| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
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. 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. 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 some attention has been turned to delving into the so-called Dungeon of Graves and rooting out the evil now entrenched there. That complex is detailed in the Necromancer Games adventure Rappan Athuk Reloaded. 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. Those that survived such treks and were able to trade the rare items they brought back made fortunes, but most who attempted the dangerous passage died—lost to the hazards of the Desolation. Eventually a small settlement of cutthroats and the worst kind of profiteering entrepreneurs sprang up on the southern fringe of the Desolation. This hole-in-the-wall known simply as the Camp serves as a staging ground for travelers to hire mercenary guards or fast mounts for the perilous run through the Desolation. Likewise it serves as a point of relative safety for those few managing to make it through from the north with or without goods in tow, often with denizens of the Desolation in hot pursuit. There is little to this unruly, fringe settlement, and many meet their fates on its dirty streets without ever making it to the Desolation. Regardless, it manages to just barely eke out an existence serving as a stopping point for those few travelers who dare to make the run.
Now no one but these miscreants and fortune-seekers pay any attention to the area and then only so they can pass through the Desolation as quickly and safely as possible. The temple-city’s ruins are 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 slumbering Tsar?
dotted.
dotted .
dotted
The long, dusty road from Bard’s Gate has finally brought you to your destination, a settlement on the very edge of the vast region of ruin known as the Desolation. Before you sprawls a pathetic collection of hovels that appear to be composed of whatever materials happened to be lying around. Here, a building that had an impressive beginning as a stone structure peters out a few feet above the ground where its walls become mud-daubed sticks with bunches of straw stuffed into the chinks. There, wooden poles support walls of woven thatch and roof that is little more than an old hay tarp patched in places with tar. Beyond you can make out a ramshackle wooden structure, obviously the scavenged remains of several merchant wagons as evidenced by the axles and wheels still mounted at places on the outer walls and the hitching tongue protruding above the lintel and supporting a tattered awning.
The trail you are on proceeds straight through the center of this collection of dwellings and travels on into the dusty wasteland beyond, disappearing into the shrouding haze of windblown debris. In the center of the settlement stands an old gallows hanging afar askew. A dark form turns slowly in the breeze, suspended from this leafless tree. Few people seem to be out on the hard-packed streets of this village, though you can see some activity to one side at an area of pole-supported awnings that appear to comprise some sort of shaded market. Before you a scraggly buzzard perches atop an old plank sign. Crudely painted upon this placard is simply “The Camp”.
The still afternoon is shattered by a great bellowing cry of rage. From the north road charges a massive figure. Those few people on the street quickly scatter at its approach. It is a hill giant covered in dust and blood. A great spiked club swings in its hand. Its face is a mass of recent wounds and horrible burns, perhaps caused by acid. One thing is evident, though; the look in its eyes as they focus on you is one of pure insanity.
___________________________
Initiative (bold may act):
Rurik
Cornu
Eddwick
Gurg
Ulave
Lyon
Cornu: 44/44
Eddwick: 68/68
Lyon: 67/67 (flat-footed)
Rurik: 60/60
Ulave: 53/53 (flat-footed)
It's been an exhausting journey, and not just physically; as the group closes in on The Camp Rurik finds it harder and harder to maintain his naturally optimistic outlook on life. Something about the gray, glowering skies, the signs of death and ruin in every direction, and the omnipresent sense of the terrible history of this place just leaches at his positive energy and verve.
The sight of The Camp is such a dismal one that Rurik was about to suggest they camp beyond the outskirts when the roar causes him to spin around.
Was that - wait, it was attacking the camp - or them -?
There's no time to think Fast on the draw, Rurik calls forth his innate powers to summon a beast as large as the giant, a wall of fur and snarling flesh that arrests its charge and buys his companions time to respond in adequate manner.
With a flare of silver light, a massive, scarred grizzly bear appears square in the giant's tracks, rearing up to an impressive height of nine or ten feet as it roars and lashes out with both claws.
Both claws miss, but the bear catches the giant off guard and bites off a chunk of his filthy flesh!
The giant screams, looking angrier than ever.
Ammonis, elven conjuror plodded on. The land was dry and barren of comfort. Dust clung, caked to his sweaty brow. His once golden hair, now tinged gray, swung before him as his eyes followed footstep after footstep. Rheumatism ached his joints. Fat and old Ammonis grumbled. for an elf. He'd met with these other men at the border of the wastes. He knew them little, and they offered little. They were a remarkable lot, if you could look past the dirt and circumstance. Fine weapons glimmered. Odd alchemical equipment Yes yes, I'll get to that. Ammonis grumbles at Fay. Why don't you fly up and tell us if we are getting close She chirps and sees from a corner of his eyes, Fay's shimmering scales and wings. Please? Of course he could have rode a magical beast, or even provided them for the party..but his mood fit, and he had a tendency to avoid flash and dash.
The journey left too much time for thinking. Leading a rather unremarkable life last year, he was now banished. The reviled Cornu Ammonis thought with bitterness at the turn of events of the last year.
Ammonis by other accounts, a decent elf conjuror, had waved his arms at the wrong time before the counsel. He had been as surprised as they when the demons had appeared. Naturally he was blamed for their murders. They almost killed him there, but a law-minded sheriff insisted. After a long and hard fought trial (his brother was a talented advocate) he'd avoided execution, but was nevertheless banished to the wastes, and named Cornu.
or evil bastard...
Fay returned. Ahh at last. Picking up speed, the party trudged into town. He was not impressed, but maybe there'd be a place to sit. When he heard the roar, and the unsheating of blades, he feared the worst. Banished from the camp, where'd he go, Tsar?[/i]
Turning, he reacted swiftly. Fat and old, but slow I am not. Seeing Lyon begging to charge the maddened giant, Ammonis helped him along. Fay launches herself into the air, far above the fray. As she does, she disappears from sight
Iyon felt himself being flung towards the giant and decided the giant's thighs would be a good target to take a deep cut from his blade. He tried to look professional and serious but... this was pretty fun!
