Taking it to the Blackblades

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An hour has passed. Krelg sits patiently beside Revole. Another ten minutes passes, during which the halfling and the half-orc maintain their silent vigil among the trees on the bluff overlooking the abandoned stone quarry. And then, the slightest hint of indrawn breath from the half-orc. Revole sits unmoving, but mildly impressed. His companion is no thief, but nor is he a slouch at this cloak and dagger business.

Below, a pair of gnolls has come to the edge of the flooded quarry, the two carrying a lengthy pole between them. One gnoll takes the pole and begins lowering it into the water of the flooded quarry while the other produces a slate board and piece of chalk. Revole cuts his eyes at his fellow spy, to ensure he's clocking what's taking place. Below, the gnoll with the pole has lowered it as far as it will descend, apparently. He squats, reads something marked on the pole, and speaks to his fellow, who scratches out something on the slate with the chalk.

After a couple more minutes and a discussion between the two gnolls that cannot quite be heard by those watching from the hill, the quarry below is again abandoned, it's visitors having retreated up a hill on the far side of the quarry. At the top of a spur, the gnolls veer to the north. "They're heading to rejoin their patrol," says Revole.

"Then we follow and kill them?" Krelg asks, hopefully.

"That would make for two less to fight, down the road, but no. It would also tip off the greater pack, and there's no sense doing that," the halfling muses.

"How can this be their hideout?" Krelg grunts, stands and offers the seated halfling a hand rising to his feet. When that small arm rises, the hand that grips his is notably smaller — but oh, so strong! Their eyes lock for a moment, and then the half-orcs track the sleeve-covered arm to the halfling's hand, strangely blackened and with tough, calcine spurs and ridges.

Revole comes to his feet, still gripping the half-orc. He tightens his grip further and Krelg grunts in pain, "Enough! You've made your point. Small you may be, but far from weak. Where did you find such strength? There is clearly a story here."

"There is, indeed, Krelg, but it's not one that I'm free to tell. Suffice it to say that I don't want to get on the wrong side of the one who made me this way — and you don't want to get on my bad side, friend half-orc. I trust you're smart enough that you won't require further proof?"

"More than smart enough, friend halfling. Krelg is no wizard or alchemist, but he knows to be afraid of halflings who are stronger than he, and is content to let mysteries be. Krelg also knows that there is far more to your companion, the sorcerer, than can be seen with the eyes."

Revole Ting looks up at the half-orc and grins. "Why, Krelg, you're a philosopher!" And then the halfling's bemusement subsides: "My half-orc compatriot is correct that there are unseen depths here. Oh, and a minor correction: Lord Ember is a warlock; no sorcerer, he. A time will come when he will give you an order. Your life in that moment will hinge upon whether you obey swiftly, or instead look to your Nergalian priestess for her agreement."

◦◦◦

A couple hours later Krelg and Revole are seated in their makeshift camp in a dry gully paralleling Fern Creek as it winds its way southeasterly from the hills above Cranstonthorpe toward Smokeshadow.

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A Fish Fry With Thine Enemies

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1,993 words

An hour has passed. Savra Skullmaster, Death Mistress of Nergal, is at work in the lodge's kitchen alongside Kreg, the half-orc who goes by 'The Sawsword'. The priestess' other thugs have unloaded Matthias' wagons and already made inroads into the sizeable array of alcoholic beverages — and this has gone quite some way toward improving their attitude toward Lord Ember and Revole Ting.

The halfling is helping some in the kitchen, whipping up a large cake for later.

Now that the unloading is done, Grok and Kaden are drinking and tossing dice, and the halfling, the woman cleric, and the smaller of the two half-orcs busy themselves preparing a meal. Matthias — a.k.a. 'Lord Ember' — stands outside at the rear of the third wagon.

The warlock has lit a candle and it sits in a brass stand inside the covered wagon, where its small flame is protected from the wind by the wagon's canvas. Lord Ember passes a hand over the flame and intones a short phrase in the language of the Far Ancients.

After a few moments a shimmering image appears above the flame. It is Magen Eisenthrast. Behind him can be seen the spartanly appointed room he keeps in the Chapterhouse's second level. "Matthias? I wasn't expecting to hear from you till you reached Caldamis. You can't possibly be there, yet."

"We aren't there, correct," Matthias replies. "There's been an unfortunate development. We were attacked by gnolls. The caravan barely emerged triumphant, but its guards were slain, and ..."

"And?" prompts the magus.

"Aury was killed." Lord Ember's voice has thickened with emotion. "It was the fault of the Silver Standard. They've been getting greedy, cutting corners, not paying out for a full complement of caravan guards. There should have been nine; there were only four."

"Oh, Mattie, son, I— I don't know what to say. I am so sorry. You and Aury were like—"

"Brothers, yes indeed," Lord Ember says, voice hoarse with grief and anger. "I will see Aury buried, and we will continue onward to Caldamis."

"Son, turn back! Surely Fornost can leverage brotherhood funds for a Spirit Recall. At the very least Auriochos should be interred in the Chapterhouse's crypts and—"

"No. Aury had found another god, and real faith. He would not want that. But I will see him avenged. All responsible will answer to me!"

"What are you saying, boy? What have you done? What are you planning?"

"It is best you don't know, magus. But I need something. There is a lambskin scroll in my quarters, sealed with purple wax and tied with a purple ribbon. You must burn it. Incinerate it completely — but do not open it! Will you do it?"

Magen hesitates. "Mattie, we should really let Fornost know what has transpired. A contingent of Seekers can be dispatched and reach you in a day, two at most. Allow me to —"

"I thank you for your friendship and personal loyalty, Magen. You are within your rights to do as you say, but I ask that you delay the report. I am committed to a course of action, and must see it through. And now, I must go. Only burn the scroll for me at once. Will you at least do that?"

"Yes, of course, Mattie, of course. Update me as soon as you can?"

"Count on it," Lord Ember replies, and with a syllable he snuffs out the candle, pats one of Aury's booted feet, and promises his dead friend, "Rest easy. I will see vengeance done, brother."

◦◦◦

Matthias knows the moment that the stolen lambskin scroll begins to burn, for he collapses onto the cold ground at the back of the third wagon, with uncontrollable seizures. Perhaps I was hasty in pursuing this course of action...

The scroll, miles and miles away in his private quarters in the Seekers' Chapterhouse, was a theft of which Matthias is obscenely proud. This relic of the pre-Cumerian age had lain well-guarded in the deepest vault, but not so well-guarded that Matthias — with help from a drow named Nezznar and a half-orc posing as a cleric of St. Ygg couldn't contrive a way to steal it.

Matthias' seizures end and he lies helpless, waiting for coherence and bodily command to return to him. Such scrolls were supposed to be preserved at all costs, eventually to be smuggled to dark overlords in the depths of the Lowerdark. But Matthias, ever ambitious, couldn't resist temptation after learning that each such rare scroll held eldritch power derived via foul sorcery through the stealing of the wits, will, and lifeforce of countless victims.

For months the scroll had lain in a deep vault in the Chapterhouse. "They didn't even realize what they had," he chokes out, laughing a bit maniacally in the mud. The young Seeker had made good on his promises, securing Othar the unheard-of honor of a clericship among the civilized races of the Surface and aiding Nezznar is the capture of several dozen magically gifted individuals in 202 and 203 PR.

That had been a real gamble — working with a dark elf. Indeed, it had seemed at one point likely that Nezznar would double-cross him. But apparently the Dark Father was, even then, watching over young Matthias. And now?

Matthias' body spasms, arcing his back off the ground, grinding his teeth madly, his countenance a rictus of pain. Seconds, or perhaps minutes, later, he has recovered sufficiently to drag himself into a sitting position, back against a rear wagon wheel.

Great rivers of power flow through his body. His mind soars with arcane potential, raw soul energy! And he realizes that indeed the Dark Father had been right: this incredible eldritch infusion has made him into a different sort of creature.

He stands, exulting in his balance, the strength of his legs, the realization that, with merely an act of will, he could right now take to the skies like a wyvern or drake. A distant part of him regrets the death of Magen Eisenthrast, for truly the old man had always been good to him.

Lord Ember sighs. "Well, after all, the magus was near the end of his life — and frankly, his usefulness — his immolation would have been much quicker than that of the scroll." He probably died before he even felt any pain...

With but a cantrip afterthought he cleans his clothing. The singing euphoria in his skull has modulated a bit but remains as strong as ocean currents. He feels the new level of connection with his patron, a constant state approaching that made possible by the communion spell.

The warlock assesses himself physically and mentally. The deific arch-devil is now truly with him, and able to see and hear through Matthias' eyes and ears even as he benefits this mortal with insight, cunning, and strength.

Matthias realizes that in his exultation he has inadvertently levitated a foot off the ground. He returns to his earthbound condition and carefully reigns in this eldritch euphoria. "Compose thyself, Lord Ember. We've a fish fry to attend!"

◦◦◦

"Let me be certain I understand," Savra says. The fish-fry had commenced an hour earlier, and lo — there has been much imbibing of alcoholic beverages, and more than a few bouts of laughter in response to jests and recapitulations by various diners of their wilder historical moments.

The death mistress takes another long drink of hasiko, then returns the tangsin cigarette to her full, sensuous lips and inhales, letting her head cock back so that she's gazing at one of the hanging lanterns. She removes the cigarette, exhales bluish smoke, smiles.

"You're telling us that you know where the Blackblade Gnolls secret lair is located, that it is full of months of loot from their banditry — and you're proposing that we join forces, slay them all, and take it all."

"Yes, that's an excellent summation," concedes Lord Ember.

"What proof can you give that you actually know the location of their hideout — or, that if you do, you aren't in league with them?" asks Krelg.

Revole Ting maintains his silence as the warlock, Lord Ember, turns his palms up, extending his hands to either side of him. "It is an audacious plan, and I don't blame you for being incredulous, doubtful."

"But ...?" Savra interjects.

"But..." Ember adds, grinning, "why would I bring you several thousand royals worth of both staples and luxury goods, when I could have either kept them for my own use, or sold them for profit? Why make such a gesture if I intend to mislead you?"

"To put us off our guard, of course," says Grok Goldentooth.

Ember lowers his hands. "Has it occurred to you to ask yourselves how this young man knew you were lodging here, when clearly local authorities do not know? Given that, is it so hard to believe I have access to various other ... interesting facts?"

"All right," Savra says, "say I believe you? How large a force of gnolls are we talking about here?"

"I've only scried them twice, and both times within the past full day. But my initial estimate is one hundred and fifty gnolls, and perhaps a dozen ogres they've somehow convinced to work with them."

