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Sure, it worked out fine for you. My star-crossed love for Audrahni is now even star-crossedder! I wouldn’t put it past her to seek out Sorshen, convince her that you will have saved her ass from Alaznist in the future, and perform a few services for her in exchange for a few millennia of temporal stasis. I figure a 20-level Bard would still be a rare commodity even at the heyday of Thassilon. (Although she might just start on that path, meet someone special who takes her mind off Audrahni, and then diverge into the Mad Queen scenario...)
— Marooning the heroes in the distant past. Call me old-fashioned, but I like giving them the retirement they deserve after saving the world... But I suppose it's a valid dramatic choice. The stakes were high enough that paying a personal price is acceptable. On second thought, that worked out fine for my Monk after all. In her backstory, she had trained at the reclaimed ruin of a Thassilonian monastery, and had experienced visions from the original inhabitants in the Thassilonian age that allowed her to reconstruct a millennia-old Thassilonian martial arts style (she's Time-Lost). Now it turned out she had, in fact, founded that monastery in the past, and the visions she had received were «memories» of herself teaching her students. :)
I am home. I suppose I should feel worse about being marooned in the distant past of my former life and all I held dear in it, but then, I have felt unrooted in it for as long as I can remember. This time is different: It welcomes me like rich black soil does a sapling's root. I belong here. It will take some time for us to regain our bearings here — even between our extensive studies of history and the glimpses into Thassilonian life I gleaned during my training, we know next to nothing about the true nature of life in this era. We do know the Runelords are not only alive, but at the apex of their power here; even after our victory over our version of Alaznist, we cannot expect to stand against even one of them in direct confrontation and live. In any case, even if we could kill a Runelord before their time, it would mean derailing the timeline that we strove to restore, and all would be for nought. I suppose we will have to seek a quieter life now. We do not even have a way to ascertain that the Varisia of this timeline has been restored to a semblance of what we remember, although we seem to agree on an intuitive level that this is likely the case. In any case, it is out of our hand now; we have done our part. I should be long past such vanity, but I admit I do retain a hope that, through some curious property of the laws of time, our names and our needs remain known in Varisia. But what does it matter? At any rate, I had an epiphany on the eve of our battle with Alaznist. I finally saw in its entirety the wisdom of the Thassilonian masters I had studied for so long: The secret purpose of their order was not merely to attain power or perfection, but specifically to provide a weapon against the Runelords if ever it would be needed. Through my visions, I had received that knowledge exactly when the need for such a weapon was greatest. With that in mind, I had vowed to myself to do my part to safeguard this knowledge — after all, even if we did prevail against Alaznist, Sorshen and Belimarius would remain alive and powerful, and others might attempt to take up the mantle of the fallen Runelords. I resolved to found my own monastery and teach a new generation of Monks in this sacred art, for as long as a Runelord lives, so should the knowledge on how to slay them. I can no longer teach them now, with millennia separating them from me, but I put my faith in Master Ko and my fellow students who studied the art with me. May the Master of Masters guide them as he did me. Meanwhile, I will do what I can on my side of the great divide to help this knowledge survive into the Varisian age. I will seek the monastery at which I studied and join the masters in their efforts to perfect Thassilonian martial arts and help it endure through the millennia. Should the monastery not yet exist at this current age, I suppose I will have no choice but to found it myself. And who knows, maybe Varisia has not seen the last of me. The most accomplished of Monks have been known to stop aging entirely — who is to say that I might not live that long? PS: I admit I was hoping to found my own monastery somewhere warm where mangoes and pineapples and vanilla grow. Now I suppose I'll have to settle for the stark beauty of the Storval mountains again. But this is a prosperous age; surely I can arrange for regular supply caravans?
