My Unique Experiences in Carrion Crown


Carrion Crown


I've had a mostly-steady running group since high school, playing several campaigns with my DM in Greyhawk, Eberron, and Pathfinder's Golarion. Age of Worms was our bread and butter--he ran it once when we were young, once during his bachelor's, and once overseas as part of a study abroad program. After all of it, he brought players from all three campaigns back together to try and finish out the campaign, once and for all...

...well that didn't happen. Eventually, we started to enjoy Pathfinder and switch over for the rest of our games. He went to teach English in Japan, and we lost touch for a while. I finally had some availability come up, and joined his Carrion Crown campaign through Roll20. I joined during the party's trip to Feldgrau, and what happened after was completely unexpected to everyone, including myself. I'll keep everything in spoiler tags for anyone who doesn't want to know what might happen in their campaign, but for those who have already played through it, here's the tale of Badru, the Moonborn.

Dhampir Male, Short Black Hair, Pale Blue Eyes, Smooth Complexion, 4’5” 55 lbs., 120 yrs.
Strength 10 - Dexterity 13 - Constitution 10 - Intelligence 12 - Wisdom 16 - Charisma 20
Dual-Cursed Oracle (Child/Friendless) - Veiled Illusionist PrC

Part I: Badru's Journal & Introduction:
Badru is a dhampir, birthed by the Whispering Way to serve as a prophet of the Tyrant. After over a century of serving the Way, the whispers he heard began to diverge from common rhetoric, and he was assailed by doubt. Perhaps the people he followed had lost their way, and were no longer aligned with the true whispers. Eventually, his questioning turned into treason. While under Auron Vroode's command, he manipulated events to lure a group of Iomedae adventurers to the cult. It was his only chance at freedom, at life--and he wanted nothing more than to exist.

My first entry, upon awakening, I desire, I require, some measure of comfort, or a realm of sympathetic thought, that might help me make sense of whatever turmoil my mind, or spirit, has thrown over me. I cannot find any such respite from my acquaintances here, nor even my caretakers, for the breach inside me has quite separated them and I. Perhaps, once, I should have called a spare few of them confidants, if not friends, but now, I simply feel manipulated and used to ends I no longer believe in. So many things I find are being hid from me, and for a while now, my dreams and visions have been clearer, but not what I expected. They do not align with the Whispers any longer, no matter how long I deluded myself that I was in fact what my brethren expected me to be. They tell me I have inherited the Way, that only I can listen and hear, and that the Whispers they strain so hard to receive and fulfill will be loud and vibrant for myself, like many of the Way’s most prominent. If only they heard, what I have heard, I doubt they would believe such assumptions. I doubt I would even be left alive, for I have begun to not only question our purpose, but have actively begun subverting it where I might. We have been cruel, and destructive, and I am bewildered that it took so, so long for my eyes to be opened thus.

I have lied to them. I have kept secret my most devastating of visions, and it has led them to err, make mistakes, and leave trails they might be followed by. I can only hope that, when my visions come to pass, I will be able to escape unseen and not fall with them. I believe I would deserve it, knowing what I am and what atrocities I have committed, but my future remains as uncertain as the false prophecies I spew to satisfy my brethren. I suppose ambiguity is my lot, and perhaps I shall thrive in it, for now it is the only real tool at my disposal. I hear more questions, and must assure away more doubts and fears, now that I have realized myself. I know my ruse is temporary, and that I cannot hide it forever. Even these words I shall have to hide away, somewhere in my room, lest prying eyes request it. I am to give my brethren anything they ask of me, for no possessions are my own, nor even my will. There shall, hopefully, be more thoughts to share, for I have enjoyed this private admission of my mental stewings. I am expected to offer another prophecy tonight, regarding the werewolf pack which prowls and hunts for us, and a group of Iomedae zealots that have also been searching for us. I shall try to write more after the seance tonight.

Second entry, after the gathering, I knelt down and meditated, reached the furthest I might for answers and guidance. With the fog set in, and the wolves interrupting our rituals and our brethren dying, I smelled a heavy fear through the room. I felt a teasing presence make a mockery of my questions, and saw distorted apparitions playing a macabre scene. We are prey, hunted by more than hungry beasts. We are not sport, hunted leisurely. We are sought for our blood, and we are cornered and trapped. We are not trapped by our hunters, no. We have trapped ourselves, isolated from our allies and bound by our duties. I watched straw figures of my brethren fall, burst open or burn, and a darkness with white teeth enveloped me. Escaping the visions, I was met with stark faces and questioning eyes. I rose from my knees and told them, “It will be difficult, but we will persevere. We will slay beasts, and send some running scared. We will deal with the Iomedae servants once and for all, and be rid of them.” I feigned weakness and fell back to my knees. My words gave them the hope they wanted. Whatever will happen, we shall all suffer for it.

