It seemed so simple. Just a short trip to the mountains to find a missing caravan train and deliver supplies to a mining colony. Do a few good deeds, home again. Nothing complicated about that.
Inevitably, it turned out different. You found the missing caravan, right enough. They'd made it to the Golden Citadel and must have been on their way home when they were attacked. No survivors. No anything apart from gold. So much gold. Packed tight in chests, it looks like the stuff of legend, not ordinary gold at all. So shiny. So very, very tempting.
So, you picked it up, carried it back to the Citadel, because what choice did you have? Clovis, the dwarven captain of your rescue mission wasn't about to leave that much gold lying around. Nobody was. Things got tense after that. Carrying a king's ransom will do that. Never a shortage of willing guards for those chests.
Clovis and his blonde sidekick, the dwarven woman Vianna looked and whispered and that was then you first heard "Orichalcum" spoken aloud. The miners following the gold rush had struck more than gold in the Mount Rhygar. This was the substance spoken of with awe, the substance that only the ancient dwarven smiths had known the secrets of working.
Not surprising then, that someone succombed. Ansgar had been a quiet, silent dwarf, a hard worker and barely noticeable. Then, a couple of hours out from the Golden Citadel, journey's end in sight, he'd struck. During the night he must have sabotaged the wagons and then, as the train passed along a narrow path on the edge of deep gorge, he'd stampeded the mules. It had been carnage. So many wagons and people lost. The orichalcum had vanished into the depths along with half the food supplies. To add to your troubles, the blizzards had turned worse, hampering your chances of searching for survivors or supplies and the shock of the falling wagons had triggered an avalanche.
During the salvage operation, you found Ansgar's body. Odd that. He was tattooed with pillars of flame. Nobody knew what that meant. Of if they did, they weren't saying.
And now, you, Clovis, Vianna and the last two muleteers have struggled to the Citadel bringing what you can to help and knowing that getting back is going to be impossible. Even Rabscuttle, the old (most say "senile") gearforged is silent as the great gates swung open to welcome you.
Amenephus had that depressingly-familiar feeling that his future contained trouble in substantial quantities, with side orders of pain and bloodshed.
"Right! I've got some questions: what is Orichalcum?; why is it so precious?; and what can we do to sort out this situation?"
"And, also, and this is the most important question, how do we get out of here?"
"And, also, and this is the most important question, how do we get out of here?"
"We wait for the snow to melt."
Isari stands there in the snow, his cloak wrapped around him.
"Underground we go, then. I'm no stranger to those environs," Nayce says, huddled against the chill.
Isari and anyone rolling a DC20 history (17 for dwarves)
As the gates open enough to let you in, you get your first glimpse of the fabled halls of the Golden Citadel. The immediate impression is disconcerting.
A vast natural cavern has been carved and shaped into a huge hall and your eyes are drawn upwards by the enormous pillars dividing the chamber and supporting the roof. Gusts of warmth come from them and you realise that what at first sight seemed to be an amorphous mass of people is, in fact, a carefully structured campsite. Tents and other temporary structures have been arranged around the pillars, which are clearly being used to demarcate specific areas. It looks as if a small town, doubtless with it's own rivalries and factions, has evolved here.
You have time only for a fleeting impression before Clovis and Vianna, with Rabscuttle in tow, lead the way towards a bulky human who spread his arms and greets you like his long lost siblings.
"Welcome and thrice welcome! Your arrival is timely and needed. Come in, get warm and we shall discuss the needful, but tedious, matter of trade. I am Halston, and it is not too much to say that I and my colleagues here are all that stands between survival and disaster for this small colony."
Rabscuttle clanks slightly as the warmth of the hall defrosts his gears and he looks up happily.
"I am full of porridge and pillars," he burbles.
Clovis pats him gently. "So you are old chap," he says with pity and pride in his voice. "He's been in my family as long as I can remember. They say he's the oldest gearforged anyone's ever seen," he explains, half apologetically.