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
Ulave could not guess the secret of his own cold heart. Duty, yes, he had duty. Devotion, too. And his skill at arms. Of words, he had sometimes great mastery. But rage, rage and despair, despair and loneliness, loneliness and fear, the goddess kept these locked away from his mind, kept in the ashwood box he had submitted to the priestess on the day of his ordination.
He had been allowed only to keep his name and his regret, for he was, and will forever be, a Pentinent.
The sun's rise brought little comfort from the awful desolation of the night, for of a land so barren, his youthful fascination with the tales of Tsar could not prepare him. No tree. No flower. Only rock and stone and salty earth. And yet, he knew, that even here, he had his goddess inside him, and that someday, the land would again bloom. That was her promise.
Stretching, Ulave rose from his bed, and took a look about him for his companions; most yet still slept: Rurik the inquisitor, a grim and determined man of a strange race on a holy task commissioned by Patriarchs of Muir; Lyon, the fierce Ulfen warrior; Eddwick the gnome alchemist, a man of a brusquely efficient character. And Ammonis, the elfen conjuror.
Except that Ammonis did not sleep, but sat cross-legged meditating upon the nature of his arcane mysteries, as he had every morning before dawn since they had become companions. Ulave had always felt less than comfortable around elves, and this one was stranger than most, and yet he felt a strange kinship with the man, despite his lack of piety. Ammonis too had his regrets.
When they had met, Ammonis was quick to justify himself with a tale of his misfortune. Ulave had no trouble believing the elf, though he wondered that no greater cleric had been brought in to cast a truthtell upon the wizard before receiving judgment. Perhaps because no-one really liked him enough to care.
Leaving Annonis to his meditations, Ulave unrolled his prayer blanket, and kneeled opposite the sun, so that he sun's still meagre warmth fell upon his exposed neck, and began his prayers. As the Goddess's warrior, each day he must renew his vows, and ask for the Goddess's favor. It was rare that he made any specific request. It seemed that the Goddess always knew what spell he would need for that day. Slowly, in his mind, her form took shape. In one hand she held a cup, and in the other a rose. And in a voice like gentle rain, she spoke:
I grant thee the favors of healing and restoration.
He whispered words of gratitude, but her favors sent shivers down his spine.
By the time he had finished, his companions had risen, and begun their early routines. The warrior Lyon, sitting carefully inspecting his weapons, spoke quietly about the road ahead with Rurik, who listened with serious intensity. Eddwick was carefully measuring and mixing powders into little flasks of bubbly foul-smelling--and no doubt dangerous--liquids, while Ammonis chatted garrulously with him, oblivious to the look of irritation that Eddwick made no effort to hide.
Well, I am the ray of sunshine in this lot..
Ulave instantly regretted the thought, not least because he wore on his crown a cloth of magical charisma. Such a cloth had its effect upon even the minds of gods. Ulave had thought long and hard about the purchase, for he openly wondered whether such a deception, as he thought it, was becoming of a servant of his Goddess. Seeking guidance from one wiser than he, Ulave had sought the advice of the priest Genar. He received only a question in answer. Should one should not wear clean clothes when visiting the temple, Ulave? the man had asked.
Ulave, wasn't sure what Genar meant, but thanked the priest anyway. When Ulave had arrived back at his temple dormitory, he found, wrapped in silken cloth, the headband, and a bill. Such was temple life, and Ulave took it as a sign.
Ulave stepped back from the alchemist. Ammonis showed no apparent fear, but for his part, Ulave mistrusted the strange chemistries of Eddwick's craft, and usually kept what he (hoped) was a safe distance. Instead, he began preparations for their morning meal. Ulave's father had been a cook in the kitchens of a minor nobleman, and had taught him much of that craft before the had parted. The party seemed happy enough to let him make something palatable out of their simple rations, a task that he was not entirely certain he had successfully achieved. In any case, there were no complaints.
The day's travel was surprisingly easy, as their road soon entered a wide flat plain, and it was not too hot. They even found a small stream of sweet water, a boon that they had not expected. It was not long before they could see before them the shape of a small settlement in the distance. The Camp, since there could be no other. Its reputation was not... good. And yet, there was little choice in this journey but to seek what respite and information it might offer.
As he walked, Ulave contemplated upon his crimes. Murder. Yes. He had murdered. Rape. Yes, that too. There had been no mercy in him, and the excitement of violence visited on the helpless was an elixir that had invigorated him. In his youth, his father, a man with poor temper and too many spirits, had beaten Ulave. And so, one day, Ulave ran away, with no place to go but into the wilderness. Cold, hungry, and desperate, there it was in the pinewoods of those lonesome hills that he had met Galin, an old ranger. The ranger took him in, taught him to shoot the bow, to wield a sword, and to face danger with courage.
For more than a year, they had wandered the wild, seeking out signs of some magical creature that they never found. But one evening, Galin and Ulave stumbled upon the camp of a band of highwaymen, and they murdered the old man. Ulave they took on as a mule of sorts, but soon his skill at arms, his ruthless ambition, and his friendly visage had earned him a reputation that desperate men loved to follow, and powerful men learned to fear. He and his band had terrorized the countryside, committed acts of shameful vice... until... until...
A tingling sensation in his left ear awoke him from his long weary remembering. Ulave looked up from his plodding feat and stopped still. The Camp. They had arrived. Its dismal aspect failed to even meet his low expectations; ugly wasn't even the word; the camp squat upon the land like a wart on a swamp witch's arse.
And yet there was something else about the place too. A feeling of tension, and ... The tingling sensation grew stronger, sending shivers all the way down his neck and into his arms.
