Now accepting roll call ;)
Present and accounted for.
grr...
Xanthar kneels in prayer at the altar to the Forgemaster before settling his pack on his shoulders. Satisfied that he is ready to begin his trials, he stumps out of the temple towards the assigned meeting place determined by his colleagues.
Barius was waiting in the shadows outside of the temple for Xanthar.
Can I trust him....he did save me from prison or worse.....do I really want to leave home.....what kind of home is it anyway, a hole in the side of a boulder.....He is the only friend (person that has been nice to me) I have and he is a dwarf...good or bad I am going.
Lost in his own thoughts he almost misses Xanthar as he exits the temple. In a flat voice just over a whisper "...cough...Xan..." Shuffling out of the shadows. " ...XAN!!"
Xanthar jumps at the sound of a soft voice coming behind him from the shadows, dropping his pipe which he was in the process of filling.
"Blarst it, Barnabus...errr...Bartelby??" Xanthar is clearly searching his memory (and failing spectacularly) for his new acquaintance's name.
"Leave off sneaking and skulking around me, lad, lest I accidentally mistake you for a goblin and give you a kiss with old Ingrill here." Patting the warhammer hanging from his broad belt.
Frustrated with his lack of social skills Barius quickly grabs the pipe that fell from Xanthar's hand when he scared him. With eyes averted he hands the pipe back and mutters an apology. "..sorry....here..'
Poor lad, seems a bit touched in the head. Phewww...looks and smells as though he hasn't seen the inside of a bathhouse in several moons. Still we dwarves have got to stick together, I guess.
Xanthar reaches out to accept the proffered pipe and resumes stuffing it to the brim with pipe weed.
"No apologies necessary, lad. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that, but by the blessed Forgemaster you DID startle me! I suppose I'll be grateful for your skulking, cat-like ways soon enough.
Xanthar motions with his pipe in the direction he was walking and resumes his course.
Barius will follow behind Xanthar looking side to side wary of anything.
where are the city guard....is anyone looking at me.....calm down...calm down...you have not stolen anything.....well at least not today....just calm down.....
The heavily armored hobbit moved through town leading his pony. He did not want him to get spooked, and his riding skills were passable, but not spectacular.
Smiling and chatting as he moved through the town, the little man moved with confidence through the crowds.
The Elf just stay quiet. A weird party he have joined, nothing like a group of elves but the other party members have shown to be compenent and trustworthy.
Mythander filters out the dull commotion of the tent city as the aroma of Watenga's spicy roast chicken wafts over him. He sips the immigrant's signature brown ale with distaste and waits for the line of customers to dissipate so he can procure what he really came for - the intoxicating blue lotus blossom.
His associates in the Cult of Set must think him a fool for running this errand.
It is no secret that the priest of Mocavello is peddling more than roast chicken and brown ale. If pressed by agents of the goodly faiths of Thyr and Muir investigating recent cult related crimes, Watenga is likely to cooperate in identifying some of his best customers.
Let them come, Mythander thinks to himself as he waits.
My research and evidence will show them that another cult is responsible. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and I will need friends if I am to embark on an expedition to the dungeon of graves.
And so it begins....
As you go about your business in Bard's Gate, each of you have been approached by a young acolyte of the church of Thyr. A simple message was relayed from the young priest. 'Your presence is requested at Temple Square on the hour of midday, this very day.' Apart from that short message, nothing else could be gleaned from the acolyte.
Later....
The bells atop the The Exalted Temple of Thyr the Lawgiver, toll their midday song, echoing throughout the bustling temple district of Bard's Gate. As the peals begin to fade, the first of the faithful make their way into the square, dressed in black, as if attending a funeral. They slowly fill the square, moving quietly across the worn, paving slabs, their eyes downcast. It is here that you all find yourselves, summoned at the bequest of the temple elders. After a few moments, a murmur passes through the crowd as it slowly parts to let the High Priest, Bofred the Just through. He leads the way inside the temple. Rows of wooden benches face the high alter of Thyr. Tall stained glass windows line the walls behind a regal statue of the deity, a stern warrior armed with a mighty sword.
Bofred walks to the alter, behind which lies a large stone table, laden with backpacks and supplies. Once he reaches the alter, Bofred stops and turns to address the assembled crowd. With deep blue eyes and short cropped blond hair, Bofred seems to radiate a peace and power from within.
“Once again the winter winds blow down from the Stonehearts, marking the end of another harvest. There are fell beasts roaming the lowlands, howling at our walls, and serpents in our shadows, waiting to strike. Just as it was one hundred and seventy-four years ago, when Bofred, my namesake himself left these walls on his brave quest, so it is today. But what know ye of the legend behind his great and holy quest. Listen whilst I tell the tale of the Tradgedy of Bofred the Just. But first we must delve back into the distant past.
