Barbarian
Ginnungagap the Hyperborean, a 1st level Warlock
Thee-Ven, a 1st level Common Legerdemainist
Lars Larsson, a 1st level Viking Fighter (NPC)
Stinky Sven, a 1st level Viking Fighter (NPC)

The party, en route to the Black Fief, was part of a mammoth-drawn wagon train crossing the Spiral Mountains in the teeth of a howling snowstorm. At the height of the storm, an avalanche separated the party from the rest of the wagon train, leaving them with nothing more than what they carried on their backs. The party desperately sought shelter as the temperature plunged and the blizzard worsened. Just when all hope seemed lost, they spotted an opening in the side of the mountain and gratefully stumbled inside. They had initially taken it for a natural cave, but they quickly recognized worked stone and a passageway leading into darkness. The place had obviously been sealed by ice for a long time, and had only recently been uncovered by the avalanches that still rumbled all around them. The party established a marching order, lit their torches, and ventured into the immemorial darkness.

Two hundred feet inside the mountain the tunnel ended in a bronze portal, closed by a lead seal inscribed in an extremely ancient dialect of Hyperborean. Ginnungagap was able to just make it out: “THIS OUTPOST IS DEEMED FORSAKEN IN THE NAME OF KA-VEN THE SAGACIOUS, MOST RENOWNED KING OF HYPERBOREA. LET WHOSOEVER ENTERS BE CURSED FOR ALL ETERNITY BY OUR DREAD LORD XATHOQQUA.” The party had never heard of this “King Ka-Ven”, but reasoned from the ice covering the place that the outpost must have been abandoned even before the coming of the glaciers to Hyperborea. Little heeding the threats of an unknown and long-dead king, Borghast smashed the seal with a few blows of his great axe, and the party eagerly passed through the portal in search of ancient treasures.

Beyond they discovered a complex of rooms, miraculously heated to a comfortable temperature. They soon realized the walls were radiating damp heat, and speculated that the Hyperboreans had built channels to pump naturally-heated water through the walls, mighty works which had survived the millennia since the place was abandoned. The first three rooms they entered contained only the badly decayed remnants of broken furnishings and fallen tapestries, while the fourth was a former armory filled with weapons long gone to corrosion and rot. Thee-Ven discovered a secret door in the rear of the armory (luckily so, since the only other corridor was blocked by the rubble of a collapsed ceiling) and noted that it was radiating a freezing cold. The party quickly assumed a combat formation, and Thee-Ven opened the secret door. Beyond was a frozen room, with rime coating the walls and icicles hanging from the ceiling. Clearly the heating system had failed in part of the complex. Bundling themselves against the cold, the party continued their quest for plunder.

At the far side of the room, a withered corpse was frozen in the ice – and in its hand it clutched a large red gem! Thee-Ven rushed to collect the treasure as his companions secured the room. The gem was stubbornly frozen in place, and Thee-Ven resorted to yanking. Unfortunately this caused the corpse to burst – releasing three giant white centipedes that had been nesting inside! A surprised Thee-Ven was bitten and perished from the poison [the first in the party to die, an ignominious death from dungeon vermin]. The rest of the party crushed the vile creatures with weapon blows, and Lars Larsson soon proved himself a bold adventurer who merited a full membership in the party. The survivors had little time to mourn Thee-Ven (who had turned a ghastly milk-white and swollen grotesquely from the poison), for at that moment the whole complex shook with a thunderous rumbling from the entrance. Rushing back to the opening – or what had been the opening – the party discovered it was hopelessly buried in tons of collapsed ice and snow [an unlucky random encounter table result]. Now the party’s focus shifted to finding another way out, lest the curse of Xathoqqua make this forsaken outpost their tomb.

Girding their loins and lighting fresh torches, the party ventured back into the frozen portion of the complex. Here were several rooms entombed in frost and icicles. Unfortunately this had been the place where most of the garrison died, and over the millennia their corpses had become shriveled ice mummies. Even more unfortunately, spirits of the Hyperborean ice had inhabited and animated these corpses and they now sought to destroy the living with single-minded malice. The party fought several combats with the awful creatures, and although Anya was able to drive some away with her faith, the rest had to be destroyed with fire and sword. (The party didn’t let the near-certainty of slow death inside the frozen outpost - not to mention the strong possibility of a quick death at the hands of ice mummies - overcome their greed. When they came across a chest frozen in the ice, they chipped it free and gained several silver ingots from a long-vanished Hyperborean royal mint.) Finally the party succeeded in running the gauntlet of the frozen dead, and reached a bronze door that radiated a faint warmth. They devoutly hoped the ice mummies wouldn’t follow them into a heated portion of the complex, a hope that ultimately proved to be correct.

Beyond the door was a large chamber waist-deep in churning warm water, with steaming fluid gushing from series of breaks in one wall. Here, reasoned the party, was the explanation for the failure of the heating system in the other part of the complex. After crossing the bubbling water – with considerable trepidation about what might be hiding underneath – the party mounted a short flight of stairs into another heated complex of rooms. The first two rooms contained nothing but rotting furnishings, but the third (whose locked bronze door was broken down by Borghast) was the living quarters of the former commandant. As the party examined an obvious treasure chest in the corner, the former commandant – possessed by a particularly powerful evil spirit – rose from beneath the rotted bed radiating freezing cold and a ghastly blue light. Sven was grasped by this wight and instantly turned black and shriveled away [the second party death, albeit an NPC]. Fortunately fire and holy water are effective remedies against wights, and (along with a magic missile cast by Ginnungagap) soon banished this abomination to the Black Gulf. Borghast then turned his attention to more important matters - to wit, the treasure. He suspected a trap on the chest, but the only party member who could discover such had died of a centipede bite. Taking no chances, Borghast smashed the lid with his great axe. By doing so, he avoided the poison needle on the latch, but also broke a potion bottle [of heroism] whose contents leaked away onto the ancient flagstones. Despite this loss, the chest still contained several gems, some gold ingots, and a glowing long sword which Borghast claimed on the grounds of “finders keepers”.

The party entered the final room, Borghast posturing heroically with his new magic sword. On the far side of the room a stream of almost-boiling water descended thirty feet from a grate in the ceiling to a corroded grate in the floor. On the left wall was the collapsed and broken remnant of a metal ladder which once had given access to a ledge and door twenty-five feet above. On the right wall was a twenty-five foot bronze statue of a Hyperborean warrior in archaic armor, bearing a gigantic broken iron spear and a brass hoplon shield some ten feet in diameter. Borghast attempted to climb to the ledge, from which he would lower a rope to the others (who prudently retained some of the treasure to encourage him to do so). Unfortunately the wall, slick with condensation, proved to be beyond his skill. The party examined the floor grate and realized they could flood the room by blocking it after closing the door. But it seemed certain that they would be scalded to death before the water level rose to the point that they could reach the ledge.

Finally the party [with no hints from the referee!] hit upon an ingenious scheme. Borghast and Lars used a pry bar to combine their strength against the statue’s brass shield, which successfully broke the corroded bolts and sent the shield crashing to the floor. All four party members dragged the huge shield over to the wall beneath the ledge; they then placed it open side up and tied it to a twenty-five foot length of rope that they secured to the wall with an iron spike. Lars donated his large shield, which Ginnungagap wrapped in his own sealskin cloak for waterproofing. The party members lined the gigantic brass shield with their other cloaks and furs as some protection against the heat. Borghast then closed the door and secured the sealskin-wrapped shield over the floor grate with four iron spikes before rushing to join his companions on the brass shield. The room began to fill with scalding water, and Anya prayed aloud to Artemis. A moment later, what the party had hardly dare hope would happen happened: the lightweight Hyperborean alloy of the shield floated, and the party began to rise toward the ledge.

The brass shield became hellishly hot, and the room was filled with blinding steam [requiring the party members to make Death saves to avoid a point of damage every round]. Still, it was less fatal than swimming in the boiling water would have been, and the four survivors were all still conscious (if suffering) when the shield reached the level of the ledge. The shield had floated a few feet away from the ledge in the infernal torrent, but the rope prevented it from drifting any further, and Borghast was able to hook the edge of the ledge with his great axe and pull the shield closer. The party scrambled onto the ledge, grabbed their cloaks and furs from the heated brass shield, and fled up the passageway beyond as the near-boiling water began to spill over the ledge and follow them. Fortunately, the water found its own level after thirty feet and rose no higher in the upward-sloping tunnel. The party collapsed to the floor a few scant feet from the seething water and enjoyed a much-needed rest.

After the party had rested and arranged their gear, they left the cooling water behind and proceeded up the tunnel. To their horror and disappointment, it ended in an apparent solid rock face after a hundred feet - and there could obviously be no return through the flooded passageway and room! However, a close examination discovered a hidden catch, and the rock face swung open on cunning hinges. The muted sanguinary light of Helios flooded the tunnel, and the party beheld a gentle slope of melting snows descending to foothills already touched by spring. Beyond, two days travel at most, they could just make out a hilltop village. The adventurers were saved, and had come to the Gal Hills at last.

The first session went pretty well, in my opinion. No one gained a level yet, but everybody seemed to have a good time. They did miss some treasure by not searching carefully, but those are the breaks. There were no problems with the rules (not surprisingly, since we all played AD&D before and it isn’t that different). I probably didn’t always follow the official combat sequence exactly, from long habit of doing it differently, but the players didn’t seem to notice or care. I was very pleased that they deduced a method of escape without my emphasizing the statue’s shield very much. And to anticipate a question: if Borghast had managed to climb the wall, they could have avoided the whole rigmarole of flooding the room. I don’t like to force challenges on the players – the dice usually create sufficient challenges of their own!

Last edited by Blackadder23 (3/10/2014 1:23 pm)


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
 

3/10/2014 1:22 pm  #2


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

Between adventures, the party reached the Keltic trading town of Hawkford and unloaded the gems and ingots. With a couple hundred gold pieces each, they were able to upgrade their armor and weapons. During the first session, Thee-Ven's player took over Lars literally the same round that Thee-Ven died. However, he doesn't like playing fighters and was willing to sacrifice the gold and XP that Lars gained in order to play a fresh character (an assassin). He has made it clear that he intends to cautiously hang back and shoot things with his crossbow. Lars has reverted to NPC status, and a new NPC fighter (Tristan) has joined the party. Borghast has named his magic sword "Ymirstongue". Though seemingly only +1, the blade of the sword bears some ancient Hyperborean runes that not even Ginnungagap can read.

"The Mountain Ape's Face" (played 08/25/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

Anya, a 1st level Common Cleric of Artemis
Balto the Bad, a 1st level Kimmerian Assassin
Borghast, a 1st level Viking Barbarian
Ginnungagap the Hyperborean, a 1st level Warlock
Lars Larsson, a 1st level Viking Fighter (NPC)
Tristan, a 1st level Common Fighter (NPC)

After two days of travel, the weary party arrived in the Keltic trade town of Hawkford. It was a bustling center of trade between the Gal Hills and points north, with mammoth-wagon trains coming and going and a comparatively lavish open-air market. After convincing the guards to allow them through the stout wooden stockade that circled the town, the adventurers sold the gems and ingots for hard coin and purchased new weapons and armor for themselves. They then repaired to the common house where they soon made the acquaintance of one of the many adventurers headed for the Black Fief, a scowling fellow named Balto the Bad, and invited him to join their party. There is, after all, strength in numbers. In addition, a man-at-arms named Tristan was hired as a guard for the journey east. They would make plans on the morrow, after a refreshing night’s sleep on a dirty straw pallet. [At this point the adventure actually began.]

The party sat at a table in the common house the next morning, arguing over what animals and equipment to buy for their journey to the Black Fief. According to their map it lay about a hundred miles to the east, along a road that could more accurately be described as a cart track. There were certain to be dangers along that road, and in addition the adventurers soon realized that their purchases of arms and armor had left them with but little coin to buy supplies for their trip. Balto suggested that they look for some paying job in Hawkford to raise traveling money: “The [rude word for female dog] isn’t going to die for seven months, is she? What’s the hurry?” Balto received a few choice words from Anya concerning his lack of charity, and then was sent to look for some such opportunity to earn gold. After he left, the rest of the party noticed a young white-robed druid, sitting alone and smoking a pipe. Ginnungagap tried to engage him in conversation about the Black Fief and Lady Rhiannon, but the druid answered only with monosyllables and variously-colored smoke rings.

Balto returned an hour later with a dour, richly-clad Keltic merchant named Fergus Nine-Fingers. His daughter Fiona had been taken that morning, snatched from the woods north of town by a person or creature unknown while picking berries. The Hawkford watch was only good for taking bribes from merchants to protect their wares, and would do nothing to help. Fergus was prepared to pay a thousand pieces of gold for the head of the beast who had taken his daughter. If Fiona could be returned alive, so much the better; but revenge must be had in any case. The party held a quick whispered discussion over whether to accept this offer – something didn’t seem quite right about the whole thing – but in the end their greed won out (with a slight tincture of sympathy for paternal concern in Anya’s case). Fergus provided a sketch map of roughly where he had last seen Fiona, and wished the party luck. As they left the common house, the party noticed the druid watching them intently and blowing blood-red smoke rings.

After being let out of Hawkford by the surly guards, the party circled around to the north side of town. Beyond were a few miles of fields and farms, and then the dark and mysterious pine forest began. The party followed the map provided by Fergus to a glen filled with blackberry bushes. In one corner of the glen, beside a stream of cool water, lay a wooden pail half full of blackberries. Borghast knelt and examined the ground, and found the faint tracks of at least two people headed north along the course of the stream. It all seemed to confirm what Fergus had told them: his daughter had been picking berries and had been grabbed and carried away by assailants. The party took up their weapons and shields and plunged back into the shadowy and unnaturally quiet pine forest.

After the party followed the tracks along the stream for several miles, the dark tangled woods abruptly parted. Beyond rose two low stony hills draped in moss and lichen; a waterfall descended from a rock face to form the stream they had been following. Borghast tried to find tracks on the stony ground, but failed. In his opinion, the abductors had either gone up the hillside and into the cave from which the water flowed, or into the narrow ravine between the two hills; he couldn’t be sure which. The party held a brief and animated debate before opting for the cave. They scrambled up the rugged hillside, weapons in hand and looking warily about them. They saw nothing but some ravens circling overhead, whose cries sounded faintly mocking. At the top they reached the cave, and inched carefully around the flowing stream that filled most of the entrance; a slip here would have sent them over the waterfall and onto sharp rocks thirty feet below. All the adventurers made it inside the cave safely, and soon had a pair of torches burning. The tunnel, and the swift-flowing stream, ran into darkness.

The party cautiously proceeded along the stream in marching order, weapons at the ready. A few small side passages opened along the way, but they proceeded on the theory that the kidnappers had been following the stream. Anya thrust her torch down one of the side passages and glimpsed something large and shadowy scuttling away in the darkness. After about twenty minutes, the tunnel veered to the right and opened into a much larger space. The stream was flowing out from a low opening in the wall and could no longer be followed. The party listened for some indication of where to go, perhaps even the cries of the kidnapped girl, but they heard nothing but the quiet murmur of the stream. In the end they decided to continue down the larger tunnel. It was obviously a natural passage formed by ancient flowing water, yet they couldn’t shake the impression that it had been widened and enlarged by the hands of thinking creatures.

After following the twisting tunnel for some distance, the party abruptly encountered a dozen bird-men of Hyperborea with bronze-tipped spears. The bird-men glared at the party suspiciously, and their leader issued a hissing challenge in his own tongue. Ginnungagap stepped forward with a hand open in a sign of friendship, hoping to avoid an unnecessary battle with these numerous creatures. [He then rolled an unbelievably bad reaction check.] After a few seconds of smiling and making friendly gestures, Ginnungagap realized the bird-men were staring past him in horror. Ginnungagap glanced over his shoulder and saw Borghast nonchalantly gnawing a roasted chicken leg while awaiting the results of the parley. The bird-men screeched in rage and charged to the attack.

