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Your party has been traveling overland to the great City of Greyhawk, tracking down rumors that the Lord Mayor is looking for brave adventurers willing to undertake a special mission (for a suitable fee, of course). You were especially eager to receive the commission because the reward was said to be rather impressive, not only money but also magical gifts.
Loading pack mules laden with supplies, you have been following a route that is well known and leads to the City of Greyhawk. Unfortunately, you seem to have taken the wrong fork by mistake. At any rate, you have good reason to suspect that you are lost and will have to retrace your route tomorrow.
The sun is setting, and it is time to make camp. The most defensible campsite on a nearby hill. The night passes safely, though everyone's sleep is plagued with nightmares. When the sun finally rises, you stare out at a world gone mad. Instead of the hill where you made camp last night, your bedrolls now lie in the foyer of an ornate mansion. A freshly swept carpet graces the floor. The walls are decorated with bright, colorful tapestries. Brass candelabras line the entranceway. They show signs of having been recently polished and are filled with candles.
More frightening than the sudden change from the wilderness to the mansion, is the smokey gray mist which surrounds the mansion at a distance of 30 feet, blocking all sight beyond. No sound penetrates the mist. A mule that accidentally wandered into the mists was quickly lost to sight, though its lead rope was clearly visible at the edge of the mist. When the rope was hauled back in, the dead body of the mule was dragged back into the sunlight. What killed the mule cannot be determined, but it died with a horrible look of pain on its face. The mist advances on the mansion even as the party watches, but luckily it does not enter the foyer. The double doors to the interior swing open into the main hallway by themselves.
This grand space features a wooden parquet floor of light browns and yellows, covered by a rose-colored carpet. Tapestries depicting woodland scenes and grandiose castles and temples hang from the walls. The ceiling soars some 30 feet overhead and the entire space is filled with fresh candles. A pair of double doors stand open in the north wall, while the south wall holds a pair of open doors, beyond which a veil of gray mist is visible.
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"I'm just saying it's not my fault! This time," Brian says when it was becoming plain that the party was not where they thought they would be. "When someone said 'should we take the left fork?' I know I said 'right' and then we took the right fork. Okay, sure, maybe I should've noticed. But do you know how hard it is to come up with a word that rhymes with 'camouflage'? Do you?
Do you??
No, I didn't think so, so this really isn't my fault. Objectively speaking. It's not like I was trying to find firewood or anything...." He trails off as he rides, strumming his phat lute.
"Okay, now this...this I did not expect," he says the next morning looking at the surprisingly present mansion. "I would reallllllllllllllly like to take credit for this. But I can't. Currently. That may, or may not, change in the foreseeable future."
Karhu looks around in shock. Not entirely comfortable with the plan to leave the woods behind for the big city in the first place, the druid feels trapped in this magically appearing mansion. He manages a deep growl and says, ”Did someone invoke wild magic last night during their watch? Maybe trying to conjure a shelter?”
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"I admit, I was trying to mend some wood together to see if they would burn hotter. The mended wood may, or may not, have been in naughty shapes. But I specifically was not trying to make a mansion. I may have wished for one, but, well, let's see...."
He screws his eyes tight and holds his breath for a moment.
He opens his eyes, looks disappointed, and declares, "Nope, sorry, I'm not a deity. Currently. Maybe I was one last night but only got one wish? Man. Bummer."
"Sabotage," Aletta responds to Brian, a hint of accusation bleeding from her lips. Then she resets and flashes a devilsh smile. "You're welcome. Again. I wonder when you'll write a song about me?"
"Aletta Varga, infernal treat,
Blade and beauty, men die at her feet.
Grovel worm, you're not worthy,
To the God of Hell alone I'm wed.
But bare your sword endowed by nature,
And for a night you may share my bed."
She hums a diddy in a minor key, then laughs the sort of laugh that frightens children.
She strolls the cavernous foyer, flittering her fingertips through the candle flames. "This place suits me. I don't care how we got here."
”Let’s close the door to the mist so we don’t lose any more animals or equipment,” says Karhu, putting action to words and making sure the animals are protected.
Aletta dons her gear as well, buttoning her corset and leaving the top open so she could breath. It's not that it didn't fit perfectly, but rather it fit perfectly as intended.
With sword and shield at the ready, she performs a reconnaissance of the immediate space, checking doors and windows and generally looking for any sign of how the group came to be wherever this is.
His eyes flutter open at the sound of his companion's voices. At first, Savas says nothing, wondering if the scene before him is just another nightmare, but alas he soon discovers his situation to be all too real.
Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he helps Karhu with the animals and ponders what might have happened to bring them to such a richly appointed place. He recalled seeing the pair of doves take flight the previous day. Symbols of peace and safety. The two birds circled and then flew north toward the left leading path. A good omen.
