DM - Tareth's page

A mixture of emotion passes across young Morgan Kreeg's face at the discovery of a possible lead to his father's disappearance. Excitement, worry, anticipation, fear, happiness, and more worry. The fact that the residual magic discovered by Gunnar is of a dark and malign origin weighs heavily on the young man's mind and heart. Although he does his best to try and hide his sense of urgency, it is clear the boy is eager to move on despite a more rational understanding that waiting one more night will not likely make a difference in the final outcome.

The appearance of the wizard's hut provides an ample distraction and the young miner can't help but gaze wide-eyed upon the safe confines of the glimmering dome.

"Saint's Grace." He whispers, he hand crossing his forehead in a gesture many have taken to making since Katerina's reappearance. "If only we'd had such a wonder on our journey north, it would have saved my mother and sisters a terrible bout of flu. Not to mention all the sleepless nights watching for gnomes or goblins or a hungry forest drake."

Eventually, Morgan settles in with the rest of the band and the night slowly passes. Sometime in the early morning hours, Luthael sits watch and thinks he hears voices nearby. The voices sound small and seem to pass across the meadow without truly approaching the camp. When the prophet peers into the surrounding darkness, he sees nothing by the light of the dim lights of the stars blanketing the autumn sky.

After several tense minutes spent waiting, Luthael hears nothing more and the remainder of the watch passes without further incident. A few hours later the soft glow of early dawn begins to illuminate the eastern sky and the rousing song of an early rising robin echoes happily across the meadow to signal a new day.

The wizard examines the 'thread' closer. For several seconds all is quiet except the winds rustling across the meadow its whispers of coming winter nudging at ears and fingertips. Somewhere among the tall grasses a blackbird calls. The aethereal trail of power is old. Two or three weeks at least. Within the window of Kreeg's journey. It was also potent to leave such a lingering effect over such a span. Eventually the dwarf nods with some internal decision or satisfaction.

The trail is cool, but not gone. And it will not disappear entirely overnight. When it will finally dissipate, he cannot be sure. In a day or two is likely. Perhaps not for another week if they are lucky. How the natural world recovers from the intrusions and depredations of magical conjuring and casting is still a very unanswered question among the scholars and practitioners of those very magics. Few have considered such things to be of concern and worthy of further investigation.

Not wanting the corruption of the dark magic to truly infect the area or spread further along the leyline, Gunnar sets about dispelling the foul magical residue. Deliberate and methodical, the process takes time, but the wizard's patience is rewarded in the end as all trace of the dark, shadow energy is scrubbed away.

But the wizard is doubly rewarded by his efforts. For as the dwarf works through the purification rituals he spots a lingering thread of darkness. Thin as a spider's web. Foul as a hag's breath. The wisp of darkness slips away from the camp south and east and across the meadow before it seems to disappear beneath the canopy of the forest. Curiously, the path of the thread does not follow the path deeper into the mountains which circumvents the meadow to maintain a more direct east and northerly route.

Scramsax: Totally understand and no worries. RL comes first for sure. Easy enough for Scramsax to get sidetracked on some side adventure while you're away and then pop back in when things have settled for you.

Luthael and Ingryd busy themselves setting up camp, cooking the evening meal, and gathering wood to replace what will be used during the night. As the sun slips beneath the trees, the warmth of the fire is already welcome with the temperature quickly dropping.

With camp taken care of by the prophet and bearkin, Raseri and Gunnar set about trying to track the miner and his party. Both quickly register the thin, weak leyline following the meandering path of the stream through the meadow. However, it is much too weak to serve as a shadow path or to even open a gate into that otherworldly realm.

Yet, both priestess and wizard sense a reside of magic clinging to the little clearing and camp. Mostly a blend of the usual abjuration, conjuration and transmutation magics one might expect as travelers bed down among the potentially hostile wilds of the northern forest. But as he sifts through the lingering, fading threads, Gunnar finds a bit of something more. Something darker and much less benign. Nearly faded into oblivion, it would have been easy too miss completely if one wasn't specifically looking for such things. A mix of illusion, shadow, and necromancy. It is too old, too far gone to determine the exact nature of the magic, but with such a concoction, harm, control or some other dark purpose would be most likely.

The wizard quickly notes the toxic casting has even left its mark upon the leyline. A blight slowly, quietly seeping into the magical stream. Little appears to be affected by the small manifestation of darkness, but both priestess and wizard understand that such a thing left unchecked would eventually bring this pleasant, peaceful place to ruin and darkness.