Ginnungagap, Borghast, Lars, and Tristan closed ranks in the passageway and presented a solid wall of shields, swords, and axes to their attackers. The warriors hacked and hewed, and soon broken and dead bird-men were piled at their feet. Their attackers were wavering, but then the warriors heard a warning cry from Anya behind them. Too late! A second group of bird-men had approached from the rear with a huge weighted net. The net fell over the party [none making a successful Avoidance save] and almost knocked them to the ground. The bird-men then attacked the adventurers about the head and face with padded clubs. Hampered as they were by the net [and needing to make a Death save with every hit to avoid being knocked out] the party was soon beaten unconscious, bundled into the net, and dragged off into the darkness.

When the adventurers regained their senses, they found themselves disarmed and imprisoned in a gigantic wicker birdcage (or perhaps more accurately, “man-cage”) hanging in a large cavern lit by numerous torches. Gathered around the cage was a flock of bird-men, all glaring at the party in a decidedly unfriendly manner. Two richly-dressed bird-men stood near the cage and discussed the party’s fate in a screeching parody of the common tongue: the obese and hungry Raak’aak, and the lean and gloomy Skwawk.

RAAK’AAK: What shall we do with these tasty morsels, Skwawk?
SKWAWK: Throw them to the mountain ape who lives in the ravine, Raak’aak. They’ve been too much trouble already.
RAAK’AAK: Shall we make them into a soup with mushrooms and wild rice?
SKWAWK: Chop, chop, chop. Too much bother.
RAAK’AAK: Then shall we roast them on a spit? So tender.
SKWAWK: Ugh! All that turning.
RAAK’AAK: Fine! Let’s cook them in the oven, with chestnut and sage stuffing.
SKWAWK: You gather the firewood. You know the ape kills any of us he catches in the forest.
RAAK’AAK: But I’m hungry!
SKWAWK: You’re always hungry!

Having listened in growing horror to these proposals, the party interrupted the squabbling bird-men with urgent demands that they be set free. Raak’aak replied that the party had killed eight good bird-men, and must pay a weregild in either gold or their own (to his eye, rather stringy) flesh. Ginnungagap replied that they were indeed stringy, to say nothing of tough and bitter on the tongue. Nor, unfortunately, did they have much gold. But perhaps, he suggested, they could pay their debt by means of a service? Raak’aak sneered: “Of what service could you possibly be to the bird-men, save as the most meager of appetizers?” Let us kill the mountain ape, Ginnungagap replied, and then you shall have free range of the forest once more. The bird-men turned and conferred upon this offer in their own harsh language. [Fortunately the reaction roll here was much better.] Finally Raak’aak turned back to the cage and screeched: “Very well, we agree. Kill the ape and your weregild is paid. Fail, and it shall be he who dines on your stringy flesh.” “I hope he chokes on them,” muttered Skwawk.

The giant cage was lowered to the floor and the party released. Surrounded by a flock of glaring hostile bird-men, the party traveled down several tunnels under they came to a huge door of woven wicker, secured by several wooden bars. Here most of their gear and weapons were returned, but Raak’aak was reluctant to give back the magic sword Ymirstongue, claiming it as “a lagniappe weregild for my dear slain sister’s son”. Borghast was wroth and the situation almost erupted in violence once more, but Anya pointed out that Borghast would need his sword to slay the ape, which was what they all wanted. Raak’aak returned the sword with ill grace and then ordered the party through the door, saying they would be killed if they tried to return. The wicker door was slammed and barred behind them, leaving the party to face a foul-smelling tunnel descending into deep gloom. They checked their packs and discovered that most of their equipment was intact, save that all their coins were gone and all their rations had been eaten. Balto vowed to return one day with casks of incendiary oil and roast the entire aerie of bird-men alive.

The party traveled down the gently sloping passage for a hundred feet, only to find it blocked by a deliberately-placed boulder. The rank odor was especially strong here. Ginnungagap, Lars, and Borghast were able to combine their strength against the boulder and [succeeding at a major feat] were just able to move it enough to allow a man to pass. The reek that poured from the darkness beyond was near-choking. Fearing an ambush, Ginnungagap asked Balto to sneak through the gap and assess the situation. Balto refused in no uncertain terms. Borghast sneered at Balto as a coward and went through the opening himself, moving silently as barbarians are wont to do. The rest of the party waited with weapons drawn. Borghast returned a moment later to report that a gloomy cavern lay beyond, with beams of sunlight dimly visible at the far end. There was no mountain ape or any other threat in sight. Furthermore, Borghast eagerly reported, he had seen the glint of gold.

The party slipped around the boulder in single file, and soon discovered that Borghast was correct. They were in a dank cavern filled with the unbearable reek of mountain ape. The cavern was shadowy, but sunlight could be seen filtering through some kind of opening on the far side. A pile of bloody furs and torn human clothing formed a crude enormous bed on one side of the cavern. Beside the bed, tucked between two stalagmites, a pile of coins and other objects (including a small wooden chest) could be seen. The party cautiously walked over to the bed, alert every moment for danger and ambush. As they neared the gruesome bed and the heap of treasure, they spotted something on the floor nearby: a teenage boy and girl, bound hand and foot and gagged with unspeakably filthy strips of fur. Anya rushed to their side as the rest of the party watched the gloomy cavern for any threat. Removing the girl’s gag, Anya asked her name. “Fiona,” replied the girl. “This is my lover Tam. We’re running away together.”

The party held a brief heated discussion as the freed couple held each other and watched them with frightened eyes. Balto suggested having the boy’s head off then and there, and taking it back to Hawkford to collect their reward. Borghast proposed the relatively less ruthless method of trussing the couple again and carrying them back to town like sacks of grain; let the merchant Fergus deal with the situation as he saw fit. Anya stated darkly that Artemis would punish murderers, and further that she didn’t appreciate the fact that Fergus had (in all likelihood) knowingly lied to them. Ginnungagap pointed out that there was a place to discuss this, and that place wasn’t the lair of a mountain ape who could return at any moment. The party needed to grab the treasure, grab the equally valuable young couple, and get out while they could.

Borghast began cautiously scooping the coins into a large sack. Buried in them he found a dagger with a softly glowing blade, which he took “for safekeeping”. Borghast then ordered Balto to check the chest for traps. Balto replied that he would in no wise do so. Borghast suggested that Balto start pulling his weight, or else die with a sword in his gut. Ginnungagap snapped at them to stop arguing, and told Balto to just check the chest for traps and be done with it. Balto examined the chest and found nothing, so he carefully used his dagger blade to flip the latch and pop the lid open. Inside were more gold coins and a cylindrical bone case inscribed with runes. Balto then closed the lid and picked up the chest… thereby rupturing the colony of mustard mould growing on the bottom. A choking cloud of spores filled that corner of the cavern, and Balto dropped to the ground dead [making that player 0 for 2 characters – ouch!] with his skin turning a sickly yellow color. Borghast too was caught in the spore cloud, but [having saved successfully] managed to hold his breath in time due to his barbarian instincts. The party’s young prisoners chose this moment of distraction to attempt an escape. They sprang to their feet and [having gained surprise] made a mad dash for the cavern entrance. But they pulled up short after just a few feet, and Fiona unleashed an ear-splitting scream. The mountain ape had returned.

Lars [now once more a PC under the control of Balto’s erstwhile player] snatched up Balto’s crossbow and joined Ginnungagap in firing quarrels at the towering brute. Borghast, who had dived to the ground to avoid the mustard mould spore cloud, slipped into the shadows and moved carefully among the stalagmites, trying to flank the mountain ape without being seen. Fiona and Tam fled pell-mell away from the ape to cower in a corner of the cave. Anya hurled a sling stone at the beast but missed badly. Tristan, unnerved by all the chaos [and failing a morale check], fled back up the passageway toward the lair of the bird-men. The mountain ape, enraged when one of the quarrels struck home, grabbed a boulder and hurled it at Lars, who was smashed to the ground bleeding and unconscious. The reeking brute then bellowed and charged, swinging a whole sapling as a club.

Ginnungagap ducked under the blow and swung his battle axe, but inflicted no appreciable harm on the ape. Meanwhile, Anya called upon Artemis to heal Lars of his near-mortal wounds, and the warrior arose – bruised, but ready to fight. Borghast, having gotten behind the mountain ape, struck a savage blow from behind with Ymirstongue. The brute whirled with an angry roar and hit Borghast, knocking him to the ground. Ginnungagap and the revived Lars then attacked the ape, sending it staggering to its knees with a flurry of axe blows. Stumbling to his feet and spitting blood, Borghast finished the beast with a sword thrust through the heart. The ape lay dead in a spreading pool of blood, and the heavy silence of the gloomy cavern was broken only by Fiona’s sobs and Tam’s whispered words of comfort.

Leaving Borghast and Anya to guard their prisoners, Ginnungagap and Lars went in search of Tristan. They found him pinned to the great wicker door, blood running from a half-dozen spear points to form a puddle at his feet. He had tried to break through the door to escape and, true to their threats, the bird-men had stabbed him to death through the gaps in the wicker. Hostile beady eyes glared at Ginnungagap and Lars through the spaces in the door, until the adventurers finally turned and made a somber trek back to the ape’s cave. Avoiding the corpse of Balto, which was already growing mustard mould from every visible bodily orifice, Ginnungagap carefully transferred the treasure out of the chest and into a sack. He opened the bone case and found a slim silvery wand, which he packed away for later examination.

The treasure secured, the party held another discussion about the young lovers. Borghast again suggested trussing them and dragging them back to town, but the others felt there had been enough violence. Anya knelt and talked quietly to Tam, pointing out that the wilds of Hyperborea were unsafe. Did he really feel able to protect Fiona from threats like the mountain ape? After a long moment [and a positive reaction roll] Tam sighed and admitted he couldn’t. Anya patted his shoulder and told Tam his time would come; he just needed to be patient. Meanwhile, Fiona had to go back to her father… along with the head of her kidnapper. So saying, Anya directed Lars and Ginnungagap to hack off the ape’s head and put the gory token in a large sack. Taking up the bags of treasure and the sack holding the bloody ape head, and forming a protective wall around Fiona and Tam, the party marched out into the sunlight.

They found themselves in the rocky ravine, and above them both sides of the ravine were lined with rows of silent, motionless bird-men staring down at them. The party walked through the ravine with a measured pace, weapons and sacks dripping blood and gore, while Fiona sobbed quietly and Tam whispered what words of comfort he could. Finally the party reached the mouth of the ravine, near the stream that would take them back to Hawkford. Raak’aak and Skwawk blocked the way, staring at the party with inscrutable glassy eyes. Ginnungagap reached into the sack and produced the bloody head of the mountain ape, raising it for all to see. A vast sighing and chattering arose from the bird-men above; Raak’aak and Skwawk gave a ritual bow and stepped aside, allowing the party to follow the cool stream back to civilization.

Just short of town, Fiona and Tam embraced and were parted; Fiona vowed to wait for him, and he to come back for her one day. The adventurers looked at each other and shrugged cynically – maybe, maybe not. But that wasn’t their problem. The party had some difficulty convincing the watch to admit four such blood-splattered figures, but in the end the adventurers strolled into the common house with Fiona walking meekly in their wake. Fergus was sitting at a table with two armed, hulking bodyguards. Ginnungagap slammed the open sack down on the table, and the ape’s head rolled out to practically land in the merchant’s lap. “Here”, said Ginnungagap, “is the head of the thing that took your daughter. Here is your daughter, safe and alive. Now where is our money?” With a look of obvious chagrin on his face, Fergus asked them if they were quite sure that this creature had taken Fiona. Had it not been, rather, a young man? Cleaning his nails with the magic dagger, Borghast asked if Fergus was impugning their honesty. Fergus looked from the dead face of the ape to the grim faces of the adventurers, and back again, and then signaled to his henchmen. One of them handed Ginnungagap a bulging sack of gold coins. Ginnungagap bowed slightly to the merchant, and then the party left him there – Fergus still staring at the horrible dead face of the ape in mild disbelief while, very tentatively, starting to embrace his weeping daughter.

That evening, the adventurers were enjoying well-deserved mugs of ale in the common room while watching a wench scrub bloodstains off one of the tables. Suddenly the young druid was at their side, looking at them with bright green eyes and blowing blue smoke from his pipe. “I admire the way you handled that,” said he. He handed them a clay token inscribed with the symbol of Yoon’Deh. “Show this sign to the Lady Rhiannon’s advisor, the high druid Gwydion. He will offer you his help.” The nameless druid smiled cryptically. “But whatever you do, don’t trust him. Don’t trust anybody. The time may come when you’ll wish you had problems as simple as killing a mountain ape and tricking an overprotective father.” And then, despite a babble of questions from the party, the druid bowed and walked away, leaving a trail of smoke rings that had once more turned a sinister blood red.

I’m feeling a bit more confident about myself and my players, so this was a lot more elaborate than the first session, with far more NPC interaction. I’m more than a bit chagrined that there have been two PC casualties so far, and both were the same player. He seemed to take it pretty well, but still. On a happier note, thanks to the XP gained from acquiring a wand of magic missiles, Ginnungagap has reached second level! Anya, Borghast, and Lars (if he remains a PC, which is still not decided) are not far behind. Everyone did a good job of playing their alignments this time, but it led to a lot of party bickering. I may have to discourage actively evil PCs like Balto (or not – it was kind of amusing, to be honest, at least in reasonable doses). The adventurers have a fair amount of money now, but they still need travel supplies and mounts, which should eat up most of it. On to the next session!

Last edited by Blackadder23 (3/10/2014 1:24 pm)


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

3/10/2014 2:10 pm  #3


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

I was discussing the slow character advancement in AS&SH (relative to AD&D) with Jeff T. and he pointed out that I wasn't awarding 50 XP per hour played as recommended in the rules. D'oh! He's right! So each PC was retroactively awarded an extra 400 XP, which allowed Anya and Lars to advance to second level along with Ginnungagap (despite grabbing every magic weapon that wasn't nailed down, Borghast fell just short). The late Balto's player has elected to continue playing Lars, since (and I quote) "God's told me twice not to play a thief class." So the party doesn't have anyone with trap-finding or lock-picking ability; we'll see how that goes. Three of the PCs spent the next two game weeks (and 200 gp) training while Borghast drank himself into a stupor in the common house. The PCs are all now either kitted out in banded or splint, except that Borghast has chosen to remain in studded leather to allow for stealth and climbing; in fact, he's even ditched his shield and is now dual-wielding the sword Ymirstongue and his new +1 dagger, Ullrsthing. After paying for training and new equipment the party is once again broke - just like real sword and sorcery characters! Rather than strike out overland ill-equipped, the party has elected to remain in Hawkford for another session and see whether they can get into some further lucrative mischief (I'm guessing the answer is yes). Once again a couple of NPC fighters - Kirowan and Rezko - have been hired to pad out the party. I'm hoping to get at least one more player soon, so that all these NPC redshirts aren't necessary!

“Shrine of the Bat-Toad” (played 09/01/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

Anya, a 2nd level Common Cleric of Artemis
Borghast, a 1st level Viking Barbarian
Ginnungagap the Hyperborean, a 2nd level Warlock
Lars Larsson, a 2nd level Viking Fighter
Kirowan, a 1st level Keltic Fighter (NPC)
Rezko the Kimmerian, a 1st level Fighter (NPC)

The adventurers spent the next two weeks in Hawkford honing their skills with arms and spells – except for Borghast, who spent them drinking, wenching, and boasting of his exploits. Once they felt fully prepared, the party met in the common room to discuss how to proceed. They were anxious to continue their journey to the Black Fief, for they had seen numerous other adventurers passing through Hawkford; it wouldn’t do for someone else to solve the riddle and claim the prize first! And yet, all the gold earned in their last exploit had somehow sifted through their fingers without them actually purchasing any mounts or travelling gear. The adventurers considered striking out in haste and on foot, but in the end judged it too risky. Another lucrative local job was needed to raise sufficient coin for the trip. The party members had all heard rumors of potential adventures [provided by the referee] but in the end decided to call upon the druids of Hawkford, who (so it was said) would pay well to have a certain object recovered. Among other reasons, the party felt this would give them a chance to ask about the mysterious druid they had encountered two weeks before. [At this point the adventure actually began.]