Grok snots derisively, dismissively, and rolls his eyes for good measure, but Savra continues, "Say your estimate is a bit heavy. That still leaves them outnumbering us twenty-five to one. Gnolls are fierce combatants, and ogres more deadly still. What factors mitigate against such an attack being a suicide by combat?"

"Even my assistant can speak to these doubts. Revole, would you expound for our hosts?"

Revole Ting, formerly Earnest Thromb, halfling caravan master and merchant, clears his throat. "Certainly, my lord," he answers, noting a red tinge coloring his vision. "For one, I am a masterful thief and scout. I will reconnoiter the tribe's hideout, discover details of their defense and vulnerabilities.

"Two: I myself can handle any pair of ogres, or any five gnolls." At this, Grok laughs uproariously, drunkenly, until one of Savra's uplifted fingers cuts him off.

"Three, spells and magic items will help swing the odds back in our favor. Four, we won't have to fight them all at one time. The gnolls are never all there at the same time. Large groups of them go raiding, or hunting, and are sometimes gone from their den for days at a time."

Kaden Worst grunts doubtfully at this, but is silenced by a look from Savra.

Lord Ember, leans forward. "Thank you, Revole." The young warlock turns to lock eyes with each bandit in turn. "Finally, we will weaken them by setting a trap. We use our three wagons as bait. A band of them will attack it — it's what these gnolls do: they prey upon caravans and travelers."

"I'll concede that point," Savra agrees. But we don't know how many might attack."

"We can't know for certain," concedes the warlock. However, we ourselves were attacked earlier this week. Twenty gnolls engaged our caravan. And I've researched these attacks. Based on reports by survivors, the majority of such attacks over the past two years on the main East-West Road have involved twenty to thirty gnolls, some with and sometimes without a pair of ogres, or three."

Kaden drains the last of the hasiko, then clanks the decanter down, none too softly. "I dare say the six of us could easily handle a band that size," he rumbles meditatively, then picks up a gallon cask of Padoar Stout and sets to work tapping it.

Savra seems, if not completely convinced, then at least intrigued. What's more, it has been more than a ten-day since her group's last action, and she knows that inaction and boredom breed discontent. She stands, stubs out her cigarette. "I'm turning in. Enjoy yourselves. Tomorrow, sober up, for the next day we will bait these Blackblades."

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"Do we really have time for this detour?" Revole, a.k.a. Earnest Thromb, sighs at the delay. It's truly surprising how quickly he has lapsed back into the role he's held most of his life — that of a merchant and caravan master.

"Really, Mr. Ting, your parochialism is quite endearing," says Matthias, the Warlock. "Complete this caravan run, then hurry and get back to Isabel and the kiddos." He glances over at the halfling sitting next to him on the driver's seat of the lead wagon. "We're making time for this because we need a crew. A caravan of this size with only two people? It doesn't make sense, and therefore draws unwanted attention."

"True enough, but this place has a bad reputation," the halfling complains.

"You've indentured yourself to the Lord of Hell and to a lifetime of servitude to me, and you're worried about a few ruffians at Kellen Rock?" the warlock asks, presumably rhetorically, for Revole doesn't answer.

"You will address me from here onward as 'Lord Ember.' Not 'Matthias', certainly not 'Mr. d'Slaytonthorpe' — just 'Lord Ember.' And I don't mean just up ahead at Kellen Rock. I mean from now on, whether we are alone or among others. And you will do everything in your power to dissuade people from any interest of investigation into what has become of the two young Seekers of Helix."

"I will obey," says Revole Ting, and for a moment the warlock's eyes flash in anger, until he realizes that the halfling isn't being mocking. Rather, he is beguiled. The warlock smiles inwardly. I'm getting stronger, it would seem...

The wagons creak along up a winding trail toward the lodge at the apex of a hill. Revole carefully guides the horses along the stony course, and Lord Ember cranes his neck to glance at the top of the now not-distant mesa. "When I was a boy, I wintered here several times. My uncle Deor would come to Helix late every Fall, and I would return with him here with the first snows of Winter."

"Really? I never knew that about you, my bo— Lord Ember." The halfling thinks for a moment. "But wait; your father is Magen Eisenthrast of the Helix Seekers. I didn't realize he had a brother," Revole muses.

"That's the preferred fiction, aye. It's a heartwarming conceit perpetrated by the Father Abbot. Supposedly the magen, old even before I was born, sired me on a promising young girl from Threshold training in the Chapterhouse as chrono-archaeologist at the time."

"You're saying he isn't your father, then?"

Matthias is silent for so long that the halfling almost asks his question a second time. But then, "My father is over 400,000 years old. But that isn't a story for your ears, Revole. Now, prepare yourself. The Lodge has become a base for a group of bandits in the past three years. We'll be challenged, in all likelihood attacked."

"Well then, won't we be badly outnumbered? Shouldn't w—"

"Silence! I don't speak so that you may question my decisions!" Lord Ember breathes heavily, incensed. Finally, after a long pause: "Focus on my instructions, not your pathetic uncertainty. Don't use your wand. We want to intimidate and cow, not destroy these malcontents. They will become our muscle, the caravan's guards, and will leave my uncle's lodge empty to await whatever use I find for it."

Revole nods in understanding. "Your will be accomplished, Lord Ember."

Matthias scrutinizes the halfling's expression, decides he's being serious, not sarcastic. "Better. Now, should combat erupt, you shall discover that my will is made known to you without words. A red haze will color all that you see while I am exerting my willpower to guide you. Simply act on that guidance. You will find questions unnecessary."

The halfling nods. "My ... changed arm aches." It isn't a complaint so much as a statement of fact.

"Indeed," acknowledges Lord Ember. "It feels the machinations of Asmodeus tumbling towards his desired ending for one of his thousands of agendas."

"Hmm," the halfling considers, scratch at that arm through the thick long-sleeved canvas jacket. "It feels more like it wants to smash and kill."

"Just as I said," confirms Lord Ember.

◦◦◦

As the caravan pulls up to the sprawling lodge compound, a cold late October wind scours the hill and raises goosebumps on the arms of both Lord Ember and those standing in a broad, cobblestoned courtyard to greet the approaching caravan train. Interestingly, Revole Ting feels no such sensation, shows no such weakness.

"That's close enough," rumbles a mountain of a man. He must weigh at least eighteen stone and stand nearly seven feet tall. His enormous chest is harnessed in thick leather, and incredibly muscled forearms are wrapped in leather cords. Held casually in his right hand is a massive sword, an engraved rune near its hilt waxing and waning with eldritch light. The sword undoubtedly weighs a full three stones. "We aren't an inn, tavern, supply depot, or temple, so state your business and you'll need to make it particularly convincing."

Lord Ember sits on the driver's seat of the lead wagon, eyes closed, yet moving rapidly behind their lids. Just when Revole is becoming concerned that his master has inexplicably dozed off, the warlock's eyes open and he speaks. "Well, aren't you're just a peach? Tell your leader that Lord Ember is here, and brings much-needed supplies and a proposal on how the lodge's current occupants may enrich themselves further."

The warlock smiles winningly, perhaps mockingly, and notices that the guard's hands aren't human. Rather, they have three oversized, taloned digits, each as big around as Matthias' wrists. The sound of the man's creature's laughter is a deep bass resonance that is rich and pleasant, yet with a menacing undertone. "And what makes you so certain that I myself do not rule here, little man?"

"Well, you're too ugly and stupid for leadership, so it stands to reason you are working for someone else." The warlock's voice is light and lilting, but with a core of steel.

"Oh, I like you already," says the behemoth, chuckling. He turns his head on a neck like a tree trunk and bellows for someone outside the warlock and halfling's line of sight. "Tell Savra we have guests!"

A half-orc steps into view and draws up alongside his comrade. When the leather-harnessed miscreant gives the newcomer a questioning look, he growls, "Relax, Krelg's talking to her now." This newest thug is a foot shorter than his compatriot — only a hair over six feet in height — yet probably every bit as heavy — a half-orc with a barrel chest and big belly, though no doubt slabs of muscle beneath.

"These ruffians may be more formidable than I had anticipated," Lord Ember says quietly, only loud enough for Revole to hear. "So far, it appears there may be four of them, at least, outnumbering us two to one. How many charges does your wand have remaining?"

"Four," Revole answers, wisely not adding but you told me not to use it against these cut-throats.

"I see. Well, we may need it after all, but wait for me to make a comment about the hubris of the Helix Seekers. That'll be your signal. The woman is probably a caster, so she should be your target until she's out of commission."

A woman comes walking out into the courtyard to join her cronies, accompanied by a fourth bandit you're just seeing for the first time — another half-orc, this one carrying a wickedly serrated sword.

The woman and her companion saunter up to stand with the others. She is a striking redheaded human, decked out in fine plate and mail and carrying a shield that is embossed with a white skull. "Well, well, who have we here, Kaden?" she asks the first bandit.

"This one gives himself a title of lordship and names himself Ember. The ... boy has wisely said nothing, Death Mistress." Revole Ting doesn't rise to this bait, but fingers the dagger at his belt as if making it a silent promise.

"Lord Ember, I presume?" the redhead says in a throaty voice. The wickedly flanged mace she carries emits faint wisps of black smoke or shadow. "You have taken quite a detour from the road to come here. Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. I must assume the former. What do you have to say to Savra Skullmaster before I take your wagons and horses and decide whether or not to let you continue living?" She rests the head of her wicked mace on her right shoulder and adopts an insouciant pose.

"Such spunk! And confidence — I greatly admire confidence!" The warlock's voice is bemused. "But please, why threaten to take what is freely offered? These wagons are loaded with useful goods: flour, salt, bails of wool, strong drink, arrows, crossbow bolts, rope, oil, coal, torches, salted fish, and various other amenities. However well-stocked you may already be, extra never hurts, yes?"

Savra jerks a hand and the two half-orcs hasten to the wagons to verify Lord Ember's claim. "And why do you make such an offer? Not out of philanthropic zeal, I'm quite sure."

"Indeed not," returns the warlock. "It is my hope that this gesture will make you amenable to a proposal, one that may well enrich us all. Perhaps, we could discuss it tonight over a feast of fish, fried potatoes, honey-bread from Eastdale, ale from Kirkilston, and half a dozen brandies and whiskeys from Dartscale and Mimsy, mmh?"