Something evil this way comes.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by ar roar of pain and of fury, loud, cacopohic, terrifyingling loud. A wave of darkness clouded his eyes, like the clouds of a thunderstorm, and then everything became clear. Ulave looked up, amazed. A... Its a ...
What monstrous fiend is this? Ammonis ponders
Lyon flies over the barren soil at Cornu’s behest, coming just within swinging range of the enraged hill giant. Its enormous, spiked club strikes Lyon directly in the helm, nearly knocking his head off of his shoulders.
The giant roars again, smashing the bear that tried to tickle him with its teeth, until there’s nothing left but a mangled, wet carpet of gore to soak the dry soil. Its remains fade into nothingness as it returns to its home plain to serve again. It is, at least, a quick death.
___________________________
Initiative (bold may act):
Eddwick
Ulave
Lyon
Rurik
Cornu
Gurg
Cornu: 44/44
Eddwick: 68/68
Lyon: 67/67
Rurik: 60/60
Ulave: 53/53
"Gaah!", roars out Eddwick, waving his hands at the giant. "Pick someone with a fairer size!", he barks out, as he extends his armour's hand forwards from behind his immense shield.
His right gauntlet is an insane contraption only a gnome can come up with. A thickened metal spike sticks four inches forwards, surrounded by three different vents, all covered in scorch marks. The thinnest one, almost entirely covered in soot and ash, hurls forwards a glob at the giant with a thump. Flying over the head of the bleeding human, it lands onto the giant's shoulder, covering him with a thick, oily substance that bursts into flames. Springing forwards with surprising speed for such short legs, the gnome stands behind the man, defiantly glaring the giant with his bulbous eyes.
"I've not fought a giant in DECADES!", his almost crazed roar sounds, clearly trying to draw the creature's attention, the second, wider vent on his gauntlet clicks into place. A wide cone of blistering flame bursts from the glove, the air shimmering above the battlefield as the tongues of flame singe the giant.
Round 1
Ammonis watches as a giant spiked club crashes down on the man he'd just pushed.
Cornu indeed
Wishing he had a teleport other spell, Ammonis did what he could. Muttering arcane he summons leopards.
Somewhere up above slippery sounds of magic are heard from Fay, and a film of grease can be seen below the giant's feet.
Rurik is stunned by the sheer amount of violence the giant deals - to see the massive grizzly pounded flat shocks him. With a deep frown he extends his palms and reaches deep into his reserves, summoning a creature he has always refused to call until this moment for fear of disrespecting such a divine entity - a hound archon.
The canine-headed humanoid in white robes with a flashing greatsword appears behind the giant, its noble features drawn into a fierce frown of concentration as it lunges forward to snap at the giant then swing its blades!
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
What was it that the old man had said?
--
It had been at the end of a long hot late summer's day, a day of biting flies, scratching brambles, and growing aggravation. That morning, the old man had told his runaway that he had found sign of their quarry's passage, and that they must follow its trail with great haste.
So, deeper into the hills Ulave had followed the ranger along twisting ridgelines and into shady hollows, until the boy had become utterly bewildered and hopelessly lost. But the ranger showed no sign of confusion, for, as Ulave had learned, Galin was born to this life. Indeed, it was only once, and near the end, that Ulave had seen the man lose his way.
At noon, they had taken a brief lunch, sitting in the shade of two giant boulders, the greater one stacked on top of the lesser, so that at any moment it seemed a small wind might topple it all over. The boy Ulave had looked at it with wonder, and had asked how the one had come to sit on the other, but the ranger would not answer and only shook his head.
After that, their quarry's path had taken a more direct route, up a steep slope littered with shattered stone and tufts of dry sunburnt grass. They soon tired under the relentless heat, but Galin would not let them stop now, not even for a moment. Come lad, we might yet catch sight of her on the ridge, if only we do not tarry. And so, with that they had made a final push, until, at last they reached the top, to a view of a wide green valley through which could be seen the gleam of a many winding streams, and beyond, yet higher mountains covered in dark pine. It was a heart-achingly beautiful place. It seemed, to him, that he looked upon his future, wide open and free, and he an eagle ready to take flight.
This. This.
Without warning, an iron grip took him by the shoulder and yanked him roughly to the ground.
Shhhhhh! hissed the old man, and pointed to the far end of
the valley.
At first Ulave could see nothing, though he looked long and eagerly. The old man Galin never would tell Ulave what sort of creature they were hunting.
You wouldn't understand lad, if I told ya. And if you did, ya might lose yer wits. No, you'll know one day, when we catch up with her. And when we do, I'll prepare ya.
The boy looked at the old ranger with questioning eyes, but the eager excitement the old man had worn on his face all the way up had been supplanted with terror.
Giants! the old man whispered hoarsely.
Ulave looked again, and then, like a glamour had been removed from his eyes, he saw them. At least a score of giants, in all their terrible and barbaric majesty. The giants had been resting beside a stream, but now they got up and began walking toward the wooded slopes at the far end of the valley. Ulave and Galin lay quietly, transfixed in terror, until at last, the giants disappeared into the distance.
Lad.
Galin had turned his head to Ulave.
If ever you come upon a giant. Run, lad. Run the other way.
and with that, they had gone back down the hillside.
--
Good advice old man. I wish I could.
With that Ulave let his training take over, taking a step back and tapping his boots of speed, he called forth his Goddess's fury against evil, even has he quickly notched and let fly a flurry of speeding flaming arrows.
Let this be enough.
Manyshot + Rapdishot ...