Moments later a scorpion scuttles across the right hand path. Danger. A warning for certain. Not such a good omen. His eyes flick toward Brian whose absolute assurance regarding the right hand path had convinced everyone it was the proper way to go. Despite the omens.
He grabs his quarterstaff.
"The gods have placed us upon a new path." He says. His voice quiet and filled with calm determination. "Let us discover why they have deemed such a thing necessary." He adds moving toward the northern set of doors and the hall.
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There are three stained glass windows along the west wall, but none can be opened. As to how you came to be here, there is no evidence. The doors to the north open into a hallway, about 80 feet, the length of which is covered in a rich red carpet, immaculately swept. There are three stained glass windows along the west wall and a door midway along the east wall. At the far end of the corridor is another set of double doors.
Savas steps through into the hallway and gazes at the large stained glass windows looking for any clues as to who may have sponsored such a finely crafted work.
"Whoever lives here is not poor or untidy." He says also noticing how the hall seems to have avoided the usual dust, grime, and cobwebs typically associated with odd castles surrounded by deadly live ending mists.
"Should we be in such a hurry to leave?" asks Aletta. "Perhaps we've been summoned for some great purpose."
Aletta opens the door on the east wall.
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The room beyond the eastern door is luxuriously furnished with plush chairs, polished wood tables, ornate rugs, and other fine furniture. The furniture has been pushed back against the walls and the carpets have been rolled up. In the middle of the floor stands a canvas-covered platform ringed with ropes connected to posts at each of the platform's corners. At one corner of the platform, a man stands as still as a statue with his hands raised at shoulder height, his fists clenched. This man is wearing amber silk half-trousers. His skin has an unnatural, waxen quality.
Seated near the strange figure is a man dressed in colorful silks, fancy lace, and rich velvets. He wears a large-brimmed hat flaunting a peacock's feather. A jeweled rapier is slung on his right side on a supple leather baldric. He has wavy black hair and a closely trimmed beard which comes to a point. Two men in plate armor and armed with halberds stand on either side of the man. Their flesh has the same unreal quality as the man on the platform. The seated man's flesh appears normal.
A dozen chairs rest near the perimeter of the room, each facing the canvas-covered platform. Floating above the center of each chair is a pair of red unblinking eyes that turn to watch all who enter.
"Greetings, friends," the man in the chair says as if he had been expecting you. "My name is Jean-Louis. Might I interest you in a friendly boxing match against my champion? I will offer even odds to do battle with a champion of your choosing."
Aletta takes in the scene, amused by the expectedness of it all.
"Even odds? Ha! I was born at night, but not last night! We do have a champion, but he is a poor match against this beautiful specimen." Aletta approaches the platform slowly, admiring the extensive care that went into such a grand venue. "Eight-to-five, and not a fraction less. You have the advantage of the home court, if nothing else.
Then she calls back to the group. "Savas, you should peek in here. These fellows have a proposal for us which speaks to your particular talents."
She turns her gaze to Jean-Louis. "I am called Aletta Varga in mortal realms. Is this realm mortal? Are you the master of this estate?"
”And what nature of currency do you use for your wager? Simple metal coins, or perhaps…information?” asks Karhu, looking warily at this outlandish scene, especially concerned by the unnatural pallor of the contestant’s skin.
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Brian merely took in the scene, undecided at his current state of mental attitude. Is this a grand estate that deserved song? Or are they kidnapped in some Greatest Game kind of...game...that needed tumult and chaos to complete the scene.
"Aye, Rakbura, aye, methinks there is profit to be had un understanding. Although what form that profit is to take is yet to be seen."
Entering the odd open room, Brian ignores everything that is going on, instead enthralled by the not-moving people. He walks up to one of the motionless guards and, slowly, tries to poke his cheek.
"It looks so lifelike," he mutters.
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"Questions aplenty. Answers will be provided if you accept my challenge. However, if you prefer gold to information, I can accommodate that as well. As to the wager, you have seen my champion, I would see yours before agreeing to such odds." Brian finds that the creature offers no response and the skin is a waxy as it seems. You notice that they do not even blink.
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The arm does not move and the helmet seems firmly attached. "The champion is my magen," he gestures to the being standing unmoving on the canvas. "The fight will be five 30-second rounds. If your champion can outlast my magen for at least one round, I will give you 1 additional gold piece, aside from bets, and answer one question. If your champion outlasts my magen for two rounds, I will give 10 gold pieces and answer two questions. Three rounds will net you 100 gp and three questions. Four rounds, 1,000 gp and four questions. If your champion lasts all five rounds, I will grant you an additional 5,000 gp and answer five questions. Finally, if your champion bests mine, I will gift you 10,000 gp and answer all questions that you may choose to ask. There are to be no armor or weapons, but your champion may otherwise prepare as desired."