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The Earth, It Cares Not!
Part 10: After Overnighting With Caddyshanks

1,540 words

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6:12 am, 26th Oct. 204 PR

Matthias and Earnest Thromb sit with Grant Caddyshanks at the old man's breakfast table, eating eggs and bacon, and drinking querma. Old Man Caddy has thick, shaggy gray hair and a scruffy beard. He sets down his cup of querma and says, "Okay, let me see if I've got this straight: gnolls attacked in the night, there was a pitched battle, the two of you were the only survivors, and I slept through the whole ordeal. Does that about cover it?" he asks querulously.

"Well, when you put it like that, it does sound hard to believe, Cad, but yeah, that's about the size of it."

The old man takes another sip of querma, finishes off a strip of bacon, wipes his mouth. "Okay. Well, why didn't you wake me after the battle?"

Merchant Thromb sighs, hangs his head momentarily. "Truthfully, I did try, old friend. I spoke, then louder, then shook you. You didn't wake. Not to be indelicate, but you smelled of your lightning water. You still do, this morning."

Fuck you, Ernie! I didn't drink that much. You are dissembling." He comes to his feet, sloshing coffee. "Fine! I'll drink the swill you've poured out so far. But now, let us go and speak words of remembrance over your fallen."

Earnest Thromb comes to his own feet, palms out placatingly. "Cad, please, just--"

"Fine! Forget the fallen. Show me the corpses of the gnolls!" The old man's voice drops an octave on the last two words, and his chest expands, bursting the seams of his nightshirt. His forehead grows more pronounced and the hair on his forearms thickens.

Matthias remains seated but smiles beatifically at this development. He takes up the knife and carves a few more slices of jerky from a roll on a cutting board. He tosses a bite to the old mutt lying next to the iron stove near the breakfast table. Putting a bite into his own mouth, he chews thoughtfully and releases a spell -- Asmodeus' Disdain.

Caddyshanks feels the harm wash over him and assumes that the deceptive halfling caravan master has worked some evil magic against him. Cad's transformation completes and the werewolf leaps upon his friend of many years, claws raking, wolfish mouth crushing the halfling's throat even as Matthias buries the sharp sausage knife -- now coated in Hellbane -- in the changeling's back.

The knife inflicts another 4 damage, and Matthias drops into a forward roll, narrowly dodging those wickedly sharp claws as Cad spins around, scything the air. The warlock regains his feet and dashes from the kitchen onto the old farmhouse's front porch, ripping his short sword from its scabbard as he leaps sideways to the left of the door leading into the house, back pressed against the clapboard wall.

The werewolf bursts from the house, arms impossibly long, their claws and those of his feet serving to brake his momentum at the expense of the porch's floor boards. As the werewolf rounds on the warlock, the poison of his wound kicks in, dealing 2 CON damage and 4 more HP of injury to the werewolf.

Cad rakes claws at Matthias, and the warlock, using Total Defense, barely manages to avoid being disemboweled, still suffering 5 HP (leaving him at 1 temp HP above his normal maximum).

Matthias puts up a Total Defense, dropping his AC from 4 to -2. Even so, one of the changeling's claws rakes him for 7, dropping Matthias to 24/30 HP. And then, the Hellbane poison attacks Cad's system once more, dropping his Constitution another 5 points and inflicting an additional 10 more HP damage, and the lupine falls back, giving ground while vomiting.

The warlock surges forward, swiping his sword in an arc so that the werewolf pulls back his long arms in defense, and Matthias smacks the changeling right on the snout, delivering an Asmodeus'; Touch cantrip using a 1st level spell slot and inflicting 8 on the wolf. Matthias regains 4, putting him back at 28/30 HP. Unbeknownst to the warlock, the werewolf has a single HP remaining.

Sensing his impending death, the werewolf attempts to close with the warlock, perhaps to take him down into the darkness as well, but he is too weak, and the Hellbane finishes him. He collapses at Matthias' feet. The warlock chops twice at the fallen creature's throat, not willing to take any chances, then carves out the beast's heart with a dagger.

For a moment, he holds aloft the heart, declaring "For the glory of Asmodeus!", and then he bites into it, blood running down his chin, staining his robe. He chews, swallows, and is unaware that a pinprick of red light now lies at the center of each eye's pupil.

◦◦◦

Earnest Thromb gasps weakly for air in his final moments, hands unknowingly playing with his own exposed viscera. In the clarity of approaching death his mind is cleared of Matthias' beguilement from the previous evening, and the halfling cranes his neck to regard the warlock who has re-entered the kitchen. "Why, lad?" he asks of the young man he'd befriended eight years earlier.

Matthias walks over and takes a seat on the rough-hewn kitchen floor boards. "I don't expect you have sufficient time left to hear the full answer to that question, Thromb." The warlock absently twists a new ring that only a minute earlier graced his finger for the first time. "This is Carceri's Ring, created by its namesake over four millennia ago, as revealed by my infernal insight. Ah, but you wanted a reason for the justice I have meted out to you today: you skimped on expenses for the caravan journey. You put profits before safety and loyalty to friends."

"Wh-what? No, I never--"

"And because of your greed," Matthias continues, cutting off the dying halfling in mid-sentence, "my best friend was slain. A few more mercs out of Eastdale would have made all the difference, and the Silver Standard Trading Company actually mandates three or more guards for each and every wagon in one of their convoys. Did you know that? But of course you did!"

"Not ... my fault," the halfling wheezes, blood frothing from his lips. "An ... oversight ... accidental." The halfling struggles for breath. "My business. For ... thirty years I've ..."

"--Busted you hump to turn a profit? Saved up for your children's future? Oh, what will happen to my precious family without me? Blah, blah, blah!"

After a few moments: "Are you still with me, Thromb?" Matthias watches a bloody bubble form and pop on the halfling's lips, and notes that the eyes, though weak, still track him. "I am not without mercy. Pledge your fealty to me and to Father Asmodeus now, and you can yet live. This needn't be the end of your story. You can return home to Isabel. But you'd better choose quickly..."

A second passes ... three ... ten. Thromb gasps, "All right! Father ..." A fit of coughing almost spares the merchant his soul. But fate gives him another breath, and "Asmodeus, I am yours".

"There, now! See, that wasn't so bad, was it? Oh, and look. Your guts are creeping back into your innards. Actually, you don't want to see this -- trust me. At any rate, you aren't going to die ... yet. That's good news, eh? But I cannot fail to leave you some reminders of your guilt, and that you are no longer your own creature." Matthias squeezes Thromb's arm. The halfling shrieks in agony, and tears course down his cheeks. "Oh, come now, my newest servant. Don't cry and take on so." And the warlock brushes tears from the recumbent figure's cheek, eliciting redoubled screaming.

Thromb's eyelids flutter open weakly. He slowly takes in his surroundings. He is in a warm if not entirely comfortable bed. A lantern on a bedside table gently illuminates the room but casts some of it in shadows. He glances down where his arms lie atop the folded down quilt -- taking in his transformed right arm numbly, his recent ordeal permitting no greater reaction.

"Ah, you are awake, Revole. Excellent! We have much to discuss," comes the warlock's voice from the corner of the room.

Thromb turns his head painfully to regard Matthias' silhouette. "What did you call me?"

"Revole. That's your new name. Revole Ting. Earnest Thromb was another life, and a name you will hereafter answer to only in subterfuge, serving my own designs.

"You promised!" the halfling says, voice cracking with emotion. "You said I could go home to my wife!"

The warlock clucks his tongue. "Oh, Revole. You shall learn to trust my word. You shall indeed go home. But first, you shall fulfill your preexisting obligation by conveying me to Caldamis, for I must attend to our Father's business there in a matter of some importance," Matthias chides, observing the halfling's expression. "You were going to be gone from home at least a couple weeks anyway. Nobody expects you back before then."

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5:42 am, 25th Oct. 204 PR

Matthias and Auriochos sit in the second of the four Silver Standard Trading Company wagons where they're parked on the northern edge of Helix. This caravan will put out soon, bound for Smokeshadow and from there on to see Baron Orvair Leonas in Caldamis.

Our heroes have each been given 15 GP by Rafell, Quartermaster of the Seekers in Helix — for incidental expenses along the way to Caldamis.

Altogether, this caravan contains four wagons accompanied by our two Seekers, by Caravanmaster Thromb, and by the Eld Brothers — four actual brothers from Sizemordicus, each a 2nd level Fighter. They make extremely good use of their mutual Flanking Strike Heroic Deed.

The times being dangerous, Mattie is not really surprised when the caravan is attacked by a large band of gnolls. He sighs, glances over at Aury, then picks up his staff. As the noises of gnolls clashing with the Eld Brothers breaks the morning silence, Mattie casts Mirror Image and Blur on himself and then jumps down from the wagon.

You can review details of the ensuing battle here.

A tough fight, indeed. Outnumbered by three to one, and against foes individually more capable combatants than our caravan members. Sadly, Olophorn Eld is slain. Were it not for the caravan master's wand and the pair of fireball scrolls brought along by Mattie from the Chapterhouse, undoubtedly more people would have died.

Given the very difficult challenge rating, the death, and the knowledge that will come of this encounter and the momentum it will give, I'm factoring in XP for story award, eighteen gnolls, and two leader gnolls. Divided among the surviving five caravan members, it comes to 3,900 XP per survivor. Both Aury and Mattie gain a level. Or at least they would have both gained a level...

...as the gnolls disengage and put distance between themselves and the caravan members, two of them fire their longbows in parting shots. Not particularly well-aimed, but one of the arrows enters Auriochos d'Rosenberg's left eye, exiting the back of his head — the arrow lodging with its fletching scrunched into the cleric's eye socket. He actually blinks once, with his uninjured eye, as if startled. Then he collapses backward, dead.

Hours later, night has fallen. The caravan leader, a normally jovial halfling named Earnest Thromb, sits quietly puffing on a pipe and passing around a bottle of perfectly clear, devastatingly strong drink, to the survivors. This stuff could be used as a cleaning solution!

After the gnoll battle, he pressed forward hard and fast, determined to put miles between the caravan and any gnoll second-wave that might be coming. Half an hour before sundown, he guided the wagons along a rutted track through a copse of woods. On the other side was a palisaded farmhouse, woodshed, chicken coup, and freshwater well. An old human farmer, Grant Caddyshanks, owns the place.

This farm is situated about a dozen miles south-southeast of Phandalin, and perhaps four miles northwest of Smokeshadow. The old man joined you at first, directed Mintarn and Caspius to the ricks of firewood stacked behind his tanning shed. Caddyshanks and Thromb were in serious discussion for a long time after your arrival.

Now, three hours after dark has fallen, those who wish to eat have eaten — fire-roasted chicken and potatoes and cups of chicken broth.