Third entry, as the moon falls, I have awoken from dreams both unexpected and turbulent, and so I write again to soothe my battered nerves. After a brief respite, Auron came to speak with me before I fully retired. He questioned my vision, and it’s clear he doubts my sincerity. Professing exhaustion and disorientation from the ordeal has bought me some time, but I can’t guess as to how much. I can only hope that I am not a priority to be dealt with immediately. I find myself dwelling on what anguish I’ve caused some of my brethren, and each day it becomes harder to hide what I feel. The dreams, too, terrified me. It was as if something had crept inside me, and I was being warned of its cunning and treachery. Perhaps my conscience is growing, and these dreams are telling me to end this charade and face Auron directly. I just might have the strength to do so, now that I am older. I know better than to let a warning go unheeded, so...

...the quill mark drags down and ink speckles the bottom half of the page as though the writer stopped abruptly--violently. One of Vroode’s investigators had entered Badru’s chambers during the night to confront the oracle, but found him asleep earlier than expected. The cultist started searching through Badru’s belongings to find any evidence that may make further interrogations much easier. When Badru woke from the dreams, they were actually a warning about the investigator, who hid away and watched Badru for a time. Once Badru begun writing, the investigator crept up behind and started reading over his shoulder. It wasn’t difficult to detain the child-sized prophet, and drag both him and the wealth of evidence before Vroode.

It was decided that, as punishment for his treachery, Badru would be chained, and watched, and would stand among his former brethren on the battlefield, to live if they lived, or die if they failed. Vroode promised that Badru’s erroneous thoughts may be forgiven, as much of an asset he had been before, and having been born unto the cult so many years ago, but Badru saw no truth behind his commander’s eyes. He silently nodded and felt the shackles clamp down on his legs and arms.

As the party engaged Vroode's men beneath the Feldgrau tower, they saw Badru looming above the others, shackled but disguised as a large, cloaked man. Using Clarion Call, he boomed a weighty threat at the party, who mistook him immediately for Vroode himself. While the party fought, they struggled against the ghouls and wights, and when the barbarian fell to paralysis, Badru revealed himself, took to the skies on inky black wings, and blasted into the wights with holy energy.

Part II: The Journey to Illmarsh:
Badru's story was meant to be one of redemption. He began as an evil character, twisted by his life-long servitude, but one that genuinely craved to change. He became nearly obsessed with life and living things, wanting nothing more than to know them and exist among them. He thought that, even if undeath is a perfect existence, the notion of all things dying meant that, through spite and war, the Whispering Way was flawed as a faith--that only one would remain, at least in power and sentient.

As a player, I expected to join this character with a group of goodly adventurers--one a rogue champion of Desna, the others a brutish barbarian-friend and a paladin of Iomedae. As an oracle, I took every augury I could, every bit of guidance I could get--because the party, my DM had told me, was very, very lost. And so, as a relatively non-combat-ready PC, I did everything I could to warn them against bad ideas, uncover secrets that would gain them advantages, and even had to stop some in-party bickering from time to time.

Badru's warnings were repeatedly ignored, his intentions constantly questioned, and his input frequently disrespected. Some of this could be expected, given his past and relatively alien mindset, but everything came to a head in Illmarsh.

Our rogue's name is Rydel, and he was one of the first to investigate the Whispering Way. When his comrades fell, he pressed on, and he still harbors a bitter hatred for what has all happened. Believing the others' deaths were on his head, because he couldn't convince them to do what he told them, he slowly grew into himself and became increasingly separate from the group. He struggled to maintain a leadership role, but as events unfolded, more and more accidents were made.

The culmination of failures was interrupting the congregation in Illmarsh. It resulted in the scion of Dagon appearing within the church, immediately slaughtering over 3/4ths the town's population with its aura alone. We destroyed it, but at an extremely heavy cost. Badru was, literally, the only one who did anything to help alleviate the pains those locals who were suffering. Rydel wanted to take what information we got and continue our hunt, the barbarian had helped instigate the tragedy and was satisfied with its outcome, and the paladin felt a need to follow Rydel and stop the greater evil paramount to anything else. By this time, a intellectual-above-all-else wizard has also joined with us, and all he wanted to do was ask the faith-obliterated priest about the "monster" we had slain...