The next morning the party left Hawkford, accompanied by two newly-hired mercenaries, and went to seek the druids in the farmlands north of town. They weren’t hard to find, for a huge wicker cage in the shape of a man had recently been erected in the midst of the fields. White-robed druids could be seen milling about its base, piling firewood for the coming sacrifice. As the party drew nearer, they could hear the bleating of the doomed sheep and goats imprisoned in the image. As they drew nearer still they could see, much to Anya’s displeasure, at least six hopeless-looking naked men awaiting their death inside the gigantic wicker cage. The fuming Anya headed directly for three elderly druids, red-robed and laden with gold jewelry, who were standing off to the side apparently discussing the sacrifice; her subdued companions followed in her wake, nervously eyeing the numerous druids who were watching them with less-than-friendly eyes. They fervently hoped Anya wouldn’t be so offensive as to provoke these religious fanatics to violence.

When she reached the druidic leaders, Anya asked point blank what the men in the cage had done to deserve such a death. The oldest of the druids raised his eyebrows and asked her name. Once she identified herself as “Anya, a priestess of Artemis”, the druid was silent for a long moment, and then asked if Anya was a follower of Law. She proudly proclaimed she was. The druid then pointed out that the men had been duly tried and condemned for serious crimes. Furthermore, did not some followers of Artemis sacrifice convicts by riddling them with arrows? Anya admitted this was so. What then, wondered the druid, was her cause for complaint? Anya ground her teeth and then – prompted by her companions, who didn’t give a fig if the Kelts burned their undesirables, and who furthermore wanted to get back to the business at hand – asked the elderly druid’s pardon for her impertinence. The druid inclined his head: “Just so. But you surely haven’t come here merely to criticize our religious customs. I am Black Duncan, chief druid of Hawkford. What would you have of me?”

Ginnungagap stepped forward and explained that they were bold adventurers in search of employment, and had heard that the druids needed a certain object recovered. If the price was right, the party would accomplish this. Black Duncan rubbed his chin for a moment, and then beckoned the adventurers to join him and the other druidic leaders in the shade of an oak tree. Once there, he told the party that the Kelts honored Yoon’Deh the Elk Goddess above all other deities, and that the sacrifice today was in her honor. Perhaps, then, it was fate that had brought the party to the druids at this propitious moment. In ancient days, the chief druid lectured, Xathoqqua had been the chief god of Hyperborea. Then worship of Yoon’Deh had spread and slowly supplanted him. With the coming of the Green Death a thousand years before, the worship of Yoon’Deh had mostly faded away outside of the Gal Hills. Now the Bat-Toad once again reigned supreme, his bloated leering statues being seen on altars in virtually every corner of the land. But not, Black Duncan emphasized, in the Gal Hills. Here Yoon’Deh was still paramount, and shrines to the Bat-Toad were in fact forbidden. Only one such shrine survived: an ancient relic of the chaotic time after the Green Death. The shrine had been reared then by those who revered Xathoqqua, and a sacred image of Yoon’Deh had been placed on the altar in mocking captivity. So long as that image remained imprisoned on the altar, neither a druid nor any other faithful follower of Yoon’Deh could pass through the mystic veil that surrounded the shrine. But an outsider could do so, and could then recover the image from the shrine and return it to those who revered it. The druids would be willing to pay two and one half thousand pieces of gold for the safe return of the image.

Ginnungagap asked if the shrine would be guarded. Black Duncan shrugged and said that the evil worshippers who built it were no doubt long gone; still, a shrine to Xathoqqua would naturally tend to attract beasts and monsters, so anything was possible. The party then stepped aside to confer on this offer. Borghast was not eager to violate some ancient shrine, and said so in no uncertain terms. Ginnungagap as well was less than thrilled at the idea of crossing the god of his ancestors, especially since the Bat-Toad was still widely regarded as the chief god of Hyperborea. Anya denounced their cowardice, and expressed a desire to burn the wicked Chaotic shrine once they had plundered it. The adventurers were at loggerheads until Lars suggested a compromise: they would ask the druids to double the money, and when Black Duncan refused the party could decline the offer without giving offense and look for less dangerous work elsewhere. Ginnungagap then returned to the chief druids and demanded five thousand pieces of gold to recover the image of Yoon’Deh. The druids gasped at this audacity, then put their heads together in whispered conference. A few moments [and an incredibly positive reaction roll] later, Black Duncan returned to the party and said, much to their shock: “Done. Will you swear to do this thing?” The adventurers looked at one another, and then gave their oaths that they would. For the first time, Black Duncan smiled through a mouthful of rotted teeth: “It is well. Return to this place at noon and we will lead you to the edge of the veil. Do not foreswear yourselves in this matter; oath-breaking is considered a serious crime in the Gal Hills.” So saying, he pointedly turned away from the party and gestured to the lesser druids to light the wicker man. As the party walked away they were followed by reeking smoke and the screams of dying men and animals; they could only hope it wasn’t an omen of thing to come.

At noon the party returned to the field, fully laden with weapons and equipment and accompanied by the phlegmatic mercenaries Kirowan and Rezko. Three of the white-robed novice druids waited near the smoldering ashes of the great wicker man. They bowed to the party and beckoned them wordlessly to follow. The adventurers arranged themselves in a marching order, weapons and shields at the ready, and followed their silent guides. The druids struck out into the woods, which made the party somewhat nervous lest they should venture too near the aerie of the bird-men; it seemed unwise to test the forbearance of those strange creatures! But the druids led them well north of the stream that flowed from the bird-men’s lair, and the party found themselves in unknown woods. After an hour of following the taciturn guides through trees and glens, the adventurers began to fear some trick. Borghast morbidly suggested that the druids meant to lure them deep in the woods and sacrifice them, and whispered that he was going to shake one of the guides until he talked; that proposal earned a violent demurral from Anya. Just as the party reached the verge of demanding answers from the voiceless druids – possibly at sword point – the trees and brambles parted into a clearing. Some twenty feet away there rose a curiously solid and opaque wall of fog. The guides halted and gestured at the wall of fog, once more bowing courteously. The adventurers looked at one another grimly – this could only be the veil Black Duncan had mentioned, and untold horrors lay on the other side. But the lure of gold on the one hand, and threat of perhaps burning in the wicker man on the other, bolstered their courage. They took firmer grips on their weapons and passed through the misty veil.

Beyond lay a gloomy nightmarish place, so dark that they were obliged to light torches even though it was the middle of the afternoon. They found themselves on a twisting path through a dense forest of sinister-looking trees and vicious twisting thorn bushes. The same heavy fog that had formed the veil was above them and all around them, reducing visibility to no more than twenty feet. Weird miasmal odors rose from the forest, as well as stealthy uncanny sounds just beyond the range of hearing. As the party ventured forward, they realized they were in a maze of labyrinthine paths, all hedged by the unwholesome trees (which seemed to move in subtle and horrible ways when the adventurers weren’t watching them) and the cursed unnatural mists. Weapons at the ready, torches burning with greasy smoke, eyes straining to pierce the miasmal gloom, the party proceeded into the dark forest.

After a seemingly endless trek down winding forest paths, the party suddenly broke into a large clearing. The heavy mists continued to block the sky overhead, but within the clearing they were much thinner. A jumble of large broken blocks and stunted trees, all wreathed in wisps of mist, filled the hundred-foot diameter space. Could this be the ruins of the Bat-Toad’s shrine? The party crept into the clearing, alert for any signs of danger, but were nonetheless surprised when a crude bone-tipped arrow plunged from the mists and struck Rezko. The mercenary fell to the ground, wounded but alive, while the other party members sought safety among the stone blocks. A barrage of the primitive arrows rained down on the party, accompanied by inhuman shrieks and cackling. Ginnungagap and Lars could just make out a half-dozen dark figures crouched among the blocks on the other side of the clearing, and the two men began to fire crossbow quarrels in their direction. The shadowy figures answered with more arrows, along with derisive screeches and insane gibbering. Borghast responded with profane speculation about the ancestry and bed partners of the archers, while his companions kept up a steady fire of quarrels.

With both sides well-protected and under cover, minutes of bow fire passed with no arrow or bolt striking home. Finally Ginnungagap resolved to break the stalemate with sorcery. He had earlier determined that the wand found in the mountain ape’s cave, clearly of Atlantean manufacture, would discharge silvery bolts if waved in a certain peculiar pattern. Of course, there was no telling how many times it would work before failing – possibly spectacularly. Heedless of this danger, Ginnungagap passed his crossbow to Borghast to continue a harassing fire, and then took up the magical wand. He traced a weird, non-Euclidian figure with the tip, and then discharged a barrage of sizzling silver bolts that crossed the clearing and unerringly struck their half-hidden foes. Howls of pain and rage echoed across the clearing, and still more as one of Borghast’s quarrels finally struck home. Ignoring the scattered return fire, and the very real threat of the wand exploding, Ginnungagap again rained silvery death down on their foes. Two of the figures slumped motionless on the ground, while the rest babbled and gibbered in insane rage. A moment later, the remaining shadowy figures rose from behind the blocks and glided into the mist, followed by parting shots from Lars and Borghast.

The party drew their blades and crossed the clearing to their fallen foes, ducking among the stone blocks in case the archers began to fire again. But none did. At the far end of the clearing the party discovered the corpses of two savage hyaena-men. In addition to the burns from the silvery bolts which had slain them, the bodies showed vicious bites in the abdomen where their comrades had stopped for a quick snack before fleeing. Borghast cared little about these signs of cannibal appetite, but he was outraged when he discovered that the departing hyaena-men had also looted the bodies of any coins! Anya counseled following the remaining beasts of Chaos and slaying them, lest they return in greater numbers. The others demurred, pointing out that their enemies would almost certainly set an ambush, and that their ability to see in the dark would be an insurmountable advantage in the gloomy depths of the forest. Anya conceded that this was so, and then suggested that they be gone from the clearing – which seemed to be some other ruin, rather than the shrine they were seeking – as quickly as possible. The party agreed on this course of action, and plunged back into the misty forest in search of the Bat-Toad’s shrine.

The party wandered down twisted gloomy paths through the sinister forest for what seemed like hours, only to find themselves back in the clearing with the ruins again. They immediately noted that the corpses of the hyaena-men had been dragged away, leaving smears of blood that disappeared into the mists. Lars and Ginnungagap stationed themselves behind a block, covering with their crossbows the path the hyaena-men had fled down, while the rest of the party investigated the perimeter of the clearing for other possible paths. Unfortunately there didn’t prove to be any; unless they wanted to hack their way through the trees and thick underbrush, it seemed the adventurers had no choice but to take the same path the hyaena-men had. Borghast strenuously objected to that course of action – his barbarian instincts were screaming of danger and the uncanny. His counsel was to flee back the way they had come and forget the shrine. The others were no more happy at the idea of following the blood trail into an almost-certain ambush, but Ginnungagap pointed out that the druids would probably be waiting to see if the party broke their pledge. Even if not, the party would have to flee Hawkford as outlaws and lose everything they had worked for. Following the hyaena-men was a risk they simply had to take, as even Borghast reluctantly agreed.

Down the final path the adventurers went, Borghast in the lead with his keen eyes searching every moment for danger. Ginnungagap had abandoned any thought of husbanding the remaining power of the wand, and held it in hand for instant use. The others had their weapons poised to strike, and tried desperately to see through the gloom and mists that engulfed them. When the blood trail abruptly ended, they became even more wary. Despite all these precautions, they were still taken by surprise when disaster struck. Anya caught her foot in a tripwire which had been passed unseen by Borghast and Ginnungagap. Instantly a log suspended on two ropes descended from the trees above and hurtled directly at the front of the party. Most dived safely aside [having made their Avoidance saves] but Lars was struck a glancing blow and Rezko, bringing up the rear, was hit squarely in the chest and hurled ten feet through the air to land in a lifeless heap. Maniacal inhuman laughter sounded all around them, and they could feel their enemies closing in. Anya closed her eyes and called upon the goddess Artemis. Instantly a golden light bloomed on her shield, driving out the shadows around them and making the sinister mists seem less threatening. Even the air smelled a bit cleaner. The watchers in the woods howled in rage and disdain, and then their snarls and mad cackles could be heard fading away in the distance. Anya turned toward Rezko, meaning to offer him the last rites of her faith; but at that moment a sharp iron hook on a rope sailed from the mists and snagged his broken form. With a swift jerk, the mangled corpse was dragged into the woods. The sickened adventurers resumed their journey in the shelter of Anya’s blazing shield, trying to ignore the awful gobbling and tearing sounds echoing from among the trees.

Through the unnatural woods they wended, until they were suddenly brought up short. The path widened to thirty feet or more in width, amply illuminated by Anya’s gleaming shield. Ahead was a low rise, up which weathered stone steps climbed; at the top of the rise was a small shadowy building with a domed roof. Between the party and the steps was a ravine, fully twenty feet wide and of unknown depth, the bottom being lost in a cloud of swirling mists. Ginnungagap and Anya looked down into the murky ravine and discussed possible ways of getting a rope across without a grappling hook [which both the late Thee-Ven and Balto had carried, but which no one in the current group had]. Borghast finally snorted impatiently at “civilized weaklings”, made a run, and – with a heave of his mighty barbaric thews – covered the distance across the ravine with three feet to spare. He shouted for someone to throw him a rope, which Lars replied he would. But Lars then stood frozen with horror as a giant crab spider, its gross form bloated with poison, sprang from among the trees at the base of the hill. A civilized man might have died surprised, but Borghast whirled and struck with his sword Ymirstongue, severing one of the abomination’s front legs. The spider’s slavering mandibles snapped shut as Borghast avoided death by inches. Then a quarrel from Lars and two sparkling silvery bolts from Ginnungagap’s wand hit the gigantic arachnid, staggering it. Borghast stabbed the creature in the eye with his dagger Ullrsthing, and the horror lay dead in a spreading pool of ichor.

Nervous that another such monstrosity might lurk nearby, Borghast urgently demanded the rope be tossed to him. Lars secured one end to a tree at the edge of the ravine and tossed the other end to Borghast, who likewise tied it to a tree near the fallen corpse of the giant spider. The rest of the party then climbed hand-over-hand across the ravine while Borghast watched warily for any sign of danger with his two sorcerous blades in hand. Finally the party was safely across, and began to slowly climb the wide stone stairs toward what they hoped (and, at least in Anya’s case, prayed) to be the shrine of the Bat-Toad. As they reached the halfway point of the descent, six figures stepped from the building: hyaena-men, dressed in armor of animal hide and brandishing wicked-looking serrated scimitars and axes. The largest of the six roared a challenge, while the remainder shrieked and giggled insanely. Ginnungagap responded by attempting to unleash a barrage from the Atlantean wand; two bolts flashed forth and singed the hyena-men before the wand gave up the ghost in a shower of sparks and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. Ginnungagap tossed the now-useless wand aside and drew his axe. Shouting their battle cries, the adventurers charged up the steps toward their foes, who came howling down to meet them.

Ginnungagap and Borghast were in the thick of it first, laying about with axe and sword at the sneering bestial faces of their enemies. Lars and Kirowan were just a step behind, hacking desperately at their foes. The hyaena-men unleashed a savage assault of their own, but despite their animal strength and advantage of higher ground their blows were turned by the heavy armor of Lars and Ginnungagap. Kirowan smashed a hyaena-man in the face with his shield and then stabbed it in the gut; as the mad beast fell dying, two others struck the lightly-armored mercenary in the back with their axes, knocking him to the ground. They then fell on the wounded Kirowan, worrying him with their teeth and claws. Anya charged at the brutes devouring her companion and swung her morning star, splashing the blood and brains of one like water. The other hyaena-man leapt at her, driving her back down the stairs. Lars, Borghast, and Ginnungagap engaged the remaining three in a duel of vicious slashes and thrusts. Though the human warriors suffered cuts and bruises, their superior armor and skill soon told and two of their foes lay dead on the steps. The third – a particularly large and savage specimen that seemed to be the leader – screamed its defiance and then fled up the hill toward the shrine. Lars and Ginnungagap riddled it with quarrels (very nearly their last) and it fell dead just short of escape. Meanwhile, Borghast attacked the hyaena-man grappling with Anya, nearly severing its head with Ymirstongue.

