The Hollow Man (Inactive)

Game Master trux

"Centuries ago, a race of humans built an elaborate underground city beneath the Duskmoon Hills. These were a magic-loving people, and for hundreds of years they dwelled peacefully in their subterranean home, delving into the arcane arts. Eventually, however, one of their number, a necromancer named Devron, rose to great power and transformed himself into a lich. The wizards of Barakus banded together, and after a great struggle, banished him to a prison far below the city. Before his banishment, however, Devron forged the Helm of Power, which he could use to restore him to power at some future point..."

-from Illuminatus Geographica by Master Scrivenar Drembrar of the Temple of Yenomesh in Bard's Gate.

Dotting

.

Deep in the Lyre Valley the destitute mining town of Taverlan lies silent and still. Six unshaven men clad in supple doe-skin step delicately onto it's filthy dirt streets. No beggars accost them. No suicidal drunkards challenge them to fight.

Tanin Oldlaw, a young captain of the Longhunter's, directs his ranger's with the eyes alone. They step in formation, feet rising and falling softly in unison.

The oldest among them kicks a bottle sending it skittering into the gutter. He strides across the street to a crude sign-post marked with holy symbols of five deities rendered in a pigment that resembles tobacco spit, indicating the days of operation of this barber shop to it's illiterate clientele. He plucks a dart from the sign, careful not to touch it's coating of translucent black liquid.

"Dark Elves. No need to step precious lads. They've already left with what they came for."

Captain Tanin Oldlaw's body relaxes.

"We left the orc-kin tale-teller here last time we passed. Canenga."

The old man scoffs. "We lie in the beds we make."

His young Captain shows no reaction to the remark. "I shouldn't think his fearsome brand of folk-tales would impress these folk over-much. What horror could he conjure that is greater than their own lives? Search for a body. Mayhap he was lucky enough to die resisting."

An old longsword in a mud-spattered alleyway catches Tanin's eye.

It's not long before one of the rangers finds the body of the young half-breed close by. The lad's soaked in mud and blood, lying beneath the detritus of several broken casks. The alley reeks of beer past its due.

They find him breathing, barely.

With some rough jostling the ale-soaked lad begins to come back to the Longhunters mumbling, "I'm still here. I'm still here. I'm still here. I'm still here."

Captain Oldlaw leans over the half-orc.

"I suppose you'll have some new stories to tell now Canenga. We leave for Fort Rendezvous at dawn. Can you walk?"

Canan'Ga, Nomad's Son rolls onto his side and slow and steady he rises. Pain is on his face and his head is bleeding.
"Let's go. We should go. Now, we should go."
He seems disoriented, but he's steady as a stone on his feet. With the word "Dokra" he flicks his hands in a sweeping motion, and the filth and stink seems to melt off him. The spell works its way over him, and leaves him smelling faintly of beeswax. (prestidigitation)
His hands go to his aching head. He asks,"Captain Tanin? Where are the other survivors?"

"A hundred leagues below the earth in bondage to the dark elves. Pray that the Leng Bats devour them or the Syanngg turn them to stone before they while away their years in toil and torment."

The elder Longhunter nods his agreement and spits on the ground.

Makirut looks shaken by the news. He begins to realize that the "battle" is already over. All the lonely illiterate scum and criminals, the lifeblood of this village, have been flushed out. The Longhunters have not come to the rescue, they have come as Taverlan's last witness.
He still isnt certain he wants to spend another night in this place.
Then, the drow wont be back any time soon? I'm ready to go. Let's go.

This is the fate of the frontier town, where the scum were guided by cowards and clowns. And from their mountains the drow came down...

the drow came down, and razed the town. I killed the clown. Now he cannot cross me.

Captain Oldlaw pats the half-orc on the shoulder.

"We travel straight to Bard's Gate, Canenga. Hope you don't have any more engagements."

"Captain, unless you can find diamonds where Taverlan could not, you could not hope to keep me here."
Makirut nods his assent.

At the gate of Bardsgate
Karl looked out at the surrounding countryside, trying not to think of all the bugs and wildlife out there. The things he does.
Karl, you OK? Ragnar Flametouch moved beside him. You are ready you know
I know master, but leaving home...Ah don't worry about it, I'm just not looking forward to the bugs
Ragnar sighed. Then he clapped his hands on the reluctant magus's shoulder. I certain they are scared of you. Now, evntually you should get to endshome. I want you to give this message to William Blazeheart. He is another one of our order. Be polite when you meet him, he is a little short tempered. Don't worry about the timing, deliver it when you can. You are ready for this. Go to the tent city, and the ranger fort first. See if you can find companions there. Off you go.
Karl smiled at his master and set off without another word. His master watched until he was out of sight. Good potential there. Providing he doesn't die of course.