1st
==========
Attack: +7 BAB + 5 Dex + 5 Smite + 1 Size + 1 Bow + 1 Haste - 2 ManyShot = +18
Damage: 1d6 arrow + 1 Bow + 7 Smite + 1d6 firedamage
DamageManySote: 1d6 arrow + 1 Bow + 7 Smite + 1d6 firedamage
RapidShot
==========
Attack: +7 BAB + 5 Dex + 5 Smite + 1 Size + 1 Bow + 1 Haste - 2 ManyShot = +18
Damage: 1d6 arrow + 1 Bow + 7 Smite + 1d6 firedamage
2cd
==========
Attack: +2 BAB + 5 Dex + 5 Smite + 1 Size + 1 Bow + 1 Haste - 2 ManyShot = +13
Damage: 1d6 arrow + 1 Bow + 7 Smite + 1d6 firedamage
Haste
==========
Attack: +7 BAB + 5 Dex + 5 Smite + 1 Size + 1 Bow + 1 Haste - 2 ManyShot = +18
Damage: 1d6 arrow + 1 Bow + 7 Smite + 1d6 firedamage
So here goes:
Please note that there is a +1 deflection bonus to AC while smite is active.
eh now Gurg. Calm yourself now. No need to be all huffy with your future customers. recognizing the man from the rumors. Stories about giants with bad tempers get around. Careful companions. He can strike more than once if you move near him.
Iyon coughed up blood into the inside of his helmet. He's never get out of reach in time safely if he moved off. He couldn't drink healing potions fast enough to outpace the giant. Mindless violence was the only way.
Eddwick’s bomb bursts upon Gurg, coating him in an oily, flaming substance . The giant hardly seems to notice. In fact, the flames seem to stoke his fury further. As Cornu begins to summon a magical ally, Fay activates her wand to coat the ground beneath the giant’s feet with a slick grease, though he keeps his footing.
pass
Rurik summons a hound archon whose sword cleaves into the giant . It's divine presence also causes him to hesitate and falter slightly.
fail, -2 att, AC, saves until it hits the archon.
Ulave unleashes a rain of fiery arrows, all of which strike the already burning giant’s body.
Considering the concussive head shot just delivered against him, it's understandable that Lyon has trouble gaining his bearings.
The giant spins around, his spiked club carrying a lethal momentum. It strikes the hound archon full on, knocking him sideways. Somehow, the hound clings to its planar tether . The club swings down at Lyon, who manages to side step just in time as the massive weapon punishes the ground, creating a pit two feet deep.
hit
miss
___________________________
Initiative (bold may act):
Eddwick
Ulave
Lyon
Rurik
Cornu
Gurg
Cornu: 44/44
Eddwick: 68/68
Lyon: 20/67
Rurik: 60/60
Ulave: 53/53
The flaming arrows flew true, striking the crazed hill giant with righteous fury. The giant screamed in agony as blood gushed from the wounds to hiss and blacken in the holy fire.
And for a moment, Ulave felt doubt.
Doubt at his wisdom, and at the justice of those wounds. Should he who would have hung from the gallows but for the mercy of his Goddess, should this Ulave the Pentinent, should he not follow in Her example, but rather become an angel of wrath and righteous executioner of a hard justice? Would it not be a great thing if giant-kind could turn away from the dark path they have followed since the Unmaking? Nay, would it not be great if *this* giant should? For his Goddess had not commanded him to slay all that which is evil, but only the undead and their demon lords, of whom She was an eternal and implacable foe.
He observed the broken body of the bear, sent into a battle it didn't ask for and did not understand. He saw the Lyon, grievously wounded, slip on his own blood as he lunged out of the way of the giant's hammer. Ulave's head became filled with the buzzing of bees, drowning out all thought but one, that he and his companions had come upon the threshold between life and death too soon. It was as simple as that, and so, Ulave notched his arrows and let his judgment fly.
Again Ammonis hears the slippery words of a grease spell in the sky above. His sharp eyes catch more grease forming below the giants feet.
Squinting a bit, Ammonis casts haste onto the hound archon, the three leopards, and any allies that would take it.
The celestial leopards, eyeing the big bloodied slab of evil meat, flank from all sides and pounce! A frenzied mass of frightful tearing and evil smiting is seen by all.
Not the greatest set of rolls.
Yellow
Green
Pink
Each Leopard is augmented so:
23 hp each.
AC 16 (haste)
Melee Damage: bite +7 (1d6+5 plus grab), 2 claws +7 (1d3+5)
+ haste
Iyon could feel himself becoming infused with the magical energy and his rain of blows on the giant hastened but lost no power. The giants thick skin was absorbing more than one hit without any blood being drawn.
The gnome stands next to Lyon. "Stand strong!", he chirps up, as a cone of flame erupts from his gauntlet. The flame and the fuel bolster the ongoing flame, as the giant continues to burn.
Eddwick’s fire bombs, Ulave’s divine arrows, Lyon’s tetsubo, and Rurik’s and Cornu’s summoned companions bring an end to the giant’s rampage. He staggers and falls, and the force can be felt for many feet around as the burning corpse is consumed by the leopards. Despite the flames, his belongings survive and seem serviceable enough, if any of you were large enough to use them.
Large chain shirt
Large +1 keen spiked greatclub
5 large javelins
Decanter of endless water
Following this most uneloquent of arrivals, you notice that you are in the commons of the camp. The hard-packed dirt yard serves as the central focus of the hamlet. Its main feature is a bent, old gallows, crudely constructed and leaning with age. Dangling from this by a frayed rope is a desiccated corpse, its broken neck askew and its leathery face frozen into a rictus grin beneath empty eye sockets. Occasionally crows alight to peck at it. Nailed to its breast is a sign bearing the word “Cheater”.
You notice a few of the townsfolk observing you curiously, but no one seems bothered enough to have assisted, interfered, or even ask how you’re doing. The closest is a red-nosed elven man whose sun-burnt skin is filthy with dust blown in from the surrounding plains. He wears overalls tucked into impossibly filthy muck boots coated with dried mud, or maybe manure. He takes a sip from an old flask, slothing the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing.
Eddwick: 68/68
Lyon: 20/67
Rurik: 60/60
Ulave: 53/53
Eh, Lyon. Shoulda thought before I put you in front of that spiked club. What a beast. Ammonis looked around.