As the warriors panted and surveyed the carnage on the steps, Anya knelt to render aid to Kirowan. But he had already bled to death, so she began to administer the last rites instead. Ginnungagap dryly commented that they would soon find it difficult to hire mercenaries at this rate, then joined his companions in looting coins and jewels from the fallen hyena-men. Their wounds bound and the strain of their exertions mended by a few swigs of wine, the party girded their loins and crept up the steps toward the building, which could only be the shrine. It was a plain stone building some fifty feet in diameter, with a domed roof, the outer walls overgrown with thorns and creepers. The lintel of the door was carven with a series of sardonic-looking figures (apparently ancient Hyperboreans) engaged in debaucheries and sundry unsavory practices. The darkness within the shrine seemed almost alive; neither the fading magical light on Anya’s shield, nor the light of the torch which Ginnungagap hastily lit, could penetrate that tenebrous portal. The adventurers looked at each other with uncertainty, but there could be no turning back at this point. Lured by gold, goaded by threats, they stepped into the shrine of the Bat-Toad.

Contrary to their fears, they could in fact see once inside the shrine, albeit dimly. Across from them in the single huge chamber, atop a great dais of polished obsidian, was a statue of Xathoqqua easily twice the height of a man. On its gross toad face were stamped the highest degree of sloth, gluttony, and cynicism, and its vast wings spread to the touch the dome overhead, seemingly threatening to envelop the party. On either side of the dais was a great stone vat, and between these two was a crude stone altar on which they could glimpse the object of their quest: the image of Yoon’deh. It was a terra cotta elk statue some two feet tall, with black jewels for eyes; the tiny eyes of the statue seemed to glitter and shimmer in the light of their torches. As the party inched forward under the sardonic gaze of the great statue of Xathoqqua, Borghast muttered that the stink of evil magic was strong here. Furthermore, he could hear uncanny and unsavory sloshing sounds from the two vats. As the party grew nearer, they could see that the vats were filled with some glistening black oily substance. Borghast urgently demanded that the contents of the vats be burned before they approached the altar. Ginnungagap countered that the vats could easily be a devious trap, and might even explode if touched by flames. Borghast stubbornly insisted that the vats held some untold horror, and proceeded to light torches and throw them inside. Soon the noisome liquid in each vat was burning with little light and much greasy smoke, and the face of Xathoqqua seemed still more sardonic and mocking in the shadows thus cast.

Her companions somewhat reassured but still wary, Anya slowly climbed the steps and (with a whispered prayer to Artemis) reached for the statue of Yoon’deh. As soon as her fingers brushed it, a vile column of black slime – wreathed in flames but unharmed by them – rose from the vat on the left and struck at her. She was tossed like a rag doll by the force and slammed against the wall. Borghast roared his defiance at the loathsome violation of nature in the vat, then charged to attack with a sorcerous blade in each hand. Lars and Ginnungagap were but a step behind, swinging their battle axes at the black ooze. Their blades sliced through the abomination, and it burst like a bladder with an indescribably foul odor. Lars and Ginnungagap were forced to drop their axes – which had begun to dissolve from the acidic ichor of the thing in the vat. Anya stumbled to her feet, peeling off her breastplate which was likewise disintegrating from the touch of that foul monstrosity. At that moment, a second glistening amorphous horror rose from the other vat. Borghast, his magical blades seemingly immune to the corrosive fluid, leapt into battle with mad courage. Ymirstongue tore a great rent in the side of the black ooze, but a moment later the abomination fell on Borghast and crushed him to the ground. Anya cried out in grief and swung her morning star while Lars and Ginnungagap stabbed at the slimy monstrosity with their dirks. The horror burst as the first one had, filling the chamber with an even more overpowering stench. The adventurers dropped their weapons, which were already sizzling and fuming from the creature’s ichor, and rushed to Borghast’s side. But it was too late: the brave barbarian had perished from his wounds. Most of his body was horribly scorched by the acid, but by some whim of chance his face had been spared, and the visage of Borghast – who had always lived boisterously, by and for the moment – seemed almost to be composed in peaceful sleep at last. Wiping away a tear, Anya rose and walked slowly to the altar as her companions appropriated Borghast’s gleaming magical blades “in memory of a fallen comrade”. Anya looked up at the gruesome face of Xathoqqua and then, with a deliberate sneer at the Bat-Toad, removed the image of Yoon'deh from his altar.

An instant later, the party blinked to find themselves in bright sunlight. The mists, the dense forest, the shrine, the steps, the ravine – all had vanished, if indeed they had ever existed at all. The adventurers were back in the clearing with the ancient weathered stone blocks, which they now saw was (somehow) the same clearing to which the druids had originally guided them, seemingly ages before. And yet the three guides still stood in the same places, and the red sun had moved not an inch in the sky. Shaking their heads at these bizarre and inexplicable events, the party could only follow the beckoning and now-smiling guides back to Hawkford – Lars and Ginnungagap carrying Borghast’s body between them, and Anya bearing the precious statue that she loathed and longed to smash; the price of obtaining it had simply been too high. The clay elk’s eyes seemed to glitter at her still, and she thought she detected a certain smugness about its lips. Yoon’deh had gotten her sacrifices that day, and then some. It wasn’t something that Anya would soon forget, or ever forgive.

At length the dazed and injured party limped out of the forest, bearing their fallen comrade and the ancient image, to behold all the assembled druids of Hawkford awaiting them. Druids played solemnly on pipes and drums as Black Duncan stepped forward and requested the return of the image of Yoon’deh to her most faithful worshippers. The party looked at each other, suspecting treachery but too exhausted and heart-sick to really care. Finally Anya walked slowly to the chief druid and, with a curl of her lip, handed over the statue. The druids gasped and babbled in awe, and the pipes and drums rose to a crescendo before abruptly ceasing. Black Duncan smiled his horrible smile, and then spoke a word in some druidic cant. Two druids emerged from the crowd, staggering beneath the weight of a chest filled with gold. They laid it at the feet of the adventurers, and reverently bore away the image of Yoon’deh after Black Duncan handed it to them. The chief druid inclined his head: “Thank you for returning our sacred image to us, and laying the shrine of the Bat-Toad to rest at last. Here is your gold. I trust it was well worth what you… sacrificed?” Anya glared at him, and he shrugged: “So. You should be on your way soon, if you want to have any chance of saving the poor foolish girl who rules the Black Fief. The alignment of the stars in this matter is bad… very bad indeed. I’m not convinced you can help her, not convinced at all.” He then turned and joined the joyful procession of druids bearing the image of Yoon’deh to its new home. Anya stared after them for several moments before she realized she had forgotten to ask Black Duncan about the nameless druid. But in truth she no longer cared. She glanced at the laden chest of gold sitting forlorn in the mud, and then sighed and went to join her companions in gathering firewood from the forest.

An hour later another pyre burned a half-mile from the one that had earlier consumed six men and a dozen beasts of the field. The adventurers sat and watched the body of their comrade burn – Anya praying to Artemis, Ginnungagap taking refuge in his cynical philosophy, Lars wondering what kind of armor he could buy with his share of the gold. When the fire had died away to ashes the adventurers rose, saying nothing to one another, and began their walk back to Hawkford. Anya carried Borghast’s boar-tusk necklace, which she had taken as a keepsake, while the men carried the overflowing chest of gold. In that manner they returned to town.

The fruitless exchange of fire in the clearing was probably the longest combat I've ever run in an RPG - well over ten rounds, with no one able to hit due to cover and range penalties. This was also the adventure with the highest body count so far, with half the party dead. As well, all the deaths occurred from physical damage (being reduced to -10) rather than special attacks like poison or energy drain. I hated to see Borghast die, because he had added a lot of entertainment value. Still, his player will still be in the game, so hopefully that tradition can continue in a new form. The characters got a lot more gold out of this one than I expected, thanks to an outrageous demand and a lucky reaction roll, and in fact all three of the survivors gained another level. Still, I can see it mostly going to equipment and training costs… and I did manage to goad Ginnungagap into expending all the charges in his wand! Hopefully they can get back on the road next session, for an overland trip which the players (probably rightly) assume will be a real horrorshow…


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

3/10/2014 2:13 pm  #4


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

We have a new player! And a new character, the Amazon witch Elena Pandoros. Meanwhile, Borghast has an heir! A hulking brute named Tobasko showed up at the bank in Hawkford to claim the several hundred gold pieces Borghast had saved. It seems the late Borghast signed a document during his recent drinking binge making Tobasko his sole beneficiary - a strange gesture with no obvious explanation. Tobasko himself is an escaped slave gladiator from the fabulous city of Khromarium, and is given to fits of insane rage in battle. That spells F-U-N! This week only one mercenary was needed - a dour Viking named Arn the Axe.

Last week the three characters in studded leather died and the three in banded or splint survived. This was no coincidence, and my players took due note of the fact. The three survivors all kitted themselves out in plate mail, even Ginnungagap who must risk spell failure as a result (but considering that he's only cast one spell so far in the campaign, this might not be much of a "risk"). In addition, Lars and Ginnungagap outfitted themselves with repeating light crossbows to triple their firepower if they get into another shootout. They even bought chain mail and a repeating crossbow for Arn! Meanwhile, Tobasko has used his legacy from Borghast to buy plate mail, leaving only Elena as the soft underbelly of the party. And they still have no one with thief skills...

The players made an admirable job of preparing for the overland trip, purchasing riding horses for themselves and three mules which they loaded with bedrolls, a tent, weeks and weeks of iron rations, gallons of wine, and all manner of spare equipment. They even slipped out of town before sunrise to avoid attracting the notice of other adventurers. Did all this prep work do any good?


“On the Strongfort Road” (played 09/08/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

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

For three weeks the adventurers prepared: practicing with arms, praying to their gods, selecting the best animals and equipment that their recent windfall could buy, recruiting new companions. Finally they could delay no longer; the call to adventure in the Black Fief was simply too strong. The party slipped out before dawn, to avoid prying eyes, and turned their horses and their string of pack mules southeast. Out there, beyond leagues of forest and heath, lay the Keltic settlement known as Strongfort – and beyond Strongfort stretched the Black Fief. The party spurred their mounts and left Hawkford without a backwards glance. [At this point the adventure actually began.]

All day the party rode, following the cart track as the woods grew thicker on either side and dark clouds gathered overhead. For the first few miles they occasionally saw small fields hacked from the forest, and weathered Keltic farmers stared at them sullenly as they passed. But soon the last of these were left behind, and the adventurers rode down a wagon trail flanked by towering trees draped with moss and ivy. Once, perhaps a thousand years before, there had been fields here as well. But since the Green Death, only the merest fragment of Hyperborea belonged to the remnant of humanity; the wilderness had taken the rest. The adventurers wasted little time on such speculation, however, especially as it soon became obvious that a terrible storm was brewing. By early evening the sky was black as pitch, and gusting winds blew twigs and dead leaves into the faces of the party. Soon the woods were enveloped in a deeper gloom, and the wind began to howl as the downpour began.

The rain came down in torrents, mixed with sleet, and drenched the party to the bone. Brilliant bolts of lightning split the sky like swords, but in between these the adventurers could see nothing. The horses screamed and the mules brayed incessantly, and the strength of the party was pushed to the limit keeping the maddened animals from stampeding. Elena cried that the storm was a most dire portent indeed, while her black cat Grimalkin hissed agreement from within the folds of her cloak. Ginnungagap retorted that portents could be hanged, along with those who read them. A moment later, as if in response to his remark, a dazzling bolt of lightning split a tree a hundred feet from the party and sent it crashing to the ground. Anya shouted that she had seen something in the light of the flash – it looked like there was a house of some kind not a hundred yards from the track. Lars disliked entering the dark forest and wasn’t shy about saying so. Tobasko was no happier about it, but bellowed that they must find shelter or drown like rats. Anya insisted again that she had seen a house, so at length the party followed her into the woods, dragging their panicked animals behind them.

As they struggled to guide their mounts through the darkened forest, occasional flashes of lightning showed that there was indeed some kind of building ahead of them. As they got closer, the party saw that it was a small cabin. It seemed somewhat decrepit and showed no light, although Anya swore there had been a red glow in the window when first she saw the cabin. After an interminable struggle through the downpour, the party at last reached the small clearing where the structure stood. To the right a pair of twisted trees leaned over and practically touched the cabin, forming a crude shelter of sorts. The party dragged the animals (whose eyes rolled wildly and whose muzzles were dripping with foam) into this space and tied their reins to the trees. Oddly, the horses seemed scarcely less panicked once they were sheltered from the storm. While his companions checked the baggage on the mules, Ginnungagap ducked back out into the torrential downpour. He tried to peer into both windows; but they were opaque with filth, so he banged on the door and shouted for assistance. No one answered or appeared, so after a moment Ginnungagap tried the door. It swung inward with a loud creaking noise. Joined by the rest of the dripping wet party, Ginnungagap crept into the silent cabin.

They could see very little at first, so Elena lit a torch. The cabin was a single large room, with a battered iron cooking-pot sitting in the ashes of the fireplace. The furnishings were sparse and simple, yet very odd indeed. A tiny chair sat in front of a low table in the middle of the room, while a very small bed sat against the wall by the fireplace. It seemed this furniture was meant for someone perhaps half the height of a normal man. The adventurers looked at one another mystified, and Lars whispered that mayhap the occupant was a dwarf. In one corner was a small bookshelf full of musty tomes, while another held a tall dome-shaped object covered by a heavy cloth. The party shrugged off their drenched cloaks and sat on the floor, while Grimalkin jumped onto the chair and glared around the cabin with bright green eyes. As they ate a meager meal of iron rations, Anya admonished her companions not to take or damage anything; it was bad enough they had been forced to invade somebody’s home without leave. Tobasko shrugged and said the place was probably abandoned anyway. Lars went to the cooking-pot and looked inside, but couldn’t say whether or not it had been used recently. Ginnungagap agreed that they wouldn’t ransack the place; they would just wait out the storm and then go. Anya insisted they should leave some gold on the table when they departed, a suggestion her companions greeted with shrugs and eye rolls.

They then began to discuss the possibility of gathering some wood from the forest, and whether there was any chance of successfully getting it to burn in the fireplace. Meanwhile, Elena wandered about the place, looking at the doll-like furniture with interest. She picked up a book, drawing (and ignoring) a sharp reproof from Anya, but the weird writing in the volume was a mystery to Elena. As Lars was boasting he could kindle a flame from even the wettest timber, Elena walked across the room to the humped object under the heavy cloth. As if in a trance, she reached down and removed the cloth. Under it was a large iron birdcage with the door standing open; it seemed the latch had been broken. Elena looked closer, then urgently whispered for her companions to look at what she’d found. In the birdcage was a small metal dish, and in that dish was a thin crust of dried blood. Furthermore, small misshapen paw prints were visible on the dust in front of the cage. Elena knelt with the torch, and the same tiny paw prints were immediately obvious all over the floor. At that moment they heard, even over the full fury of the storm, their mounts beginning to scream.

Lars, Ginnungagap, and Tobasko rushed out into the downpour, blades in hand. In a flash of lightning they saw the horses panicked and straining at their tethers. One of the mules was lying on the ground. As the party rushed toward the fallen beast they saw a small dark shape and a pair of gleaming red eyes, but the mysterious form had vanished by the time the warriors reached the animals. The mule was obviously dying, with two small punctures in its neck still feebly oozing blood. Tobasko stared at the stricken animal for a long moment, a muscle in his cheek twitching. Then he took his scimitar in both hands and, with bull-like strength, struck off the mule’s head with a single blow. Without a word to his companions, Tobasko headed back inside. Ginnungagap and Lars followed, shouting that something had killed one of the mules. They found Anya and Arn on their guard, and Elena hiding behind them. Lars stopped abruptly and whispered that something was crouched on the rough stone mantel of the fireplace.