The band of heroes depart the Temple of Light in Nargenstal, their packs filled and their spirits raised, even if the prospects of finding their quarry alive still appear dim as a cloud wrapped moon. Still, the moon is many hours away from rising over the eastern hills, and Khors' sun shines brightly over head. The air is crisp and cool. Autumn wanes. Back to the west, storm clouds linger on the distant horizon.

Setting forth upon the trail, the forest is alive with bird calls and activity. Squirrels take advantage of the warm, dry weather, as they gather cones, seeds, and nuts. The scratching of their teeth upon hard shells echoing across the treetops. Deer forage upon remaining berries and fresh fall grasses. Burrows are dug and lined. A large vee of geese pass over, their honking cacophony momentarily drowning out conversation.

The initial path is wide and easy. Clear enough for three or four to walk abreast. Wagon ruts mark much of the path where intrepid folk have driven small carts or wagons into the wild.

Midday passes into afternoon which soon enough gives way to evening. Shorter days. As the sun begins to dip below the trees, the young prospector points to a small rocky grove tucked near a gurgling creek.

"That's where we usually stop when venturing back and forth to town." He says with glimmer of both excitement and disappointment at seeing the campsite quite empty, just as it had been when he passed through a few days earlier.

It is easy to see why folk have used this as a place to camp along the route to the wild hills. The stream burbles across a flower filled meadow. A sandy shore gives way to a low, but solid rim of rocks allowing for a defensible position and fresh water. A copse of pine tall trees provide shade and a regular supply of dead limbs for firewood. A blackened ring of stones sit near the deepest section of the u-shaped rock formation. There's even a small pile of ready made firewood, tucked beneath an overhang in the wall.

Looking across the meadow and further along the trail, little else can be seen except a few blackbirds calling in the evening light, the grasses and flowers waving back and forth in the wind. High above a hawk calls, slowly circling toward the south and west where a nest likely waits. All is calm, peaceful, and quiet as the heroes arrive.

The saint turns back to Scramsax, blinks at the halfling once, twice, taps a finger along her chin. "I am fascinated by the Kesharan water puppetry as well as the Wayang style common all along the Spice Coast in the far south. Now, of course, the Nurians believe they were the originators of the art form, but their efforts are all just so...." She whirls a hand in the air. "So, dreadfully dour. All about death and power and returning to a former glory lost long ago. Just mummies, mummies, mummies. Not too mention all of the ethically questionable sister-wife relationships and murdering of ones family." She shakes her head.

Turning to Ingryd, she gives the bearkin a puzzled but sympathetic look. "Indeed, dragon's do make excellent spoke's creatures for a vast segment of Midgard. Especially if you're looking to make inroads into the Mharoti markets."

She smiles at Gunnar, Raseri, and Luthael. Thanks them for their efforts and support during these harrowing times. "The world will always need heroes such as yourselves. Without stout, good-hearted souls such as you, darkness would have surely wrapped the world in its foul embrace long, long ago." She pauses, sighs. "Alas, I don't have much more to offer as far as poor Kreeg goes. He was fine and healthy when he left." She points off to the east. "They took the eastern path, like most of those seeking riches in the hills."

Turning back toward the table. "Eat. Drink. Take what you wish or might need. We've plenty here and it is the least I can offer."

The young saint offers Raseri an embarrassed smile and nods her head. "You are right of course." She says. Her features, although older in every appearance, than the child of such a short time ago, seem suddenly much, much younger. "It is just that I have...memories...of a time when I would have easily spotted any such creature so close. Yet, now, I've no idea how I achieved such things. No idea...what to do or how." Her head shakes. Frustration and doubt fill her eyes. Her jaw clenches.

"I can wield a blade as if it was a pure extension of my arm. Instinct, form, mind and body. All work in unison with ease and effectiveness. The ability to read a foe, counter a move, riposte and strike all come with an ease and surety as if...as if I'd never died." She quickly pirouettes and moves through several acrobatics sword forms with the grace and ease of a ballet dancer. Her blades sparkles and flares as it captures and reflects the streaming beams of sunlight. "I can feel Khors' light and presence, yet, such a thing as detecting the presence of a shadow nearby eludes me. Ghouls raid and pillage the surrounding lands, and I'm as helpless to find them as the Queen's own guards. That witch..." Her eyes close. She swallows hard, again grinds her teeth. "A witch can whisk away friends beneath my very nose and I know nothing until it is all too late. Such things did not happen...before. If some evil creature did try such things, the consequences to the perpetrator were quick and quite deadly." A heavy sigh bursts from her lips. Her sword slips quietly, smoothly into it's sheath. "What good is a saint who cannot see her enemies? Who cannot prevent those she cares for from being stolen or harmed by evil?"