He looks over his summoned celestial felines. In Celestial Eat as you may, or dismiss you early I will.. In common, Don't 'spose its right ta leave the body in the street?
"Leave't!" squeaks a pot-bellied boy with one front tooth remaining. "Ol' Griswald'll be 'long to claim it. Unless ya want ter fight him fer't!" The boy snickers and runs off with another lad.
Rurik feels a sharp stab of satisfaction and relief as the giant collapses audibly to the ground; the way it had clobbered the grizzly so rapidly had shaken him more than he'd thought, and it's only now that he's able to let a shaky smile appear on his face. He returns the hound archon's bow, and then raises a hand in farewell as the summoned celestial disappears in a shower of golden motes.
Still, that relief is short lived; soon it's replaced by various troubling questions, questions that he doubts they'll get answers to in this ramshackle excuse for a city.
"Excellent work, everybody," he says quietly as he moves over to the fallen Gurg. There he examines the body, trying to get some sense of what might have driven the giant to such murderous madness.
That done, he rises, dusting off his hands, and turns to stare in the direction from which the hill giant came, trying to get a sense of its point of origin.
Finally, he moves over to Lyon, grimacing sympathetically as he approaches. "Hell of a blow you took there. I'm impressed you kept your feet. Here - let me see if I can ease that pain a little."
Healing dispensed, Rurik takes another moment to inspect the uninspiring Camp, and then reluctantly heads over toward the sun-burned elf with his s$%*-smeared boots. He doesn't try for facile smiles or any other such ingratiating approaches; rather he simply strides up to the man, expression grave, and then nods before speaking up.
"Greetings. We're obviously new in town, and would appreciate a little information. Perhaps we can buy you a drink somewhere in exchange for some local knowledge? Like what by the Forgefather's twin golden anvils got into that hill giant and led him to attack us?"
He pauses, then gives an apologetic grin and extends his hand. "Rurik Gorunn, at your service."
A number of thoughts crosses the old wizards mind. Admittedly a practical man, and a man with few coins in his pocket after he outfitted himself for this adventure...erm exile.
His brother had been very generous.. purchased me a right nice burial, he did.
He shook the thought out of his head. There were immediate needs to which he should attend. Lodging is expensive, and an opportunity has just arisen.
It might be a bit distasteful but... he grimaces at the paladin and points to the giants body We need lodgings, but he doesn't. We might as well move into where ever he was, unless he has kin.
Ulave goes over to Lyon. If you permit me, I am no great healer, but I might do a bit to help you with your wounds.
Ulave looks up at hearing Ammonis's words. We had better hope that this Gurg had no kin nearby. And not because they would have a better claim to any hovel he might have claimed as home.
Ulave turns to the pot bellied boy, and inquires who, or what, old Griswald might be.
The elven man’s lips stretch to reveal crooked yellow teeth as he smiles. You wish he hadn’t.
We need lodgings, but he doesn't. We might as well move into where ever he was, unless he has kin.
”Har! If ya want to live in that trash heap Gurg and The Pounders used as a camp, yer welcome to’t!” He points north and breaks into a wheezing laugh, nearly doubling over as he slaps his leg. ”Reck-- Heeehehehe! Reckon they won’t be needin’ it no--hehehe!--no longer! Oh no! Yep! All them ogres and Bard’s Gaters is surely dead. But the critters out in the Desolation don’t eat horses so much. They prefer to eat what the horses is carryin’, yaknowwhatimsayin. I expect m’stock’ll start tricklin’ back in a day or two...”
"Greetings. We're obviously new in town, and would appreciate a little information. Perhaps we can buy you a drink somewhere in exchange for some local knowledge? Like what by the Forgefather's twin golden anvils got into that hill giant and led him to attack us? Rurik Gorunn, at your service."
The elf grabs Rurik’s hand with surprising strength, though at this distance it’s clear the former’s been drinking. A lot. ”Drank! Now yer speakin’ my tongue, young man!” He knocks his head backward toward the building behind him . ”Le’s go!” He turns quick on his boots, losing his balance slightly before catching himself and leading you to what must be the Camp’s tavern.
This old structure appears to have been rebuilt several times. The bottom third of the outside walls are of stacked fieldstones and apparently remain from the original building. Above that the walls and roof are a mud-splattered wattle and daub construction with numerous chinks through which tiny plumes of smoke escape. The placard above the door depicts a point-fanged fellow about to take a drink of some dark, red liquid in a mug. Below it, words, hand-painted in messy black: The Sip of Blood Tavern.
Inside, the tavern consists of a large, L-shaped common room with a small kitchen and living quarters in the northern wing. A menu on the wall sells assorted drinks and meals of roast pigeon, horsemeat, turtle soup, and coyote, along with stale breads and overripe vegetables. There are three campies gathered here to eat and drink, but they barely register your presence. A stuffy haze fills the room.
The elf claims a rickety stool at the far end of the bar. ”Whiskey!” he bellows, then spins around in his seat, again almost toppling over before steading himself on the bartop with his elbows. Then he looks at you with red, watery eyes.
”Name’s Finn. Run the livery . And you? Wait, wait, don’t tell me! Adventurers! Got the look t’ya, sure ‘nough. What’re ya drinkin?” His eyes widen, as though he’s struck by a revelation. ”Wait! Wait! Ya been to see th’ Usurer, ain’t ya? Ya got iron bits, don’t ya??
Cornu: 44/44
Eddwick: 68/68
Lyon: 54/67
Rurik: 60/60
Ulave: 53/53
Ulave watches the pot-bellied boy run off, and smiles at the impudence of youth.
No matter, not doubt Griswald was just the local coroner.
He follows the party to the tavern and briefly considers staying outside. In another life, Ulave had spent a great deal of time in places like this, and he did not especially welcome the recollection.
No, I guess I'd better talk to this guy. I knows something for sure.