Honestly, it turned out to be less difficult than we expected. It was a long fight, and there were definitely a few hairy moments, especially in the first round or two, but we never had the oh-crap-we-could-all-seriously-die-here periods I certainly did have a bit of crap-we're-going-to-die at the beginning, but then again, I get that a lot, and we usually survive. ;o) Being stripped of most of our buffs, missing two characters (the Druid and his pet) due to the player being delayed (indefinitely, for all we knew), having a Mythic Time Stop and a bunch of other Mythic stuff cast on us before we could even act, and seeing our (newly non-flying and non-fireproof) Cleric grappled and tossed into lava, that did look pretty dire to me, though. I had planned to beeline to Alaznist (possibly with a series of two Flying Kicks so I could full-attack her right away) and punch her to pieces within two rounds. Instead, I had to spend the entire first round drinking a potion of Fly while Mythic spells flew over my head. That was humiliating. My de-buffed Monk AC was so bad that I couldn't risk just plunging into Alaznist's bodyguards, and even though I tried to reduce their numbers first, they proved so ridiculously tough that I still got surrounded and pummeled. Without the Druid and his summons appearing after an hour of playtime, I would have had all the aggro on me, and there would have been no surviving it, even with Heal (and probably Breath of Life) from my magical allies. I was also very lucky that the Greater Magic Weapon from the Druid had survived the dispelling. If not, the Humanbane quality I had placed on my unarmed strike (via the Occultist's Legacy Weapon) would likely have failed as well, as it needs a magic weapon to work... that would have meant a total of –7 to hit and –14 to damage against Alaznist. It would basically have turned me into my own party's minion. And the module is structured such that they can come in buffed to the gills. So much so that I decided that their passage through the anima focus would mean a dispel magic (CL 21st) on any one of the spell effects on them, otherwise the encounter would likely be over in 2 rounds. I'm glad I did so, otherwise it would have been way too easy. Wait, YOU did that to us?! o_O That was... entirely justified, I guess. ;o) It's true that we would have steamrolled the encounter, like we did with Zutha. But it was a very harsh measure indeed, along with the missing two characters. As for coming in buffed to the gills, we did originally plan to press on towards Alaznist without resting, with maybe half our resources already spent (but a number of long-term buffs still up). It seemed to risky to camp in Alaznist's own lair, and we only changed our minds at the last moment when we heard from the guardian of the portal that she was basically holed up in her sanctum. So it's really hard to judge in advance how powerful the party will be in that encounter. Good thing Olwen is experienced enough to improvise! :P As for «the most insane thing ever published», Nyrissa was indeed much, much worse.
As another player in that game, I agree with almost all these points. I'm just going to add my own take on a few things. It was one of the best, possibly the best, campaigns we ever played. Kind of ironic, given that we originally were trying to decide among several other APs and only settled on Return of the Runelords because it was compatible with our disparate array of character concepts. Things I liked:
Mixed feelings:
So the Peacock Cultists purportedly want for all things to grow into their true beauty and purpose, yet they cultivate... poison mangoes. That alone serves to expose their hypocrisy. Even from my brief acquaintance with them, I know mangoes want to be delicious and nourishing. What kind of monster turns them into a tool for suffering and death? The temple of Pride is a fitting place for these deluded egomaniacs. The grave is an even better place. We are working on that.
There is no greater power in the universe than Preparation. This is the third time in our saga where we have had the luxury to indulge in it — the other ones being the wights in Thybidos' tomb, and the vampire gargoyle in the Gecko. In all cases, knowing what dangers to defend against, what manner of destruction to wreak, and how to deprive the enemy of their greatest strengths proved utterly devastating. It is hardly honorable, but against such manifestly evil opponents, victory is simply more important than honor. In retrospect, we probably overprepared. We spent days poring over plans for the perfect building in which to trap and kill Zutha, only to find the ritual take offense with our meddling. Then again, the fact that we prepared for a pitched battle against an overwhelming spellcaster, rather than just for a slaughter, allowed us to take it in stride. I am glad I experienced the frustration of fighting a mage in Mirror Images in our previous encounter — it prompted me to invest in True Seeing, which paid for itself many times over. Given the outcome, I do not rue the thousands of gold pieces I spent on potions and scrolls. Even if we did not reclaim any resources from Zutha's remains, or from the time-frozen library, for that matter. At least Sorshen rewarded us with a box of pastries. Really good ones, too. At least we now know the Runelords are mortal. If Sorshen is to be trusted, only two of them remain a threat, and we will face Xanderghul next. Maybe we should rebrand ourselves as the RUNESLAYERS. Speaking of which — does slaying Zutha make me the new Runelord of Gluttony? I don't suppose that is how it work. I do notice I am spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about those last two pastries, though.