You are not sure, but the light from the numerous lanterns within the hall seem to grow dimmer and the flames within flicker momentarily, casting vivid shadows across the walls.
"As you all know, the northern walls of our fair city look out over the vast river valley that disappears into the hills in the hazy distance. Our mighty gates fixed into that wall rarely open now. Few now stand atop the North wall and gaze out upon that hazy vista or care to think about what lies beyond those distant highlands. Fewer still are brave or foolish enough to make the journey in that direction. We rely on the commerce from other roads in other directions and pays no mind to the North, for to the North, beyond the village of Taverlan and the distant Purple hills and across many leagues, lies the reminder of one of the most tragic moments in the history of not only our city but of all the civilized kingdoms. To those who even care to remember, the North gate leads only to bad memories or mournful legend. To the rest it leads to where only madmen would dare to go"
(the high priest pauses, as if for effect) — "The ruined city of Tsar and the great Desolation that surrounds it."
(At these words, a great many of the congregation cross themselves with the symbol of Thyr).
Bofred gazes around the congregation "Tsar, the great temple-city to the Demon Prince of the Undead, stood for centuries as a bastion of evil and hate. Foul beings of all kinds flocked to its mighty walls and found succor and purpose within. At its heart stood the great Citadel of Orcus, the black heart of Orcus worship on earth. Countless evils were perpetuated in those corrupt precincts, and equally countless wicked plots were hatched and carried out therein. Finally the goodly kingdoms could stand the presence of this festering boil in their midst no longer. The churches of Thyr and Muir led a delegation of good and neutral faiths to Graeltor, the last overking. Only with the backing of the nations’ secular armies would the holy churches be able to erase such a blight. In his last major pronouncement before the overthrow and fracturing of the kingdoms into the independent nations they are today, Overking Graeltor called for a mighty crusade to tear down the walls of Tsar and forever end the presence of Orcus worship in the world.
This crusader army, raised from all nations and almost every non-evil faith, became known as the Army of Light and marched for Tsar. In command of this army Graeltor placed his most trusted advisor, the archmage Zelkor. Supported by innumerable knight commanders, wizards, church patriarchs and scores of heroes of renown, Zelkor quickly advanced his army from its staging ground of Bard’s Gate, through Tsar’s outermost defensive positions and into the great plain that surrounded the temple-city itself. Flush with their many quick victories, the Army of Light suddenly found arrayed against itself seemingly endless legions of every sort of vile warrior-race and fell outsider imaginable called up from all over the multiverse and lining the battlements and fields before their redoubt—one of the greatest fortresses and citadels ever erected in that time. The beginnings of doubt seeped into the ranks of the Army of Light. However, hope was not lost as the heavens opened up and flight upon flight of angels and celestial beings descended from on high to swell the ranks of the Army of Light."
(At this, a chorus of oohs and aahs can be heard coming from cerain younger members of the crowd)
"With grim determination in both camps, battle was joined on the plain before the gates of Tsar. The war raged for over a year, the Army of Light advancing to the very foot of the walls and then being pushed back by a new surge of demonic power. The disciples of Orcus led by the Grand Cornu, Orcus’s single highest-ranking priest on the mortal planes, threw every vile attack they could at the Army of Light in defense of their city. Rains of horrific fire and acid fell from the skies or belched from fissures in the ground, great constructs crushed their foes before them, terrible clouds of poisonous gas choked entire regiments, and heretofore unknown plagues swept through the troops causing thousands of horrible deaths among the Army of Light.
Nevertheless the forces of good persevered and fought on. Finally, though the battle seemed no closer to victory, the fates seemed to smile on the Army of Light. Unexpectedly the city fell. In a single night the entire city virtually emptied of defenders as they all were magically transported to a point several miles outside the city’s walls, complete with baggage train and mounts for many. The magical expenditure necessary to complete this miraculous maneuver cost the Grand Cornu his very life in sacrifice to Orcus, but the legions of the demon prince had broken free from the Army of Light’s cordon. They immediately took flight before the stunned Army of Light, heading south.
Zelkor and his fellow commanders were immediately suspicious of this sudden retreat but could not afford to allow the combined followers of Orcus concentrated in one place to escape and spread their insidious evil again. A cursory sweep of the city by scouts proved that the withdrawal was no ruse, so Zelkor left one of his most powerful knights, the paladin Lord Bishu, with a company of knights to secure the citadel and hold it until the Army of Light could return and properly destroy it. Then, still with a seed of doubt niggling in his mind, Zelkor ordered the Army of Light in pursuit of the fleeing legions.