Ulave enters the dark and smoky tavern, and quickly looks about for any other entrances or anything threatening. But his eyes have difficulty adjusting to the dark.
Instead, he turns to his Goddess, and seeks out evil auras.
"If you live in a mansion, you've nowhere up to go!", the gnome's cheerful tone replies to the elf as they're pointed out to the heap. "In a week, we can make it better.", he chirps, rubbing his hands at the opportunity for improvements.
In the tavern, the gnome pulls himself up to the chair with no small effort, then grins at the barkeep. "I'll have one of what's the strongest. Keep the fire running!", he says, before turning to the elf. "Iron bits? I'm not quite sure what you mean. Is this currency? Are you working on something? Is it some sort of strange metaphysical existential conundrum related to metallurgy?!", with every following question, the gnome seems more and more excited.
"We've not seen this Usurer,"[b] says Rurik, expression remaining grave despite Eddwick's excitability. [b]"I'm guessing he exchanges normal currency for iron bits? Who enforces this local currency? What's to stop us from using honest gold?"
Rurik signals that he'll have an ale - watered down or not, he doesn't care - and once it arrived he squares his shoulders over it and leans toward the elf. "Finn. Who were these Pounders? Was Gurg one of them? You think something happened to them out in the waste, something that caused Gurg to come back in that state?"
Even as he asks, a sense of futility falls over him. Nothing out here will be simple or easily explained. Already, the inquisitor feels that the only way to the heart of any matter will be through force and little else.
"Who runs the Camp? The Usurer? Are there any other customs we should know about?
Iyon thanks his allies for their healing. "Cornu I was going to charge in anyway. He was stronger than I expected. Next time we face a hill giant I might stick to ranged weapons and leave them do all the legwork!" Even after healing he still has some injuries but takes them in stride.
"I always prefer facing a few smaller foes than one big one. We overcame it and everyone got out mostly intact so I'm still fairly happy with the result."
He turns to the elf "As Eddwick said are bits a local currency? If so do people still accept gold from other nations I imagine." If not we can verify it, find a merchant and trade for local currency with them.
Finn sighs and rolls his eyes. "That'd be no. Guess I'm buyin' the drink this time. But remember you offered to buy fer me. I ain't like t' forget't, neither. So once you get yer coins exchanged fer bits, I'll be countin' on it. Assumin' ya make it that long." He laughs wheezily again. "Look, all new folks int' town gotta visit the Usurer next door . He'll change yer coin int' bits. That's th'only payment taken in th' Camp. By me, this here tavern, 'n anyone else. If ya forget, anyone sellin' anything's like t'remind ya. The Usurer, he's in charge of the Camp 'cause he was here first. No one alive was 'round when he come here. He's a lot older'n he looks. You'll do right t'mind yer manners with him."
Just then, a full-blooded orc, huge in stature and wearing an apron, appears from the back, accompanied by a human bar wench.
"Bjorc!" Finn drawls, jacking his thumb your way. "Fresh meat! No iron."
Bjorc, the tavern keep, is quite the specimen. Likely never a looker to begin with, his head is hairless on the left side with a missing eye and ear and massive scarring there also. His right arm ends in a stump above the elbow, and his left hand has only a thumb and two fingers. His left leg ends in a ragged stump just below the knee, long healed, but with exposed bone at the end.
Clearly, Bjorc's had a rough life.
Despite the ill news of your lack of iron bits, Bjorc smiles and waves his stump, moaning in greeting, for his missing tongue obviously prevents speech. Nonetheless, he exudes a cheerful disposition atypical of an orc.
Are there any other customs we should know about?
Bjorc gestures quickly, displaying a complex series of signs with his "good" hand.
The wench, a ginger lass with a plump face and frazzled hair, looks uncertain. "Um... I think he's saying 'beware the Black Beast in the Pit'. Or! Uh, 'there's blackened beef on the spit'. I'm not sure which; I haven't worked here very long." She blushes, even as Bjorc continues. He nods encouragingly and she goes on. "He says, 'It's best to stay inside after dark and not test the spirits. This whole place was a battleground once, and the dead rise at night and take anyone they find wandering around'. That... oh, that was just a scratch."
"Alright, pour! One drink fer each, on ole Finn!" As the whiskey's poured, Finn shoots it and slams his glass back on the bar. "'Cept fer me. Keep 'em comin'." Then he's focusing on you again. "So yer curious who th'brute you just toasted up was, eh? Gurg led The Pounders, a mercenary band of himself plus eight ogres. Eight ogres'n a hill giant! They hired out as guards 'n guides fer caravans takin' their chances in the Desolation. Up 'til now... they was top dogs, but not the only dogs. There's Clantock's Furious Fourteen, 'n Skeribar's Rangers, 'n there used t'be Granville's Pyrotechnic Platoon 'til they lost a battle with a fire lizard..." He sizes up Eddwick. "You related to one of them or somethin'? Anyway, they set out a few weeks ago with a caravan from Bard's Gate, seekin' something out on the road north, 'n hadn't been seen 'til today. That diplomat, Sammar, come with 'em, but he stayed in the Camp while they went trapsin' off int' the Desolation. Sammar's still holed up in the embassy." . "They purchased all m'best horses, but like I say, based on Gurg's, er, situation, I figure they'll come wanderin' back in soon. Need a horse?"
Finn goes on to explain the general layout of the town, and even describes the Desolation's locales . At last his eyes drift toward the windows, the late afternoon sunlight casting rays of golden light over the dusty wooden floor. "Ya need a place t'stay, ask in at tha Bender Brothers. 'N take what ole Bjorc said to heart. Treat't serious as tha grave..." He grows solemn, clenching his jaw. "...Don't go out at night."
Iyon listens trying to get a read on if this is a con. He also keeps an eye on the people in the area trading to see if they are using these iron bits. It seemed very strange. Even if you didn't have the local coinage in most places he had traveled they'd accept other countries gold or trade goods with a bit of negotiation... there must be more to these iron bits.