Her fingers drum along her belt until she shakes her head again. "I am sorry my friends. It is only that...only that I feel much has been lost to me and I worry it may not return." Her eyes glance up to a recently finished mural depicting Katerina and her dragon companion battling the Arch Demon Grezzlekech upon the summit of the Braided Peaks. Her head tips toward the keen eyes of the dragon, their intelligence and depth of spirit so perfectly captured by the artist. Within the saint's gaze, loneliness, uncertainty, and grief all wrestle just beneath the surface of youthful control and exuberance. Finally, she turns and nods her head at the priestess and bearkin. Her smile is once again bright, warm, a beacon of light and beauty.

"You are right of course, my friends. We all must carry our burdens and the world will surely weigh us down with ever more as time passes. No need to add to the basket without need."

Turning to Scramsax, Katerina smiles waving a hand across the sideboard and its various fruits and pastries.

"Please, you are welcome to help yourself to anything." She says. Considering the halflings other question she offers a quick shrug. Pulling out the little silver and amber sun charm clipped to her belt she holds it up to catch the morning light causing it to glow with the same soft yellow brilliance as Khors' holy lamp.

"Amber has often been a favored stone for those who follow Khors. It's golden, sun-like color. It's manifestation from the life blood of trees which are fed by the sun. Aside from perhaps gold, it is the most similar and connected to the god's light and fire. I believe this also makes it much more...hmmm...welcoming, accepting of Khors' blessings." She adds, struggling slightly to find the right words. To demonstrate, she closes her eyes and summons forth a bit of power from the charm creating a second source of sunlight that emanates from the holy symbol. "You see."

Dousing the light and slipping the charm back onto her belt a blush brightens her cheeks.

"As for the lavender. I must admit, I just enjoy the scent." Her nose and face crinkle as she glances back toward the practice arena. "And after a solid morning's work with several acolytes both young and old...well... She laughs. "It is a very welcome scent to offer my nose compared to the what often fills the temple."

While the saint and Scramsax discuss the ins and outs of the favored gemstones of Khors and their relative value and usefulness, Gunnar goes out to consult with the masons and sculptors working on the temple. The master dwarf is able to offer some guidance to a pair of apprentices working on a tricky arch as well as a journeyman having trouble chiseling a relief of the god's visage on a slightly flawed slab of granite. The aide is welcomed and soon the dwarf is deep in conversation with the workers, discussing the challenges and lasting legacies that come with stone craft and building something like a new temple.

Not wishing to delay either the saint or the search for the boy's father longer than necessary, Raseri and Luthael draw the questions back to the missing man and the suspicious nature of his companion. When asked if anyone with the missing miner, or perhaps the man himself were perhaps fey or touched by such creatures, Katerina pauses thoughtfully.

"No. I did not feel such a presence around Kreeg." She says eventually adding a shake of her head. "Nor of his two companions who came inside with him." Another pause as her brow furrows causing her nose to twitch slightly. "But now that you mention it, one of them did have a bit of shadow clinging to him. He seemed to be grieving a loss and he did light one of the memory candles. So I just assumed it was that natural bit of darkness that so often clouds our hearts and souls when we lose someone close to us."

Her gaze takes in the small nook set back within the main entrance hall where about a dozen small beeswax candles burn in small glass holders. Each lit by a worshiper to offer the light of memory for someone or something they've lost and once held dear.

"Perhaps I should have looked closer." She adds. Quietly criticizing her lack of foresight. "But so many have come in over these last months with such shrouds draped across their spirits. The ghouls, the raiders, the hag's minions, and others have all taken their toll. Alas, even the sudden burst of growth and economic vitality has caused others to grieve the loss of the village and region's once quiet peaceful and natural beauty that kept it so separate from many of the world's darker struggles. I honest took little notice of just another soul carrying a similar weight."