Badru grew quickly disenchanted.

The closer to Illmarsh we'd traveled, the more the whispers spoke,
and the clearer they were. As time progressed, it became quite clear that it was no ancient and deathly spirit that guided Badru,
but the Watcher herself, which this town's people feared. Rydel grew more and more concerned with Badru's reliability, but there was nothing that could be done. "She has told me things, and I tell them to you. I do not wish you harm--you are the ones who saved me from my fate at Auron Vroode's hands. I tell you her warnings and her advice, but have not once commanded you. You have forfeited her knowledge, and it has cost you dearly. How, after all of this,
can you still not trust me?"

Part III: Beneath Illmarsh:
For those of you who know what lies in wait beneath the waves, deep in the slom caves and taking over their homes, you can imagine our party was not well-prepared. We'd lost both the paladin and the barbarian at this point, and the players rejoined as a monk and a bloodrager. We hadn't kept up with Mr. Submersible, and really hadn't made any friends in Illmarsh (surprise!) and had to hodgepodge our way to the deep. Our method left zero opportunity for a quick escape, and we were immediately overwhelmed by the dimensional shamblers and mi-go defending the entrance.

We all realized how futile the fight was going, so in a last-ditch effort, I spoke to them in Aklo, hoping that these were emissaries of the Watcher. The town was scared of her presence, after all. A dimensional shambler had our wizard's skull in his claws, grappled and preparing to shift, when they all stopped. The shamblers stepped to me and cocked their heads, and the mi-go responded to me. They had heard of me. Our Mother had made my presence known to them. I was a scion, one of her children, and I was to be respected. The wizard was released, my party retreated behind me, and I demanded to be led deeper through the caves.

So, they led us through the caves.

Rydel and the monk were nervous. As Badru spoke with the mi-go and learned their interests in Golarion, Rydel grew increasingly disgusted with him. Once, he tried to stop everything, and attacked our guide. Badru bestowed a curse on him, sapping his agility, and leaving him useless until we retrieved what we came for. At this point, there was no reason for Badru to continue traveling with the party, and he had found a way out--a way to repay Rydel for his life, and leave on good terms. The mi-go took the group down into the deepest recesses of the overtaken slom cave, and handed over everything the Whispering Way agent had on him. Badru handed over the spawn effigy, and bid Rydel and the others the best on their journey...

...but, of course, they couldn't simply let the spawn of Shub'niggurath loose on the world. Despite Rydel's condition, he rallied the rest of the party against the dark young. Badru begged them to stop, and when Rydel turned on him, he fled momentarily. He returned, disguised as the Magnificent George Ethyn, whom Rydel owed quite a bit to. He pretended to try and strike down the dark young, healing it instead, and when the wizard realized the deceit, Badru sprouted his wings and hovered close to the tentacled horror, safe from the party's attempts.

Now, at this point, the party had lost their healer, and the boss had gained one... I never once dealt damage to the party, and the DM pulled some really kind tricks on their behalf. Rydel, as a champion of Desna, beseeches her aid, and for twenty-five full rounds of combat the party gets either a moderate cure, or a buff cast on them. Each player could make an individual choice based on their need. Even with that, though, they couldn't make it, and the very last heal I cast on the dark young was just enough to overcome them... I felt terrible for wiping the party only a couple of months after joining the campaign, and I told our DM I didn't think it would turn out that way for them--that I was okay altering it. We retconned the encounter, allowing Badru to escape, but letting Rydel play the hero and slay the dark young. The campaign could continue.

Epilogue:
After the retcon, I took on the mantle of Father Grimburrow--an NPC the party, and I presume most Carrion Crown players, had interacted with--and we continued as far as we could. Eventually, though, the party was trapped at the Abbey outside of Caliphas. The wizard had been captured by Luvick's son and sent there, eventually turned into a vampire in the Tyrant's service. We tried to save him, but everyone died miserably--except Rydel, who escaped alone to continue his dying fight.

At that point, Rydel had run out of time, and there was no longer a chance to stop the ceremony and keep the Whispering Tyrant from returning. Our DM asked us all what we wanted to do, and we all wanted one thing: fight in the following war against the Tyrant. Most of us created new characters, and Rydel's player reworked him into a closer representation of what he should have been from the start, mechanically. Badru's still out there, doing what he can against the Tyrant, and even still helping Rydel as much as he can from behind the scenes. Stay tuned for more about Badru, the Moonborn, scion of Shub'niggurath!

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