"Ooh! I know!", replies Eddwick as the topic of bits is broached. "It's in case, or, when, we die, we don't go around wasting money other people can use. Like games of chance and casinos!" Downing his drink with surprising vigour, the gnome sends a sooty smile at Bjorc. "Thank you, and thank you!", he turns to Finn, raising his empty glass.
The news of the undead seems to raise Eddwick's rather impressive, if a bit singed, eyebrows. "So even the town is not safe...", he notes, then begins writing down the locales. "Ah. So that hole in the ground is the Apothecary. Precaution must be taken with alchemy!", he raises a finger in the air.
As the party sets for the Usurer, Eddwick sinks into the place. It is a bit draubier than I thought..., he notes, And there isn't that much camaraderie, but that should change! "If there's undead in the place, then I have something for the occasion! Although... I hope your memory is good, and mine is better!", the gnome exclaims, rubbing his hands together.
Ulave quietly listened to the conversation. The orc's warning about keeping indoors piqued his professional curiosity, but Finn's suggestion to seek out the Bender Brother's inspired distrust. Travelers often seek advice on which places to stay, but find themselves robbed instead, or murdered in their beds. Of that, Ulave had first hand knowledge.
In any case, it seemed clear that to the Usurer they must go. Of that he had some trepidation. He had not expected it of so small a settlement, that it would not accept the coin of other, more prosperous and powerful lands.
Someone here must inspire a great deal of fear that they would refuse good gold. And what does the Usurer do with it I wonder?
You said a diplomat? Sammar? Is he still in The Camp you say?
Not surprisingly, Ammonis decided he quite liked the look of a chair in a corner and gladly sat his weary bones down. Fay, deciding it was not completely unsafe, reappeared upon his shoulder, issuing a querying trill No, I've no iron bits for some stew
The Userury was clearly a tax, levied by a local strongman no doubt, and with the collusion of all merchants. By the look of the worn road, it was clear that it wasn't collected for the public purpose. Still, it wouldn't do to protest, at least not yet. Ammonis sat there thinking upon all this, reflecting on all he knew about the camp and its inhabitants. He'd made a study of it preparation for his exile.
These reflections were interrupted, as Ulave queried about the diplomat. Formal diplomacy to the wastes did seem odd, did it not? --unless it was to exile a diplomat who winked at the wrong lady. Perhaps diplomat was merely a sobriquet? Already he could tell that the Camp was a bit more interesting than it was drab. Perhaps he'd not have to learn to garden after all.
Eh, Finn. If we shouldn't be walking about at night, then why hasn't the camp put a barricade around the camp's perimeter?
An astute question.
"The dead rise where they were slain," says Rurik. "What good barricades against uneasy spirits that manifest within the walls?"
Rurik considers the contents of his mug before downing the watery ale. "Finn. I told you I'd buy you a drink. My word is my bond. Soon as i acquire some of these iron bits from the Usurer, I'll make good on it. Don't you worry none." From the gravity of his tone, it's clear the aasimar takes this topic seriously.
Sitting there at the scarred table, it's perhaps time to take a good look at Rurik. Though clearly he's inherited divine blood from somewhere along his ancestry, it's clear he's of dwarven stock. Stocky and built along geometric lines, he's all square shoulders, deep chest, bandy legs and severe features. Capable, long fingered hands play idly with his mug, while his eyes betray both sorrow and hard earned wisdom as he gazes about the hovel and takes in the mutilated orc.
"Bjorc, thank you for your hospitality. I must admit I didn't expect much here on the very edge of the desolation, but your brew and your roof exceed my expectations on every level. My thanks for your tavern and wisdom both." Rurik raises his tankard to the mutilated orc.
That moment of gravity aside, he turns back to Finn. "Can't say as I expected a horse-dealing member of the elder race here on the edges of iniquity," he says. "But I'm glad to make your acquaintance Finn. Mind sharing what brought you to the Camp, and what keeps you here? I'm sure it's an arresting tale."
Once (and if) the elf's tale winds down, he bangs his tankard on the table top. "I look forward to buying you that drink, and many more. But first, we'd best make out way over to this Usurer and see how much he charges for his iron bits. Been around a long, long time you say? As long as your kind and mine reckon time?"
When the ginger-headed lass comes by, he smiles up at her. "And what brings you to town, young lady? Surely not good fortune. Also - mind asking Bjorc what where this Pit might lie in which a Black Beast dost hide?"
That question lobbed, Rurik rises to his feet and claps his closest companion on the shoulder. "Let's head on next door and get ourselves acquainted with the oldest member of this town. We're running out of daylight, and I for one would not be out come dark."
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
So satisfied with his present circumstances, Ammonis ponders what it would be like to sit here in this tavern for all of his days, drinking tea, smoking upon a pipe, teasing the wenches, and for a few iron bits, letting Fay breathe her euphoric puff onto customers bored of just being drunk. Ammonis nods to himself. He was just about to propose this plan to the scarred orc when the paladin--most somber paladin he'd ever avoided--rose from his bench. Rurik, the conjuring priest, ---or whatever he is ---also rose to his feet. Ammonis groaned a little.
I've suppose a few pieces of gold and silver can be exchanged for bits of iron Reluctantly, Ammonis stands to his feet.
Finn seems perfectly honest about the iron bits and, while you may not yet understand the reason behind them, he obviously accepts the practice as a simple fact of life in The Camp.
You said a diplomat? Sammar? Is he still in The Camp you say?
”Yea, yea. Sammar’s holed up at th’embassy . He might know more’n me about that expedition. Lotta good it’s done him, eh? Hehe!”
"The dead rise where they were slain. What good barricades against uneasy spirits that manifest within the walls?"
”Aye yes. Spirits. ‘N more.” Finn nods eagerly. ”Ain’t a superstitious elf, m’self. But livin’ out here sorta forces it on ya, if ya understand.”