Arn turned, raised his repeating crossbow, and sent three bolts firing straight at the thing on the mantel. Two bolts missed, clattering off the mantle, but the third pierced the dark form squarely. The creature made no sound, but reached down with a small paw-like hand, pulled out the bolt, and tossed it on the floor. Then the being simply sat and looked at them, eyes gleaming red in the torchlight. Ginnungagap took the torch from Elena, who showed no inclination whatsoever to approach the fireplace any closer, and thrust it in the direction of the mysterious creature. The party was filled with loathing and horror to see an abomination crouched atop the mantel: a rat the size of a human infant, with an upright posture and front paws that were curiously like human hands. Its face too bore a disturbing and sickening likeness to humanity. But its hellish eyes were as unlike humanity as anything that ever crawled from the Black Gulf, and its mouth was wet with blood. Worst of all, it spoke, in a high and mocking voice: “Good even, masters. Why do ye fire such nasty darts at poor old Gnaw-Bones? Aye, it were his home that ye invaded, so what cause for anger have ye?”

The party gaped at the weird and unexpected spectacle of the grotesque creature speaking, while Grimalkin arched his back and hissed in fear from his perch on the chair. Anya was the first to shake off her amazement, and cried that the thing was a daemonic familiar and should be done to death at once, for it was dangerous to even listen to such a being speak. It was, Anya said, undoubtedly the servant of some wicked witch or warlock. She noticed both Elena and Ginnungagap glaring at her, and then allowed that it was “probably a necromancer”. Gnaw-Bones laughed at them, and claimed to serve a powerful sorcerer indeed who would surely return soon. Meanwhile, why should they quarrel? The familiar would lead them to valuable treasure. Or perhaps they were more interested in secrets? “Perhaps ye seek the answer to the riddle of the Black Fief? Gnaw-Bones can reveal this, aye. Ye can make a most agreeable bargain in this matter, masters. Take ye the easy path, and enjoy the fruits with no labor.” The familiar looked at them with glittering eyes and licked the blood off its lips with a gross tongue.

Keeping an eye on the crouching fiend, the party quietly debated the merits of this proposal. Anya stated outright that they dared make no such foul bargain, and that the creature would undoubtedly tell them nothing but lies in any case. It would be most prudent to immediately kill the thing with magic steel and holy water. Lars said they should at least listen to the proposal, for it might be better to learn the secret of the Black Fief now, rather than after a series of further ordeals that would undoubtedly leave some of them dead. Ginnungagap mused that his ancestors had profited much from bargains with such beings, to which Anya retorted that their empire had fallen into ruin from those very same dark dealings. Elena just held Grimalkin, whom she had called back to her side, and watched the little crouching daemon with frightened eyes. Gnaw-Bones gave her a sardonic leer and wink as the remainder of the party continued to bicker.

Finally Tobasko ended the wearisome argument by snatching the magic sword Ymirstongue from Ginnungagap’s belt, charging the mantel, and slashing viciously at Gnaw-Bones with the glowing blade. The familiar screeched and leapt nimbly through the air, landing on a ceiling rafter. Ginnungagap cursed, then shrugged and chanted a magic missile spell. The sickly green bolt blazed across the cabin and struck Gnaw-Bones squarely in the rump. The daemon howled in apparent pain, then scampered still higher on the ceiling rafters. It perched in the peak of the roof and glared at the party, calling down curses on them and all their descendents. For a long moment there was a stalemate; then Grimalkin mewled piteously, struggled free of Elena’s arms, and ran to the door. Elena followed him and peered out into a mere desultory drizzle: “The storm is passing. Let us be gone from this place, and leave this creature to its own foul devices.” Still eyeing the fiend in the rafters warily, the party left the cabin. Anya kept a watch on the door as her companions readied their mounts and redistributed the load from the decapitated mule onto the other animals. Then, in a frenzy of loathing, Anya tossed two flasks of alchemical oil through the door of the cabin, setting the building ablaze. As the party rode off into the night, Ginnunagagap predicted sourly that they might well regret refusing the bargain and then angering an unknown sorcerer by burning his home. Anya replied that her cloak might be muddy, but at least her conscience was clean.

The party made certain to leave the burning cabin several miles behind them before stopping and making camp for the night. They set watches, but nothing disturbed them beyond an intermittent cold drizzle and the hooting of night-owls. The exhausted adventurers slept until late in the morning before once again resuming their journey through the gloomy forest. All day they rode, seeing nothing alive beyond a few birds and some wolves that slunk off into the woods as they approached; Arn sent a couple of bolts after the latter to hurry them on their way. But as the red sun sank below the horizon and the shadows lengthened, the party became aware of a flapping noise approaching from the south. The adventurers cautiously dismounted and tied their anxious horses, then peered out into the darkness with weapons in hand as Elena lit a pair of torches. The sickly flapping grew louder, and a black cloud was visible above the trees. The party sighted their weapons and waited.

A moment later horrors burst from the tree-tops: twenty or more noisome furry things the size of a beagle pup, each with feathered wings and a long wicked proboscis. These could only be the fabled blood-drinking stirges of fireside lore! As the grisly flock approached, reeking of blood and death, they were met with a hail of quarrels from the repeating light crossbows. A half-dozen stirges tumbled dead to the ground, and then the rest were among the adventurers, jabbing with their vicious blood-sucking snouts. The warriors (all but immune to the stirge attack in their heavy plate and chain) hacked and slashed at them with their swords, while Elena shouted and swung the torches and Grimalkin crouched hissing at her feet. Finally the surviving stirges flapped away into the trees, leaving more than a dozen on the ground riddled with quarrels or hacked to pieces. As the other adventurers refilled their depleted bolt-cases from the bundles of extras packed on the mules, Elena had to scruff Grimalkin to stop him from gnawing on the unwholesome flesh of the dead stirges. The party camped nearby, burning the little horrors in their fire, and no further attacks disturbed their watches that night.

By noon the next day, the party finally reached the edge of the forest – which they left behind with little regret. Once out of the woods the cart track passed over a rolling heath, and the snow-capped mountains that sheltered the Black Fief rose in the distance. The party rode along the track, alert for any signs of danger or trouble. After an hour a man in a dun-colored cloak rose from behind a boulder and hailed them. He found three crossbows pointed in his direction, and wryly noted that the hospitality of the Gal Hills had suffered of late. Ginnungagap bluntly asked his name and business. “I’m Diarmid, a ranger from Gal City, and my business is in Hawkford. What do you in these parts, gentle folk?” Anya apologized for the rudeness of her colleague, and explained that they were adventurers bound for the Black Fief. Diarmid asked if she had a meal for a hungry traveler. Anya tossed him her pack of rations with a blessing from Artemis. Diarmid gratefully accepted the food and allowed that there were some who still honored the traditions of hospitality. He scratched his chin for a moment and then warned them: “Mayhap you be honest travelers after all. Know then, that there is an ambush ahead. A large gang of bandits has constructed a gate across the track, and they demand tolls from all who would pass. Those who refuse to pay are attacked, and those who do pay are followed and murdered in their sleep. The way I see it, you would do well to follow some other path.” Diarmid then saluted Anya, slung the sack of food over his shoulder, and trudged off in the direction of Hawkford.

The party conferred on the best course of action, assuming this warning was true. Lars suggested leaving the track and crossing overland, but the others were less than thrilled at this prospect. They still bitterly rued the loss of the woods-wise Borghast, and the fact that they had neither a ranger nor a scout among them. Ginnungagap asked Borghast’s “heir” Tobasko whether he could find the path overland, and Tobasko sneered that he was had been born in Khromarium and had never even seen woodlands until a month earlier. Anya pointed out that they would have to send a scout ahead to warn them before they reached the toll gate; yet who among them, she wondered, was stealthy enough for the task? The party pondered this for a moment, and soon all their eyes were resting on Elena, who was stroking her familiar Grimalkin. Once she realized their meaning, Elena forcefully stated her displeasure at the idea of putting the cat in such danger, both because she loved the animal and because its death would surely mean her own as well. But she was eventually convinced that the situation left them little choice. So Grimalkin set out, crawling stealthily through the heath, while Elena lagged a mile behind leading her horse and trying desperately to be invisible (which talent she had not yet mastered) or at least look harmless. The remainder of the party followed a hundred yards behind her.

After a few miles of creeping through the heather and furze, Grimalkin suddenly stopped short and dropped flat on his belly. He could see the toll gate, built of several large logs and flanked by a pair of twenty-foot timber towers with crude arrow slits. Only two men were visible behind the gate, but his nose told him that more lurked unseen in the towers. Elena, who had stopped short a mile back, sent her stealthy familiar to scout on either side of the road. To the west he saw nothing, but to the east he saw a rude timber stockade about a half mile from the toll gate. Elena recalled her familiar to her side, and the cat ran like a streak across the heath. The rest of the party rode up to Elena as the cat returned, and dismounted to discuss what the familiar had seen. Once again the idea of a diversion across open country was raised and discarded; the chance of becoming lost was just too great. The adventurers disliked the prospect of attacking the toll gate, with an unknown number of men in the towers and more likely to be summoned from the fort by a horn or other such signal. After a moment of consideration, Lars proposed an audacious plan: attack and take the fort, and the men at the toll gate would either surrender or flee. Ginnungagap agreed with this plan, and demanded that Grimalkin scout the fort so they could plan the attack. Elena at first adamantly refused to risk the cat a second time, but relented once the others agreed to wait until nightfall. With the cat’s eyes, that would be no handicap at all. The party camped a mile from the toll gate and awaited the coming of dusk.

An hour after dark, Grimalkin clambered up one side of the timber stockade and slipped over the parapet. Armed bandits stood watch on every side of the fort, but the familiar passed unseen in the darkness. Moving swiftly around the fort, Grimalkin (and Elena, through his eyes) noted the state of the gate, the number of sentries, the two crude log structures inside the fort, and the fact that a number of men and women were huddled miserably within a circle of stakes at the rear of the fort. Hearing this last report, Anya demanded that care be taken not to harm these captives during the attack – a proviso which occasioned further shrugs and eye rolls from her companions, but to which they eventually agreed. Once Grimalkin returned to the party, the adventurers considered how to proceed. Ginnungagap wondered if Grimalkin could perhaps open the gate for them at midnight, but Elena absolutely refused to countenance risking the familiar again; tempting Fate three times would surely mean death for both of them. So the party considered the other resources available to them, as well as the layout of the fort, and carefully drew up a plan of attack.

Just after midnight, a flask of alchemical oil (fired from Anya’s sling) sailed over the front wall of the fort and crashed into the roof of the barracks beside the gate. The roof of the structure was instantly ablaze, and the guards on the walls rushed toward the fire as other bandits poured out of the building shouting and choking on the thick smoke. A horn blew loudly out in the darkness, adding to the confusion and causing some of the bandits to fire aimlessly at some unseen threat. At this signal, and unseen by the distracted guards, four grappling hooks struck the parapet at the rear of the stockade. A moment later, Ginnungagap, Lars, Arn, and Tobasko reached the top of the wall. As Tobasko jumped down into the fort, his three companions rained quarrels down into the mass of bandits who were stumbling around in the smoke. Some of the bandits, who were still quite numerous, began replying with their own bows and crossbows. After a brief exchange, the finicky repeating crossbows of the party began to jam, so they cast them aside and clambered down after Tobasko.

Tobasko had meanwhile rushed into the midst of the bandits, roaring with battle rage and laying about him with a scimitar that severed heads and limbs on every side. The bandits shouted in terror at the first onslaught, but soon regained their courage and rained blows down on the berserk gladiator. Tobasko suffered little more than a few cuts as he reaped a bloody harvest of the dead and dying. Still, the weight of numbers might have soon told had not his companions joined his side, laying about them with swords and axe. The bandits wavered before this assault, but then took heart at a cacophony of snarls and barking. A half-dozen vicious starving dogs charged into the melee, followed by the bandit leader, a huge brute of a man with an eye patch and a great two-handed axe. For a long moment the decision hung in the balance, as the outnumbered – but more skilled and better-armored – adventurers faced blades and spears from every side while reaping a red harvest of their own. Just at that moment, the bandits from the toll gate – having heard the horn and general clamor – approached the fort shouting to be let inside. One of the men in the fort opened the gate to admit these reinforcements – whereupon Elena, hiding in the darkness with Grimalkin’s cat-eyes guiding her hand, cast a spell of sleep that dropped the newly-arrived bandits in their tracks. Anya charged through the open gate, cutting down the man who had opened it with her sword and then joining the general melee. She had no mercy for these men who had preyed on innocent travelers, and the bandits soon began to waver at this unexpected attack from the rear. Then Lars cut down their leader, and the remaining bandits dropped to their knees and cried for pardon. Tobasko, covered with small lacerations and panting with the excitement of battle, cut down two of the surrendering bandits before Lars and Ginnungagap convinced him to stop. The party had won, and the fort was taken.

The party freed the trembling, half-starved prisoners – twenty-three men and women who had been waiting to be sold into slavery – and plundered the fort. Quantities of gold and silver were taken, as well as some gems and two potions and a scroll from a chest in the leader’s room. There were also considerable mundane supplies, such as food and wine, which were of little immediate use to the party. Anya suggested distributing these victuals to the freed prisoners, to which Ginnungagap grudgingly assented. The question then arose of what to do with those newly-freed prisoners, as well as the bandits who had been taken captive and bound by the party. Most of Anya’s companions were eager to be gone, and felt it best to execute the bandits on the spot and leave the former prisoners to their own devices. Certainly they would in no wise agree to escort and protect the prisoners, many of whom could barely walk, all the way to Strongfort. Anya readily agreed that they couldn’t afford such a delay, but offered an alternative plan: the former prisoners would be left well-supplied and in charge of the fort, which had not suffered badly from the party’s attack, and the captive bandits would be their responsibility. Once the adventurers reached Strongfort, they would send back a rescue party to assist the former prisoners and deal with the bandits as they saw fit. Lars pointed out that the bandits would just end up burning inside one of the wicker men, so perhaps it would be kinder to kill them now. Anya replied that she carried nothing about kindness for such men – only that justice should be done, according to the law of the land. Her companions reluctantly agreeing to this scheme, Anya asked the spokesman for the freed prisoners – an old Viking named Karl – whether they would take an oath to abide by these terms and hold the bandits for proper justice. The Viking replied that they would so swear, and Anya’s plan was adopted.

At noon the next day the party rode from the fort, as the prisoners they had freed waved farewell from the walls. Ginnungagap remarked that Anya looked troubled, and asked whether she was worried that the bandits they spared might escape and seek revenge. Anya sighed and replied that the bandits would no doubt die just as Lars had predicted – assuming that their erstwhile captives didn’t renege on their oath and kill them first. Ginnungagap agreed that was likely, but pointed out that something was obviously still bothering her. Anya chewed her lip and confessed she had seen something during the battle for the fort; on the parapet in the darkness, at the height of the fighting and killing, she thought she had glimpsed a small dark shape with gleaming red eyes. A trick of the light, Ginnungagap suggested. Yes, Anya agreed, a trick of the light. What else could it be? Then she tossed a flask of alchemical oil into the toll gate and left it burning behind them.

The party MASSACRED a fort full of bandits with only a little difficulty and no losses. In fact, there were no losses at all this adventure; even Arn survived! I'm going to have to reconsider what counts as "challenging" for the group. Meanwhile, Elena fits right in. Her player is going for "sweet and naïve" rather than the usual seductive pulp witch, an interesting choice. I don't know if she or Tobasko gained a level - it depends how the magic items are distributed - but certainly no one else will. On to the next adventure!