The Tent City is bustling. Patrons draw up their cloaks against the crisp autumn air.

One of the few permanent structures, Fort Rendezvous is a longhouse built of rough timbers cinched with clay. Combination inn and trading post, it is also the main headquarters for the Longhunters, rangers of the Lyre Valley. The odor of smoke and roasting meat wafts from its entrance, to mingle with the aromas from nearby street vendors such as Okil who brews cabb'e beans, and Watenga, a priest of Mocavallo who counts a signature spicy roast chicken among his more mundane wares.

Nearby, amid the tangled maze of tents, ropes and guy-wires lies a circle of brightly-painted house wagons, guarded by three snarling mastiffs.

On one of the wagons is a sign reading “Mama Bobo’s Palmistry and Divination.”

This encampment’s inhabitants are swarthy individuals clad in vests and trousers. They wear many different holy symbols about their necks, and some appear to have some orcish blood.

This band of wagon driving nomads of mixed ancestry call themselves "The Wanderers."

In stark contrast to the Wanderer's Encampment stands the uniform grid of tents belonging to the seasoned battle-mage Dennin Blackfinger and his company, Blackfinger's Devils.

This portion of the camp is far more regimented and organized-looking than the rest of the tent city. A banner bearing a green devil on a gold field flies above these evenly-spaced rows of military style tents, while nearby well-trained and equipped men march in formation and engage in close-order weapons drills.

Tucked in a quiet corner is the unassuming bookbinder and scribe, Asleif. Her children mind their own business as she tends to a customer who by the look of him has come for more than simple inks, parchment and quills.

Karl enters the tent city, looking about at the sights. Even the bard's gatemarket didn't seem to have the energy here. He moved around watching and listening.

Karl is an unassuming young man, with mouse brown hair and green eyes. At 5'8" he was no giant, but he moved easily and confidently through the stalls. His staff he was using as a walking stick, and his pack was on his back.

He was looking for somewhere to eat, and then somewhere to sleep, hopefully not the ground.
Smelling the wares for sale, he buys himself some venison, wrapped in bread. Chewing it he looked for accommodation, and anything else of interest.

Among the bustle and dust of the city, Makirut exits Fort Rendezvous with three days of wilderness dirt under his nails. He shoulders his backpack in the smoky scent of the doorway, puts a hand loosely beside his coinpurse, and steps out into the humming hive of tents.

He takes a slow stroll through the street right past Karl. He is walking towards The Wanderers' encampment. There he'll find someone at ease and begin looking for rumors.

Gather Information: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (14) + 6 = 20

He sidles up to the camp and asks, "Hail and Greetings. I'm wondering. You seem well traveled. Have you heard anything interesting on the winds of late, Brother?"

He casts his eyes back over his shoulder towards Karl eating his lunch. Hmmm. He looks familiar. Can't place him, though.

Karl looks up and sees makirut talking near the camp. is that makirut. I haven't seen him in years. Well one way to find out.
Karl waits for makirut to finish speaking to whom he is taking to, finishing his lunch while waiting. Then he walks up and introduces himself
makirut is that you? It's Karl, Karl pench. Or though now adays my surname is chillstrike. How have you been?

During a lull with the first Wanderer, the Bard happily recognizes Chillstrike "Pench? Pench from whom we pinched those pastries? Penny-pinching Pench the boy who wouldn't listen and couldn't lie? Why you son of a b!7c8! How are you?" Makirut gives his old running buddy a swat on the arm.

"It's been dark these past few days at the frontier. Now I am afraid to be the last half-man of Taverlan. The sight of you does me good, but my how you haven't grown at all. Are you eating properly?" Makirut teases, then scans the crowds for other faces.

Karl smiles at mak, remembering their youth.
it is good to see you. What are you doing here?

Mak puffs out his sinewy chest, and looks over Karl's head at the tents and people on the streets. "This is as close to home as you get when you live and die by the will of the Gods and the Longhunters' whims."

He changes tack, "Tell me son from the same star, have you met these Wanderers before?" Makirut gestures subtly towards the caravan of vested itinerants.

Karl looks at the caravan.
know local: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13

not a lot, except they like their privacy he said, looking at the snarling dogs.