The tale of that long pursuit is an epic in and of itself, which is best saved for another day. Suffice to say, finally the Army of Light cornered the forces of darkness in a forest near a rugged coastline. In anticipation of a great victory, the forest was prematurely named the Forest of Hope. The naming proved to be a cruel irony, for in the forest the followers of Orcus had been preparing a great trap for years in case just such an occasion ever arose. Both armies disappeared into the forest. Neither ever emerged.
The Army of Light was lost to a man. The shock of the loss of so many heroes, nobles, and leaders of renown reverberated throughout the kingdoms. The overking was overthrown in the unrest that followed. Minor wars erupted as new factions took over old power bases bereft of their leadership. When all was done and a semblance of peace returned, the lands looked much more like they do today. Some said the loss of so many was worth it for the eradication of the foul cult of Orcus. Others said it had been a scheme concocted by the demon prince all along to destroy his most powerful enemies and sow hate and dissension throughout the civilized nations. Years later when a terrible graveyard and thriving dungeon complex devoted to Orcus was discovered in the Forest of Hope, popular opinion agreed with the latter theory. It seemed Orcus had not been eradicated after all, just relocated, and once again his insidious evil began to spread throughout the lands.
For the past century attention has been turned to delving into this so-called Dungeon of Graves and rooting out the evil now entrenched there. However, what remained of the temple-city of Tsar was a vast, abandoned ruin surrounded by miles and miles of poisoned and scarred wasteland left behind by the battling armies. It was all but forgotten as a bad memory of despair with no value save as an eyesore and wilderness home for strange and fearsome beasts that moved into the desolate area. The knights of Lord Bishu, left behind at Tsar, were likewise forgotten as they, too, were never heard from again.
In the wake of the great tragedy at the Forest of Hope, no one thought to check into the ruins themselves, and all who knew about this relatively small group that had been sent to the city had perished in Orcus’s trap. The people of the civilized nations went on with their lives with, perhaps, a little less hope and optimism than before. Tsar was forgotten, and the land around it shunned and remembered only as the Desolation.
While the rest of the world looked southwards for the future, some few remembered the distant exotic markets of the far north. Those brave or foolish enough to try reopened the trade road that passed through the Desolation to once again reach those far lands. The temple-city’s ruins were universally avoided and little thought of.
Why would anyone wish to go to almost certain death?
What could still exist in the unknown holes and broken towers of Orcus’s greatest earthly bastion?
What could lie undisturbed, awaiting some possibly preordained time to awake in the ruins of Tsar?
Where are the heroes?
Where are the brave folk that will venture out to Tsar and return to tell of the fate of the lost heroes of light?"
Bofred leans forward over the alter, casting his eyes over the crowd
"Well, I will tell you all....They are amongst us now!" and with a sweeping motion of his arm, a curtain at the back of the hall is pulled aside and a group of seven individuals march into the temple. All dressed for travel, and obviously well equipped for a long journey, these men and women stand with a grim countenance, as if knowing that the weight of expectation rests upon their shoulders. Bofred turns from them and anounces to the assembled crowd,
"Behold, the Company of the Risen Saint." Cheers go up around the hall as the group of adventurers are surrounded by women and children, whilst men look on admiringly.
At this point, a side door opens and an acolyte enters the room and moves amongst the crowd, stopping at each of you and asking if you would be so kind as to follow him through into the temple offices. As you follow the young priestess, the words of Bofred can be heard ringing around the temple-
“I present to you these brave heroes who will follow in Zelkors footsteps! Some of them may not return, but I say to you that their sacrifice shall not be forgotten. Go, brave heroes, and do not return until you have news.”
With that, the high priest points to the North, the direction of Tsar. The congregation begin waving goodbye with proud, solemn looks on most of their faces.
As he follows the acolyte into the temple offices, Mythander catches himself fiddling with the ring he wears, engraved with the symbol of Set.
Tsar, hmm? I wonder why I was chosen?
As the announcement of the heroes is made, Tomkin quickly looks to see the brave ones chosen. He suddenly realizes the group he was summoned to join is the group they are talking about.
I think he means us.
Overcome by the emotion of the event, the hobbit realizes that he is not to question the motives of powers greater than himself.
"You will have my very best--my last full measure."
Although he was used to presiding at local events in his hometown and speaking, over the years he learned sometimes words could cheapen a great event rather than enhance it. He closed his mouth having decided against speaking any further. Tomkin decided to enjoy the moment, as there were sure to be hardships ahead.
