Moving racks of weapons to in front of the main door, Dargon pauses and glances towards the horrible noise. What in the Nine Hells was that? His Rapier is in his hand and he stands waiting for something coming out of the dining hall
Posh strides back into the main hall, cookies still in one hand, the crinkled map fluttering in the other. He pauses, squints at it, then slowly rotates it a half turn with an exaggerated flourish.
“Ah, well that explains the sudden urge to walk into a broom closet.”
He pivots on one heel to orient himself properly, the map now correctly aligned with north at the top. His gaze finds the double doors that Dargon appears to be barricading with commendable but misguided intent.
“A bold strategy, sealing off our literal path to freedom.” He raises his voice just enough to make sure everyone hears. “But unless we are launching an ambitious campaign to retake the prison from the inside out, might I suggest we not block the doors that lead directly to the courtyard, and beyond it, the gatehouse, and beyond that, the sweet, lawless embrace of the countryside?”
He gives the map a gentle pat, then tucks it under one arm like an indignant herald.
“Unless someone’s drawn a secret tunnel full of gnome-sized ladders on the back of this thing, I say we go out the front like proper villains.”
Dargon sees Posh come out, studying the map. But glancing that way. By the look on his face, there was no danger...per se. So he sheaths the rapier....and then...[b]you want me to get the racks out of the way I take it[b]
And with confirmation from the Gnome he begins to push the racks back into the armory so they wouldn't impede movement.
Rendylyn staggers back, coughing and gagging. "Nine hells, Grumblejack! I-can-smell-your-sin was meant as a metaphor, not an invitation. You could have just told us why you're in Branderscar, instead of committing Flatulence in the First Degree."
Rendylyn starts to give a little chuckle at her little joke, but breathes in too much and chokes instead. She dashes into the hall for a breath of fresh air.
She squints down over Posh's head as he studies the map. "That courtyard looks like a deathtrap to me. Since the servant has almost certainly alerted the guards, this door and one or both of these will be barred from the other side. All the guards have longbows. I expect at least six archers to try and feather us from the safety of the battlements the moment we exit those front doors."
"Let's discuss this after we secure the prisoners," she says as he folds the map away, and returns to the mess, holding her breath as she rounds up the prisoners and herds them toward the stairs.
The guards allow themselves to be imprisoned and do nothing that would provoke retribution.
After the cell is locked Treesa nods to the guards. "Be sure to inform the higher ups that Blackerly was skimming funds. Add that as the reason for our escape. He should hang. If we see him on our way out we'll fix that.... You see, we're not law breakers. We only break laws that are not valid."
She heads downstairs with the others.
"Rendylyn? Do you have the spell prepared for a cloud of fog? That would make archers less effective. Otherwise I think our best option would be to open the doors with everyone holding shields and just run across. If the door is barred we can use the window to get through."
Hearing the discussion Dargon adds. if both gates are shut the only way to open them would be from above on the 2nd or 3rd floor. Maybe we go up a tower and across the wall....
"Grumblejack is the only one with the ability to create a fog cloud, and I doubt he could do it on command. I've no such spell prepared. Asmodeus could grant me the power to raise a mist, but I'd need to beseech Him for it after midnight. If we were to wait that long, we might as well just go under the cover of darkness, and perhaps make a tortoise of a table. But what do we do if they release the dogs?"
"I prefer Dargon's idea of approaching the gatehouse on the walls. As he says, if we use the window at ground level, we might be stuck on the gatehouse's ground floor, staring up at a hatch with the ladder pulled up. So, we go out the servants' door and follow the building's south side to this tower door , which might not be barred. If it is, we've lost nothing and can still try a frontal assault. If it isn't, we can get to the walls, where the dogs can't reach us and we'll be less conspicuous as we approach the gatehouse."
"And maybe they won't expect us to go out that way? If we can gain the top of the wall, even if it's blocked we can go down with rope. Maybe grab a couple so they're strong enough for Grumblejack."
Raising an eyebrow after the "explosion", Morthos asks the ogre in a rhetorical nonchalant manner, "Feel better? Get up, Grumblejack, we are leaving. Help Dargon clear the barricade."