"As for the other man, the one who did not venture close. There was something more peculiar about him. I am certain. What exactly, I cannot say. He did not enter the temple and I did not seek him out. Nor could I judge him further as he always seemed to slip away from my gaze. Fey? Possibly. Whatever he was or carried with him, it was not demonic or hellish in nature. That I would have sensed most certainly. Nor was he undead. Such a creature could not come within a mile of this compound without me knowing. But fey. They are different. Neither wholly evil or good in general. So it is possible he was glamoured or maintaining a glamour."

The saint laughs brightly at Ingryd's offer. It is like the touch of morning sunlight after a storm rattled night. Cheerful. Light. A true blessing of Khors. "I would gladly take you up on a sample." She says with a smile. Then her sparkling eyes flick back toward the training ground. "But we are in the middle of morning training. It wouldn't look proper at all." She squeezes the bearkin on the arm with gentleness and affection. "I'll hold you to it another time. I hear the new Grizz brewery is generating quite the buzz in town."

"A mystery?" She replies to Gunnar quirking an eyebrow as she takes a slice of apple from the tray and bites off half. A shake of her head and wave of her hand toward the sounds of chipping hammers and chisels is her answer to the need for more stone masons. "You my thanks and appreciation, but as you can hear, we've plenty of volunteers working on the masonry." Her shoulders raise and drop in a shrug. "A simple barn or solid barracks would suite me fine. A roof out of the elements. A wide space to train and teach. Alas, so many expect grand temples and master craftworks to surround their prayers and blessings. Although, it feels a bit frivolous, Trevor has discovered some very talented masons and artists. They're doing beautiful work in Khors honor."

Her demeanor shifts and worry, even a spark of fear briefly drifts across her eyes like a cloud momentarily blocking the sun when Luthael mentions the sword and its returning menace. For a moment her stance is guarded, almost as if she expects the prophet to draw the ancient, vile blade and strike at her. A not entirely unreasonable response considering she'd already been slain in such a manner several hundred years ago. However, she is still a true saint of the sun god, and it does not take her long to overcome her fear or instinctual reaction to the very blade that she could occasionally still feel passing into flesh and spirit, holding her in eternal torment for all those many passing seasons. She shakes her head.

"I've no power over that...particular blade." She says quietly. She closes her eyes. Her hands shiver for a moment. "I...I can feel it's presence here. Feel its hate. Its gloating laughter. Its desire. " She swallows the apple. "It would seek to either kill or...overwhelm me. Use me to create another tyrannical Inquisitor. A thing I fear it could too easily achieve given all of the time we spent...bound together." The last is a whisper.

Turning to Raseri, she nods solemnly to the priestesses of Thor. "Your wisdom is correct. No regular forge will harm that hateful blade. It's destruction is beyond my ken or power, but I wholly bless your endeavor to see it removed from this world."

"As for the curious box that has kept the thing bound for these past months, it too is beyond my abilities. Alas, Khors is a god of light and fire. Honor and truth. Life and creation. To nullify or negate the very existence of something well..." Her hands raise in submission as she shakes her head.

"However, I may be able to help in your other quest." She says her voice turning thoughtful as she reaches for another slice of apple. "I believe I do recall the person you are seeking." She goes on to describe the miner and young Morgan Kreegson's father. "He seemed a kind enough fellow. Quiet. Stern in his way, like many men who labor hard for a living. But fair minded and good at heart." She taps her chin lightly in thought. "He sought a simple blessing and prayer for his son, wife, and daughters. I had the sense they were not all together. He'd a team of six mules. All loaded for a long journey. He left a bit of copper ore as an offering. Seemed a bit embarrassed that he didn't have more, but that is never really a problem. Still, with such a load of gear and good, I was glad to see he'd hired a quartet of guards in town." She frowns and pulls at her lower lip. "But, I didn't really care for the look of one of those men. Hard of feature, but worse, hard of heart and soul as well. He did not enter the temple with the others. Stayed well clear with the mules. They didn't stay long. Had a bit of a journey ahead of them and wanted an early start given the poor weather. That was all...hmmmmm....seven, maybe eight days ago?" An apologetic shrug. "I'm not very good with time and days."

The party gathers their gear and some supplies and soon find themselves back on the road. Their first stop is only a short distance away. The ancient, ruined Temple of Khors and Saint Katerina no longer looks so ancient or ruined. A new marble fountain burbles near the entrance, a quartet of griffins spouting streams of clear, cool spring water into a sun disc pool.

