Maze of the Blue Medusa 5E (Inactive)

Game Master TPJ

He woke up. Screaming.

He had the dream again. He could see it...so clearly. A man, scrawled on a canvas, saying words. The words written on the canvas were....

He splashed cold water on his face and dressed quickly, strapping on his thick armor and large sword. He was meeting John the Farmer early.

He strode in to his favorite Tavern, The Sweet Doomed Angel and ordered his normal breakfast of sausage and ale. Halfway into his repast John the Farmer sat across from him, and soon they were joined by another.

"Greetings," John said, his lanky body making the scant barstool seem broad in comparison. "I can not thank you enough, Brother Aterro. The church of Torm has been known to do works of good, but something of this nature--"

Aterro held up a hand for silence. "I give you your farm back not only to restore your property, and not only to punish the clan of goblins that robbed you from it, but because of other...purposes of significance."

"Yes, yes, of course," nodded John, not having any idea what the cleric of Torm was talking about. "So would you--"

Again Aterro held up a hand. Normally he would let the farmer prattle on, as was the man's habit, but on the eve of battle his ability to bear such sufferance grew wane.
He turned to the third man at their table and filled the man's mug from his own pitcher. "Greetings to you, Lord Borak," Aterro said.

This Borak hefted the mug in return and brought the lethern jack to his heavily scarred face. None would call the man pretty, but nor would any look upon him and call him weak. Not only did his face tell of many blades faced and survived, but his half-plate armor bore the look of having lived through many battles, and the wicked blade on his side had taken many lives.

Aterro disliked working with him, or his IronHand mercenary band he lead, but today's task had priority. Coin could buy death, and Lord Borak the Despoiler sold it in bulk.

"Are your IronHands ready?" the cleric of Torm asked.

"Aye. The lads are packed an' strapped an' stoked for a good fight. If there be but a few gobbo brats without steel, we'll charge ye double for th' disappointment."

Aterro washed the last of his sausage down with the last of his ale and stood, the other two men mirroring the movement. The three exited the tavern and Borak left to join his band, each man sitting a-horse and almost salivating at a near future of bloodletting.

Aterro mounted his steed and John his nag and they left the town of Hardwheat behind them.

The sun hung low in the sky when the band finally came to the perimeter of John's farmstead. Everywhere the signs of goblin plunder sprouted. But though it could be said he'd have a poor harvest, the goblins had not infested it so long that all was lost. Yet.

Borak and his IronHands dismounted and formed a battleline, with Aterro taking his place in the center like a stone keep. The cleric motioned for John to stay where he was and the troop stomped ahead, keeping good order, the phalanx maintained with the discipline of professional soldiers.

Their warband was quickly seen by even the laziest of goblins, and the greenskins formed in their thronging horde to meet the humans that came to steal what they had rightfully taken. They orbited their leader, a fat, gross thing named Meatsnacks, and after uttering an inhuman battlecry, charged the line of steel.

In an hour's time every goblin was either dead or fled, and by Aterro's faith in Torm, only one man would not live to see his pay.

Lord Borak shook hands, received the promised coinpurse, and left, as was his way.

John the farmer advanced trembling, unable to comprehend that his family could now return to that which he had thought lost forever.

"What is in here?" Aterro asked after they had entered the pillaged house.

"Eh? That is but the main wall, no door do you see there. What--" His speech was cut off as Aterro's white first of Torm plunged into the wall and knocked a great hole in it, revealing a good sized hollow.

Into this small chamber Aterro entered, heedless of the aeons of dust and cobwebs that had accumulated. In one corner sat a chest, and Aterro flipped open the top. His effort was rewarded with the site of a great pile of poor coins...copper and silver most, and along one side was a flat package, wrapped in silk.

The cleric withdrew the package, took one peak inside to assure himself of it's contents, then tramped off.

"Brother Aterro! Will you not stay? Perhaps a bottle of mine has--"
"You may keep the Treasure of Trancios as compensation. Use it to rebuild your future. But this object I steal. 'Tis too precious to leave lay."

Aterro trudged off.

The painting was called "Bane Resurgent". It listed 100 events that, when all came to pass, were said to lead to a moment when Bane took his vengeance on his one-time murderer Torm.

89 of them had already happened.