Moving racks of weapons to in front of the main door, Dargon pauses and glances towards the horrible noise. What in the Nine Hells was that? His Rapier is in his hand and he stands waiting for something coming out of the dining hall
"I do not believe that is a question you want answered, Dargon," he answers flatly.
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Listening to all the various takes on escaping, "While your plan has merit, Rendylyn, we are still relegated to exiting the front door. There is no other way out, except through here," he points at the door where Grumblejack locked himself in. "Which may very well be our best option, unless, the hounds reside in that area."
"But it matters not. Those are our only options and we must choose one. The north doors or the eastern door. And Treesa's idea of us all bearing shields as cover may very well be a prudent one."
The cloud in the kitchen begins to thin. Grumblejack lumbers to his feet and approaches Morthos, who he seems to like for some reason.
"Well then!" Posh folds the map with a practiced snap and tucks it back into his coat. "Let it never be said I am too proud to defer to the judgment of my military betters. My field is cartography, not cavalry charges."
He gestures loosely toward the doors. "If the consensus is to sneak along the walls like shadows at a masquerade, I am perfectly content to follow—provided someone else volunteers to carry the ogre’s boots if he trips on the way up."
"Still..." he murmurs as he begins trailing after the others, "the most direct route is often the most overlooked. Ah well. No one ever wrote an epic about the shortest distance between two points."
"Then we're agreed. Best to move quickly." Rendylyn immediately heads for the servants' door, and sneaks a peek outside to see if any enemy forces await.
Rendylyn wades through the kitchen haze, still extremely unpleasant but no longer lethal, and pokes her head out the servant's door to the garden and the fortress wall immediately beyond. Perhaps her eyes betray her but she does not see anyone else outside. As far as she can tell, her presence is also unnoticed.
Treesa grabs a shield and waits for others to lead the way.
Posh sidled out into the daylight like a shadow that had somewhere important to be, slipping behind the broader backs of his more martial comrades. "Do go first," he whispered sweetly, "You are all such natural arrow magnets."
His sharp eyes scanned the courtyard, adjusting to the brightness—and then narrowed. He lifted one finger subtly and pointed, his voice low and urgent.
"Guard. On the wall, across from the kitchen door. Poor soul thinks the shadows hide him, but he does not see Rendylyn. Someone get her a medal. Or a dagger."
Dargon peaks outside where Posh indicated the Guard is and nods, seeing him. and waits for him to look around or wipe sweat from his forehead, or yawn, or scratch his face and then slips out and around the corner quickly and crouches behind the chimney looking around.
"Well then!" Posh folds the map with a practiced snap and tucks it back into his coat. "Let it never be said I am too proud to defer to the judgment of my military betters. My field is cartography, not cavalry charges."
He gestures loosely toward the doors. "If the consensus is to sneak along the walls like shadows at a masquerade, I am perfectly content to follow—provided someone else volunteers to carry the ogre’s boots if he trips on the way up."
"Still..." he murmurs as he begins trailing after the others, "the most direct route is often the most overlooked. Ah well. No one ever wrote an epic about the shortest distance between two points."
Morthos narrows his eyes, pondering the gnome's words.
As they make their way to the side door, "Posh has a point. We should have checked the exit gate. I will not put it past these fools to forget to lock it. Although it is possible that they may have done something intelligent for once in their pathetic existence."
"In legends, the villains always seem to fail because they underestimate the heroes. Let's not get into a habit of that."
Rendylyn squints into the daylight, trying to spot the guard Posh warned about. "He's there? That's too far for me to blast without exposing myself to archers at the gatehouse. Bows and crossbows would reach from here, but with the cover of the parapet he might win an archery duel, or he might flee to report our actions.
"I think we'd better just run after Dargon. In fact, I'm going to. We should all go together, quickly, to reduce how many shots he can take.
"Following Dargon in five...four...three...two..."
"Grumblejack. Take the big sword! It's a better fit for a big warrior like you!"
Following the group out with the shield in front of me....
Posh will run with Rendylytn when the time comes, keeping a big between him and the archer guard.