Stunned by the large crowd and the beauty of the church Barius stumbles along with Xan not hearing anything until the High Priest points in the groups direction and announces "these brave heroes". Then he turns toward Xan with a confused look.
"What is he talking about...I am .... we are heroes?"
What have I gotten myself into.....I should have never trusted him.....why is everyone looking at me like that....a hero? I never thought I would be called a hero....OK i can do this.....No I want to do this, here is my chance...my chance to change everything.
Following the Acolyte into the next room Barius is happy to be out of the crowd of people, the noise and the weird looks.
"By the Great Crafter, those poor sods looked as if they knew they were going to their deaths. Ah well, we each have to meet the Forgemaster sooner or later; might as well do it in a way that might make for a good song, eh?"
The concerned look in Xanthar's eyes as he glances back at the "heroes" belies his jesting tone.
What in blazes could these zealots have in store for yours truly? Leaping into the gaping maw of an ancient red dragon, perhaps?!? Xanthar, old boy, you just may be in over your head on this one.
In the side office, a fire is burning in the grate, and a rather rotund man in the garb of a priest of Muir sits behind a large ironwood desk. He smiles as you enter, smiling knowingly at Mythandyr .
"Heroes?", he nods toward the direction of the main hall. "I am Barahil of Muir.My esteemed comrade Bofred has put a lot of time and expense into his pet project. A worthwile cause? I think so. A cause with a chance of success? I have my doubts. But who am i to judge. For that is why I have requested your presence here. I too have a quest that I wish to undertake. However, the rigors of age conspire against me and so I must look to younger and more capable individuals. Would you all be interested in hearing me out?"
Sinnoth looks at the stomach of the man in the chair and wonders if its only age that prevents his travel. Why he is being so glib about that party going off to what he believes is their deaths.
He looks toward the others for some idea if the man is trustworthy enough to work with before turning back to him and saying.
Work is always useful tell us what you need and what you are are paying and we will decide whether or not to help.
Barius stands in the back trying to hide behind the others in the small room. Finding a shadow cast by the fire he settles into it and listens the conversation very intently.
Kendel was about to answer Barahil´s question but The human said exactly what kendel wanted to say. As the elf have nothing to add he just remain quiet, waiting for the priest answer.
"Where would you have us go, Priest?"
Tomkin bows and remembers the manners of cultured dwarves.
"Tomkin at you service."
Xanthar remains stone-faced as he listens to the cleric's preamble thinking to himself:
Why would he not send members of his own order on this quest if it is so important to him? Better keep your wits about you around this one, old son.
Barius stands in the back trying to hide behind the others in the small room. Finding a shadow cast by the fire he settles into it and listens the conversation very intently.
[dice=Sense Motive] 1d20+7
** spoiler omitted **
Barius
Barahil raises his hands and rises from behind his desk. "Patience my friends. I will answer all your questions. But please, would you partake in some refreshments." He indicates a side table with several bottles and jugs on it. "There is water for those who do not wish to partake but I can recommend the Evernight Ale - it's brewed by an obscure clan of dwarves you know. It has never been exposed to light until it is tapped. It's surprisingly rich and flavorful too." Barahil moves to sit on the front of his desk, moving two silvered goblin skulls to one side that are acting as paper weights for a map. "Sat on one of these devils the other day - hurt like hell! Now, before I go into why you are here, please, tell me a little of yourselves. I know you are all capable in your own fields, as my associates in the city who have been observing you for the last day or two have told me. But I would know a little of your backgrounds...?"
"I'm afraid I feel a bit ill. Please direct me to the washroom?"
The bulky figure in the dark plain robes stepped forward with the others, seemingly resolved in his actions. At first appearance he seems a simple monk in the robes, and with the holy symbol of Yenomesh clearly displayed, but this appearance is somewhat confusing, as the handle of a well worn Falchion is clearly visible strapped across his back.
So this is what Yenomesh has in store for me. I will find knowledge, and bring it back to me.
"I'm afraid I feel a bit ill. Please direct me to the washroom?"
Tomkin smiles, and hobbits like to talk while eating. Between bites of food and ample drink he tells his story. Obviously experienced speaking during meals, he manages to pull of the performance without appearing rude. He has a clear tenor voice.
"Tomkin of Daisytop, a wonderful hobbit enclave. It received its name, obviously, because the top milk-yielding goat in the area was named Daisy. She won prizes for miles around. We haven't seen a flower of that variety, though many visitors ask for them. But you probably don't want to hear about local Daisytop events. I have been serving the community around Daisytop as priest and protector for many years. It appears a tragedy befell my mentor, and I have taken up arms to fight the undead that walk these lands."