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

3/10/2014 2:15 pm  #5


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

Nobody died and nobody gained a level, so the roster was unchanged from the previous week. They did make it to Strongfort between adventures. Elena has a scroll of protection from lycanthropes, Anya has a potion of healing, and Lars has a potion of invisibility. The PCs kicked in 80 gp each and bought some plate mail for Arn, so the fighting contingent of the party is well hard. In fact, they're starting to swagger a little at the idea that nothing can hit them, so it may be time to break out the acid attacks and the rust monsters.

“Messiah of the Orcs Part 1” (played 09/15/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

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

The next day the party reached Strongfort, a brooding hill settlement with a tall wooden stockade and several guard towers. The Kelts at the gate were suspicious and far from friendly, but admitted the adventurers after some pointed questioning. The party immediately noticed that the garrison of the fort was small and its mood was tense, if not outright fearful. While the rest of the party sought rooms at the common house, Anya presented herself to the commander of Strongfort and pleaded the case of the men and women the party had left to hold the bandit fort. The garrison commander Cullum – a great fat barrel-chested Kelt with a bald head and red bushy mustache – was gruffly sympathetic to his grave and lovely visitor, but bluntly stated that he could spare no men for such a rescue mission. The fort was undermanned, and the daemon Picts (or orcs, as they were known to common folk) had recently been raiding in numbers east of Strongfort. Anything might spark a general attack that the fortress might not be able to repel. If Cullum had his choice, the constant traffic of “adventurers and other bloody fools” travelling between Hawkford and Greenlee would be halted until the orcs were quieter.

Anya could well understand his concern. The unhallowed progeny of half-blood Picts and daemonic swine, birthed during the darkest years following the Green Death, orcs were infamous for their love of torture, rape, scalping, and arson. That they should be nearby in large numbers was enough to give anyone pause. Anya returned to her companions and explained the situation, arousing no great concern from them. Ginnungagap shrugged and said the former prisoners at the bandit fort would have to take their chances; the best opportunity for profit and glorious deeds lay in the Black Fief. Anya was eventually convinced that there was little the party could do, so she sat down for a late supper. As the adventurers were enjoying ale in front of the fire, Cullum entered the common house accompanied by a frantic-looking young man. Cullum approached the party and hurriedly introduced the other man as a dispatch rider who had just arrived from Hawkford. Stammering in fear, the rider told the party that the bandit fort was burned. From the signs on the ground, he reckoned dozens of orcs had swarmed the walls. In response to urgent questioning by an aghast Anya, the rider reported that perhaps a dozen men and women lay dead in the ruins of the fort. The rest – former prisoners and their erstwhile bandit captors alike – had apparently been taken by the orcs.

Cullum then explained what he wanted of the adventurers. It was clear to him that the orcs were on the move, and a major attack on Strongfort could not be long delayed. The garrison commander needed information, but he could spare few if any men to act as scouts. The party members were, he could well see, brave and doughty souls. Cullum proposed that they follow the orc-trail into the hills, guided by a ranger whom he would provide; not to fight, the commander hastened to add, but merely to determine the numbers and positions of the orcs and return to the fort with that vital intelligence. Ginnungagap then asked how much Cullum would pay if the adventurers accepted this “fool’s mission”. Cullum admitted he had no gold, having sent the garrison treasury to Hawkford with a trusted agent to hire mercenaries, but he was prepared to draw up a draft of credit that could be redeemed for five thousand gold pieces in the Black Fief. When Ginnungagap scoffed that it was hard to eat paper, Cullum further offered to write a personal letter of introduction to Lady Rhiannon and her advisors. The adventurers then conferred on this offer. Ginnungagap opined that they should leave Strongfort that very evening; if orcs were preparing to descend on the place, all the more reason to be on their way. Anya then unequivocally stated that she personally would stay and help Cullum regardless, for she owed that much to the people she had left behind in the bandit fort. If the others wished to proceed without her, so be it; she would stand alone. Her companions shifted uncomfortably, and then Lars (shamed by her courage) mumbled that he would stay as well. Elena also volunteered to help, and the rest followed a moment later – albeit Ginnungagap showed especially poor grace in doing so. Arn, arriving late to the common house with a new suit of plate mail over his shoulder, said he would go wherever the fighting and beer were. So the party agreed to meet Cullum early the next morning and set out in pursuit of the orcs.

By nine the next morning the party found themselves riding back to the bandit fort in the company of Conan, a surly red-headed Keltic ranger on a dappled mare. Anya gasped with horror when she saw the blackened timbers of the fort and the scalped and tomahawk-hacked corpses of the people the party had left behind. Conan dismounted and, reading signs in what seemed to be nothing more than a mass of churned earth, grunted that the party should follow him to the northeast. Anya argued that they must give the dead in the fort a decent burial, which drew an incredulous look and a snort from Conan. Tobasko pointed out that there was no time to waste, and that the living that might still fall to the knives and axes of the orcs – rather than the dead who were beyond harm – should be their main concern. Anya finally agreed to leave the corpses where they lay in the ruins of the fort, though she whispered prayers to Artemis for the souls of the slain as she rode away. For his part, Conan showed little patience for the contentious and chaotic behavior of the party that accompanied him.

For hours they rode into the hills, the ranger stopping every now and then to check the orc-tracks on the stony ground. The trail led them deep into the hills, and finally into a ravine where Conan became even surlier and warier than before. Halfway into the ravine Conan sniffed the air, then shouted for the party to take cover. The adventurers dismounted and dragged their horses under a rock ledge. Seconds later blood-curdling shrieks filled the air, and stones and tomahawks clattered off their makeshift shelter. Conan cursed, drew his short bow, and began firing at the shadowy figures along the top of the ravine; the adventurers drew their crossbows and sent a hail of quarrels at their ambushers. Horrible screeches echoed in the ravine, and several foul orcs tumbled dead to the floor of the canyon. Behind the archers, Anya shouted a warning: orcs were creeping toward the party from both ends of the ravine. Relying on their armor to protect them from the stones and arrows raining down from above, the adventurers burst from under the ledge and engaged their attackers in a savage melee. Meanwhile, Conan crouched under cover and picked off orcs along the edge of the ravine with expert shots, while Elena huddled behind him and clutched Grimalkin in fear.

In a matter of moments nearly a dozen orcs lay dead and dying in the ravine, and the ambushers above began to withdraw as Conan’s eagle-eyed marksmanship whittled down their number. But then war whoops filled the air, and a fresh troop of orcs streamed into the ravine, brandishing knives and tomahawks. Shaking off her terror, Elena rose and cast a spell of sleep over the orcs, sending most of them tumbling to the ground in magical slumber. The remaining orcs were filled with superstitious panic and fled, with several more of their number falling to crossbow quarrels in the back. A heavy silence hung over the ravine after the battle ended, and then Conan pragmatically drew his knife and went to slay those orcs who lay helpless under Elena’s spell. Ginnungagap looked to Anya for an objection, but she – remembering the horror of the burned bandit fort – shook her head and turned away with a sickened look on her face. Tobasko and Lars joined Conan in the grim task of execution, and soon all their foes lay dead in a heap, which Ginnungagap set alight with a flask of alchemical oil. Lars grinned as he showed Anya the gold and silver coins he had looted from the bodies, but she only grimaced in dismay. As the smoke rose high into the air above the canyon, Conan urged them to leave before it attracted any more orcs. The party hurriedly mounted their horses and resumed trailing those orcs who had burned the fort.

Finally, as the red sun began to fade into evening, the group crested a ridge and Conan gestured for them to dismount. Beyond was a misty vale, in which stood a twisting tower of strange design and curious violet color. It was, Conan whispered, the Purple Tower – a place superstitiously avoided by the local Kelts because it was (so said legend) built by a race of men who had dwelt in Hyperborea even before the Hyperboreans. Ginnungagap scoffed at the idea that any men had preceded his ancestors in Hyperborea, but Conan only shrugged in response. Of more immediate importance than myths and legends were the numerous orcs guarding the front door of the tower. Conan tied the horses to a tree and told the party to remain where they were while he looked for another entrance. Lars offered to accompany him – he was eager to loot more gold and silver from dead orcs – but Conan retorted that he didn’t need the “infernal clanking” of metal armor to alert their foes. So saying, he drew his sword and disappeared into the mists. He was gone for some time, during which the party watched the orcs wandering in and out of the Purple Tower and argued whether or not the adventurers could take them in a direct fight; cooler heads ultimately prevailed on that issue.

Elena had to stifle a startled shriek when Conan finally did return, so silently and suddenly did he appear from the darkness. Blood dripped from his blade, and he impatiently gestured for the party to follow him. Conan led them in a wide circle around the tower and up a steep hillside behind it; the adventurers had to struggle to keep up with the fleet-footed Kelt. At length they reached a rocky trail behind the Purple Tower, and the ranger led them warily through a narrow defile. At the end of the trail the weird twisting surface of the Purple Tower rose from the broken landscape. Here there was a heavy stone door of deep ebony, and Conan pointed out the silent forms of two orc sentries he had slain and hidden behind a boulder. The party cautiously approached the door and examined it, noting some writing on the lintel in a language none of them had ever seen before. There was no obvious way to open it. Anya asked if Conan thought the door was trapped and he just shrugged – that wasn’t his area of expertise. Ginnungagap told them to stand aside, and he would open the huge door with magic. He raised his arms theatrically and chanted a knock spell while his companions waited expectantly; to Ginnungagap’s considerable mortification the door remained firmly shut, and he sheepishly cited interference from his steel armor as the cause [I warned him this would happen if he wore Heavy armor]. Finally Tobasko shoved the chagrined warlock aside and attacked the edge of the door with a pry bar. Exerting all of his bull-like strength until the thews in his neck bulged, Tobasko was able to lever the enormous door open just wide enough for the adventurers to slip inside.

Beyond stretched a long dark corridor decorated with weird murals and more of the incomprehensible etched runes. The smell of ancient dust was tinctured with the fresh reek of orcs, so the party assumed a defensive formation and advanced ready for trouble. Conan was in the lead, flanked by Lars and Tobasko, when disaster struck: as the party rounded a corner, a cunningly-concealed pit lid opened beneath the feet of the three men. Lars was able to spring back to safety [because he made his Avoidance save] but the other two plunged ten feet onto a seething bed of ghastly green slime! Ginnungagap hurled a rope to the victims in the pit, and Tobasko was soon hoisted to safety. Tobasko rapidly removed his prized plate armor (which was rapidly dissolving from the touch of the grisly green horror) and stoically submitted to having stray slime burned off his skin by Elena’s torch. Meanwhile, Lars and Arn had thrown a line to the struggling Conan and began to hoist him out of that accursed pit. Halfway out, however, the ranger suddenly and hideously turned into green slime which flowed down the rope to join the rest in the pit. Sick with horror, the party tossed both the tainted ropes and Tobasko’s melting plate armor down into the pit, followed by two flasks of alchemical oil hurled by a shuddering Anya [she really loves that stuff]. Soon the slime, along with what remained of their companion and guide Conan, had burned away to nothing but greasy greenish smoke.

At that point, the party was in considerable disagreement as to what they should do next. Ginnungagap proposed returning to Strongfort and reporting that there were some fifty or so orcs at the Purple Tower; that much was certainly true, and it would be fulfilling the letter of their contract. What happened next was none of the party’s concern. Anya vehemently disagreed with this notion, and stated boldly that she intended to stay and find the captives from the fort – without or without the help of the other adventurers. Ginnungagap snapped that she was using that argument a little too often for his taste, and that prudence (i.e., leaving a tower crawling with orcs and gods knew what else) was not the same as cowardice. Tobasko raised his voice and cut off the discussion. Stark naked, he announced his intention to find and kill all the orcs who had made that pit and cultivated the green slime inside of it; they had cost him a perfectly good set of plate armor. Lars and Arn murmured that they would go where Tobasko went, so Ginnungagap was forced to agree in disgust. He did, however, toss Tobasko a blanket with a sneer: “At least make yourself a loincloth.”

Crossing the ten-foot gap proved no obstacle, as an unarmored Tobasko was easily able to jump it and secure a rope (their last) that the others could use. They gave the bottom of the pit a wide berth in case any lurking slime had escaped the cleansing flames. The party then carefully searched the tower, occasionally mounting a flight of stairs to the next level. They found only empty rooms, although tracks in the dust and occasional orc-garbage told them that the place was far from completely abandoned. Halfway up the tower they encountered a corroded iron door with an obviously new padlock. Since no one in the party was able to pick locks, Tobasko risked the noise made by smashing it with a hammer. Beyond was a large shadowy chamber filled with stone slabs. On each slab, to Anya’s horror, lay the shriveled corpse of one of the men and women from the fort. Each showed a single round wound to the middle of the forehead, which dribbled some weird white fluid, and they had all withered or desiccated in some bizarre manner which seemed at odds with the climate hereabouts. In fine, they had seemingly mummified despite being dead less than a day. Beyond this chamber of horrors lay another doorway filled with a soft white glow.

Alert for danger at every step, the party moved warily into the next room. The walls here were lined with glass jars, each containing a strange faintly-glowing pale fluid. Lying in chains at the rear of the room was the battered form of a man. Anya recognized Karl, the spokesman for the prisoners at the fort, and knelt hurriedly to minister to him. A sip of her healing potion did nothing for Karl, and Anya gasped as Elena held her torch closer and revealed the weird wound in the old man’s forehead. Anya asked the dying man what had happened. He whispered that the orcs weren’t alone, that they followed a “red man” who was far more cunning and wise than they. It was he who had slain the captives, extracting the white liquid from their heads using some kind of “alchemical apparatus”. Those who had the fluid extracted withered away and died; Karl had only survived for a time because the “red man” had been forced to attend to some other matter and had left the process incomplete. But now Karl was dying as well. He whispered a final request as he slipped away: “Burn me… don’t let me walk… as a soulless husk… like the others.” As the old man breathed his last, the party members looked at each other, and then turned toward the doorway. The withered corpses from the doorway were massed there, staring at the party with empty eyes. Anya raised her holy symbol and rebuked them in the name of Artemis, but the soulless dead only looked at her. Anya breathed a mild profanity, then drew her sword and charged with her companions into the oncoming undead horde.

Five minutes later the large room was strewn with the hacked remains of the soulless husks, and Tobasko lay near death against one of the slabs, having been repeatedly bitten and battered by the restless dead. While Anya restored Tobasko with her healing potion and prayers to Artemis, the others dragged the corpses (including the unfortunate Karl) into a heap and ignited them with a flask of alchemical oil; Ginnungagap noted ruefully that they would soon be out of the incendiary substance at the current rate. Meanwhile, Elena chased Grimalkin in an attempt to relieve her familiar of a human hand he was gnawing, but in the end she gave it up as fruitless and let the cat have his grisly treat. Lars sniffed around the rooms for gold and gems, but, to his considerable disappointment, found none. Elena suggested taking as many of the jars of “soul substance” as they could carry, since surely such a thing would have some magical use or value; the others agreed, and their packs were soon laden with softly-glowing jars. Recovered from the exertions of battle and fortified with a few swigs of wine, the party ventured to the next level of the tower.

At the top of the stairs was a wide stone passageway, and as the party turned a corner they nearly ran into a dozen orcs, well-armored in brigandine and carrying well-forged swords and spears. The orcs seemed shocked at the party’s unexpected appearance, and the adventurers took advantage of this surprise to riddle them with crossbow bolts and drop half of them in their tracks. As the survivors turned to flee and perhaps sound the alarm, Elena cast another sleep spell and sent them tumbling to the ground. This time Anya had no compunction about joining in mercilessly executing the creatures responsible for the dehumanizing horrors she had witnessed. Tobasko was soon outfitted in orc-armor and an orc-helmet, although he complained incessantly of the foul smell. Lars, however, made no complaint about the odor of the orc gold and silver he collected. The party then crept forward once more, toward the red glow of evening sunlight and a faint chanting in the distance. The passage soon opened into a great stone balcony, and the party crouched low to avoid being seen from below. The adventurers crawled forward, to peer between carven stone balcony rails at the awful scene sixty feet below them.