A sly looking man with the slightest trace of orc heritage discreetly draws back a curtain, offering Makirut the slightest of nods.

Mama Bobo's wagon’s interior is cramped, with room for only three people to sit around her tiny table. The walls are hung with colorful tapestries and silks.

Mama Bobo boasts that she can find lost treasures, see the future and reveal anyone’s fate, as long as the price is right.

Looks like you have an invite. I wonder if I could go too. Looks interesting.
Karl finishes his food and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

Makirut smiles disarmingly at Karl. "Do me a favor Karl, if you do come inside, roll with it. I have to see what the gods have in Plan"
Bluff: Secret Message: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (1) + 6 = 7

Makirut takes off his sword, backpack and crossbow. He puts the weapons in the backpack, and carries the backpack into the creaky wooden wagon. On his way in, he nods to the orc-blooded doorman silently. Inside the wagon, he sets down his pack and waits for an invitation to sit while he tries to take in his new surroundings.

perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7

Mak is planning to see what kind of intelligence asset/friend he can make inside the Wanderers.

Oh...OK.
Assuming no one stops him, karl goes in with mak.

perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2

oh boy, I see nothing, I hear nothing. I hope the dice rolls improve

Morrigan and Cian roll into the tent city. What is this place Cian?

"Morrigan it is a temporary dirtman encampment. Most last a day or a season. I believe they take it as bad fortune to stay in on of these long. Usually, camps like this are used by miners, loggers, or other temporary types."

Cian wrinkled his nose, "and they no nothing of proper sanitation."

Morrigan looks around cautiously. Well keep an eye out. There are probably a bunch of scum bags here. She says a little prayer to Freya and continues riding next to Cian.

I guess this is how we arrive.

Let's see, where were we? Ah yes...

"Morrigan my darlin'," Cian twisted easily in the saddle glancing back, "I doubt not they're up to all kinds of mischief. Best I remember my own good manners that they might rub off on these benighted folk."

Why I hear they leer and make sport of our own solemn practices betwixt the ard Ri and his chosen Queen. Very childish I would say."

In the tent of Mama Bobo..

Mama Bobo sits on a tiny stool at a tiny table with her back facing the pair of old friends as they enter.

A tough looking female half-orc with a rune encrusted short-sword addresses an adorable adolescent gypsy girl lounging on silk pillows in the corner.

"Lolly, customers!"

The lackadaisical girl puts her hand to her mouth with a mock yawn, bracelets jangling.

"He already put his stuff in the pack, anyway he looks alright. The other one probably has a couple knives but he's better with his stick and if he wanted to hurt anyone he'd cast a spell first anyway. You want me to search him for bat guano or you wanna let Mama handle herself? You already scared away every other customer today."

The half-orc grunts and pulls back two of the three chairs at the tiny table, inviting Karl and Makirut to sit.

Mama Bobo spins on her stool to face the pair with an awkward dramatic flourish.

"Ahem! Behold, mysteries of life and death revealed! Discover your destiny, all secrets revealed for the price of 2 round Harps. Ah!"

Mama Bobo pauses as she looks upon the two young men, suddenly taken aback.

"Er... Foreign currency accepted as well. Please sit down. Will it be tea leaves or fortune cards today? Or perhaps you wish to conjure a lost lover from behind the veil of tears?"

know local: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (7) + 7 = 14

sorry, I'm confused. Is mama bobo the half-orc with the rune-covered sword?
What does bobo look like?

Makirut takes the seat to his right. He briefly smiles at Lolly's commentary.
"Hello to you Wanderers. We've come for tea actually."

Mama Bobo is an elderly woman with faint signs of orcish heritage.

"Tea, of course. For two gold pieces each we shall see what the tea leaves foretell."

Mama Bobo is the fortune teller who had her back to you when you entered.

Belonda, the female half-orc tough, appears to be her body-guard, and Lolly is supposed to collect the weapons from customers but couldn't be bothered.

Tarrio, the man outside who beckoned for you to enter, completes her entourage.

"I have, I think you would say, a counter offer for you elder sister" he says to Mama.
He pulls one gold coin from his purse and flashes it.
diplomacy/charm: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (7) + 6 = 13
"One coin for privacy before we begin."
He flashes the coin at Lolly and the tough woman, but keeps his eyes locked on Mama's.

Mama Bobo waves a hand.

"Girls, take a break."

Karl, Makirut and Mama Bobo soon find themselves alone.