"And doesn't that do you and him credit?" beams Halston. "Charity is one of the virtues they say. And well do I know it. Charity, dear friends, governs my enterprise here."
"Aye, charity begins at home, as we say." Dorvin expounds.
"Whose home?"
"Our home, of course. The home of all this band of unfortunates and now, your home. We shall help you carry in the much needed supplies and then we can discuss how much you are prepared to sell them for. Your own charitable sense must tell you the need is great."
Halston's tone is expansive, benevolent and extremely convincing.
"'Tis grand of ye."
Dorvin
Vianna nods enthusiastically. "Indeed. Let's get the goods inside." The flaxen-haired dwarven woman seems to be finding the Citadel unexpectedly warm. Always pale, she seems to be almost on the verge of fainting in the welcome, but unaccustomed, heat.
"Y'alreet there, lass?" Dorvin asks with concern.
Quillan is a dwarf of 65 years and each year shows plainly on his face. Throughout the travel he remains mostly aloof from everyone else and keeps busy going through the forms with a large, wicked axe that he always keeps by his side. Around his neck is an old holy symbol of Moradin that shows great signs of wear and damage to the point that it is nearly unrecognizable.
Occasionally, at night, Quillan can be heard arguing and talking with someone, but if anyone else comes near he feigns ignorance and retreats elsewhere.
As the events unfold Quillan seems to take more of a vested interest, especially as the caravan nears the mountains.
History Check
"A chance to warm up would be appreciated. Thank ya' for yer' hospitality. The trip has not been easy," says Quillan after the human's greetings. "Though it looks like some are needin' it less than others."
"Thanks, Dorvin. I'll be fine now we're somewhere safe. Safer. A little fever, that's all. It will pass."
Quillan
Orichalcum is the gold of gold. Unlike ordinary gold, it can be forged into fantastic mechanical contraptions as easily as delicate jewellery. It's the ore dwarves seek above all other ores and none has been seen since the fall of the original Golden Citadel hundreds of years ago. Unless you are a dwarf, you don't really believe in it. If you are a dwarf, you still don't believe in it, but you want to.
One of Moradin's dwarven sons, Volun the smith, is supposed to have shown the original Citadel dwarves where to find the ore and how to forge it.
"Thanks, Dorvin. I'll be fine now we're somewhere safe. Safer. A little fever, that's all. It will pass."
"Let's hope it passes soon, then." Isari then heads back to the caravan to help unload the supplies.
Dorvin turns to Quillan, "Ye've got somethin' on yer mind, Quillan?" he asks the obviously devout dwarf.
Dorvin turns to Quillan, "Ye've got somethin' on yer mind, Quillan?" he asks the obviously devout dwarf.
"Nothin' in particular," says Quillan in his gruff voice. "Just glad to be out o' the cold. I was gettin' worried for the rest of the caravan, not bein' as stalwart as us mountain folk. Horrible things can happen when folk get stranded out there with nothin' to eat. We are blessed more was not taken durin' all the chaos."
"Aye, praise be to Moradin."
Nayce, who had been silent, speaks up with a question. "Has there been any trouble with bandits or raiders since folks have settled in here?"
"Bandits?" Halston shrugs. "We wouldn't really know. We only open the gates for supplies and as you know, there have been precious few of those. Earlier in the year was another story. Lots of folk got opportunistic when they heard about the gold. Opportunistic, and happier to steal it than mine it."
He directs his helpers, who all verge on the large and seem well-fed for a place with a supply shortage, to help you bring the goods inside. As he does so, an elderly and disreputable kobold taps Clovis on the arm.
"Got any grain to sell? My brewmaster's getting impatient and I'll outbid him," he jerks a claw at Halston.
"Now, now. Let's have no talk of trade until the good are actually here, Ossa."
The kobold shoots a sour glance at Halston and continues to address Clovis. "Don't sell everything to him, that's all I ask."
"Or anything," adds another voice. "You talk very freely of charity, Halston, but there is none in your soul. These people are starving and you do nothing to help."
The new speaker is a thin, earnest human in the garb of a cleric of Erathis and his tone is stern.
Halston sighs theatrically. "You see what I have to put up with? Father Jappe, as we've discussed many times, charity is for the deserving."
Dorvin eyes Halston suspiciously.
I knew there was somethin' nae right aboot ye.. he thinks to himself.
"A wee bit judgemental aren't ye?" Dorvin asks Halston, "Who decides who's deservin'?" he says with an edge to his voice.
"As the governor of this little colony, naturally I listen to the advice of my advisers. But surely we can all agree that in times of scarcity, harsh decisions must be made. The price of leadership is not a kindly one. Father Jappe has the luxury of his goddess's guidance. I, alas, can rely only on information given and observed behaviour."
"So you have been dictating who is worthy of food and who is not? What heinous crimes are these civilians committing to merit such a sentence? I would imagine it must be severe," Nayce says, glaring at Halston.
"I don't dictate who is worthy of food, dear sir. I dictate nothing. I merely supply the demand. Market forces are just as inexorable as a goddess."
Halston remains calm and benevolent.
"I feel that Father Jappe and I should speak. Whilst I appreciate the burden of command, and the need for occasionally difficult decisions, I must be guided by my God as Father Jappe is by his; and such guidance is rarely based on which worshipper will pay the most."
"All well and good when supplies are plentiful, my noble friend, but easier said than done in this time and place."
Halston politely deflects Amenephus's comments, but Father Jappe himself nods appreciatively.
Rabscuttle selects this moment to cause a minor distraction. Walking up to Halston, gears clonking, he nods sagely.
"All the dots will join and the pillars will flame," he announces proudly before falling over.
Dorvin raises an eyebrow, "Whit in the name o'...?"
Clovis goes gently to the old gearforged and helps him tenderly to his feet. "Up you get Rabscuttle. We'll have you settled in no time."
Halston looks at the group. "Maybe you'd better go and help with the unloading then, along with your friend there," he nods towards Isari, already hard at work. "I don't want any misunderstandings over these supplies. They're likely to be the last we're getting this year."
Father Jappe nods. "There, at least, we can agree."
Nayce joins Isari in helping to unload the supplies.
Dorvin grunts, and keeps regarding Halston with suspicion. He sets to helping his comrades.
Once they have set to work, Nayce speaks under his breath to Dorvin.
"All well and good when supplies are plentiful, my noble friend, but easier said than done in this time and place."
Halston politely deflects Amenephus's comments, but Father Jappe himself nods appreciatively.
"You will forgive me, sir, for I was not aware that one Cleric required your consent to speak to another. I am sure that you would not wish to inconvenience yourself with the good work of two devout servants of their deities as they discuss theology."
"Father Jappe, will you walk with me?"
Quillan will go back to help with the carts and wagons, keeping a suspicious eye on anyone who's not from the caravan.
"Certainly not the kinda' welcome I was hopin' for," says Quillan to no one in particular. "I'd hoped for a bit o' quiet while we went about our business. Suppose'n that was a bit too much ta' ask fer'."
Father Jappe nods at Amenephus. "With pleasure. Theological debate has been lacking in these halls of late."
Perception
For all his skill, Nayce notices nothing amiss.
Quillan scans the horizon as he helps with the lifting.
Quillan pulls the large executioner's axe off of his back and pauses from his labor for a moment. He sniffs the air slightly and his eyes narrow as he looks around.
"Somethin's not quite right here," he says in a cautious tone.
Isari sets down his box. "What do you mean?"
Having already failed his perception check... "It's probably just the wind."
Having already failed his perception check... "It's probably just the wind."
"Aye, maybe...maybe," replies Quillan, though his grip remains firm on his axe.
"Dun see nuffink." says one of the bodyguards, picking up a crate and heading towards the great gates.