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)

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!

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.

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!

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!

“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.

“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!]

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!
 

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

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.