Bjorc, the orc, grins and signs at Ruric. His barmaid translates. ”He says you’re welcome, and you should come back as often as you like. He’ll teach you how to...how to juggle?” Bjorc whinnies with laughter, leaning against the back wall and nearly toppling a tray of mugs. ”Oh, that was a joke,” she says, sounding unimpressed.
Mind sharing what brought you to the Camp, and what keeps you here? I'm sure it's an arresting tale."
”Arrestin’, right! Ho! Hoho! Long arm of th’ law’s got quite a grip. But there’s some places even it don’t wanna reach.” There’s a twinkle in his eye, but he says no more on that subject. ”The Usurer. Well, he’s been here as long as me, and that’s been more’n a few years, ya know.”
”"And what brings you to town, young lady? Surely not good fortune. Also - mind asking Bjorc what where this Pit might lie in which a Black Beast dost hide?"
”Father was a ranger. ‘Til he died. Out there. Now I’m savin’ me money before I go to the city.” Bjorc nudges her shoulder. ”Oh, the Beast…” Bjorc signs again. ”He says it lives far north. In the rift.” Then she looks at Ruric. ”You planning to go out there? Nice knowing ya…”
___________________________________
You pass back through the commons, where you left Gurg burning. The giant’s body is now gone, though an obvious trail in the sand clearly shows his remains were drug off to the west. Now a group of six campies have taken to sifting through what’s left and take turns pelting small rocks and debris at the hanged corpse on the scaffold. The corpse takes no mind, the rope suspending it creaking gently. At your approach, they whisper among themselves and take off out the main entrance to the south.
This simple plank building is nonetheless of the finest construction in town (other than, perhaps, the well house). A well-crafted stone chimney rises at the southern end, which boasts a well-fitting door facing the Common. The opposite end sports a pair of sliding double doors that likewise face the Common. These doors are open, revealing a well-equipped blacksmith’s workshop within. The other half of the building consists of a dwelling. A sign above the double door depicts a gray coin and an anvil. From inside the workshop, a humanoid figure hunches over an anvil, a hammer repeatedly clanging as it strikes some creation. A moment, and the hammering ceases. From within the shade of the workshop emerges a man, tall and lean with a great hooked nose and a wide mouth full of seemingly too many teeth fitted tightly together. A shock of pale hair covers his head and watery blue eyes look like two mirrors revealing nothing of what goes on inside the head behind. ”Welcome to The Camp,” he offers quietly, pleasantly. His accent is foreign, but not one you can place. ”You must be here for iron.”
Cornu: 44/44
Eddwick: 68/68
Lyon: 54/67
Rurik: 60/60
Ulave: 53/53
"That we are good sir, an unusual custom I've not seen anywhere else. That said where else would be like here." Iyon put ten gold pieces onto the counter.
"Tell me you've likely seen more than a few who would try their hand at this place. Are there any spots you would suggest we avoid trying our hand at until we become more accustomed? Or for that matter services or places that might be of interest to us that as strangers we might not anticipate."
Not surprising, that in a place like this, it would be the smith.
Ulave smiles, and nods, and also puts ten gold on the counter. Ah, you are a smith! My uncle was the smith of his farthing. He was huge... for a halfling. Thank you for your welcome.
"Manifest through the walls, you say?", Eddwick's eyes widen open for a moment, then he starts mumbling. "Adhesive substance... should counteract height disadvantage... but intangentiality... no use of normalised triggers or agglutinativity ... should improvise against insubstantiality!", he rubs his palms together, as he continues babbling to himself.
Eddwick follows the others, then waves cheerfully at the Usurer. Taking out a small bag of gold coins, he places them alongside the rest. "Impressive!", he exclaims, but whether in response to the man, the smithy or the house, it's unknown. Scratching his head, he gives the furnace a long look, as the grin in the gnome's mouth turns almost wicked.
Nodding as Iyon asks his questions, the gnome puts his hefty shield on the ground and leans on it, pushing his helmet's eyepiece up. "I feel that I might require your abilities a fair amount too, Usurer.", the gnome nods. "Oh! And that reminds me. If there's anything that can be done to improve the camp, for reasons economical or strategic? Maybe a watchtower?", the gnome shrugs. "It's in everyone's interest for everyone to be protected at night."
The Usurer smiles, especially at Ulave, and beckons you into his workshop. A gentle breeze flows here, and the air is cooler than elsewhere in the camp; perhaps a little too cool. The Usurer smiles, not entirely unpleasant, but his teeth are a bit unsettling. His voice is soft and even, his accent prevalent. "Ah, yes. I turned to smithing some years ago, and found I have a natural predilection and passion for it. If you require my services, you need only ask.”
”As to adventuring, well. Many have set out into the Desolation. Some have sought the mysteries and fabled treasures of Tsar, of course. Others seek to create stable trade routes into the northern lands. Others simply long for adventure, or escape from their mundane lives. Few return to tell their tale. Perhaps you will do better. Perhaps. My advice, such as it is, is to avoid the city entirely, to stick to the roads, and to stay close to the Camp. Here we offer everything you need to survive. Wander too far and, well, you may find yourself stranded in the hostile wilderness. There is much more to fear in the Desolation than ghosts. Wild creatures roam wild, the weather is unpredictable, and even the land itself is known to revolt against those who walk upon it."
He looks to Eddwick, a gleam in his eye. ”Let’s see how long you last before we discuss long-term capital improvements, yes? I do admire your spirit, however. If you wish to make an immediate impact upon the Camp’s vitality, may I suggest merely supporting the local economy. Speaking of…”
"Iron bits..." he produces a small coffer from beneath a curio against the back wall. "...are the only accepted currency within the camp. None will haggle with you for any other payment, as the practice protects our simple, fragile economy in this unforgiving place. Bits are converted at a rate of five gold coins per bit. How many would you like?”