Of the three surviving Eld brothers, Belphor seems to be taking Olophorn's death the hardest. He keeps taking a bullseye lantern and lifting the canvas flap on the back of Wagon Three, as if to assure himself that the bodies of his brother Olophorn, and of Seeker Auriochos d'Rosenberg, haven't disappeared.

Olophorn: 21/21 (deceased)
Belphor: 21/28
Mintarn: 20/24
Caspius 17/28

A dark shadow is upon Matthias, and after drinking more than he should, he walks apart from the others within the palisaded compound until the firelight and their voices are dimmed. "Lord of Hell, hear me," he breathes, cutting his left forearm with his dagger, using it as an athame. "Grant me the power to avenge my friend and I shall in turn commit myself to the overthrow of the doltish worship of Green Man, the self-righteous prattling of the servants of Saint Ygg. Strengthen me with your infernal might and I will exalt you in the land and cast others down before you!"

At length, Matthias returns to the firelight — infused by the power of the pact he has made with Asmodeus. "Caravan Master, may I have a word in private?" Thromb looks up, puffing his pipe. "Aye, of course." He stands, looks at Caspius and gestures to the hourglass where it sits on a boulder by the fire. "Relieve Belphor at the change of the watch, would you?" And then the halfling merchant and the Seeker mage are moving away, leaving the firelight behind.

Matthias rests a hand of the halfling caravan master's shoulder in a friendly gesture. "So, you understand clearly what you must do, Earnest?"

The halfling nods, grins. "Yes, slay or disable the others. I can't believe I was so completely taken in by the Brothers. They seem so young and idealistic."

Matthias squeezes the halfling's shoulder fraternally. "Do not blame yourself, worthy merchant. Evil is wily and deceitful and oft approaches in the guise of aid. My eyes have been opened. Only the two of us — and the pair of slain worthies who now lie lifeless in yon wagon — were without guile. The others were in league with the gnolls."

The halfling's face darkens angrily, and he rests his hand on a wand tucked through his belt. He glances quickly toward the farmhouse. "Let me warn Grant; I wouldn't want him to misunderstand and put an arrow in our—

"No. It isn't needful. The old man sleeps soundly. Now we must act, and quickly!"

◦◦◦

As the two return to the fire, Merchant Thromb yawns, stretches, and tosses another stick on the fire before sitting down on the boulder he's been using as a seat. "Caspius, I see the sand is almost run out." — he eyes the hourglass. "Go ahead and relieve Belphor at his post outside the palisade. Matthias, would you accompany him? Scan with your magic. I would hate to fall victim to an ambush by the surviving gnolls. I don't think they've ever bothered Caddyshank's place, but better safe than sorry..."

While Matthias and Caspius disappear beyond the halo of firelight, Master Thromb moves toward the nearest wagon. "Tarn, you up for a bite of grub? Drinking makes me hungry!" He ties back a canvas flap and sets the lantern down just inside the back of the wagon, reaches in and can be heard seemingly mumbling to himself.

"I could maybe wolf down some more of that Eastdale beef jerky, if you've still got plenty," Mintarn acknowledges, his response delayed a second or two longer than usual, no doubt because of inebriation.

Three magic missiles slam into Mintarn's chest and he reflexively jerks to his feet, confused and alarmed, and trying to rip his longsword from its sheath. He coughs, half-choked because Thromb's ambush took him just as he had filled his mouth with ale and was swallowing.

Nearly tripping, he rights himself and his sword clears its scabbard while he scans the campsite, frantically seeking the source of this attack. Three more missiles rip into to his torso, and Mintarn falls dead, his sword and sword arm (from the elbow forward) landing in the fire.

◦◦◦

"Hold a moment," Matthias says curtly as he and Caspius exit the compound. A couple dozen yards away, Belphor keeps watch atop a hill. "Now ... die, Caspius!" he commands in a low voice, menacing voice. The fighter freezes, jaw working, and tears course down his face with his mental effort. With a jerk he growls and surges toward Matthias, hand going to his sword hilt. Not fast enough — Matthias' dagger, Hellbane envenomed, plunges into Caspius' throat.

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1:13 am, 24th Oct. 204 PR

Matthias sits at the desk in his second-story room in the new wing of The Brazen Strumpet. He is more than a bit intoxicated. And, as he's noticed numerous times in the past, under the influence of strong drink he finds himself wanting to write. Truth be told, what he really wants is to sing, but the other guests — most of them undoubtedly sleeping — would not appreciate that. He sighs. Writing it is, then.

He casually waves the fingers of his right hand over a blank page in his spellbook while subvocalizing a command word, enacting a cantrip that has taken him weeks to fine-tune. The page of paper blurs for a moment — or was that his alcohol-fueled, late-night (correction: early morning) vision? A faint wispy outline of a pen appears and the scholar-mage begins dictating.

"I've been training with Rengar the Bold d'Sizemordicus, and after our foray into the Barrowmoor I now possess more than enough to pay him for his services." The translucent, wispy pen dutifully transcribes the mage's words onto the page in a dark script, and he smiles at that.

A neat trick, that cantrip. It records his words in the interstitial spaces between the threads of magical energy that enchant his spellbook. So far, he's been recording several minutes of voice dictation daily and there's no sign of space running out. He moves his eyes further down the page an inch and the text above fades from view. Glances back at the top of the page, and the words reappear, clearly legible.

"Our little jaunt to the Barrowmoor on October twenty-third netted us enough cuprous to fuel our share of the Chapterhouse's machinery, experiments, and defenses for the remainder of the month. But supplies are still low. We'll tend to our respective duties today, and then I feel sure the Father Abbot will give permission for our absence for another day or two. In fact, he may bring it up before we do." The wispy pen faithfully transcribes.

Mattie yawns, stretches, then stands and doffs his magical cloak, hanging it on a peg on the wall. Returning to the desk, he sits again, admiring the mithril ring of interwoven vines that adorns his right index finger.

"The Chapterhouse quartermaster, Rafell, has been impressed with my torches. He's agreed to pay one copper apiece for them, up to fifty torches monthly. I think he thinks that I've got a pyramid scheme going, or that I'm thieving them from some nearby town. At any rate, the agreement is a win-win. I know he normally pays two shiny per faggot."

The mage glances into the corner, where six torches lean against the wall. Meanwhile, his magical pen transcribes his words.

Perhaps two or three hours later, Matthias jerks awake to the nerve-jangling alarm that blares throughout the chapterhouse. He leaps out of bed and into his trousers, then his boots. A quick check that his protective magical ring is on his right hand ring-finger, then it's shirt followed by protective cloak and he scoops up one of the torches from the corner of his room, lighting it with a cantrip as he exits into the hallway.

It's the Kobold Alarm, so probably not anything life threatening — athough, the little critters can easily be underestimated. It's better than the Breach From Topside alarm, and much better than the Red Alert Hazard Alarm.

The damned lowest level of the chapterhouse. Should've been taken care of years ago, but the fifth and lowest level is unfinished, serving primarily as an overly large, damp cellar-like storage space. Kobolds broke through years ago, and each time the holes were walled-over and sealed, it was only a matter of time before the nasty little pikers undid the Seekers' efforts once again.

A minute later, Mattie is rushing past Rafell. "Who's team am I on?" Mattie asks, slowing as he approaches the quartermaster.

"I don't know. Red team has the northeast, Blue has the west. You're Purple. Head to the southwest. I don't think anyone's there yet."

"Got it!" Mattie nods, picking up speed as he heads for the stairwell, takes the steps down two at a time, lit torch in his left hand, staff in his right. He deftly avoids tripping a pair of trips as he heads for the southwesternmost part of the bottom level of the chapterhouse. Contact! And shit, a fair number of the monstrous vermin!

It doesn't take Matthias long to mop up a handful of kobolds, and by then some other brothers have joined him in searching the areas where the chapterhouse sublevel deteriorates into Upperdark tunnels. Finally, after an exhaustive search, they retrace their steps to the stairwell. Having reset a variety of traps on this sublevel, they begin to climb the stairs...

A couple hours before dawn...

Matthias sits sipping coffee with Quartermaster Rafell, Thraxis Corvale, and Aury d'Rosenberg. They are soon joined by Karg Barrelgut and Brannock Tilden — the village's blacksmith and Oghman priest, respectively. The latter two apparently walked over to the chapterhouse together, as they continue a discussion and share a flask of hasiko back and forth.

Shortly, these six are joined by Billworth Turgen. He drags up a chair, declines an offer of hasiko, and accepts a mug of coffee from Aury. "I heard the alarm earlier and decided to just go ahead and get up. I've not been sleeping well anyway."

"Oh? And why not?" Matthias inquires.

Billworth sighs. "Silver Standard isn't happy right now. We're not getting our usual imports from Brookhollow in Caldamis. Something is making the villagers sick. Some have even died. I'm here to see if the Seekers can help. We need this investigated sooner rather than later."

Aury lifts an eyebrow at Matthias, then glances in acquiescence upon seeing the agreement in Quartermaster Rafell's eyes. "Of course we'll help, Bill."

"Meanwhile," says Rafell, "Thraxis, Karg, and I will put some additional defenses in place in the lowest level. We released a pigeon this morning to the duke in Threshold, to see if his Master of Kennels could spare some trained mastiffs. We'll definitely be starting intermittent patrols, and the addition of those beasts would beef up our defenses."

"No argument from me," Matthias says, then drains his mug of coffee.

"Good," the quartermaster says, slapping the table and standing. "You'll join a caravan heading out at first light for Smokeshadow. Then, tomorrow, you'll head south and board a barge on the Ash River. It'll carry you southeast and you should reach Caldamis by high sun on the third day. Saint Ygg's blessing!" And with that, the meeting breaks up.

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Matthias puts the three torches he found under his bed at The Brazen Strumpet next to his other three remaining torches in one corner of his room. This could get to be problematic. This recently discovered — and undoubtedly magically-fuelled — ability of his to find torches, seemingly no matter where he is located, has an enticing side effect: it sometimes also causes one or more royals to appear, along with the torches.

"Well, not this time," he concedes, lamenting the lack of any accompanying coins when these most recent torches were ... found. But the previous evening was financially advantageous. And so the scholar-mage anticipates many future occurences of happily exclaiming, aloud or not, 'Oh Look, More Torches!'

Preparing to go downstairs to join his friends for supper, he turns to the tub now full of cooling (and quite dirty) water. A servant will drain the tub while he's at dinner, then clean it. He dresses in fresh trousers and tunic, and then turns to his bed and bedside table. One of the benefits of membership in The Seekers is the sharply discounted — sometimes even pro bono — services from its skilled members.