On the ground were more than a hundred orcs, all armored and waving iron swords and axes. Facing this chanting mob was an enormous naked man on a litter – eight feet tall and obscenely fat, with a bald head, hideously porcine features, and unnaturally ruddy skin. Standing on either side of this monstrous figure were pigs with burning eyes standing on their hind legs and gripping silver platters full of food in their horribly human hands – clearly daemonic familiars such as Gnaw-Bones had been (and perhaps still was). Seeing this, an appalled Anya whispered that the “red man” could only be a daemonic swine, the likes of which had given birth to the orc race in the first place! This fiend out of legend sat calmly before them, drinking in the praises of its subjects and devouring meat from the platters with slobbering relish. After long moments, the daemon raised his food-stained hands for silence. As the orc-babble faded away, the gigantic naked man spoke in a horrible inhuman lisping voice.

“My children! For centuries man has hunted you, killed you, driven you into the dark places of the world. Yours were the swamps and forests and caves, while man kept the wide plains and the great cities for himself. But no longer! We stand at the dawn of a new day for the orcish race. You have brought me many members of that weak race – man! And I have tested my plans upon them. Tested, and perfected. Behold the future of the orcish race!”

From behind the daemonic swine issued two lines of orcs, clad in steel armor and marching with precision. These orcs stood a head taller than was usual, with exaggerated piggish faces, bright red flesh, and blazing orange eyes. The two dozen daemonic orcs brandished hide shields and wicked scimitars as they snarled and bellowed for human flesh. Upon the forehead of each was a large round wound. The daemonic swine gestured at them with pride.

“Behold, my children! Man is weak and humanity is a weakness. Your true heritage is the line of Thaumagorga. These, your brethren, have been cleansed of their human weakness. Now they are truly strong – the veritable legions of the Black Gulf! Soon all of you will be as they are, once I have obtained more of the substances I need. Soon all orcs will be as they are. You will be not men, but daemons! But you must prove your faith and courage, for Thaumagorga disdains the weak. Go forth, then. Destroy Strongfort! Bring me more captives to perfect my methods. One day, soon, the whole of Hyperborea shall belong to the orc!”

In a howling frenzy, the orcs waved their blades and abased themselves before the creature on the litter. Eight of the daemonic red orcs lifted the litter and carried it into the growing darkness, while the rest formed into ranks; their lesser brethren gathered into a loose mob on either side. The largest of the daemonic red orcs raised his sword and bellowed a terrible word in their awful language. The chanting, raving mob then poured into the gathering dusk, leaving their reek and the echo of their grotesque voices behind them. The adventurers looked at each other in dismay, for that daemonic horde was headed directly for Strongfort.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT SESSION!


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

3/10/2014 2:17 pm  #6


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

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!) 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.

“Messiah of the Orcs Part 2” (played 09/22/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

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

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].

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.


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

3/10/2014 2:20 pm  #7


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

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.

“Inhabitants of the Purple Tower” (played 09/29/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

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

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.


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

3/10/2014 2:22 pm  #8


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

Last session was the first 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. 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. Will they make it, or get into still more trouble on the road?

“Uncanny Valley Part 1” (played 10/20/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

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

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!


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

3/10/2014 2:25 pm  #9


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

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).

"Uncanny Valley Part 2" (played 10/27/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

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

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.


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

3/10/2014 2:27 pm  #10


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

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. Will anyone escape the glacial wastes alive?

"Fire and Ice" (played 11/10/13)

The party consisted of the following characters:

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

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!


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

3/11/2014 11:12 am  #11


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

Confession time: I have grown hopelessly behind in these session reports, and frankly my detailed memory of some of them is getting shaky. So I’m taking Jeff’s advice and writing brief but pungent summaries of the past eight games. Xathoqqua willing, I’ll be able to resume detailed narratives starting next week.

“Pest-Holes of the Beast-Men” (played 11/24/13)
After sojourning among the brutish cave-men for a few months, the party was restless for action. Anya proposed seeking out the abandoned garrison where some of them had originally adventured, and leaving themselves some warning in order to avoid becoming trapped in the past in the first place. Elena argued that this wouldn’t work because of the obvious paradox involved, and in the end the idea was abandoned because of the strong likelihood that the ruined garrison was hopelessly buried under glacial ice at the present time. Instead the party decided to make an effort to recover the valuable tusks of the enormous mammoth they had slain months earlier. Pulling well-equipped sledges, the party returned to that spot only to find the tusks recently removed and dragged away amid confusing and unwholesome-looking footprints. Most of the party was prepared to abandon the tusks, but Borgo convinced them that they could find the “thieves” and recover “their” property. The scout led the party to an icy canyon lined with cave-mouths, which proved to be the den of a tribe of vhuurmis, the beast-men who had ruled Hyperborea ages before and then degenerated to utter savagery. The party eventually decided on an open approach, and were greeted by stones and an endless supply of foul garbage hurled by the cave-dwelling brutes. The adventurers slaughtered the vhuurmis with arrows, bolts, spells, and bloody swords, and eventually drove them back into the tenebrous depths of the caves. The party searched the labyrinth of caves for the enormous tusks, fighting a running battle with the savage vhuurmis who leapt from the shadows to rend and bite. Eventually the party discovered the tusks, but Arn fell through the icy floor of the cavern as he went to fetch them. Climbing down after him, the party found themselves in a lower cavern lit by an eerie pink glow. Frozen in ice against one wall was the skeleton of a man with an unnaturally elongated skull. In his bony grasp was a lantern of purple crystal which glowed with a faint sorcerous light. The party claimed this prize, as well as the tusks, and returned to their adopted tribe with the injured Arn languishing on a sledge. Much to Borgo’s disgust, Anya insisted on giving one tusk to Chief Gog as a present; to the party’s shock and continued suspicion, Ginnungagap strongly supported Anya in this (and indeed in everything else). Arn was turned over to the tender care of a solicitous Ophelia, while the rest of the party admired their tusks and bemoaned the lack of anything from which to make alcoholic beverages in the Glacial Age.

“Out of the Black Gulf” (played 11/24/13)
Chief Gog asked this friends in the party for help. In a few days there would be a great gathering of the cave-clans where the apish brutes would put aside their murderous differences and compete in a series of comparatively peaceful challenges. Chief Gog wished the party to prove their goodwill and worth to their clan by representing it in these games and (hopefully) winning. Overriding a surly Borgo, the party readily agreed and travelled to the site of the games, accompanied by an honor guard of cave-brutes and Arn’s “nurse” Ophelia. The other gathered clans were less than pleased by these interlopers, but Chief Gog soon bullied them into accepting the challengers. The adventurers competed in a series of challenges over the course of three days, most of them brutally physical and most of them won by the brawny Lars. Meanwhile Elena became concerned at how Grimalkin would arch and spit at the sight of some of the cave-men, particularly a few of the chiefs. Furthermore, the number of cave-men that upset the cat appeared to be growing. Elena shared her fears with the rest of the party, who began to watch for any unusual signs of trouble. An attempt was then made to kill Grimalkin, which ignited an altercation that left a dozen cave-men dead. Many of the others called for the blood of the party, but Chief Gog supported them once they explained their fears. A mob of the cave-men prepared to rush the adventurers anyway, but fell back dazzled when Elena produced the brightly-glowing crystal lantern from her cloak; unbeknownst to the rest of the party, she had discovered it blazed far stronger when given gemstones to burn. The light of the lantern had a terrible effect on some of the cave-men, who fell dead with their eyes spewing a curious red-brown mold. After that the remaining cave-men avoided the party with superstitious awe, and Anya led the party in search of whatever lay at the bottom of these matters. By following some of the cave-men that Grimalkin had viewed with aversion, the party discovered their enemy hidden in a nearby cave: a spore-man, a formerly human horror swollen with the intelligent and devious russet mold which falls to Hyperborea from the lightless depths of the Black Gulf. This alien fiend had been systematically infecting the cave-men at the clan gathering and turning them into its unquestioning thralls. With fire and sword in hand, the party soon put an end to this daemonic entity, thereby freeing its mental slaves. Ginnungagap, much to the bemusement of his companions, expressed particular horror at the possession of the cave-men by a fungous intruder from the Gulf. The party’s clan was proclaimed the victor of the convocation, and the adventurers were greeted on their return by another brutish and distasteful orgy – which now included the young men from the mill valley, who had pragmatically taken cave-women as mates and fully joined the savage clan.

“When a Star-Stone Falls” (played 12/01/13)
A few weeks after the clan gathering, some hunters returned with awed news of a star-stone falling from the Black Gulf a day’s journey from the cave-folk camp. Immediately the party set out to retrieve this object, since such things are intrinsically valuable and frequently have magical virtue as well. The party cautiously approached the site described by the hunters, fighting and killing a sabre-tooth on the way, and to their dismay found the glowing crater surrounded by dozens of chanting, worshipful vhuurmis. Lars and Arn were keen to just attack them, but the cooler heads of Anya and her new best friend Ginnungagap prevailed. At Borgo’s urging, the party returned to their village and convinced Chief Gog to lead a general attack on the vhuurmis in exchange for a share in the star-stone. The party returned to the site of the fallen star-stone, which still teemed with superstitious vhuurmis, and led the hooting cave-men in a full-scale assault. A confused general melee followed, with the vhuurmis and cave-men equally matched in number and weaponry. The armor, weapons, skill, and magical power of the party soon tipped the balance, and the vhuurmis were put to flight with only a few cave-men slain. The victorious cave-men dragged away both the fallen vhuurmis and their own dead to line their larders – Borgo having extracted a promise to be saved a prime vhuurmis-haunch – and the party descended into the still-smoking crater in quest of the star-stone. To their dismay they found it gone, and an obviously fresh tunnel leading off into darkness. The party rushed down the tunnel with torches in hand, followed closely by Chief Gog (who was guarding his own interest in the treasure). For a seemingly endless time they followed the twisting tunnel, and then suddenly came upon three stunted figures dragging the star-stone. The creatures turned, and Chief Gog fled screaming back toward the surface with a cry of “Dero!” The small figures, with ghastly bluish skin and staring white eyes, raised ray guns and fired. Lars was struck and immediately burned to a pile of smoking ash. The other rays missed, and the party rushed the midget fiends before they could fire again. Elena blinded the dwarfish things with the sorcerous light of her crystal lantern and then, filled with an inexplicable loathing, the party hacked the dero to small bloody pieces which they then trampled underfoot. Mourning their fallen comrade, the party dragged the star-stone back to their camp – overtaking Chief Gog on the way and berating him for his cowardice. Chief Gog was unapologetic, explaining that the dero were mysterious underground dwellers who had apparently degenerated from an unknown race of men of great wisdom and power. Yet they somehow still retained the magic and science of their ancestors, and the best course on meeting them was to run the other way as fast as possible. The party exchanged uneasy glances, wondering just how bad the dero must for this apish brute to consider them “degenerated”.

“Children of Deukalion Part 1” (played 12/29/13)
The party was joined by Ogg, an uncouth shaman of the cave-folk who wanted to learn their ways. Ogg suggested travelling to the wilderness home of an ancient shaman he knew, whose wisdom might offer them a way home. Since Elena and Ginnungagap had had little luck in either utilizing the star-stone or discovering further powers of the crystal lantern, the party agreed to this plan. They prepared well-stocked sledges, including supplies for an extended journey and a litter for Ophelia, who flatly refused to be left behind “to be eaten”; Arn dragged her on the sledge while she giggled and praised his manly muscles. The party travelled toward their destination for two days, subsisting on rations as they encountered little game, but on the third day turned aside to investigate something strange Borgo had spotted in the distance. It turned out to be a huge, oddly-shaped wooden ship almost entirely frozen in the ice. Entering the vast vessel through a rent in the side, the party discovered it to be filled with a maze of petrified wooden corridors and stalls, some of them still holding the scattered frozen bones of animals. Within the structure the party encountered a silent pack of ghostly-pale figures clad in tattered archaic Atlantean garb, which the adventurers took for the ghoulish or zombified remnants of the ship’s crew. However, Anya’s attempt to turn them proved futile, and the hot red blood they spilled when cut down shortly demonstrated them to be living men. The strange inhabitants of the stranded ship being put to flight, the party continued to explore, finding further evidence that this was a ship of ancient Atlantis. In the very heart of the ruined vessel they encountered more pale figures, these wearing Atlantean robes of better quality and smiling in greeting. Speaking in an ancient dialect that was just barely intelligible to the party, they proclaimed themselves “archons of Atlantis” and invited the party to share their hospitality. They seemed highly impressed by the adventurers and especially by the dazzling crystal lantern carried by Elena. Wary of trickery, the party followed the well-dressed men up ramps into the heights of the ship. While doing so, they noticed several openings on the side of the ship leading to ice tunnels, and realized that the glacier containing the vessel was honeycombed with the dwellings of these strange people. At length the party reached the bridge of the vessel, where they were introduced to the commanding Neptunus and the beautiful but sly-looking Thalassa, who appeared to be the leaders of the “archons”. Neptunus was obviously impressed – especially by Elena’s lantern – and greeted the party warmly. He explained that they were in a vessel built centuries before by the Atlantean sorcerer Deukalion, for the purpose of rescuing a select ground of people from that island before it fell to the cataclysm which Deukalion had foreseen. Attempting to flee to safety in Hyperborea – which the Atlanteans didn’t realize was now buried in ice – the great boat had run afoul of the Boreas and been swept well inland. The inhabitants of the ship had made a home on that lonely frozen mountainside where the ship came to rest, divided into mutually hostile factions of “archons” and “helots”, and their descendants dwelt there still. Neptunus invited the party to join his faction and provide the strength to defeat the helots once and for all. Borgo asked exactly why the party should help, and Neptunus offered them a fortune in Atlantean gold and magical items. Further, he recognized the lantern Elena carried from ancient accounts, and it could do far more than light the way to one with the right knowledge; he would put that knowledge at the party’s disposal. After a lengthy and heated debate, the party agreed to these terms and an alliance with the archons was made.


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

8/12/2014 10:49 am  #12


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

“Children of Deukalion Part 2” (played 01/05/14)
Neptunus told the party that the war between the factions could quickly be ended by killing the helot leader Spartakos.  He provided a map to a hidden shaft in the rear of the ship which would allow the party to descend unseen into helot territory, and a dozen archon guards to support the attack.  The party proceeded to the rear of the ship, though not without misgivings; Anya questioned the honor of this entire course of action, while Borgo (though caring nothing for honor) expressed strong distrust of the smiling archons.  The party eventually reached the lower levels and crept through abandoned rooms in search of the chambers of Spartakos (as marked on their map).  The indicated area, however, proved to be a decrepit chamber filled with frozen rubble.  Before the party could question their sullen Atlantean companions, a bellowing brass bull-man with a huge axe burst from a hidden alcove – a minotron!  As the party fought desperately against the deadly automaton, they heard desperate cries and the screeching of a cat.  The archon guards had turned on them, attacking Elena and attempting to seize the lantern while the party was distracted.  Anya and Borgo rushed to her defense as Arn, Ogg, and Ginnungagap desperately battled the bellowing brazen automaton.  Though sorely pressed, the party ultimately prevailed, reducing the minotron to scrap and slaying their treacherous companions.  Elena was killed in the fighting; Grimalkin laid down beside his mistress and never moved again.  The party had little time to grieve, for they found themselves confronted by the helot leader Spartakos and numerous helot warriors who had been attracted by the noise.  Ophelia was instantly and obviously smitten by the tall, handsome helot leader.  A new alliance was quickly made, and the party crept back to the upper levels with Spartakos and twenty picked helot warriors.  They found Neptunus impatiently awaiting the lantern, and the party attacked his archon guards by surprise.  A brutal combat ensued, with Neptunus calling upon the magical powers of the Atlantean sorcerers, but Borgo was able to creep behind Neptunus and stab him in the back.  Thalassa, who had done nothing to help the archons and who had watched Neptunus die without shouting a warning, then called upon her men to throw down their weapons and acknowledge Spartokos as the ruler of their ship.  It turned out that Thalassa was the sister of Spartakos, kidnapped many years before to be the concubine of Neptunus, and had merely been awaiting a chance for revenge.  The party reaped a huge reward of jewels and magical devices, freely given them by Spartakos.  Thalassa elected to join them in their adventures in the hopes of travelling to a warmer future climate, and pledged to assist them in the use of the Lemurian Lanthorn whose sorcerous powers she well understood.  Ophelia announced that she would stay with Spartakos and become his queen, a statement that left Arn chagrined and relieved in equal measures.
 