Notes:
Of course there had to be even more Qlippoths. At least I now know why Thassilonian martial arts are all but extinct these days, despite their obvious power potential. Its practitioners must all have died of delusions of grandeur. I suppose I should thank the Master of Masters for another lesson in humility — my hubris might well end me for good if I am not more careful. To be fair, my power has, in fact, increased in leaps and bounds in the last weeks and even days. I only just realized the true capabilities of Snake Style. While it offered some early advantages, the deeper teachings of the style often struck me as unnecessary convolutions, going to great lengths to emulate the motion of a snake seemingly only for cosmetic purposes. How wrong I was. I understand now. A snake does not block a foe's attack, no, it strikes the offending limb. An opponent is never less defended than when they attack, and that is the best time to strike. That is why nobody messes with snakes. It worked beautifully, too. I laid waste to half a dozen cultists and minor qlippoths in mere moments, each of their attacks contributing to their own downfall. The first of the greater qlippoths also fell rather easily between Azriel and me. Just when a second one of the greater qlippoths appeared, Ice recalled us to Zincher's sanctum, where the cultists were executing their main thrust for the prize. This is where I faltered. While Azriel and the guards retreated from the fight and clustered for teleport to the sanctum, I decided to remain behind and take care of the qlippoth alone. I armed myself with ὀλοόξιφος, which I expected to make short work of the abomination. My plan was to step out of the building afterwards, ride my lightning boots up the side of the building and smash through a shuttered window. As it happened, though, most of my strikes against the qlippoth failed to connect, while it struck true through my defenses. I had so far neglected the few light injuries I had sustained so far, but along with the qlippoths counterstrike, they brought me within an inch of death. I could not leave the building in time without either offering the qlippoth one more opportunity to strike against me or wading through acidic fog, neither of which I could afford at this point, so I called upon ἀνεμόδρομος to swiftly carry me up the stairs towards my friends instead. However, the qlippoth guessed where I was going and used teleportation to ambush me at the sanctum level. My friends were still too far away from me to aid me, so I had no choice but to turn around to try and reach a window on the lower storey through which I might blast myself directly into the sanctum, as had been my original plan. But my path was obstructed by stairs, doors, and window shutters, which did nothing to hinder the qlippoth's logic-defying locomotion. It caught up with me an overwhelmed me with some unholy miasma. When I woke up again, I lay on the floor, staring right into the mind-rendingly absurd tangle of entrails that made up the qlippoth's mortal form. My friends tell me they came looking for me once their fight in the sanctum had concluded, and found the qlippoth carring me like a baby. I wonder what it had in mind, if «mind» is even a term applicable to qlippoths. Did it intend to bring me to its mistress as a prize? Was it looking for a quiet place to consume me? Or did it have a far less pleasant purpose for me in mind? We have met qlippoths in the past that used living beings as incubators for their eggs, after all. I keep wondering what long-term effects I will bear from this encounter. Perhaps I should ask Szarlej to cast Dispel Evil a few times upon me, just in case. At any rate, still being mostly dead and prone at the mercy of a qlippoth, I used my boots to carry me to the relative safety of a nearby stairwell, where I applied a small amount of emergency healing to myself while Azriel held the qlippoth at bay in the form of an elusive air elemental. Ice, who had healed me back to consciousness, had succumbed to debilitating nausea in the meantime. However, I still had ὀλοόξιφος on my fists. I rejoined combat with a flying kick and flanked the abomination with Azriel, which allowed us to end its preposterous existence once and for all. Looking back, my main sin was to «split the party», which common sense dictates is never a good idea. Had I joined the fight against the main enemy, a flying priestess of Yamasoth