Workers continue to rebuild the outer walls and replace broken frescoes and stonework with new. One mosaic artist busily labors on a scaffolding just inside the main entrance, the scene of Khors blessing the young saint as she strides into battle against a rushing horde of undead during the Battle of Broken Souls.

Further inside, the morning sunlight fills the main circular chamber with beams of light bursting through the newly constructed glass dome. A choir of young men and women rehearse in the balcony, directed by an equally young priest. It seems Katarina's faith is attracting a younger audience than the usual dour priests that preach the word of Khors in the main temples of Zobeck or the southern cities.

Following the sound of wooden practice swords clashing, the party enters the true heart of Katarina's temple and faith. The sand covered practice grounds dotted with fencing posts and surrounded by racks of shields and weapons of a variety of makes. Trevor is busy leading a class of six young acolytes through their exercises while another group spar beneath the watchful and critical eye of the martial saint herself.

Seeing your arrival, Katarina puts a tall, dark haired boy of perhaps nineteen or twenty in charge of the class. bowing his head, he quickly runs through a series of demonstrations to show the two students where they made mistakes as well as some bright points of success.

Wiping sweat from her face the Saint of Khors walks over, her eyes and face beaming with delight. She has grown swiftly since your last meeting. A young girl no more, since blossoms into womanhood although her near constant work with sword, axe, spear, and shield leaves her with a still lithe and wiry frame. Her hair is cut short to just above her ears, her practice helm sits in a place of honor atop a rack on the far wall.

"Welcome, my friends." She says embracing each of you with a warm, delighted hug. "I did not expect the pleasure of a visit from such worthy heroes today. As you can see, we are in the midst of morning classes, but I'm sure Lydia will have something to eat and drink set aside in the dining hall." She gestures toward a side door from which drift a delightful aroma of pastries, warmed cider, and smoked meats.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" She says grabbing a berry danish from the platter and taking a bit of the still warm, soft sweet bread.

Heh...so yes, I totally missed the whole 'object' qualifier when I first read that. I thought it was a pretty overpowered, but just decided to roll with it.

I actually have really come to dislike the way 5E uses 'objects' as a way to distinguish how certain power/spells/abilities work. So I guess the danger is only really, really sharp and effective when stabbing a door. Against flesh...well it's just an ordinary dagger.

So for Gunnar's hammer and Scram's dagger. How about instead of the whole critical against objects only thing, we make it so an adamantine weapon provides automatic advantage against any foe wearing non-magical armor? And just does max damage against inanimate objects.

Thus it is much easier to 'punch through' non-magical armor. Obviously, a rogue gets to add sneak without worrying about being hidden, adjacent, or whatever, but I think that fits with the cuts through anything like a hot knife through butter feature that is usually associated with adamantine type weapons. So mooks will be a bit easier to kill. You could still use it to break through a stone wall or cut iron bars. Bigger bads might be easier as well, although at these higher levels it is more likely they will have some kind of magical armor, protection, or immunity.

That seems a bit more useful and makes a little more sense in my head, but also happy to leave it at just an auto crit against objects if you all would prefer.

The boy's shoulders droop, his head bows as Raseri points out the cold reality of the situation. Eventually he nods and raises his eyes to the priestess. They glitter with sadness and understanding, but also resolve.

"I...I understand there is little hope." He says, his throat closing for just a moment. "But I have to try and do something. Try and figure out what happened...before I write to mother." He sighs heavily. "I cannot face her with such news if I feel there was something more that could be done."

For a second his eyes widen in surprise when Gunnar mentions the possibility of magical influence or interference.

"I haven't really considered that possibility. We thought we'd escaped the gnomes and their infernal magics." He says quietly. "We're just miners. Working the earth to make a living. Why would someone with such...powers...bother with us? We've no power. No mystical knowledge. No wealth. Especially since he'd already sold the ore. He was only carrying back supplies and gear." He shakes his head with confusion and fear of potentially being the attention of such folk.

Seeing the interest and willingness of those around the table to help, especially the halfling, he smiles for the first time. The gesture does not really wipe away the sadness and worry in his eyes, but some of the gloom and shadow surrounding him dissipates.

"I don't know what to say except thank you for your kindness and aide." He waves a hand at the small sack. "I know it isn't much, but it's all I have." He says then begins drawing a rough map to the small valley where his mine sits.