“The Green Abyss” (played 03/02/14)
A week later the party, amply supplied by the grateful helots, arrived at the icy cave where dwelt the ancient shaman sought by Ogg.  The wizened brute muttered to them in his uncouth tongue, directing them to descend into a place called “the Green Abyss” and beg aid from the goddess Thal-Miri.  Though dubious of this advice, the party travelled three days north to the indicated place.  There they found a cavern filled with weird green vapors and unnatural warmth.  At the entrance stood a familiar figure: Elena, with Grimalkin at her feet.  Elena beckoned silently and vanished into the lurid mists, and the party plunged in after her.  They found themselves in a nightmarish world where green mist stretched in every direction, and even beneath their feet.  Though they could see nothing beyond a few feet, they seemed to occasionally touch unseen walls (and less identifiable things) in the mist.  Always ahead of them were Elena and Grimalkin, just barely visible, leading them deeper into the viridescent depths.  After a seemingly endless time, they found themselves at a fork where two paths vanished into the grisly mists, and there was no longer any sign of their silent guides.  Remembering the words of the nameless druid, Anya led the party down the right-hand passage with only a token argument from Borgo.  A moment later the green mists vanished, and the party saw they were standing in a single large cavern, dimly lit with a green light, and the entrance was only a few yards behind.  On their left hand was a seemingly bottomless pit into which they might have plunged; faint screams and sinister laughter could be heard rising from it.  Before them was a vast heap of bones, gold, and jewels reaching halfway to the roof of the cavern.  As Borgo stepped toward this vision of wealth, a shape slithered from the depths of the heap and coiled atop it like a lamia: a huge naked woman with six arms and the lower body of a gigantic serpent – undoubtedly the “goddess” Thal-Miri, a daemon of the fifth order!  The daemon regarded the party with glittering eyes before asking them why they had disturbed her rest.  Anya stepped forward and asked Thal-Miri’s help in returning to their own time.  Thal-Miri laughed with sweet malice and said the party members would all die in the icy wastes, and soon.  However, if they gave her the Lemurian Lanthorn, she might “perhaps” restore them to their proper time.  The party held an animated debate, with many of them favoring giving the lantern to the daemon.  Anya, however, was adamantly opposed, and she was joined in this by Thalassa and the (now) ever-helpful Ginnungagap.  Finally Anya wheeled to face the waiting daemon and refused her demand outright.  Thal-Miri hissed in rage and rose to her full height, towering over the party with six wicked blades in her hands.  Thalassa stepped forward among her companions and spoke a word of power in ancient Lemurian as she removed the cloak from the crystal lantern.  Pure sunlight from the Lemurian Lanthorn flooded the cavern, and in a trice all signs of evil vanished: the lurid green light, the pit of torment, Thal-Miri herself, and (to Borgo’s horror) the heap of gold and jewels.  It was a frozen, empty place now, and the abashed party filed out into the snow, ignoring the faint sound of Thal-Miri’s mocking laughter on the breeze.  Three days later they arrived at the shaman’s cave, intending to punish him for the deadly danger he had sent them into.  But on his pile of skins in the cave they found nothing but a serpent, which slithered into the shadows and vanished before Arn could strike off its head.


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

8/28/2014 8:04 pm  #13


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

How focused are the players on getting back to their proper time? Or are they fairly content to live on mammoth meat? More important, are they going to try to get back in time to save the Lady of the Black Fief? Because now my players are making noise about doing so, and I'd love to know what happens!

Thanks for these. More to come?

 

 

8/29/2014 11:25 am  #14


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

“White Flame” (played 03/16/14)
A few weeks later the party was back with their caveman allies, still nursing their disappointment at the failure (apart from the acquisition of a number of Atlantean devices) of their trek to the shaman’s cave.  Borgo argued that they should simply storm the Purple Tower with their newfound weaponry and demand that the dweller within set things right, but his hot-headed scheme was overruled by the others.  Then Chief Gog came to them with the news that cave bears lairing nearby had mauled several members of the cave-tribe, and asked for their help in exterminating this menace.  Glad for a chance at action, the party set out to slay the bears, although Ginnungagap stayed behind to continue his examination of the star-stone.  The party found the trio of monstrous bears in a frozen cave, and slew them after a savage battle.  Anya healed the severely injured Arn and Ogg, and the party returned to the village bearing the three gigantic bearskins as tribute for Chief Gog.  To their horror, they found the village in shambles and numbers of the cave-people reduced to piles of white salt which were all too familiar to the party; the rest of the tribe had evidently fled in terror.  The party found Chief Gog badly burned on the ground, and he whispered “white flame” before dying.  Borgo immediately charged Anya with these deaths, claiming they were the result of her coddling a thing that they knew to be a space daemon merely because “it wore the face of one she liked so well”.  Anya stood for a long time in silence, tears streaming down her face.  Then she opened her pack and began distributing the small clay jars of holy water she had been secretly creating over the past few months.  It was, she believed, the only thing that might be sovereign against the white flame creature, which they must now destroy without mercy.  Borgo, smug with satisfaction, searched the snow and quickly found Ginnungagap’s tracks heading north.  The party, heavily laden with arms and holy water, nevertheless caught up with the warlock before sunset, for he was staggering under the weight of the star-stone.  Arn fired a shot from his radium pistol, which (though it missed) still caused Ginnungagap to drop the stone and flee into the growing twilight.  The party charged after him, only to pull up short at a hideous buzzing noise and the sight of a column of white flame rushing toward them.  Borgo shouted that the devil had transformed and fired arrows uselessly into the white blaze.  Shots from Arn’s radium pistol and a beam of pure light from Thalassa’s lantern seemed equally ineffective against the creature.  As the white flame entity surged nearer, the party began to hurl holy water.  For a moment the fiery creature drew back, and its buzzing changed to an awful inhuman screaming.  But soon enough the holy water was gone, and the screeching tower of white fire loomed over the party.  As Anya drew her sword for a hopeless defense, a figure rushed between her and the column of fire.  To the party’s amazement, it was Ginnungagap, and in his hands he cradled the star-stone.  The warlock spoke words in an unknown language, and the buzzing of the white flame entity became a nigh-unendurable howl.  An instant later the entity was drawn into the stone, wreathing the staggering Ginnungagap in white fire.  Then the star-stone was torn from the warlock’s grasp, hurtling high into the sky and falling to earth in some far-distant valley among the frozen mountain peaks.  The other party members looked on in amazement as Anya rushed to the side of the fallen Ginnungagap, her face filled with joy that her suspicions had proven wrong.  Then she froze at the sight of the body lying in the gathering gloom, for pale white flames rose from Ginnungagap’s eyes, mouth, nose, and numerous hideous rents all over his body.  After a moment of shocked silence, Anya overcame her fear and knelt in the snow beside the dying entity, which looked at her with lambent eyes.  Choking slightly, she offered to heal the creature, but it answered in a buzzing voice that no human magic could save it.  Anya wept for a moment and then asked why – why had the creature defended them against another of its own kind?  The entity on the ground laughed softly, spitting white sparks, and said that there were no “others” of its kind.  Anya reached her hand as close as she dared to the fading fire of the creature’s face and repeated her question: why?  The flame entity gazed at her for a long moment with its burning eyes before whispering softly “Because he loved you” and disintegrating into a smoking pile of white ash.
 
“Return to the Shrine of the Bat-Toad” (played 03/23/14)
The adventurers spent the next two weeks in Hawkford honing their skills with arms and spells – except for Borghast, who spent them drinking, wenching, and boasting of his exploits. Once they felt fully prepared, the party met in the common room to discuss how to proceed. They were anxious to continue their journey to the Black Fief, for they had seen numerous other adventurers passing through Hawkford; it wouldn’t do for someone else to solve the riddle and claim the prize first! And yet, all the gold earned in their last exploit had somehow sifted through their fingers without them actually purchasing any mounts or travelling gear.  Ultimately the party decided to accept a job offered by the druids, to recover a Yoon’Deh statue from an ancient shrine to Xathoqqua, though they little relished the surly and devious druid leader Black Duncan.  Anya stood puzzled during these negotiations, for she was quite certain she had heard all these words before.  Could it be a premonition from Artemis?  The feeling grew still stronger once the party entered the sinister foggy wood that housed the shrine of the Bat-Toad.  She warned the others that hyaena-men were lurking in a clearing (allowing the party to avoid a fight), and saved Rezko from a deadly trap.  When they reached a ravine that blocked access to the sinister shrine, Anya stopped Borghast from jumping across, saying that a crab spider was lurking there.  The party flushed the spider from cover with thrown rocks and slew it with a hail of arrows.  As the party climbed the steps to the shrine, Anya warned them to be on their guard against more hyaena-men who lurked there.  These creatures indeed emerged from the shrine and charged; Anya fought to clear her head of a vision of Kirowan lying hacked and slain on the steps.  The party overcame the hyaena-men without losses, although they might not have done so well without Rezko’s blade and Ginnungagap’s well-charged wand.  Despite this victory, Anya’s foreboding increased as they entered the gloomy shrine.  There were, she cried, terrible things in the stone vats on either side of the obsidian altar.  Yet if they could remove the image of Yoon’Deh from the altar, they could be free of this place without battle.  Though they half believed her mad, the rest of the party indulged Anya’s fears.  Borghast climbed a column and travelled hand-over-hand across the ceiling until he was directly above the noisome altar.  Then he carefully lowered a slip-knotted rope down and around the statue.  Horrible black oozes rose from the vats at this intrusion, but the loop tightened around the image and Borghast yanked it from the altar.  An instant later the party found themselves safe in a sunny clearing amongst broken stones, the image of Yoon’Deh tangled in a coil of rope at their feet.  The party was battered but intact, and claimed their just reward from Black Duncan (who, seeing that no adventurers had died in order to retrieve the idol, delivered the gold with somewhat poor grace).  That evening the party celebrating their lucrative triumph by getting blind drunk in the common house, and Anya saw the young druid (who had given them a token of Yoon’Deh) sitting alone and blowing green smoke rings.  On sudden impulse, she excused herself from her friends and went to sit across from the nameless druid, who regarded her impassively.  She looked him in the eye and asked what was happening.  How did she know these things?  The druid smiled and blew a single puff of smoke that resembled a white flame.  All the events of the next several months – all the death and despair and hopelessness – returned to Anya in a rush.  She gasped and then smiled.  She did remember!  Somehow, her mind had travelled back in time to warn herself.  She could change it all, save them all.  There would be no burning of the awful little girl’s house, no massacre at Strongfort.  The party would never journey to the uncanny valley or be hopelessly trapped in the Ice Age.  She could undo it all!  The nameless druid chuckled and finally spoke.  She could save everyone, said he, and yet save no one.  It was an immutable law of the universe that each person, whether time traveler or not, could be in the same place but once.  And what they said and did there, whether time traveler or not, was already writ in the annals of history and could never be changed.  The white flame entity, lurking within Ginnungagap’s form, had somehow escaped this law and found itself in the same time and place as an earlier version of itself.  Now Anya’s consciousness, unmoored because she was virtually touching the entity when it died, had also redoubled on her own timeline.  History was being unwritten and rewritten.  She could save everyone - and yet, she could save no one.  The laws of time were not mocked.  The paradox was resolved by creating a new timeline, where events would unfold affected by the future knowledge Anya held.  In the original timeline, her friends had still suffered and died, and would continue to suffer and perhaps die.  Anya could not exist in both timelines; she could remain here, in a timeline that would unfold at her will, or she could return to her friends in the Ice Age and (perhaps) save them from an awful fate.  The choice, the druid told Anya gravely, was hers.  Anya turned to gaze at her comrades, sitting warm by the fire and laughing over their mugs of ale.  She thought of her other comrades, trapped in a time of endless ice and counting on her help.  Finally she smiled and told the nameless druid that her friends were right here, and it was high time she rejoined them.  She rose and walked back toward her comrades, who hailed her with ribald jests before making room for her at the table.  But at the same time her comrades stood in the ice and dark and gazed on her with awe and something akin to fear.  She lay in the snow, her fingertips just brushing the pile of white ashes that had been Ginnungagap, or something like him.  Anya was pale, beautiful, and faintly smiling; she was also a polished statue of the purest white marble.
 
[The previous adventure was to be the last time that the couple playing Anya and Ginnungagap could participate in the campaign, so all the players cooperated to give them a proper sendoff.  After much discussion following this session, it was decided that they really had been the heart and soul of the group, and the other players preferred to wrap up the campaign with the next session.  I promised to come up with a real doozy and tie up all the loose ends.  We’ll see if I succeeded in the next and last recap – for which I’ll be returning to the extended, more detailed format.  Next week, all will be revealed!]


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

8/30/2014 2:33 pm  #15


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

Blackadder23 wrote:

[The previous adventure was to be the last time that the couple playing Anya and Ginnungagap could participate in the campaign, so all the players cooperated to give them a proper sendoff.  After much discussion following this session, it was decided that they really had been the heart and soul of the group, and the other players preferred to wrap up the campaign with the next session.  I promised to come up with a real doozy and tie up all the loose ends.  We’ll see if I succeeded in the next and last recap – for which I’ll be returning to the extended, more detailed format.  Next week, all will be revealed!]

Oh no! What a shame. This is a great campaign. Looking forward to the last instalment, though.
 

 

8/30/2014 8:29 pm  #16


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

Handy Haversack wrote:

Blackadder23 wrote:

[The previous adventure was to be the last time that the couple playing Anya and Ginnungagap could participate in the campaign, so all the players cooperated to give them a proper sendoff.  After much discussion following this session, it was decided that they really had been the heart and soul of the group, and the other players preferred to wrap up the campaign with the next session.  I promised to come up with a real doozy and tie up all the loose ends.  We’ll see if I succeeded in the next and last recap – for which I’ll be returning to the extended, more detailed format.  Next week, all will be revealed!]

Oh no! What a shame. This is a great campaign. Looking forward to the last instalment, though.
 

For shame! I would suggest you have them put those PCs on the backburner, roll up some new ones, and keep open the idea of those previous characters showing up at some point in the future -- if you intend to run some more Hyperborea. Otherwise, maybe jump back to a little 1e Greyhawk. Can't go wrong there!
 


HYPERBOREA- A Role-Playing Game of Swords, Sorcery, and Weird Science-Fantasy
 

8/31/2014 12:40 pm  #17


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

Thanks guys!  I was sorry to see it end too, but work was horrible this spring and we were going to lose yet another player this summer, so I didn't try that hard to talk them out of it.  It really wasn't going to be the same without the comical bickering of Anya and Ginnungagap anyway.
Oh well, I'll do my best to make the last writeup memorable!

Last edited by Blackadder23 (8/31/2014 12:41 pm)


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

9/01/2014 1:22 pm  #18


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

I really need to catch up these session reports, I am way behind!


ravengodgames.blogspot.com ~ cartography, writing, game design
Author, Forgotten Fane of the Coiled Goddess
 

9/23/2014 8:16 am  #19


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

Hey, Lord Blackadder! I have a cunning plan: tell us what happened!

 

9/23/2014 10:40 am  #20


Re: The Black Fief Campaign

Work is absolutely ridiculous right now, but I'll try to get something up in the next couple weeks.  I want to give the final session a proper writeup, because I feel my players (and those playing along at home) deserve one.


Michael Sipe 1979-2018
Rest in peace, brother.
     Thread Starter
 

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