who created hungry pits in the floor and flung spell after spell at my friends, I might have been able to end the confrontation early with a well-placed stunning fist. Then again, I might just have fallen prey to these hungry pits, which I wouldn't have been able to escape as easily as my flying comrades. Furthermore, the qlippoth would no doubt have followed us to the sanctum, which might have disrupted my friends efforts against the priestess. However, in this scenario, I could have profited from Szarlej's channeled healing energies along with the others, which would have given me a fighting chance to take down the qlippoth on my own. Ultimately, it is hard to say what would have happened, had I followed our plan and not set out on my own, but I do expect it would have worked out in our favor. For now, I am simply grateful to the Master of Masters for allowing me the opportunity to live to learn from my mistakes and do better next time. In other news, Azriel's druidic powers can now teleport us through plants, which allowed us to choose a campsite in the wilderness, far from any corners that might attract the Hounds of Tindalos, and to reach the city of Korvosa on the next day without delay. We met another strange creature associated with Time, who did not assault us on sight, for a change, and who instead bequeathed upon us a fraction of the power of our potential future selves. At least that is how I understood her words. I do not pretend to comprehend the ramifications of time travel. Furthermore, we met the Runelord Sorshen in person. She is every bit as regal and striking as one would expect — I am surprised she can walk the streets of Korvosa without drawing all sorts of unwanted attention. For the moment, her goals seem to align with ours, even if her plans for a New Thassilon ring an entire city's worth of alarm bells. We will have to keep our eyes, ears, and minds open for signs of treachery, even as we follow her lead.
I agree that the character is supposed to be overwhelmingly deadly and that, ultimately, an enemy’s stats are what you say they are. ;) I’m just glad that I shouldn’t take it as a sign of neglected defenses on my part...
Of course there had to be more qlippoths. First the one in the Gecko, now these cat-like absurdities here in Riddleport. Given how rare qlippoth sightings are, we can only suppose that this cult is somehow in league with them. I do not like it in the least. I would rather fight demons and devils — at least they remain relatable to some degree, however small. Qlippoths are completely alien, their very existence an affront to the civilized mind. The night-time raids of the Hounds of TIndalos are escalating in frequency and severity. I am suspicious about the claims that they need corners in which to manifest. If we sleep in round chambers from now on, will they not simply appear in a corner of another nearby building and make their way to us? If not even time is an obstacle to them, why would a little bit of space be? In better news, former waylayer Lullaby Vancaskerkin has proven surprisingly brave in the defense of the Zincher mansion under the onslaught of a veritable host of mad cultitst and qlippoths. I will have to apologize to her for my distrust.
The Gory Details: The group was prepared for Xanesha's ghost, or so they thought. But a couple of attacks with a corrupting touch and Vital Strike (20d6) were too much for Akkumsah, who drop down to –15 hp. For the record: I am quite certain that Vital Strike and Corrupting Touch are incompatible, and thus my death illegal.
Also, as far as I can tell, the standard action to activate a (Su) ability is not the same as the Attack action, even if the ability does include an attack. So it shouldn't qualify for Vital Strike in the first place.
I briefly died when a ghost used Vital Strike on her Corrupting Touch on me. Re-checking the rules, I don't see how that can work. Vital Strike specifically calls out weapon damage dice, which Corrupting Touch does not have. Instead, its damage is a bag full of d6, like a damage spell. I think we all agree that a ghost's damage dice do not scale with size, so they are clearly not weapon-like. I believe the same argument is used to prohibit Kineticists from using Vital Strike on their Kinetic Blasts. On the other hand, the DM said the module specifically recommended using Vital Strike with that enemy. Was that simply a mistake? Have I died in vain...?