Comparing the rough drawing to some of his own notes, the wizard's intuition about a potential ley line running along the trail is correct. They often follow flowing water, so when the boy mentioned the creek, Gunnar assumed a high likelihood of one being nearby. His notes are incomplete, a result of the lack of a thorough survey of the region for the last several hundred years. However, his own travels indicate the existence of a minor tributary that flows out of the hills and eventually intersects with the Nargenstal line which flows south until it reaches the much larger Grandmother's Walk ley line.

According to Gunnar's notes, the small feeder line is weak, not of much significance from a power perspective, but it could hold a shadow road, or perhaps the remnant of one.

The sack contains a mix of copper, silver and a few gold coins totaling 75GP.

It is a well crafted dagger. Non-magical, but since it is made of adamantine any hit is considered a critical hit. Of course that doesn't count on creatures that are immune to crits or that require a magic weapon to hit.

The young man nods bashfully as everyone gathers and sits around the table. He's nervous, clearly unused to being in the company of heroes and adventurers who've seen more of the world than he could even imagine. However, his hesitation is quickly overcome by his own need and the easy reassurances from Gunnar and Raseri, the latter causing the teenager's face to flush as she looks at him with genuine interest and concern.

With a nod he takes a quick drink from his mug.

"My father and I come north from Courlandia about a month ago. We're originally from the Osweiten country. Along the eastern border with the Wormwood. My family had worked the old Holtzen Silver mine for three generations." His voice is quiet and shaky at first. But as he begins to unravel his tale it steadies and gains in strength and confidence. "Then the raids across the border started. Gnomes. Along with their hell spawned allies. The mine was forced to close when the evil creatures sacked the village, destroyed the mine entrance and killed or took away more than fifty miners. We were fortunate that my mother had taken ill and we'd been forced to travel to Olga's for medicine that day. She let us sleep over and likely saved my family's lives."

"With the mine closed, and the region in flames, we fled. First Lingenau, then to Courlandia. Life in the refugee camps was terrible and with no work, it felt like we were doomed to poverty and starvation despite the Queen's efforts." He sighs. Rubs at his tired eyes.

"When father heard of the opening up of the north country and the recent discoveries around Nargenstal, father didn't hesitate. 'Why it's a chance to get in at the beginning son.' He said. 'We can find our own strike and then we'll be the big mine owners like Holtzen or the Baron.' I'd passed my sixteenth birthday, so he brought me north while mother and the girls stayed in Courlandia where at least they could be safe. We'd heard about the trouble with Morgau and their ghoul allies."

"It was as father said. The land was wild and open. Aside from the few villages we traveled through it was as if nobody had set foot in the Ozku since before the Retreat. When we arrived father bought a good set of prospecting gear, a mule, and plenty of food and we set out into the mountains with several other men looking to strike it rich." He tips his head toward Luthael and the sun symbol hanging from his neck. "Of course we stopped at the temple and paid our respects to Saint Katarina on our way out of town."

"And it seemed we were truly blessed. It only took seventeen days for us to find a likely deposit. Copper. A bunch sitting in a pool below a spring that fell right out of the side of a mountain. And the more we sifted , the richer things looked. I was able to climb the mountain and reach the source of the spring. That's when we truly understood the size and depth of the strike. For behind the flow of water was an opening that seemed to stretch into the depths of the earth and its was lined with ore."

"Within days we'd dug more than enough ore to load the mule and ourselves. I was to stay and guard the claim while father returned to register it with the Queen's Guard, get more supplies, and hire a few extra hands." Worry returns to the boy's features. "I stayed as long as I could, but once the food ran out I didn't have much choice. It had been over a month and no word or sign of my father. He'd registered the claim, I checked with the Guard. He also purchased supplies and had been seen leaving town over three weeks ago. But he never made it back to our valley."

"I've walked the entire trail three times now and there's no sign he was waylaid by wolves or a bear or some other predator. And he wouldn't just leave without any word. Something terrible happened. Then I remembered the rumors of ghouls." His voice suddenly drops as he remembers what happened the previous night when he mentioned the Imperial Legions. "I know folk say the ghouls were driven away, by something or someone took my father, his mules, and whoever he'd hired to join us at the mine."

He pulls out a small sack of jingling, freshly minted coins. "I was able to cash in some more ore after my last trip. I've a bit of money to pay for...well...to find out what has happened." He says setting the sack on the table and looking glassy eyed toward Gunnar, Raseri and everyone else.