He looks around and winks conspiratorially before speaking
"Now I hear great evils are stirring. Before it reaches my town, I figured I see if I could do my part and help out the big folks......"
Mythandyr: A young woman in the garb of a junior priest beckons Mythandyr. "Please, if you wish to follow me, I will direct you to a room where you may refresh." She indicates a small door out of the room on the opposite side to the door you came in from.
Once alone Mythander hastily casts detect magic. Upon returning he concentrates on the food and drink he has been offered.
Barius looks at the food and drink with lustful eyes but waits to try anything until the others have tried the refreshments first, just in case they are poisoned. That smells wonderful I have never seen such food or drink.
After Tomkin doesn't kill over from poison, Barius grabs handfuls of food and shoves it into his mouth and chases it with wine that half makes it into his mouth.
Once alone Mythander hastily casts detect magic. Upon returning he concentrates on the food and drink he has been offered.
Mythandyr
"Much better now. My thanks."
Mythander eats a single grape.
"Ahhh...Evernight Ale!", exclaims Xanthar. "Mind yourselves, lads, this is heady stuff if you aren't used to it."
Xanthar proceeds to pour himself a generous portion of the ale and attempts to comply with Barahil's request for information, "Xanthar Hammerhand at your service and your family's. Faithful priest of The Great Forgemaster himself, Dwerfater. I've come down from the Stoneheart Mountains to do what small bit I can to help rid the lands of the evils which beset all good folk."
Having somehow managed to quaff an entire mug of ale while making his brief address, Xanthar continues...
"Speech-making is thirsty work, so I'll just help myself to another flagon of your delicious ale if you don't mind." Xanthar proceeds to put words to action and refills his mug.
I am Kendel Nelaeryn, Trained in the arts of the sword and the bow. - Say the elf. Kendel politely refuse the dwarf made Ale, an instead ask for a glass of water but do not drink it.
By command of my father I am trabeling the world in order to know more about the other races cultures.
Mythander is my name. There is little to tell. I live my life in books.
Barahil clasps his hands together. "Excellent, excellent. I am sure you will all come to know each other a lot better in the days to come. Now, as we are all a little more refreshed and, I hope, relaxed, I will divulge my reasons for asking you here."
Barahil continues; "As Bofred mentioned in his sermon, many leagues to the South East lies the Forest of Hope, close to which lies the legendary dungeon of graves, Rappan Athuk. Many years ago, a paldin of our order, Lord Navarre, led an expedition there. Alas, he never returned from that dread place. Not only did our order loose a just and honourable man, we also lost his armour and sword, relics that had been passed down over the ages since before the church of Muir was established here, in Bard's Gate... I wish to sponsor, on behalf of both the church of Muir and Thyr, an expedition to reclaim these relics."
So you want us to do the same thing thing that you just disparaged your fellow cleric for planning. But with a smaller group who you are planning on paying less.
Sinnoth smirks a bit at his words. He also eats and drinks nothing given to him and tries to keep Barahil's focus away from his less careful friends.
Of course religious artifacts are not the only relics said to be lost in the Dungeon of Graves. I presume we have every claim to any riches we recover which are not linked to the church?
Of course religious artifacts are not the only relics said to be lost in the Dungeon of Graves. I presume we have every claim to any riches we recover which are not linked to the church?
"Perhaps my jest at Bofeds expedition to Tsar was ...ill thought. I just have my doubts at to its chance of success. You however, I have every faith in. As to payment?... Ahh, what is in it for you, besides fame, wealth and renown? Quite possibly death if I am brutaly honest. But I can provide mounts for those without, a small supply of healing potions and a purse of 250 gold to each person who signs on board. What say you?... Oh and to sweeten the pot slightly, I also provide to you the deeds to Castle Calaelen and also the title of 'Lord of The Forest of Hope and its surrounds' that accompanies the deeds. All I can tell you of this is that the castle was built some time before the fall of Tsar and the Righteous March, by an elven noble named Orlinde Calaelen. One thing led to another and over the years the deed has fallen into the hands of the priesthood of Muir."
That would sweeten the deal significantly, one question before I sign on. The one thing or another that lead to the priesthood gaining the deed wouldn't happen to concern the place being infested with an endless legion of undead pouring out of the would it.
Sinnoth stands up as he speaks and sets his chair between him and the priest.
"To be truthful we are not sure. It is more likely that several individuals have resided there over the years. There is a lot of brigand activity in the area- that I do know. As to undead, again, it's possible."
Mythander is trying to remember the name of Orlinde Calaelen. Especially whether his court had an arcanist of any renown who might have left behind interesting magical texts or items.
Mythandyr: