GM Shady's Crypt of the Everflame Take 1 (Inactive)

Game Master shady18

It’s the last day of autumn, and as she waits for the Festival of the Everflame, Asina Silvers sits on the first floor balcony of her father’s inn, overlooking Kassen’s town square. At the square’s centre, by the ancient fountain that supplies the town’s fresh water, stands a newly constructed wooden platform; and at the centre of that is a barrel-sized basket filled with large, flat stones.

“Can’t wait?”, asks a voice at her shoulder. She turns to see that she has been joined by the inn’s only employee, Jimes the waiter.

“Nothing to do till the festival starts. Everyone’s pretending to take it seriously, which means no business. Where’ve you been?”. She eyes the halfling, suspiciously. Good company he might be, but you couldn’t trust him farther than you could throw him (actually less far even than that, given his size).

“I’ve been counting the takings”

Her eyes narrow. “Taking the takings, you mean?”

“No, child. Counting. I’ve told you before: if you and your father have no business, I have no business.”

Yes, she had heard that one before. “That may be the case, but if you only ever leave us just enough to stay in business, we’ll never be rich, will we?”

A pause. Jimes looks at his feet, thinks for a second, then - by way of changing the subject - says, brightly: “so, thoughts on the festival?”

Asina glowers. “Waste of time. A bunch of idiots trying to prove themselves go on a fake adventure, which proves nothing, except that we’re all fools for going along with it. They all come back safely, we have a big slap up meal at the Greathall, father makes barely any profit on the catering, then you take a penny from every weight and the Guild takes two. And the mayor gets re-elected. As I said, we’re all fools.”

Jimes retains his smile. “You’re very cynical for a 13 year old. And actually, my question was more, which idiots are going to get picked?”

“They’ve already been picked. They know, even if it’s not public yet. At any rate, we’ll find out soon enough, here they come …”

From down the street, there’s a slow, mournful drumming, from the front of a procession that is marching purposefully through the town and into the square. Arranged in rows, clad mainly in black and with eyes downcast and mournful, the townspeople enter the square, then spread out to surround the central fountain. After a few moments, a murmur passes through the crowd as it slowly parts to let through Mayor Jonark Uptal, a stout man in his early 50s, with long blonde hair and a full beard, wearing his red cloak of office, with its gold lining, over the day’s black garb.

He leads the way with a tarnished silver lantern. Behind him, an old pony drags a cart laden with backpacks and supplies. Once he reaches the center of the crowd, Mayor Uptal steps onto the platform and calls out to the assembled townsfolk:

“Once again the winter winds blow through the Fangwood, marking the end of another harvest. There are wolves in the woods, howling at our walls, and serpents in our shadows, waiting to strike. Just as it was one hundred and seventy-four years ago, when Kassen himself left these walls to protect us, so it is today. Where are our heroes? Where are the brave folk that will venture out to Kassen’s tomb and retrieve the flame to keep this community safe for another winter?”

The crowd parts again. This time, a number of individuals step forward: Kassen’s “elders” - the various individuals in town tasked to oversee the education of new “heroes”: individuals who may eventually, after perhaps leaving the town for a while and getting some real “adventuring” experience under their belts, rise to the task of filling key roles in the development and protection of the town. These are the heroes who will be honoured by their nomination for the quest.

Not, Asina reflects, that it always works like that. Sometimes, yes, the nominees are the favoured apprentices of the town elders. Sometimes they’re privileged, undeserving types whose parents, relatives or friends have managed to call in a favour. And sometimes they’re just individuals the town would prefer to see leave, go adventuring and never come back. Generally it’s a mix. The fun part - usually the only fun part of the entire bloody crypt flame festival exercise - is watching the nomination process and guessing who is in which category. The actual pantomime of the “quest” is merely an afterthought; anyone who thought otherwise was completely missing the point.

First to step forward is Holgast, the wizard and town sage. He’s been carried here on a palanquin, carried front and back by two of his apprentices, both of whom are wearing the resigned expressions of individuals who are getting nothing out of their apprenticeships but a bad back. He’s smoking his usual, pungent peppermint-spiced tobacco. He lifts his pipe. “Holgast the Walker,” - at this his apprentice both roll their eyes - “on behalf of the Wizardly Orders, casts no stone this year”. Asina looks at Jimes. There’s a turn up. So, no wizard.

Several other elders come forward, and again, cast no stone. Their apprentices, where they have them, look despondent. Finally, Armana Lastrid, the grim, determined and largely humourless ranger, steps up and throws a stone into the basket: “The Rangers of Nirmathas cast their stone for Tycho Sandalwood, may he grace our name!”.

There’s a round of polite applause. Armana currently has two apprentices - Tycho Sandalwood and Bardan Greyholt. Tycho is the “nice” one - he came to Kassen as a child, escaping the Molthune invasion, and has been quietly serving Armana for some years. Bardan - who seems to have missed out - is the “difficult” one, a Kassen lad, born and bred, but whom most people remember as a frustrated child, an angry teenager, a petty thief and an all round social menace. His parents, in desperation, gave him to Armana to “sort him out” - she seems to have quietened him down, all right (though she occasionally sees him at the inn, drinking with Jimes, which can’t be a good sign) - but, well, would Bardan have ever won Armana’s affections, set against Tycho? Tycho, all smiles, steps forward, and - as first chosen - takes the silver lantern from Mayor Uptal, and steps back. Asina seeks out Bardan’s face in the crowd - he’s standing near to Armana, but seems to have taken the slight well, and looks relatively unperturbed.