The guard crouching on the wall may not have seen Rendylyn or Dargon, but he's not blind, and as soon as Morthos and Kid and Grumblejack emerge from the servant's doorway he jumps to his feet and prepares to blow his signal horn.
Enemy NPCs
Everyone except Rendylyn may act. If you don't kill this guard he will blow his signal horn. Please keep the map current.
Seeing the one guard raising a signal horn Treesa drops the shield and raises the crossbow. She figures they only have time for one shot…. She steps out for a clear shot.
"In legends, the villains always seem to fail because they underestimate the heroes. Let's not get into a habit of that."
"Now, dear Rendylyn, that depends on who you would characterize as villains and who as heroes. But it matters little, legends are nothing more than an embellishment of myth."
Morthos waits for the 'shot heard 'round the Talingarde', to see what fate awaits them.
Tressa's crossbow bolt comes within a whisker of piercing the guard's face, but it misses nonetheless, sailing harmlessly over the wall and into the violent churn of the ocean, far below.
"Oh dear, this is all very messy..." Posh muttered, pressing two fingers together as he began his spellwork. His voice dropped to a singsong whisper, intoning soft syllables of power that slithered into the wind and vanished.
With a twitch of his fingers and a flick of his ear, he pointed discreetly toward the guard on the wall casting message.
Then he raised a hand to his mouth, and spoke—his voice now a rumble of divine authority, carried only to the guard’s ear.
"You stand on sacred ground, child of Talingarde, and I am watching you. This is Mitra. The horn you raise will doom not just your garrison, but your soul. This is your moment of judgment. Will you protect the innocent... or damn them all in flame? Choose."
He lowered his hand, then turned to the others with a wink.
"Let us see what sort of theological education this one received, shall we?"
With the guard raising the horn to his lips, Posh whispers a message that confidently portrays deific projection. At first the man is merely confused, and swivels his head to find the source. But this is no mere messenger, this is Mitra, the Sun!
He looks upward while receiving Posh's words, and once the question is asked he answers promptly, "I will protect them, Lord!
The guard releases the horn to his hip and runs north along the wall.
"It is quite possible that I have converted that one to our team."
"...one!"
Rendylyn rushes around the corner, past the chimney, and takes cover by the tower, peering to see if there are any more threats ahead.
Dargon sees the Guard race off grins. He doesn't know what happened, but he's not blowing his horn, so they gained a few more seconds . He spins and goes to the door to the tower and checks the lock. If it's locked He goes to work.. sneezing he almost drops his picks.he glances sheepishly at Rendylyn. Finally he nods satisfactorily and stands up, waiting for the others to join them.
Treesa follows the group around the corner. When she remembers the shield she shrugs and keeps moving, trying to reload the crossbow while she moves....
Treesa follows the group around the corner. When she remembers the shield she shrugs and keeps moving, trying to reload the crossbow while she moves....
After a few tries, Dargon feels the subtle twists of the tools pop through the series of tumblers and release the lock to the tower door. The Veil of Useful Items has had one useful item, at least. One wonders wither the mysterious woman who smuggled it in might have been more frugal and instead just slipped Rendylyn a set of picks in a bar of soap or a small cake.
Upon entry you quickly ascertain the tower is the residence of the Warden. This entire first floor is dedicated to the history of the Castle Branding and the subsequent history that led the castle to become Branderscar Prison. It consists of a series of mostly uninteresting plaques that tell of nobles and deeds hardly anyone remembers anymore. There are a number of banners and flags.
One of the wall hangings is an old brocade tapestry that depicts Castle Branding being turned into a prison with the motto "His Judgment Cometh and that Right Soon." There is a central spiral column stairway leading up.
"Ah!" Posh exclaims softly as he steps into the chamber, eyes flicking across dusty banners and brittle plaques like a miser appraising a vault. He comes to a stop before the brocade tapestry, tilting his head.
"Now this—this is quality work. old-century threadcraft, I would wager, back when the textile guilds still cared about stitching over sermonizing. And the phrase—'His Judgment Cometh and that Right Soon'—how perfectly ominous. Truly, a collector’s item."
He rests a hand on his hip and lets out a sigh.
"But at a hundred and fifty gold, it is not worth the sweat it would take to haul it over these walls. I value my delightful, endangered life rather more than a heavy symbol of penal history, thank you very much."
He turns away, muttering as he glances again at the map folded under his arm.
"Also—can we talk about how heading 'north' currently requires us to go south? I realize cartography is an art, but the universe is just being spiteful at this point."
He makes a gesture vaguely toward the stairwell.
"Up we go, I suppose. May the next floor contain something more useful than aristocratic embroidery and cardinal irony."
Posh bravely leads the party up the spiral stair. The entire second floor of the tower is covered by a large collection of books and scrolls across a wide range of subjects. The most common items in the library are the penny dreadfuls. These poorly printed compilations of lurid tales range across the whole gamut of adventure genres. However, the one genre over-represented is bawdy tales featuring amply endowed young gnome maidens in grave peril. The value of this collection is in the eye of the beholder.
In the more scholarly section, there are fifty-five books on subjects ranging from magical theory, history and astronomy. Fifty-two of these are common books and tomes worth an average of 3 gp and each weighing a pound. A perusal of the tomes reveals three of particular interest:
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Posh steps off the spiral stair with a theatrical flair, eyes alight as they sweep across the room. He inhales sharply, as if the very scent of musty parchment were a balm to his soul.
“A library... at last. My native element.”
He takes a few steps in, reverent—until he squints at the nearest shelf and freezes.
“...Oh no.”
He pulls a luridly illustrated booklet from the stack with two fingers, like it might bite him.
“Gnimphs of the Gallows: Volume Six. Of course. There are more pages in this tower dedicated to gnomish heaving bosoms than to magical theory.”
A second pause. Then, grudging admiration.
“...the binding work is actually quite solid.”
He lays the volume aside and turns toward the next section—his tone shifting from dismay to delight as he lays eyes on the scholarly tomes.
“Ah! Civilization returns.” He traces a line of spines with his fingers, pausing when one stands out. He extracts it reverently.
“The Travels of Titus the Mendicant. First edition. Vellor before his celebrity phase. This—this is *real* literature.”
He slides the book into his satchel like a holy relic, then turns, eyes landing on the looming figure of Grumblejack.
“Grumblejack, my mountainous friend, you now serve a higher calling. Kindly collect as many of the... ahem... ‘gnomographic novellas’ as your mighty arms can carry. Posterity may require them. For reasons.”
A final, exasperated glance at the room.
“I, of course, shall bear the Titus. One of us needs to walk upright into history.”
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Fail
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When Treesa reaches the library she strides in. "Posh? Wasting time reading while the guards are gathering at the gates to stop our departure? Ignore him Grumblejack. Your strength is needed to kill guards, not to carry gnome porn!"
Looking for the stairs up, or an exit to the wall?
The spiral staircase upward ends at a stone landing. The stairway appears to have once continued up to the roof of this tower but now the roof is closed off. This small chamber is lit by a single torch on a sconce. To the north is a door bearing a plaque that reads "Office." The southern door has a similar plaque that reads "Private: Keep Out!"
The Warden’s office is tastefully adorned in hard wood. The office is dominated by a massive oak desk. Inside the desk is a neatly folded map of the
surrounding area. The map shows the quickest route through the moors and Old Moor Road.
The warden is not here, meaning he is not in the tower. His private bed chamber is well-appointed and includes a fine four poster bed, a full length mirror, and an oaken wardrobe. Though the furniture here is of high quality, there is no easy way to get it out. More portable is the Warden’s wardrobe including no less than five noble outfits. This collection of noble finery is mostly elegant silk robes and could fit most anyone.
There is also a sturdy oak chest pushed into one corner of the Warden’s private chambers. It is a well packed alchemist’s lab stocked with sufficient chemicals and reagents.
Rendylyn runs her nails lightly along the spines of the academic books. "Some of these histories I saw in the library of Stoker House. Trinitarian lies...ashes, now. I've thought about what you said, Morthos, about legends mattering little, and I can't say I agree. Legends and histories are written by the victors. Heroes are those who triumph, and villains those who falter. Myths and legends are maps to glory, for those with the wisdom to interpret them properly."
She shrugs and moves on to a shelf of penny dreadfuls. "One of my tutors said you could see the shape of a man's mind in his library. This warden is either a gnome or a very peculiar human. Posh, there's no need to sort through this for valuables now. We can come back once we've eliminated the guards."
Rendylyn is about to start for the stairs when she catches sight of a title: Pauline in Peril, Part Four: Enslaved in the Vampire Crypts of Livgrace. She discreetly tips it into the loot bag, along with Part Five: Vampire Rebellion Below Karcau: the Ensparkling. "Ahem. Let's move on."
“Hmph!” Posh makes an exaggerated gesture of dusting his hands. “The street value of such gnomish literature is not to be underestimated, dear Treesa. You would be amazed what lonely men will pay for these back-alley tales of 'ample adventure.' And besides—Grumblejack wants to help, do not you, lad?”
He gives the ogre a fond pat and points at the nearest stack of lurid covers. “He understands the cultural significance.”
As the group moves upward, Posh peeks into the warden’s chambers, fingers twitching at the sight of silk robes and fine oaken furniture.
“Ah. The man lived better than his station warranted.” He points to the wardrobe. “Those are noble outfits—five of them, well-cut, could fit most bodies with flair. Someone should grab those.”
Then his eyes light upon the alchemist’s kit in the chest and his voice grows slightly more reverent. “Now that… that is worth something. Well-packed, well-preserved… Easily two hundred gold, perhaps more with the right desperate buyer.”
He tugs the folded map from the desk and carefully shakes it open. “Varyston, the moors, the Old Moor Road—it is all here. This is what a proper prison would guard with lock and key. Not some sad tapestry downstairs, but this. Information.”
He taps the route with one finger, eyes flicking toward the windows.
“I shall carry this. I know maps, if nothing else.”
Better this in my hands than left to burn when the castle falls, anyway. Let the others swing their blades—I am drawing the way out.
Dargon followed the group up the stairs, rapier at the ready. When he reached the 2nd floor and they began to talk of books He, like the others, begins reading titles...he pauses on 'magical theory'...he looks at the others. Could the Warden be a wizard? Magical theory? and not one but several books....we must be wary of this.
then up to the 3rd floor. He goes to the desk. He first looks the locked drawer over if he finds a trap he attempts to disarm it and then unlocks the drawer. opening it he see's a large tome....He picks it up saying, I believe we found something very important.
When Dargon finds the spellbook Treesa smiles. "The warden a wizard? Not likely. But one of his lackeys might be." She lifts it, not liking the load. "I wish we'd found some backpacks. But I'll carry this. I might be able to charm a wizard later...."
Dargon looks at Treesa. The Wardens desk has a spell book. Why would it be there if it wasnt the Wardens? But yeah keep it.[/B]
Dargon begins to look for a door to the wall.
"'You can see the shape of a man's mind in his library.' Treesa, I suppose you can't use a wizard's spellbook, but can you recognize the spells within it? Knowing what kind of magic this man knows would be helpful."
Treesa considers the question and looks at the book. "Not easily. I don't prepare spells from written words like a wizard. My patron grants the spells to my familiar and I meditate with it to prepare my spells. I believe I could study the spells here and probably decipher what they are. But it would take more time than I think it would be worth. And I won't be able to learn any of these spells and teach them to my familiar.... When I regain him."
"Pity. Well, I don't see a point in looting the tower any further--the real treasure would have been to catch the warden or some other guards. We can always come back after we've killed the rest of them.
"Let's continue with Dargon's plan, and head northwest along the wall to the gatehouse. If we were to crawl from tower to tower, the parapet would hide us from the gatehouse, so they wouldn't know which way we were coming until we were right on top of them."
Dargon goes to the door outside ((Presuming its on the 2nd floor, which is where it would be logically)). He cracks the door and looks outside and then creeps out keeping low and looking around, waving the others forward.