Born the only daughter of a small town human farmer and a lowborn elf, Ashlyn was a wild child, always dreaming of a bigger and better life. Most of her adolescence consisted of her father leading groups of friends into the city or forests searching for his runaway daughter. Unable to accept fate, the day she come of age, Ashlyn fled the hamlet she could never call home into the first big city she could find with little more than the clothes on her back and a gemstone necklace heirloom passed from her mother.

Ashlyn loved the big city, but she didn’t love the pain in her empty stomach. She sought hard to find a job, but outside of a few gigs dancing in seedy taverns, and more than enough offers from brothels she always refused, she finally had to leave. Finding a smaller human town, her exotic beauty was finally given a chance to shine. Elves seemed to be a rare commodity in this town, and her half elf features brought in as many customers as her dancing and playing did. Ashlyn wasn’t above flirting with her clientele to earn tips, but any customer who pushed too far was quickly rebuffed by the young sorceress’s budding powers.

Ashlyn one day hopes to open her own theater, a sultry show of music and dancing similar to her own performances. She wants to give young girls like herself the chances she fought so hard for. In that pursuit, she has joined adventuring companies that seem likely to earn coin or more importantly, fame. She wants to make her name known coast to coast so people everywhere will come to her long sought grand opening.

The Sargent clears his throat, blushing deeply, ”Y-yes, I needed, er…well. His password is ’False Chanterelle’ for tonight. You promise no harm will come to him right?”

Ashlyn leans in letting her lips lightly grace the Sargent’s beard, ”What kind of lady do you take me for Sargent?” She slips away letting her hand linger as she makes her way out of the tavern. Ashlyn starts down the street and quickly disappears into the first alley, joining the small group of gathered miscreants. Ashlyn smirks at the gathered men, ”’False Chanterelle’ will disable his alarm spell, you can have anything in there you can carry, as long as the painting makes it back to me.”

The leader nods, ”Ay, and drop it in the morning at The Sage and Shield on fox street. I remember love. You sure you ain’t want no cut?”

Ashlyn shakes her head, ”I’ll see you in the morning. It isn’t safe for a girl alone on the streets this late at night.” Ashlyn turns on her heels making her way home, as her gang makes their way over the fence of Lord Barrowmeres estate.

The next morning, Ashlyn awakes from a restful beauty sleep, proceeding downstairs in her nightdress to find a large portrait wrapped in an unopened paper shielding leaning against the wall of the common room. Ashlyn tears the covering off, seeing her own nude form and frowning deeply. Her rage boils into a tangible spell, her crystal necklace glowing in brilliant sapphire light as the panting begins to burn away. ”I warned you to paint nothing more than I showed you. Hopefully your empty coffers will serve as a sterner reminder.”

"Before me the Queen again yet stands. WHY?! WHY MUST YOU LINGER, WRETCH THIEF! I can-NOT... I cannot let this abide. I..."

Within a gallery of portraits of dreams and nightmares, the spirit of Vehemence stands before the haunting visage of his late wife, the spirit of Holy Tranquility. Their aqcuaintance was but short, for she was a thief, and he was a king. She stole from him his crown, his estate, and even the fire of his soul. In return she gave him her still beating heart, and a quest spoken through dream to come find her, for although she was pernicious, she only longed for his company.

The proportions and hues of the composition none could belie, but the emotions she evokes are unanimous- splendid rest, the swirling of souls' designed harmony, sweet repose, fountains of wellbeing, all to be found in the breast of this Madonna- silent rest unto all, save for the one standing presently before her. Within his arduous hunt he found her, and in the bitter end, he could not overcome himself, and slew her. From this act of thoughtless uxoricide was birthed their post-mortem child: the spirit of Remorse. In that moment, the son cursed the father, and the father now roams endlessly, searching for a silent acquittal, yearning for the wife whose heart he once owned...

"...TO WHOM DO THESE HALLS BELONG? WHO HAS FOUND IT WISE TO DOCUMENT MY SHAME? YOU SHAN'T BE LEFT UNTOUCHED, SINNER. I WILL BURN DOWN YOUR HALLS, AND STEAL FROM YOU YOUR MOCKING GLORIES. FOOL SWINE!

Now you will remember... You will remember only justice. IN FIRE!"

...

False Chanterelle.