The girls receive a parting smile from Mak as they leave. Then, the golden harp slaps the table.
”Thank you, Sister. Fortunate is the man who may share his fortunes among friends. But I would feel stupid if by necessity I were to share mine with as yet unknown friends.”

Rising from his chair, Mak respectfully goes to fetch the kettle, then starts poking around for tea.
He gestures to Karl with the kettle, ”Did you want your fortune read by chance, K??? My treat.”

”You see, Mama, I’d rather just have a little chat if it’s all the same. You may have already noticed, but I’m more of a buck-the-odds and carry-on-swinging type.”

The Nomad’s son finds a bag of tea ”Aha! Will this do, Sister?” and sits back down. Gingerly, the kettle and baggie touch down on the table.

somewhere deep down, he may want to find out who or what his father was, but Mak is more interested in collecting “allies” after the episode with his own mum.
”At any rate, I do not imagine it is easy for you or your...family out on these roads. Curse Thyr, it can be even harder for our kind in the cities. Do you travel often, Mama Bobo? I’m always interested in hearing word from afar.”

A young monk, who is walking within ear shot of Morrigan and Cian, approaches the two slowly. His robe seems a bit dusty and he seems to be rubbing a few fresh bruises.

Looking in Morrigan's direction, "A wise conclusion. I was lucky enough to encounter a few bandits harassing a merchant not far from here."

know local: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21

sense motive: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (17) + 0 = 17

spellcraft: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (4) + 8 = 12

Karl looks at the girl who spoke and says, I don't use bat guano. Fire is not my thing. Karl sits and let's mak take the lead.

cannot believe it. Succeeded at sense motive, failed spellcraft. :(

Just a few tents down from Mama Bobo's, the race track bookie is harassing Cian and Morrigan when Okrin's sudden and commanding presence overshadows all efforts to entice the pair to gamble.

"We accept ivory coins.." the chubby halfling offers as a parting message before backing off.

Inside the fortune tellers tent Karl takes in the scene with a savvy eye, catching even things that his more worldly friend Makirut seems to have overlooked.

A young monk, who is walking within ear shot of Morrigan and Cian, approaches the two slowly. His robe seems a bit dusty and he seems to be rubbing a few fresh bruises.

Looking in Morrigan's direction, "A wise conclusion. I was lucky enough to encounter a few bandits harassing a merchant not far from here."

Morrigan looks over the man. Were you injured? She leans over and reaches out her hand. Pardon my rudeness...I am Morrigan, priestess of Freya.

let's get our money's worth mak. says karl, touching maks arm. I would like to hear her divination. Let's start with why you recognized us, ma'am, and if we could avoid the flim flam, we're not tourists.
Karl puts two gold coins on the table, and leaves his hand on them, for the moment.

Madame Bobo looks taken aback.

"You are very perceptive young man. Keep your coins. I have seen you in a place with uncountable riches. Let us strike a different bargain."

"Well met, I am Okrin Goodspeed. Nothing but a few bruises. They'll keep me from underestimating my surroundings. Pausing to smile, At least for a bit they will. Looking toward Cian, and who may I ask is your fellow traveler?"

Unbeknownst to Okrin Goodspeed, Mama Bobo is describing him to her guests just a breath away.

"I have seen a monk, a seeker of knowledge, whose curiosity will lead him to places best forgotten by time. His fate is connected with yours, with both of yours. I have seen you together with him, in a tower where he has travelled in search of a magical tome. I tell you this next in confidence. Do you swear not to let it be known to the monk?"

"Another Counter-Offer? I admit to being intrigued" He shifts in his seat, and puts his hands in his pockets.

Then, when she brings up the monk, "I can keep a secret. Karl, can you?"

"Accompany this monk, let him think at every turn that the tome is within his reach. Deceive him, let him never guess that his quest is fruitless. Let all this come to pass as I have spoken it and surely you shall be wealthy beyond all reckoning."

Morrigan turns to Cian awaiting his response.

"Cian MacLir," he bowed, "ridire dé of Vionir. Well met, Orkin Goodspeed. Cian finished with a polite flourish.

"Do you need to bide a while on this fine steed?" Cian nodded down at his riding horse, "Saint Epona forgive me for wishing this horse was more capable but while this fine gelding might be a poor warrior he has a steady seat and an easy pace if you need the rest."

maybe that should be spoilered G? I dunno if karl was ready to go full tilt into it, so I havent read the initial spoiler either.