Next to cast is the Captain of the Watch, Gregor Wisslo: “The Town Watch casts a stone for Harken, of the North”. He casually throws a stone in the basket and steps back.

This, thinks Asina, is a classic case of using the quest to get rid of an annoyance. Harken, a big, genial warrior from the northern lands of Linnorm, must have spent as much time carousing in the inn as walking the bounds for the Watch. At first, he paired up with Grimscar, that uncouth, loutish half-orc from the Woodcutters, but one day when a drunken Grimscar had gone one taunt too far against poor, slow-witted Golfond Kir, Harken had turned round and given Grimscar the beating he’d long been asking for (along with pretty much the rest of the town). Not that Captain Wisslo approved. No, he liked his beatings by the book, and with the appropriate paperwork. Harken’s not that type, so off to the quest he goes. But there he is, with a big, wide grin all over his face, so he doesn’t seem too unhappy about it.

It’s now the turn of Colbin Vetnar, master of the Woodcutters. But the guild doesn’t have apprentices, does it? “The Honourable Guild of Woodcutters casts a stone for Bardan Greyholt”. A murmur goes round the crowd. Asina stares at Jimes. Jimes shrugs. “I called in a few favours”, he says, through a wolfish grin. “And now I’m owed a few as well. Win-win!”. Asina frowns. Nobody looks good when associated with Vetnar. Even Jimes doesn’t look good. Something will come of this, she’s sure.

Another elder comes forward, Father Prasst: “The Temple of Erastil casts a stone for Irgal Zeth.”

Asina bites her lip. Irgal was there, helping, the night her mother died. Giving birth to her little brother, Gemyn, who never survived the following winter. She knew Irgal beforehand, of course, saw him around town, when he was a cheerful journeyman priest. After the death, the halfling seemed to blame himself. Or perhaps he heard or saw something that changed him. Whatever, the joy drained from him, as it did from so many who were close to the event. Asina looks for her father in the crowd. She spots him at the back, near the wall of the Greathall, deep in conversation with the inn’s mysterious lodger, Cygnar Anravis. Is Trelvar Silvers deliberately ignoring the ceremony? Nobody normally talks to Cygnar, he just hangs around, always cloaked, always hooded, always watching. Asina shivers. Best put Irgal out of her mind. Two to go.

Now the druid, Olmira Treesong, steps up. “The Fangwood casts its stone for Ahlbay UstIer.” Predictable. She only has one apprentice. Ahlbay’s very different from the strange, leaf-clad (often barely clad) free spirit Olmira. He seems obsessed with the river, often standing knee deep, calling to the waters, speaking to it, encouraging it even. The town’s many fishermen, notably the mayor himself, would miss him. One more, now.

One elder left. Mad Moltus Vardigan emerges from a crowd of his own - his twelve strangely similar sons. An old shrivelled white faced man, yet with the same long black hair as his young progeny, wearing black robes and if anything a blacker cloak, he stumbles forward. “The Vardigan Bloodline casts a stone … for the white haired girl.” Asina’s confused. What white haired girl? There is no white haired girl. Yet suddenly there she is, standing by him. A tall, slender half-elven female, with pale skin and vivid violet eyes. Asina has never seen her before. It’s as though the sorcerer’s apprentice has just been conjured into existence. And, why, with so many sons to send into the world, choose her? Moltus looks up, through the crowd, and straight at Asina. “I’m sending her away because she’s too dangerous to keep around”, he says, directly to her, black eyes fixed on hers. She stares back, transfixed. Then looks around. Everyone else carries on as normal. It’s as though nobody heard Vardigan’s words. And Vardigan himself is gone. Just his sons remain (and are there twelve, or really thirteen?). Asina shudders, her back prickling cold, and steps back.

The ceremony continues, as if nothing untoward has happened.

The mayor once again speaks to the townsfolk. “I present to you the brave heroes who will follow in Kassen’s footsteps to retrieve the Everflame! Some of them may not return, but I say to you that their sacrifices shall not be forgotten.” (“Hmmph”, mutters Jimes, “Nobody has ever failed to return from the quest ... Gerol and his pals are probably sitting there giggling right now in their fake monster costumes.”). He goes to the newly minted adventurers in turn, gives each of them one of the backpacks from the cart, and shakes them warmly by the hand, although in the case of the half-elf at the end of the row, he does so while wearing a somewhat confused and worried expression. Finally, he goes up to Tycho, takes from him the ceremonial lantern and in exchange gives him a tied up scroll, telling him that it’s a map of the route to the crypt.

The mayor points to the south, the direction of Kassen’s tomb. “Go, brave heroes, and do not return until you have the eternal fire.” The townsfolk begin waving goodbye with cold, solemn looks on most of their faces.

The square empties, leaving the party of heroes to commence their journey.

Asina and Jimes step back from the balcony, and go back downstairs to the tap room of the Seven Silvers Inn, to await the afternoon’s trade.