He steps first to the bedside table and picks up an attractive mithril ring fashioned to look like a band formed from interwoven vines. He turns it over in his fingers. To him, it has value beyond even it's artistic beauty. It is a ring of protection +1 — not that Matthias things of it in those terms. He thinks of it as a talisman against harm. He slides it onto his left hand's ring finger. "Long may it protect me."

Turning to the bed, he takes up the beautiful midnight blue cloak found in the crypt earlier in the day. Magen Eisenthrast identified it as a cloak of protection +1.

Matthias had argued politely that Aury should take it, but the cleric and their guide, Brother Jasyn, had insisted Mattie be the one to wear it. He's always been smaller and not as good a fighter as Aury. He puts on the cloak, luxuriating in its supple strength and beautiful craftsmanship. Normally, he'd have donned his leather armor before the cloak, but it's being cleaned at the Chapterhouse by an initiate.

At the man-hole covered entrance to the Chapterhouse, Brother Jasyn had temporarily parted ways with the Seekers. "I'm sorry," Aury had said. "But the Father Abbot permits only Seekers within."

"No, I of course understand. I'm going to go on over to The Brazen Strumpet and get us each a room for the night. I'll pay for nice rooms, all the amenities. My treat. I've not stayed there since they added the new wing, but I understand it's very nice. I'll see you both shortly." And their guide had taken his leave of them.

Down on the third sublevel, Matthias hands over his filthy leather armor to Initiate Fenwick. "Sorry, Fen. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Seeker." He turns to Aury. "If you'll permit me, I will also clean and oil your scalemail, Brother."

The pair of Seekers next visit Magen Eisenthrast, who is quickly able to catalog and identify their finds from the crypt in the marsh. After ascertaining the general value of most items, they jointly agree to donate the electrum scarab on a leather thong to the Chapterhouse, so that it may be sold to support all the Brothers.

They also jointly donate eighty shiny copper pieces to the brotherhood, which will go some goodly way in fueling the Visitor furnaces and other machines of the Chapterhouse.

"Very much appreciated," purrs Magen Eisenthrast. "That should cover our needs through the rest of October, and perhaps two or three days into November."

After the mage identifies the various magical items, Matthias transforms into the kid in a candy store, who hasn't had his ADHD medication. When Aury insists that his fellow Seeker take both the cloak of protection and the ring of protection, Matthias dashes off to the inn-tavern, practically skipping.

After a few seconds, Magen asks Aury, "Was there anything else, brother?" and then glances significantly at the rolled up and tied tapestry from the crypt.

"Yes, magister," Aury bobs his head. "If you could take a few moments and appraise this tapestry we recovered," he unrolls it, spreading it out onto a large table. "This was hanging in the entry chamber of the crypt we raided — er, robbed, rather. Matthias seemed uninterested."

"Oh, my," croons Magen, once he's angled several brilliant white-light lamps onto the object d'Art. "It's so well preserved," he breathes, reaching for a large magnifying glass.

"I know!" Aury agrees. "It doesn't make sense. The entire crypt was damp through and through, and flooded in foul-smelling water."

"Any other details you can remember?" asks the magister.

"Well ... when Matthias touched it, the sapphire skeleton rose from the water," he supplies.

"Interesting," Magen coos, not stopping his examination with the magnifying glass. "That fits," he says, moving around the table and leaning over to study another corner of the tapestry, "given that the subject matter hear appears to be generally necromantic. It's clearly enchanted." He grabs a wand and hovers it above the tapestry. "Ah, as I thought, yes."

"What? What do you see?" Aury finds himself caught up along with the magister.

"It's a necromantic focus. I actually suspected as much when you said you found it in the Barrowmoor. The Cumerians had an unhealthy fascination with both necromancy and summoning. This tapestry served to strengthen some necromancer's spells. It probably also enhanced the durability and overall numbers of undead he was able to create. But it's most important function would have been to expand the total number of undead that the necromancer could simultaneously control."

"Good to know," says Aury, nodding. "Well, I'm not interested in hanging onto it as memento of my first robbed tomb. I have other reminders," he says, glancing at the ring of fire resistance he now wears. "Hmm, well, do you know who might pay a decent price for it? Some historian or wizard?"

"Oh I wouldn't advise leaving it in circulation in that manner," says the magister. "The tapestry is evil!"

"Magister, things aren't evil. People can be, and they may use objects for evil purposes, but the things themselves aren't evil."

Magen smiles indulgently. "Aury, when you're the veteran of as many campaigns as I am, then we'll talk again. The Chapterhouse can offer you ... twenty-three hundred royals for it."

Aury stares at the magister in stunned silence for several seconds. Then: "Sold!"

When the two Seekers sit down to supper with their guide, it is two hours past sunset. The Brazen Strumpet is at about 50% capacity in the dining room. Several villagers are here eating, as are some local miners, and a farmer who is resigned to spend the night so that the local ostler can care for his mule team.

For three generations, it's just been 'The Brazen Strumpet tavern'. Now, it also boasts a wing of rooms for rent, and a nicer dining room away from the coarse and sometimes even lewd talk that takes place in the tavern.

"Well, it's about time," Brother Jasyn grouses good-naturedly as Matthias enters the dining room. As the scholar-mage seats himself across from the guide, Brother Jasyn slides an empty tankard and a pitcher full of Padoar Stout over to the younger man. "Nice cloak."

"Thanks. Any sign of Aury?" As if somehow summoned, the cleric appears in the dining hall door way, scans for a second to locate his companions, then grins and makes his way over, taking a third chair at the round table and pouring himself a tankard of ale. He glances at Mattie. "Our armor will be cleaned and ready by Evensong," he informs the mage.

"Ah, excellent," Mattie comments, smiling as a servant brings a basket of fresh-baked bread and a crock of butter, placing it on their table. "And the tapestry. Did we find a buyer?"

"Magen felt strongly that it was a dangerous item and should be removed from circulation. Suffice it to say, both your dues and mine for the coming several months are already paid in full. And, he was delighted to get the cuprous," Aury supplies.

"Hmm. Well, I suppose that's good. I think I'm going to keep the neshralk. It functions as an everburning candle. That has the potential to be quite useful. What does that leave us with in terms of loot?" the mage asks.

Brother Jasyn finishes buttering a bread roll. "The silver necklace with pearls, the platinum necklace, and the sapphire fragment from the first skeleton we encountered. We could probably get around eight hundred royals if we take them to the right folks in Rosen or Sizemordicus."

"I'd like to get back to the Barrowmoor as soon as possible," Mattie says. "Why don't we lock up our valuables at the Chapterhouse until such time that we're ready to make a trip worth our time — say, when we have several times that amount?"

"Brother Jasyn shrugs to signify it doesn't matter to him, and Aury adds, "Same. Though it's unpleasant tomb robbing in cold weather, we're less likely to have to contend with other explorers than if we postpone till the Spring."

Mattie nods. "We've both got responsibilities at the Chapterhouse tomorrow, but I'm thinking we could strike out for the marsh again on the following day..."

"Sounds good," says Brother Jasyn. The three enjoy a hearty repast and then move closer to a fireplace, enjoying its heat as they sip after-supper brandy and talk far into the night.

I'm going to do an experiment. I'm thinking two characters, each having access to a Fray die each and every round, may be imbalanced — i.e., overpowered. So, for the next little bit, I'm going to have Aury and Mattie alternate rounds for Fray die use — and Brother Jasyn won't get a Fray die at all when he accompanied the pair of Seekers.

Mattie, who has the higher Dexterity score, will get his Fray die use on odd numbered rounds (1st, 3rd, etc.) and Aury will get his Fray die use on even-numbered rounds (2nd, 4th, etc.) In the unlikely event that Brother Jasyn were to acompany only one of the two Seekers on a two-party member escapade, he will act on 2nd, 4th, etc., rounds and the accompanying PC will act on the 1st, 3rd, etc. rounds.

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The Earth, It Cares Not!

Tomb Robbery One

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The Seekers are able, after shoveling a few inches of soil away, to reveal a large, four-foot diameter plug of stone capping the apex of the mound on which they stand. A few feet away, Brother Jasyn observes as the two younger men take turns, one wielding the sledgehammer while the other guards against wandering monsters (and intentional predators).

It takes almost half an hour to bust through the thick stone capstone and enlarge the opening to the crypt. The sun has moved appreciably along its path toward its noon zenith when Aury resecures the sledgehammer horizontally across the top of his pack, and takes a lit torch from Mattie in one hand. Grabbing a taut length of rope in the other hand, he leans carefully, looking down into the hole.

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"Now remember," Brother Jasyn reminds the Seekers as he double checks the rope that is knotted around a sizable spruce less than twenty feet from the crypt opening, "we don't know how far down the drop will be. We can't preclude the possibility of injury on the descent, or that a marsh denizen or opportunistic band of tomb robbers might cut the rope and leave us stranded down there. What do you see?"

"Not much," comes Aury's reply, as he gazes down into the opening. "But there's definitely standing water. I can see the reflected torch light."

"All right," says the guide, checking his pack and weapons as he approaches the top of the mound. He draws up next to Mattie where the mage stands a good yard from the edge of the opening, on the side opposite Aury. "I don't suppose you have a spell that could get us down there more easily?" asks Brother Jasyn.

"No, I'm afraid not." Mattie grimaces. "No do I have magic to get us out of the crypt. I'm afraid we're reliant on our wits and mundane means."

"Understood," adds Aury from across the hole. "Well then, let's light this candle..."

Brother Jasyn descends into the crypt first. Despite having at least two decades on the Seekers, he shimmies down the rope with alacrity and then deftly catches the burning torch dropped to him by Aury.

Aury holds the rope where it exits the hole and is stretched taut to where it is tied to a spruce tree. He's placed a smooth chunk of stone so that the rope lies atop it, protecting it from friction damage at the lip of the hole. Mattie descends the rope — more slowly than Jasyn but ably enough. And then it's Aury's turn. His descent is slower still. The rope moves more than with Mattie and Jasyn, but holds.

As Aury finds his footing thirty feet beneath the lip of the hole, he is — not for the first time — glad for Jasyn's insistence on hip-waders. The water in the entrance chamber is over knee-high, and fetid. He accepts the torch from Brother Jasyn just as Mattie causes the tip of his staff to shed a white illumination.

The section of the chamber our adventurers are in is ten by ten feet and brightly lit, thanks to the pair of light sources. To the north are steps that lead down. Thankfully, Brother Jasyn is an experienced dungeoneer and leads the way, so the submerged steps are detected and therefore negotiated safely.

The trio enters a larger chamber more than twenty by twenty feet. A tapestry hangs on the eastern wall, faded with age but surprisingly intact and apparently untouched by mildew or rot. "What is this depicting?" Mattie asks, leaning forward and lifting his free hand—

The trio enters a larger chamber more than twenty by twenty feet. A tapestry hangs on the eastern wall, faded with age but surprisingly intact and apparently untouched by mildew or rot. "What is this depicting?" Mattie asks, leaning forward and lifting his free hand—

"No! Don't touch th—"

But Brother Jasyn's warning it too late. Matthias' hand makes contact with the tapestry and there is movement in the chamber's northeastern corner as a humanoid skeleton lunges upright from where it had been concealed beneath the knee-deep water. A jewel set into its skull burns with sapphire light as it jerks forward to close the distance and attack the tomb interlopers.

There is a 20% base (plus 10% cumulative) chance per round that Brother Jasyn will realize the nature of this particular type of undead. Aury has a 10% base (plus 5% cumulative) chance per round of the same realization.

"I've got this," Aury says, lifting his mace and taking a sloshing step forward in his hip-waders. His first swing (melee to-hit) misses, but on the backswing he connects (Fray Die) and then Mattie's wave of eldritch energy impacts (Fray Die) it from the side, shattering the skeleton, which collapses.

"Well, that was easy enough," Mattie observes and he moves back toward the tapestry to resume inspecting it by the light shed by the tip of his staff. "Hmm, this appears to be a depiction of some sort of necromantic ritua—"

The skull of the skeleton pops back up above the dark water, the red jewel in its forehead still burning brightly. A second later, the rest of the skeleton rises, and Aury groans, "Crap, there's two of them." He readies his mace once again. The scenario plays itself out again. This time, Aury's mace shatters the skeleton with a pair of blows.

"See if you can find the skull," Brother Jasyn suggests. "That gem looked valuable. I'll check down this hallway," he says, gesturing to the west. The dungeoneer begins sloshing that direction, checking each step ahead of him with a long stick, hoping to detect and floor traps.

Up pops another skeleton out of the water. Aury sighs, "I wonder how many of them there are..."

The skeleton rakes claws at Aury. Fortunately, his scale armor protects him. In a conversational tone Matthias comments matter-of-factly, "It's the same skeleton, the same one we've put down twice already. It keeps reconstituting itself."

"Oomph!" Aury grunts as the skeleton lands a hard blow and the cleric struggles momentarily to regain his balance. He lifts his mace again, "Great! How do I destroy it?"

"Beats me," Mattie answers honestly. "Do you need my help?"

"Try to destroy the gem in its skull..." Brother Jasyn's suggestion echoes to you from down the western passage.

 The battle continues for several long seconds before Aury manages to land a solid blow on the skeleton's forehead and the gem embedded there, and the skeleton instantly falls apart.

"Ooh, did you shatter the gem, or just knock it off the skull?" asks the mage, bringing the light of his staff nearer.

"I don't know," Aury says, irritably. "It happened fast, and there are shadows, and—"

"Well, feel around..." Mattie encourages, gesturing to the water. "See if you can find the gem. It may be valuable!"

"I'm not reaching around under there! There could be ... parasites! Disease! Or, or more skeletons. I don't exactly want to lose fingers to a submerged skull."

"Oh for Petrarkan's Sake, I'll search myself..." says Mattie, rolling his eyes. He pushes up the sleeve of his right arm and plunges his hand beneath the fetid water, grimacing. Aury entertains the idea of spooking his fellow Seeker, but doesn't want to arouse the dungeoneer's ire. The older man to the west feels strongly about Delve Discipline.

"Aha!" Mattie exclaims, standing with a large fragment of sapphire in hand. "The gem was shattered but even this fragment is worth a fair amount."

"Was the door trapped?" Aury asks, as he and Mattie enter the ten by fifteen foot second chamber. Even with the double illumination of Brother Jasyn's torch and Mattie's staff, it's apparent that the blue-green lichen adorning the walls and ceiling of this chamber is phosphorescent.

"Yes, poison needle," brother Jasyn answers. "And it actually got me. I must be getting rusty."

"Aury swings around in concern. "Do you need an antidote? I bought the best I could afford from Athelbyn."

"Nah, I'm okay," the guide assures the young cleric. "I've built up a lifetime of resistance. Plus, there's no telling how many decades old the poison is. It's potency has undoubtedly diminished with the passing years."

Mattie moves deeper into the room, studying the walls. When his eyes alight upon a neshralk, he moves toward it purposefully. "Try not to touch anything until I've had a chance to look at it first," Brother Jasyn warns, and then he resumes probing the perimeter of the room with stick.

The water in this chamber only comes up to mid-calf, thanks to a riser at the door to this chamber. "What are you searching for?" Aury asks the man.

"Traps. There could be pit traps, animal traps, hidden glyphs."

"This neshralk radiates magic," Mattie says. "Care to check it for traps? I want to try something."

"Uh-oh," Aury says.

Mattie just rolls his eyes, then steps aside to make room for Brother Jasyn. "Looks untrapped," says the guide. "You can go ahead and handle it."

"You first," Mattie returns. "Just in case you're wrong."

"Oh, I see!" sneers the guide. "I'm not hired solely for my expertise. You also want me to be your canary in a coal mine, your ten-foot pole, eh? Sure, I'll play Trapspringer. It'll run you fifty royals each time."

"All right, all right. Calm yourself," Matthias rejoins, and as Brother Jasyn huffs back to resume his perimeter checking, the mage winks at his burly fellow Seeker.

Matthias reaches out and gingerly touches the neshralk. The waxy figure is about six inches in height and isn't very detailed — thought it is recognizable as a man. A wick comes out of the head.

The mage picks up the neshralk and reads an inscription, bringing his extensive training as a linguist to bear: "'I light the way into eternity.' It's in a Cumerian dialect, which would suggest this funerary figure is somewhere between two-hundred fifty and three hundred years old."

Brother Jasyn, having finished his prodding about with his stick, steps up next to Matthias. "Probably worth a few royals to a collector."

Mattie turns it over in hands a few more times, studying it from different angles. "True. And, who knows? It might be enchanted." The scholar-mage wraps the figure in a cloth and secures it in his pack for better identification later, back at the Chapterhouse.

"Given the funerary figure, this is probably the antechamber to a burial chamber. The Cumerians held their ancestors and their dead deeply sacred," the guide explains, "so if this is a Cumerian barrow, I would expect to find this next chamber well-guarded." He squats before the closed, brass-plated wooden door to the next chamber.

"What are you doing now?" Aury asks their guide.

"Checking for air movement," Brother Jasyn answers. "Make a note of it: when you're in a dungeon-like setting, if you can feel any air movement coming from beneath a door or portal, chances are good that whatever area beyond the door is occupied or frequented by living creatures."

"Because they seek out fresh air, and because air movement can also indicate you're near an exit to the surface," Mattie adds.

Brother Jason glances up at the scholar-mage. "There may be hope for you yet," he says, grinning. He then places his palms about an inch from a brass plate that adorns the door, explaining, "And now I'm sensing for any hint of a dweomer and also letting my dungeoneer's sixth sense probe beyond the door and into the next chamber. I'm sensing for traps on the door, and hazards in the room beyond."

"And?" Aury prompts.

"No traps on the door, but it's swollen with moisture and will be hard to open."

"Fascinating," Mattie comments, and there is no trace of sarcasm in his voice. "I may have to apprentice myself to you if we're going to be doing a lot of tomb-raiding."

"An apprenticeship would run you a hundred royals a month, but that includes me providing meals, any needed healing, and incidentals," Brother Jasyn responds, focused on the door. "And it's 'tomb robbing', not 'raiding'. You raid the living, not the dead."

"Well then, my profuse apologies to the dead. Perhaps they'll be willing to excu—" Mattie's rejoinder is interrupted by Brother Jasyn's quickly raised right hand. After a few more quiet seconds, he stands, knees popping, and addresses the younger Seekers more quietly than before. "There's a significant threat beyond this door."

Aury pulls his mace from his belt, but maintains some skepticism about how much of Brother Jason's performance reflects real insight and how much may just be grandstanding.

"Care to do the honors, Aury?" Matthias asks.

"Sure. Step aside and weapons ready, please," answers the cleric before throwing his left shoulder and full weight against the door. There is the loud grate of his scale mail against the bronze plating, a second shouldering of the door, and it gives way and our trio is through the doorway in a hurry, Aury leading the way with mace held high, Matthias bringing up the rear and his staff's illumination adding to that provided by Brother Jasyn's torch.

Aury sustains 3 damage from a deadfall trap as a heavy rock falls on him. He grunts in pain but hurriedly moves on into the chamber to make room for his comrades. On a stone bier reposes a skeleton, still wearing a suit of what once must have been a nice masterwork suit of chained mail but is now rusting, the underlying leather mouldered. There isn't time to study it because a wood golem strides forward from where it has stood silent watch for untold decades, and battle is joined!

Party Info Table

The small chamber is crowded: with the stone bier in its center, there is barely adequate room for the three tomb robbers and the wood golem. Consequently, only Aury is close enough to attack the golem and be attacked in return in the first round of combat.

In round 1, both Aury's regular melee attack and his Fray Die attack inflict damage, but it's clear that the golem has resistance to bludgeoning damage. Even after three rounds, and with Mattie layering on damage from his Fray Die, the golem is still up. Still standing adjacent to the chamber's door and hallway eastward, Brother Jasyn cleans under his fingernails with a small knife and reminds the Seekers, "No area of effect spells, please. The area is too constrained."

In round 4, Aury only delivers a glancing blow, but then his backhand swing cracks bark and pith and another eldritch bolt from Matthias strikes the golem on its other side. "We don't have any area effect spells — yet, at least," Matthias informs their guide. "But thanks for the reminder, and please don't over-exert yourself, Brother Jasyn!" The golem slams Aury and the cleric bounces off the crypt wall, partially goes down, but then rights himself. He's now at 12/17 HP.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," Brother Jason replies drolly. "Do you need me to step in and assist?"

"No! We've ... got (ugh!) ... this!" supplies Aury. But the cleric not only misses with an overcommitted swing, but also loses his grip on his weapon, and his mace goes skittering along, disappearing beneath a few inches of water, somewhere within the golem's 5'-space. "Petrarkian's Poxed Privates!" the cleric swears. The golem, perhaps sensing its advantage, attempts to put Aury out of the fight, but Matthias' well-timed eldritch bolt causes it to miss.

"A little relief, please?" Aury asks, backing away. "I'm on it!" shouts Matthias as he comes bounding over the stone bier, upsetting the skeleton's repose and nearly getting tripped up in its rib cage. But he manages to land a heavy blow on the golem, and the construct goes down. Thanks to the magical damage from several of Matthias' Fray Die attacks, the golem won't be reconstituting itself.

"Well, well, well..." says Brother Jasyn, now clapping his hands slowly in applause. "Good show, you two! I believe I may make true tomb robbers of you yet! Let's see what we can find, shall we?" And the trio begins searching through the skeletal remains, beneath the shallow water in the room, on and surrounding the defeated wood golem.

Treasure collected from chamber #4 of 1st crypt plundered in Barrowmaze 23 Oct. 204 PR (the characters don't yet know information shown in italics):

Rusty chainmail atop mouldering leather from chamber 4
Skeleton's electrum scarab on a leather thong (Aury) from chamber 4 skeleton (25 GP)
Silver necklace with pearls on skeleton in chamber 4 (Matthias, 400 GP)
Gold ring with fire opal on golem in chamber 4 (Matthias, min 400 GP) ring of fire resistance
Skeleton's platinum necklace in chamber 4 (Aury, 300 GP)
Skeleton's electrum ring in chamber 4 (Matthias, min 300 GP) ring of protection +1
4 SP, 6 GP, 12 Shiny cuprous from chamber 4 (Mattie)

As the trio finishes searching the room, Brother Jasyn accepts another torch from Matthias and manages to light it from his existing torch before it dies.

A short time later, they find themselves back in the original chamber. "Do you see anything else you want to investigate before we leave?" asks Brother Jasyn.

"Leave?" Aury asks. "It couldn't be much past high-sun."

"Correct," Mattie agrees, "but it'll take time to get out of the crypt, then a few hours to make it back to Helix."

"And believe me," adds Brother Jasyn, "you don't want to be caught in the Barrowmoor after nightfall."

Aury shrugs. "Fine. We're ready to leave, then."

"You sure about that?" asks Brother Jasyn.

"Look," Aury says, hands on hips, "I'm dirty. I'm tired. And I think I may have a couple of cracked ribs, so why don't you tell us what we're missing here."

"Follow me, please," says the guide, and the three traipse through the knee-deep water of the entry chamber to the northern wall. "See these cracks, and how the stones don't line up the same way they do elsewhere in the chamber? This was a secret door, but settling over the untold years have left tell-tale signs for the practiced eye."

Ah," says Mattie. "So, there's another chamber beyond, then."

By the time the trio clears enough stone to get past the no longer functional door, and by the time they defeat the ten skeletons that rise from their burial alcoves, twenty minutes have elapsed. And by the time the three manage to climb the rope and exit the crypt, another fifteen minutes have passed.

Treasure collected from chamber #3 of 1st crypt plundered in Barrowmaze 23 Oct. 204 PR (the characters don't yet know information shown in italics):

cloak of protection +1
110 SP, 120 GP, 90 Shiny cuprous

Standing outside the crypt, Aury and Mattie grin at each other while Brother Jasyn goes about untying and the rolling the length of rope the three used to descend earlier into the crypt. He rejoins them and adds his smile to theirs. "Nicely done, gents. What do say we get back to Helix, clean up, and then I'll treat you both to a meal at The Brazen Strumpet?" Mattie claps the older guide on the shoulder. "Let's do it!"

Continue the story...

or

The Earth, It Cares Not!

Brother Jasyn and the Lizardmen

Previous story post...

1,681 words

The trio finds themselves motionless in the shadows under a black spruce an hour later, as a hunting party of lizardmen one dozen strong draws closer.

TABLE 1

Our heroes grin at one another. A dozen lizardmen versus the three of them, with the element of surprise? It is a short fight, taking well under a full minute. Both heroes and their guide are injured but not in mortal danger as they mop up.

Before they go about the methodical task of looting the lizardmen corpses, Aury uses a Risk Die to perform a Healing Surge. Brother Jasyn and Mattie each regain 1 point, bringing them to 23/28 and 16/16 HP, respectively. Aury is fully healed. Aury still has 3 Heroic Deed uses remaining today.

Treasure collected from a dozen lizardmen corpses: 26 GP, 75 SP, 80 CP (75 shiny & 5 red).

Total experience points from the fight: 1,235, divided among a total of ten character levels (Brother Jasyn's six overall levels, and the Seekers' two apiece). Brother Jasyn receives 60% of the experience — 741 XP; each Seeker receives 20% — 247 XP.

Noting Brother Jasyn's pronounced limp, Aury sloshes across the uneven, swampy terrain, stepping over a floating lizardman corpse to reach the dungeoneer. The cleric bows his head for a moment and then looks up and smiles at the relieved expression on their guide's face.

"Well," Mattie says with cheerfulness that is perhaps ironic given the slaughter in which he has just participated, "it looks like we collected enough chroma that we can already pay you for your injuries and fighting."

"Just hold onto it for now," Brother Jasyn replies. "I'd rather not be weighted down with additional coinage if I need to move swiftly later today. Better for me if the monsters catch one of you two slower blokes," he quips. Mattie glances at Aury and grins.

TABLE 2

The trio proceeds west. Brother Jasyn at least acts like he knows where he's going, and so the Seekers trust that he does. "Tell us about this barrow's maze that we've heard so much about from the gob—"

Matthias interrupts Aury with a warning squeeze on the bigger man's shoulder, and the cleric adroitly adapts what he was about to say, midsentence: "—from the gobs of adventurers that were always coming and going from Helix when Mattie and I were kids."

"Barrowmaze, not barrow's maze," Brother Jasyn corrects. "Ages ago, an unknown people settled near a great moor. They built a village and, following their custom, constructed burial mounds and underground tombs to lay their dead to rest. Some were buried in simple alcoves, while others were entombed behind sealed doors and guarded by deadly traps.

"Time passed and the settlement grew — and the underground passages became maze-like in their complexity," Brother Jasyn continues. "This went on a long time, and eventually that civilization fell. And now we have these ancient remains, the Barrowmaze. That about sums it up." He pokes at a hump of vegetation, and a water mocassin darts away, winding through the water to the south.

"No, no. We want all the details you can muster. Please, continue..." voices Matthias, his scholar's mind now entranced despite himself.

"Well, all right," Brother Jasyn says, affecting a mild disinterest. "This continued for centuries," explains Brother Jasyn, "until the cult of Nergal, God of the Underworld, appeared. Nergal received a vision. He knew his sons, Orcus and Set, desired his throne and wanted to depose him as Lord of the Underworld. Nergal commanded his evil cultists to drive the villagers off and occupy the labyrinth. He further commanded them to take his most powerful unholy relic, The Tablet of Chaos, and entomb it behind many wards and traps." After a few seconds, Brother Jasyn adds. "That's probably enough for now."

A good ten heart beats pass and then Matthias reluctantly says, "Please, continue. You could be killed and then we'd never get the rest of the story from you."

Brother Jasyn stops and turns theatrically in the knee-deep marsh water, hands on hips and a scowl on his face. "Thanks so much for the vote of confidence!"

But in short order he resumes both his forward progress and his story. "In time, the vision of Nergal came to pass and his sons overthrew him. The cult of Nergal, now leaderless, fragmented and abandoned the burial maze. Knowledge of The Tablet was lost."

"What then became of Nergal's two sons, and of the Tablet?" asks Matthias.

Brother Jasyn turns with a perplexed look. "I just told you, knowledge of the Tablet was lost." But seeing the mage's crestfallen expression, he resumes his guiding and storytelling. "Well," Brother Jasyn continues, "once they deposed their father, Orcus and Set turned on each other and a civil war for control of the Underworld began." He lets the silence linger for ten more sluggish yards through the marsh, then twenty.

Now it's Aury who prods him. "You must know more, even if just rumors."

"A stalemate ensued with each side hoping to tip the balance of power in their favour. Orcus gathered his acolytes. He ordered them to enter the maze and find The Tablet of Chaos. Set countered by sending his powerful necromancers after the artifact. Both groups were commanded to find The Tablet of Chaos or else destroy the opposing faction.

"Nergal's masterstroke revealed itself in the time that followed. By hiding The Tablet in the maze, Nergal ensured that neither of his sons could completely take his place as Lord of Death and the Underworld. Moreover, The Tablet of Chaos, secreted in a vast labyrinthine burial site, has undoubtedly defiled the sanctity of the crypts over the millenia.

"The curious and foolhardy have plumbed the depths to find answers. Most of them never returned, predictably. It makes one wonder how foolish we three are being in this endeavor, does it not?" Aury and Mattie look at each other. The older man is picking and teasing, but no doubt there is wisdom in his question.

Midmorning finds our trio standing on a slight rise in the marsh and gazing south. "There you have it — the Barrow Moor. Dozens of acres of tombs, but not all are visible from the surface," remarks Brother Jasyn.

"What are 'acres'?" Aury asks.

"An ancient term," answers Matthias. "It is an area of land about the size of our village garden back in Helix." The three do a quick but thorough equipment check, and then again survey the nearest visible tombs through a mist that has thickened over the last several hundred yards and now limits visibility to about fifteen paces.

"Well, let's see what we can find, shall we?" Brother Jasyn suggests, and begins describing a grid pattern in his movements. Here, the marsh waters have receded, and the guide stops periodically and thwacks the ground hard with a boot heel.

"Don't get separated. This fog makes us vulnerable, so stay tight," he cautions. Aury and Mattie begin emulating their guide, trying to discern a spot where the ground gives little, where perhaps there is stone or other barrier not far beneath the surface.

The next few minutes are spent carefully making way through the thick mist. The silence of the marsh is punctuated intermittently by the thud of a booted foot testing the ground. That silence is soon broken by friction noise as something massive and moving quickly comes into our party's midst — Brother Jasyn, partially obscured by the intervening mist, cries out in pain, but his cry is cut off prematurely. "Fornost's five fingers!" Aury curses, as he trips over a stone while trying to close ranks with his fellows.

He lunges upright and forward and catches sight of Brother Jasyn just as Mattie's silhouette comes forth from the concealing mists and the mage exclaims in alarm, "Krike!"

A massive constrictor snake has looped itself thrice around Brother Jasyn, whose shirt is bloodied and torn where he's been bitten, and there is a loud snap of cracking ribs as the snake constricts him (18/28 HP).

Aury's eldritch bolt pulps snake flesh and the constrictor spasms, then it jerks again as two more such bolts strike in quick succession from Mattie on the opposite side of the giant constrictor.

With concentration, Aury directs yet another bolt (i.e., Fray Die). Four serious injuries in the space of a few seconds cause the constrictor to rethink it's dinner plan, and it uncoils from around Brother Jasyn and quickly undulates away into the marsh mists. Our two heroes couldn't keep pace with it even if visibility were perfect, and they have more a pressing concern: their guide!

"Belt... pouch..." Jasyn wheezes painfully, struggling to get the words out. "Healing ... potion." Shortly, six points of injury are healed as the Seekers feed Brother Jasyn one of his only two potions of cure serious wounds. (24/28 HP).

Aury gives Jasyn's shoulder a squeeze. "It's a good thing you told us to stay close together, or we might not have been able to intervene in time."

Brother Jasyn grins painfully. "Of course, just my typical, efficient expertise. Let's see if we can get into one of these crypts. I think," he directs a look at Aury, "that if you test the ground here you'll find something interesting."

Aury gives Brother Jasyn a perplexed look, but removes the sledgehammer from where it's tied across his pack. Raising it, he brings it down hard. His brow creases and he delivers another blow to the same spot, spattering dirt and ... some rock fragments. "Either I hit a rock, or we've found one of the stone crypt entry portals." A little digging by Aury and Mattie with shovels proves that the latter is the case.

"How'd you know?" Mattie asks their guide.

Brother Jasyn leverages himself to his feet, grimacing and holding his sides. "We're in the vicinity of a dungeon. When that happens, I have the benefit of what you might call ... a sixth sense about things."

Continue the story...

or

The Earth, It Cares Not!

Chief Hurg Imparts a Quest

Previous story post...

1,705 words

That night in Camp Scarface is not the undiluted celebration of the defeat of the frogling / lizardmen warband it should have been. The undead attack of the afternoon has left a dozen goblins, one-fifth of the tribe's population, dead.

As is their wont, the surviving goblins have posed their dead in various ways using rope where necessary — standing guard, apparently sharpening a blade, tending a stewpot. Per traditional goblinoid belief, the recently departed goblin spirits might be tricked, fooled into returning and reanimating the slain bodies.

The irony of that belief when juxtaposed with the necromantic energy that actually animated the attacking skeletons is not lost on Aury, and he sits staring passively into the flames of a fire, sipping cuemess. Additional bonfires have been lit around the camp's periphery, and more torches than usual laid close by.

"Why do goblins who have infravision keep torches?"

His question may be rhetorical, but Aury's friend answers. "Not so that they can see better at night. Torches are a show of wealth among goblinkind. Their use at night is either to make predators cautiously keep their distance, or else to honor guests. In our particular case, probably both."

Out of deference for the tribe's losses, the Seekers have seated themselves one fire aware from that of the chief and shaman, far enough away to show deference, but close enough not to appear disdainful of the honor done them by the chief's hospitality.

Chief Hurg is busy at his fire, taking reports from scouts, giving orders. As the evening wears on, warriors come and go from the camp. Several of them stop by the Seekers' fire from time to time, sharing meat and drink with you, a non-verbal acknowledgement of your prowess in the afternoon's combat. Occasionally, Matthias makes comments in brief, guttural goblin phrasing that has Aury hiding a smile.

Late that night, as a group of goblins comes off watch around the camp's perimeter and surround a fire vacated by those relieving them, Chief Hurg comes to your fire. "Thank you for your help today. I hear that you fought well this afternoon. My thanks. Our losses would have been greater if you weren't here."

"It was our honor," says Aury, garnering an appreciative look from his friend.

Hurg glances off to his left, where Shaman Spiritspeaker sits at the chief's fire. The old, wizened goblin returns the chief's gaze, then nods once, decisively. Chief Scarface sighs as he turns back to you. "Gursk and I must trust you with special knowledge, knowledge that is weighty and ... " — he searches for the Common word he needs — "discouraging."

Matthias and Aury come to their feet as one, the former leaning forward in concerned alarm. "Of course, chief. I am your nabblat. What is it?"

"The ur'krik," says the chief, using the general goblin word for undead and other abominations. "Gursk foresaw their coming in his visions. He has seen they will come five times, and on the fifth, the tribe will be ... zhou'kast!" Decimated.

Aury has the graciousness to keep his expression neutral despite his own religious beliefs. Matthias, waits three heartbeats, then asks, "How many of the five have happened already?"

Chief Hurg grimaces. "This afternoon's attack by the urkrik was the second. They came four moons ago for the first time. Gursk says there will be more moons between each visit, but that all five will come by Planting. Gursk says they come from the Barrowmaze," the chief informs you, referring to the acres upon acres of submerged crypts and tombs to be found not many miles to the southwest of Camp Scarface, in the bog.

Aury sees the raw anguish flicker across Matthias' firelight-shadowed profile and feels a welling on compassion. "We will investigate!" he declares, and notes Matthias' relief that he won't have to wheedle his friend.

"Indeed," the mage agrees, "and forthwith! But we must return to Helix first to supply ourselves for an extended stay in the bog. We can be there by midnight, supply ourselves, and head out with the morning light."

Hurg sighs with a measure of relief. "We are not a large or wealthy tribe, but our hunting parties occasionally come across slain adventurers on their patrols, sometimes even before they've been picked clean." He hands over a small bag that clinks with the sound of coins. "There's almost one-hundred and fifty chroma there—"

"—No, no, no, no," Mattie demurs until Chief Scarface holds up a palm vertically to halt the mage. "I'll book no argument," the chief responds, and Aury can't determine if the goblin intentionally used the wrong word to be cute or if it was an honest mistake. "No," continues the chief, "you will take this. For the times you've brought us village medicines at no cost, if for nothing else."

Oct. 23, 204 PR, Sunrise

Our two Seekers are as good as their word. As the sun comes up the following morning, they strike out with a guide, Brother Jasyn. Our heroes set forth from Helix having each gained a level. Aury is now a Cleric1/Mage1 with 17 HP and AC 5; Matthias is now a Mage1/Fighter1 with 16 HP and AC 8. They each enjoy a +1 base attack bonus.

DM Fiat: Magic-Users can use up to medium armor. They cannot cast (usually) if using a shield, as many spells require both hands for somatic components. This means Matthias is definitely looking for a good set of armor. Funds simply ran out after Aury's armor upgrade to scale. Matthias's Heroic Deeds known are now: Arcane Deflection, Effortless Dodge, Eldritch Swap, Manipulate Fate, and Oh Look — Torches! And given his high Intelligence, Mattie can now cast four 1st level spells daily.

Aury carries no coins or treasures. Matthias carries 3 gp he gained along with some torches found the evening of 22 Oct. 204 PR. Note that while Aury and Jasyn have two torches each, Matthias is currently carrying five. He also has an enhancement to his mage staff that allows one end to shed light as a torch at the user's will. Total party carried wealth/treasure: 3 GP (Mattie), n/a (Aury), 8 cp (Jasyn).

Jasyn is an expert hireling tomb robber specializing in discovery of secret doors and traps, lockpicking, and disarming traps. His fee is three chroma per day, plus an equal share in treasure found. Technically a Dungeoneer, the hireling Jasyn has 6 HD as an expert Thief 3/Dungeoneer 3:

Jasyn of Rosenberg
STR 9 INT 11 WIS 12 DEX 17 CON 16 CHA 15

HP growth: 2+2 (1st), 1+2 (2nd), 1+2(3rd), 2+2(4th), 1+2(5th), 1+2(6th) ➸ 20,
    then add +8 HP bonus @ Dungeoneer 3
Max Health: 28 HP

The three walk along, only about fifteen minutes from Camp Scarface. "Now remember," says Brother Jasyn, "it's only three chroma per day if I remain uninjured and am not called upon to engage in combat," the Dungeoneer reminds you, not for the first time.

"Yes, we are agreed," answers Matthias. "If you receive any injury on a given day, we will pay an additional seven chroma for that day."

"Correct," answers Brother Jasyn. "And if I'm called upon to risk myself in combat, either on your behalf or out of self-preservation, then—"

"Then we'll pay an additional seven chroma. Therefore, on a day in which you must fight and get injured, that—"

"—That day's total fee then becomes seventeen chroma, yes!" rejoins Brother Jasyn emphatically, and he again takes the lead by a couple of paces. Behind his back, Aury and Mattie grin at one another.

"Good form would suggest you simply make that an even two royals on such an unfortunate day," Jasyn says over his shoulder as he navigates around a fallen tree, "but I of course understand that the Chapterhouse has limited funds."

Aury glances at Matthias who shakes his head in the negative. There is no need, at this point at least, to disabuse Brother Jasyn of his notion that the Chapterhouse of the Seekers is bankrolling this expedition.

Half an hour later, our three intrepid explorers are ten minutes past Camp Scarface, and are beginning to see the utility of the pairs of hip waders that Brother Jasyn insisted upon. The going has already slowed down, as bog water begins to suck at each ankle-deep step. Soon, however, the annoying, muddy squelching noise will give way to the rhythmic swishing of hip wader-covered legs dragging through the constant resistance of knee-deep water.

"Now remember, you two," Jasyn reminds the Seekers — who continue to let the thin man lead them; after all, that is what they're paying for — "most snakes within fifty leagues of the Moorwash are poisonous, so keep your distance. There are also giant snakes in the area. Carnivorous, giant snakes." He turns, hands on hip-waders and gives both Seekers a penetrating look. "If we encounter one, follow my lead, carefully..."

"Uh, absolutely," Aury replies.

"Completely, yes, of course," Mattie agrees.

Brother Jasyn stares at the two hard for another few seconds before turning and resuming his guide duties.

After a few moments, Aury hazards, "Hypothetically, if we did encounter ... say, an Ouroboros—"

"Then you'd do as I just instructed: follow ... my ... lead," the guide says, not bothering to turn around.

"So, if you run away, we should run away, too then," supplies Matthias.

"Why would I run? I could never outrun an ouroboros, especially not in this terrain," Jasyn answers, somewhat exasperatedly.

"But just for argument's sake," Aury says, eyes cut merrily toward Matthias, "let's say we encounter an ouroboros and you do happen to run away..." Aury holds a palm up to forestall the guide as Jasyn whirls around with an offended expression on his face. "No, no, hear me out," Aury placates. "If you did run, and it bit you as you fled, would we owe you seven additional chroma, or would the fact that you left us without the benefit of your experience and deep knowledge of the region's monstrous threats cancel that out?"

It's well over an hour before Brother Jasyn deigns to make further conversation...

Continue the story...