No-one deserves this kind of end. An untimely death is never pleasant, but Audrahni was not even granted that. Her life of the past three years was simply undone. No opportunity to fend for herself. She deserved better. It is personal now. Ice is taking it hard. I cannot blame her. This reality dysfunction must have been the gravest to date, seeing how many people it affected. Although — Ice's original recollection of Audrahni's death appears consistent with Captain Xorsha's account. For all we know, that may well be the «true» timeline of our world, if there is such a thing, and Audrahni's life in Roderic's Cove might have been a fleeting anomaly. Come to think of it, how certain are we that the Audrahni we had met was even real? Perhaps it was merely her restless spirit, refusing to acknowledge her death three years ago...? It would be the ultimate dramatic irony for a shepherd of lost souls to become lost herself. Then again, she served as the gravedigger in Roderic's Cove, an occupation ill suited to the incorporeal. It must have happened during our last day in Hollow Mountain. I distinctly remember Ice noting an uncanny resemblance between Runelord Sorshen and her friend from the Sihedron Heroes on the previous day. She used the friend's name back then, and I recognized it. That name is now stricken from our memories, and from Sheila Heidmarch's, and anyone's we have bothered to ask. It is as if the Sihedron Heroes had not just gone missing from Varisia, but from history itself. I wonder whether the wave of energy released by Thybidos upon his deliverance was responsible for the dysfunction. If so, we may even have brought Audrahni's fate upon her ourselves. It would explain why that otherworldly beast who hunts sinners against time itself assaulted us on the ship. In any case, it feels like the very tapestry of time is crumbling; we can only hope that it will hold together long enough to restore its continuity and bring the Sihedron Heroes and Audrahni back into existence. In other news, our meeting with Sorshen in Korvosa has been postponed by a vision sent to all of us in a dream, which led us to uncover a sinister plague laboratory in one of the pylons of the Irespan. We met the undead spirit of the local boogeywoman, Xanesha, and she struck me dead with her unholy touch. At least I believe I died — I do not remember experiencing any afterlife. Szarlej must have pulled me back into life before my soul could depart. As far as death experiences go, it was rather anticlimactic. Xanesha tore the life out of me with such ease that I do not even remember dying. It is a small miracle that I was the only casualty, and that we were able to vanquish Xanesha after Ice finally broke her will with a relentless barrage of spells. Even so, it was a more dignified death than Audrahni's. The laboratory turned out to be infested with vampire spawn, with the vampire itself still at large. We plan to hold out for long enough for Szarlej to prepare divine wards against the vampire's mind controlling powers. Gods help us.
I had expected Hollow Mountain to be a brimming military base with an army of abominations waiting to pour through the portal into Varisia. I should be thankful it was already all but abandoned when we reached it. Still, I cannot help feeling somewhat... belittled? ...by the fact that Alaznist did not consider us important enough to leave a rear guard behind. Instead, we were left to deal with ghosts, haunts, constructs and automated handlers. We were pitted against a series of adversaries like novices striving to earn their first belt... only to reach Thybidos’ mausoleum, which led us through yet another string of combat trials. At least the trials were worthy challenges. We had to strain our newfound might to survive them. I continue to find great use in ὀλοόξιφος, even though it is surprisingly difficult to discern which type of bane is called for. The Worm That Walks looked both undead and aberrant, but turned out to be a vermin. Likewise, nobody in our group was able to identify the Qlippoth in time; I would probably have taken them for an aberration. I have often wondered why ὀλοόξιφος and its related disciplines are so obscure nowadays despite their obvious great power — now I know how hard it is to wield, I am starting to understand. It is to martial arts what the firearm is to ranged combat. The presence of the Qlippoth worries me, though. While one may argue whether humanity deserves to suffer the consequences of their Sins, no-one deserves the mind-twisting extraplanar horrors of the Qlippoths. This had better be the last we see of them.
If I may, I would like for you to continue with her point of view. I found them pretty entertaining. Seconded!
Victory: We have reclaimed Baraket from the murderous thieves who stole it from us. It would seem they, too, were racing to discover the secrets of Hollow Mountain, albeit to an entirely different end. Unfortunately, my friends have neglected to bring along the warding gauntlets — we can only hope Ice will be able to resist its whispers until we bring it back to Magnimar. So far, she only appears a bit more confident than usual. Not necessarily a bad thing. The sea voyage to Hollow Mountain transpired with a shocking lack of deadly incidents. The island, on the other hand, greeted us with a new breed of sin-spawned abominations as Ice, the Doctor and I scouted inland, far deadlier than the fleshdregs of Roderic's Cove: Giant stirge-like monstrosities that addled our minds with spells and curses, sapped our vitality and drained our blood — and regenerated what harm we managed to inflict on them. It took all our effort to wear them down through all the afflictions they visited upon us. In retrospect, we should never have ventured into the woods with only half our force. It is common wisdom, really; I am surprised we keep making this mistake. At least it gave me the opportunity to try out Lady Heidmarch's gift to me: A pair of shoes that allow me to transform into a lightning bolt once per day. While it has some offensive use, the ability to escape a monster's embrace at a word's notice proved even more valuable. We met our contact in the woods further uphill. He looked too well-shaven to be a hermit, but his intel proved reliable. We decided to investigate the temple ruin first, as the adventuring party who had headed there matched the description of Varilane and Baraket. After fighting our way through the unholy blood-slimes that guarded the temple, we descended into the mountain beneath and stumbled upon Varilane and the Feathered Fops, of whom we made short work. After all these near-death experiences, I must say I enjoyed the feeling of tactical competence, for a change. I hope it shows our growth in prowess, rather that just a stroke of luck. It certainly helped that I finally managed to manifest ὀλοόξιφος to amplify my power both against the slimes and the Fops. At last! It is every bit as effective as I had hoped, even if it costs me precious moments to invoke it at the onset of a fight. The key, as I had conjectured, was to use a magical weapon as the focus. I look forward to wielding this power in my own hands; for now, I must make do with a manufactured weapon. Magnimar's market proved surprisingly devoid of magic weapons compatible with monastic tradition, for all its endless expanse. Life would be much simpler if there were a tradition centered on, say, the rapier. They seem to be the height of fashion around here. But any oaf can be dangerous with a rapier in hand, much as a cripple can walk with a crutch. But we Monks have no use for crutches. We aim to run, to leap, to fly. We walk the Master's Path not because it is easy, but because it is hard. In the end, I settled for something called a chicken saber. Decent enough a tool for violence, even if the name is embarrassing. As a small indulgence, I have resolved to call it a falcon sword instead; it is not as if anyone will know better. PS: The rations we got from the ship's cook contain more culinary discoveries. I am particularly fond of this so-called «pea nut-butter», even if it does not taste of peas even the least bit.
So my friend was murdered in her sleep, the Sihedron Heroes who were supposed to take the case off our hands are missing (along with the Sihedron proper), and we are being sent into enemy territory in their stead. So much for normalcy. This is no longer just bad luck. I fear we have become adventurers. Worst of all, there's another sea journey ahead of us. Gods help us.
Our sea voyage has come to an end, thank gods. Every step on a ship's deck feels wrong, even in calm weather. The planks may look like proper ground, but the constant motion betrays their nature. They are a mere mask worn by the cold black abyss of the sea to keep us docile while it builds up its hunger. And once the storm hit, the sea did not even try to hide its intentions. We were lucky to make it to Sandpoint for repairs. Magnimar is unimaginably big and beautiful. I wish we had the leisure to explore it and visit its many ruins and sights. So far, I have only caught a glimpse of it as we rushed through its markets toward Heidmarch Manor, where we are to meet with the Sihedron Council tomorrow, and of the site of Audrahni's unfinished business. At least I am afforded a sample of Magnimar's limitless possibilities through Lady Heidmarch's excellent choice in catering and lodging. Who knew there were so many kinds of fruits I had never tasted before? I'm particularly fond of the big armored fruit with a plant growing from its top (rather than the other way around, as one might expect); I think it was called a «spine apple». It's good to have rich friends. In any case, we will hand over the case to the Sihedron Council tomorrow and restore some normalcy to our lives.
I don't recall them having a good reputation. Are you thinking of the Order of Resplendence, or did I miss something?
You offered 5.
Fair enough. I will correct the statement. Azriel then threatened the child with bodily harm.
We had barely begun exploring it when we came upon a pair of Horned Fangs sparring with a pair of fleshdregs. Dr. Variel approached to make a friendly proposition about archeology, and they promptly attacked her. For the record, I opened hostilities by moving in and dispatching one of the fleshdregs in order to «save» the Fangs from these monsters. I only realized my mistake afterwards, at which point the Fangs had made up their minds about us. Who would have expected these people to be friends with fleshdregs, though? They are essentially offal shaped into killing machines by the very essence of sin, and they have indiscriminately attacked people in the Circle the other day. I find the fact that they consort with abominations hard to reconcile with their supposed good reputation. At least they are honorable enough to take prisoners. We will see how that goes. while my fellows negotiated. Which they did by first offering a pittance, then growing angered when the pittance was rejected, then threatening the child with bodily harm.
The reality dysfunctions are getting worse. Right now, I find myself in what appears to be a storage space in an underground complex, held hostage by the Horned Fangs for what must have been at least half a day. Yet I vividly recall sneaking through the gardens of Peacock Manor to look for Baraket only moments ago, while Szarlej was the one held by the Fangs. I could describe the manor‘s creaky outdoor stairs, dusty smell, and righfully suspicious inhabitants in great detail — I have no doubt the memories are genuine. But in that scenario, how did Szarlej even end up in the hands of the Fangs? I remember sorely missing his presence during the underground fights. The are at least two breaks of continuity here. I suspect they are some sort of temporal after-quake of yesterday‘s dramatic time jumps. I hope they will calm down eventually. This is magic to make the sanest man go mad. Meanwhile, the hostage situation could be worse. I am told the Fangs enjoy a favorable reputation in town — hard to believe, seeing them collude with sinspawned abominations as a matter of course — but I will take my chances. Had this happened among the goblins, I would be steeping in marinade now. On the upside, my friends are growing with the challenge. Dr. Variel has taken to alchemical self-experimentation to make himself more formidable in combat — quite successfully so —, Azriel took on the form of a fantastic clawed beast to fight the Fangs, and Ice wielded her very voice as a tangible weapon. And yet, none of it is enough. Wherever we go, we end bringing an entire lair of foes down upon us: goblins, Roadkeepers, Horned Fangs... and now, I fear, the Order of Resplendence, unless my friends can pull off a miraculous extraction up in the Manor. But Ice is bound to run out of magic, or luck, sooner or later, and then they‘ll find themselves surrounded by a houseful of enemies. Maybe I should just sit here and wait for another reality dysfunction to make it all right.
Secured the gauntlets. Considering the overwhelming hostile presence entrenched around either entrance of the vault, it is a small miracle we made it in and out alive, let alone with a minimal amount of bloodshed. I suppose that should count as a victory. It leaves a bitter aftertaste, though. In many ways, we owe our survival to sheer luck rather than competence. With the goblins, we thrust ourselves recklessly into the midst of the dragon's den, and would have died for it if our strange affliction hadn't rewoven the threads of time to recast the dice, as it were. I cannot shake the feeling that there are several other worlds out there in which we died to pay for our survival in this one. How many more times will the flow of time be willing betray its integrity to save us? Cats running out of spare lives. I do not like it. While I generally approve of nonviolent solutions, my instincts bristle at leaving the goblin tribe unchallenged. They are slavers and cannibals, and our diminishment of the Roadkeepers might well embolden them. As for the Roadkeepers, I doubt they will disband while the old lady yet lives. To be honest, it was we who brought war upon them — perhaps their predations will even increase out of retribution. In either case, the powers of Roderic's Cove would be well advised to move against the location in force and take care of these threats. Hells, I might join them if they do. First things first, though. With the gauntlets, we should be ready to counter Baraket's power. I wonder if she is the talking kind of sword. No doubt she would have interesting stories to tell from the Thassilonian age! Given the calamity she has brought about, though, I would presume she hails from the late, sin-ridden era of Thassilon, and would only be of limited use to my research. The Thassilonian vault was intriguing, but its wealth of runes seemed concerned entirely with turning visitors to ash. Pity we didn't have the leisure to study it in detail. Perhaps there will be time for this once the current crisis is resolved. The exposure to Thassilonian relics appears to be doing wonders for my mental focus, though. I was able to manifest both θωρᾱκῐ́ζομαι and ἀνεμόδρομος with ease today, which cost me considerable effort back at the monastery. I am on to something here. Notes:
Master Ko used to say that you learn more from defeat than from victory. Well, the past two days have certainly been very instructive. I have run from an apparition in sheer panic. I was dashed against a wall by a roomful of water. I have fought an infant, and lost. It nibbled me to sleep. Who in their right mind keeps a roomful of water locked inside their home, though? And the infant was a powerful revenant; it took the combined efforts of my new friends to undo it. Luckily, they are resourceful people. Not that they haven't had their share of learning experiences. No less than three of them managed to injure themselves falling through the same flight of rotten stairs, one impaled himself on his spear, two almost drowned trying to swim a dozen feet across the river. On the upside, we are undeniably making progress. We braved Sir Roderic's haunts long enough to receive two more visitations from him, in which he spoke of a (wooden?) gauntlet that needs to be retrieved from a vault (?) to save the town from its current afflictions. We found its presumed location on one of his magnificent hand-drawn maps in the town hall. Intriguingly, the location was marked with a Sihedron — not only that, but the seven surrounding runes were displayed out of their canonical order. If Sir Roderic is to be believed, this arrangement will likely prove the key to entering this vault. Should we uncover a lost Thassilonian ruin here, it will well be worth the hardship.
At least «rocky» is a relatively positive term. A step up from the usual «resting b-face».
Akkumsah Stonechild looks human but there is something about her that looks… "rocky," I guess. Namely, she moves more deliberately and sparingly than humans do, without all the little flourishes and wiggles we take for granted. When she doesn’t move, she is disconcertingly still. Combined with her opaque sandstone-colored skin, this may lead some people to mistake her for a statue at first sight.
since most of the dead seem to have died of fried Uh oh. I had something fried for breakfast. Should I be worried?
Still in Roderic's Cove. Starting to rue the decision to return here. Each week I spend in this balmy weather with crab cakes and cider will undo another year of conditioning. Yes, crab cakes: I am starting to appreciate seafood. It has come to this. I remain convinced that Ice, Szarlej and I are somehow joined in this strange affliction of ours, even if our walks of life could not be more different otherwise. It is hard to gain useful insight into Ice's experience, given how most of her waking thought seems to go toward coping with land-borne life. As for Szarlej's experience, I am struggling to see anything there beyond the consequences of alcohol abuse. Dr. Variel is a treasure trove of Thassilonian lore, even if it appears entirely theoretical in nature, and has little to do with martial arts. Seeing how he handles angry thugs and abandoned houses, I am amazed he was able to complete his studies without dying of a papercut. Not sure what to make of the Druid. He carries a wall around with him. I wonder what he is hiding. His bird is a magnificent creature, though. It does not help that Roderic's Cove managed to go empty in a land richly gifted with Thassilonian relics. The marketplace is suspiciously circular, though. It reminds me of my old training grounds. I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be a buried ruin. Meanwhile, I could be in Windsong Abbey, training with Grand Master Elena. This had better be worth it. Notes:
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