Aletta sizes up the competition and then looks again at the party's half-elf champion. She had no doubt as to the outcome if the fight were to last a full five rounds. Savas would win easily. But the knockout condition made the outcome less certain. Still, there was not another among them with the proper skills for the fight.
The only question that remained in her mind was how much to wager...
"Are we betting by the round? That's unclear."
Aletta digs into her belt pouch and shows her hand. "Nineteen gold pieces on our champion. I'll bet round-by-round."
“I will wager 9 gold pieces,” says Karhu. He seems to be considering stepping in as champion, but refrains from saying much, finally saying, “and I offer myself as a secondary champion should our primary be unable to continue.”
Savas walks into the room. A smile on his face after meditating upon the finely crafted stained glass windows. Hearing the talk of wagers, fights, and champions the smile slowly fades becoming more akin to having swallowed a peach pit.
The explanation of the 'person' he is expected to fight eases his concerns somewhat, but sweat still breaks out across his brow as old memories flood through his mind. Another ring, another place, another challenge. Her eyes still haunt his dreams as does the slight upturn in her nose and those fiery locks reminiscent of a smoke colored sun. He'd made a promise to himself, never again. Never again would he fight for entertainment or simple wagers.
Yet, clearly the thing across the way was not truly alive. A magen the man had said. A magical construct of some sort? Perhaps. A loophole that would allow him to maintain his own honor and vow while not bringing dishonor to his companions who put him forth as champion.
He bows from the waist to Jean-Louis. "Greetings honored sir." He says, in his usual quiet voice. "While I would not normally engage in such pursuits, I will not dishonor my companions by refusing your challenge. Especially if one may gain information rather than simple gold."
He pauses for a moment looking over the ring and the magen. "Are there any prohibitions for the contest?"
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"Fifteen gold on that poorly-clad man that I hardly know who clearly is not suitable for hard fighting and will definitely lose!" Brian says in such a way that those who know him know he's kidding...but those who don't...?
"Oh man, this is gonna be a tough fight. If only someone was able to prepare him, if only someone knew something that could...Oh. That's right. I'm a bard," Brian says to himself, as if he needed reminding. Well perhaps he did.
"Oy, Savas! Remember, in whatever you do, give 100%! Unless you're giving blood."
Savas hears Brian's wise, sage words and they will be a light for him when all other lights have gone out.
Savas steps up and bows once again to the man. "I am ready to begin." He says.
Sensing this fight could go the distance, Aletta relaxes on one of the chairs, giving little thought to the possibility she might poke an eye out with her horns.
"Yay, Savas!" she cheers. "You must break him!" she adds, affecting an accent from eastern Greyhawk.
Although only a construct, Savas still bows his head to the magen as he would to any opponent at the beginning of such a contest. He then takes a step back before stepping forward with a testing jab that does little more than distract the creature to create a potential opening for a stronger follow up strike.
The magen punched hard, but not nearly as hard as Master Vilnus. He still carried a small scar above his right eye where the old man had caught him with a surprise move that no man of that age should have been able to do. Something Savas still couldn't match to this day.
Schooling his mind his focuses on a spot the constructs midsection. Although unlucky to cause the same amounts of discomfort that a living being would feel, it was solid practice and an better target as he starts to find a bit of a rhythm. Ducking in fast, he delivers two quick blows and slips back into once again into a defensive posture.
Savas winces and a grunt escapes his lips when the magen's punch catches him low in the side. He tries to counter punch but the pain still radiating from his gut throws the blow off. Given the circumstance he takes a few steps back to recenter and call upon the inner well of his mind and body. Opening himself up to that ever present internal resource of strength and power he dances forward landing a quick blow that hits with a resounding crack. At the same time he lets part of the energy calm and relax the aggravated muscle tissue in his side.
Bleeding from a cut lip and feeling the area around his ribs begin to swell, Savas staggers back. Once again he calls upon his reserves feeling his capacity run dangerously low. But unwilling to give in, he reengages. His first blow is off the mark once again while the second connects.
Another blow staggers Savas and his reserves were gone. I have to end this now. He thinks to himself. His eyes watch the magen, but there are no tells, no slips of motion to signal a weakness. Nothing a normal person might unwittingly share with an opponent. Only those cold blank eyes.
But then Savas notices a twitch in the magen's right leg. A slight stutter to its step. Perhaps some of his earlier hits had caused more damage than was recognizable. The creature didn't bleed or bruise or swell. How would one know. Knowing the suspected weakness was his only hope, he circles and moves. Forces the magen to ride heavily one that leg. Finally he feels the moment. The construct is just off balance enough. Quickly the monk flies forward fists striking like twin hammers guided by his own waining strength and that of Brian's magic.
The first blow lands but mostly glances off the rubbery skin. It is the second blow the crushes the construct's nose and eye. Sends it reeling backward arms suddenly flailing to regain a balance it cannot recover.