Thoughtout the rest of the day and night, tensions are higher than usual. Scramsax eyes Ingryd warily, still unsure about the bearkin's willingness to leave a substantial amount of booze behind. Luthael and Raseri discuss the limited options regarding the sword and the now, all too far off solstice. Gunnar makes a visit into the dryad's secure cellar.

The wizard spends several hours examining the nullbox. The damage. And dealing with the near constant snark offered by the steel entity held within. His study ends up offering little more than a headache. Attempts to interact magically with the box inevitably lead to failure as the innate nullfield of the box prevents any direct energy from affecting it. Thus Gunnar's attempts to mend the damage simply slip away like dreamthoughts on a warm summer's night. Physical attempts to cover or repair the gap end up altering the boxes existence and thus leave it suddenly manifest within the mortal and material realm. Instantly feeling the sword's power and influence grow, the dwarf quickly removes the minor patch before the tendrils of malignant influence are able to slip into his mind. Thwarted, Gunnar is forced to give up and return to his companions without having mended the box.

The following morning, the youth finally wanders back into the common room carrying the look of someone wrestling with the demons of over indulgence. Dark circles mar his eyes, a pale face, and a clear case of the shakes which are only partially settled by the hot black brew Rose sets in front of him as he slides into a chair putting a hand to his head. Still wearing the previous night's clothes his offer's Gunnar a weak smile.

"You've my thanks for the bunk last night." His says quietly. "Rose says it were you that helped see me settled. I don't usually drink so much..." He voice trails off as he looks away from a large plate of eggs, ham, and fried potatoes being delivered to a merchant across the room. It takes him a few moments to recover.

"Do you still wish to help me find my father?"

Gunnar: I was thinking you'd increase the +1 with lightning and thunder and verses undead to +2.

Britta trusted Scramsax about as much as she'd trust an Yawchakan Vine Asp, which meant not at all. However, having the competition out of town again would allow things to cool down. She'd be able to smooth things over with the Guild. Actually get back to running a gods forsaken inn.

Glancing at Raseri, Luthael, Gunnar, and Ingryd now there were folk she'd actually trust. Not so much the bear, she was hanging out with the wrong crowd and usually too soused to really trust. On the other hand the Prophet rated high in her book. Katerina swears he's the real deal. An actual Light of Khors. She wasn't sure about that, but he always paid his bar bill and hadn't ever left his room in a shambles. Tidy, quiet, and paid up. The innkeeper's perfect bloody guest.

So she nods. Leans in toward Scramsax. "Alright. It's probably cause of you and whoever you've scammed, stolen from, or otherwise boiled their eggs that we've all been hit." She says. "So you fix it."

She rises back up, her face switching from a glowering desire to skin someone alive to the bright smiling innkeep full of welcome and warmth as she turns to the halfling's companions.

"I wish you all the best of luck and I'll keep an ear to the ground. If I hear anything I'll get in touch through Vee or Kat."

The door closes behind the business rival leaving Gunnar and the others to check through the rooms and try to discover anything useful.

Gunnar quickly discovers multiple magical trails. A bit of pixie dust. The scent of brimstone. The whispering echo of screaming souls. Flaky bits of dead flesh. A pair of long dwarven beard hairs, blonde but with black roots. A few tattered shadow remnants lingering in a dim corner. It's a nightmarish tangle that'll likely take hours, days, to try and decipher and determine what could have caused such a conflagration of magical detritus. Similar remnants are discovered in the rooms of the others. If he didn't know it was impossible, the dwarf would guess their rooms had been ransacked by nearly everyone they'd encountered since heading north with old Rook.

But curiously, as everyone takes stock of what is missing, what is accounted for, they all find nothing has been stolen. Coin. Potions. Scrolls. Finely crafted weapons. Strewn around the room. Tossed about. Fallen under the bed or dresser. But not stolen.

That's when it finally comes to the wizard. The abundance of tell tale clues. They are all a complete hoax. Scams. Red herrings to send them scampering off in all directions. He quickly goes back and double checks for any sign of the hag's magic. They'd all been exposed to it enough, he know her filthy handiwork even if it was only a teensy tiny wiff of a spell. More time spent.

Raseri is certain nothing of hers is missing. Scramsax as well. Ingryd does another inventory at the brewery. Finds a half dozen bottles of meade are missing, but then vaguely recalls the night before and discovers the empties stacked into a mini pyramid outside of the outhouse.

Back in his room. Alone. Luthael hurriedly checks through his own gear. Everything is there. Everything except one. He hurries downstairs. Whispers to the dryad who nods with assurance and ushers the prophet down into the rooted depths of the inn. It is a winding, twisting passage that leaves the holy man of Khors bleary-eyed and with a slight headache and he's quite glad he has a guide to get himself back out.

Eventually the dryad waves her hand over a sap soaked lock. The sticky goo recedes into the wall revealing a small panel where the dryad places her hand. It glows green as new spring foliage for a second and a door clicks open swinging inward to reveal several rows of equally secured lockups each marked with a set of specific runes.

She steps over to one of the nooks and opens it in similar fashion, this time accompanied by the runic key she'd given to Luthael and he'd handed back to her. The safe click open.

"Hey holy boy." A familiar voice calls from within the null box. "You finally come to your senses and ready to really start doing Khors will upon the world?"

Luthael breathes a sigh of relief. Glad he'd decided to have the thing locked up within the dryad's sanctuary while he and the others took care of more mundane things. Still, it was pretty clear someone, or something, was looking for the ancient sword.

He nods and the dryad starts to close the safe. But then he hand snaps out and catches her arm. Alarm rings across his features. He points to a hairline gap in the side of the box. Small beads of power gleam along the finger long fracture.

"Yeah, that's right Mister Do-Good. All that traveling, knockin' about, tumbling from beanstalks and nearly getting blown to hell has weakened your little wizard box." The sword snarls from within its cage. "Told you I wouldn't be cooped up in here forever. Soon enough I'll be coming for you and your little band of heretics. Join me now and be part of the solution rather than the problem. Together we can scour the filth from beneath Khors' holy light. Filth like this tree-hugging wen..."

The dryad slams the door closed cutting off the voice although Luthael feels the sword laughing somewhere within the recesses of his mind.

Rolling for business profit: 1d100 ⇒ 72

Business covers its maintenance costs plus 1d6 ⇒ 3*5gp * 7 days=105gp

I'm going with 7 days this time around since we will assume it takes about half the downtime to get things up and running.

So 105gp split per whatever arrangement Scram has with Ingryd. Hopefully the bearkin had a 3rd party like Luthael or Gunnar review the contract before she signed. ;)

Gunnar: Circling back to your upgrade. I'm okay with bumping to +2 for your arcane focus and the +2 can apply to both melee attacks and damage with the hammer. Since the adamantine in your hammer would turn any melee hit into a crit, I think we can skip any other additional damage.

Raseri: Sure, go ahead and add your WIS bonus to your smith check. I think either WIS or INT could make sense for most crafting checks.

War. What's it really good for? An eternal question. Many would answer absolutely nothing. Other's would say a necessary evil, or good, depending on your perspective. Then there are those whose eyes gleam with a golden light the word 'profit' poised upon their greedy lips. Unfortunately, no one seemed to be profiting from the mighty Brewing Brouhaha currently engulfing two of Nargenstal's well known drinking establishments.

The back and forth between the longtime owner of the well established brewing monopoly known as the Ice Maiden Inn and Brewing and the upstart newcomers operating under the banner of the Grizzled Brew Industries was costing both sides dearly. Yet, it was an odd little war. One most unlike the usual meat grinder that grabbed up the poor and uneducated to act as arrow fodder for the Lords, Ladies, High Councils, and Mercantile Confederation Presidents, of the world. No in this case, the customers tended to benefit. As long as one didn't mind the occasional rat tail in one's burger or hobbit-foot hair in one's beer. The price war had already cut the cost of a standard pint by half. A pitcher more than sixty percent. If a lucky patron managed to grab one of the early run coupons, with the misprinted discount, why they could get a whole meal for a few scant coppers.

(It's unclear how many frosty mugs of honey meade Ingryd had imbibed that evening when she accidentally flipped the six into a nine resulting in such a substantial discount to 'any item on the menu.' Luckily the month was nearly over and the offending profit throat-cutters were nearly expired.)

Still the rivalry had distracted the entire town once the harvest was in and the first snows of winter started to set in. Instead of more forlorn tales of reavers striking the coast or ghoul legions roaming the countryside the talk was of Britta and Scramsax and which one would send the other packing first.

Then the Guild showed. The dour, officious dwarves who held a continent wide stranglehold on nearly every fermented beverage worth drinking took a dim view on anything that cut into their cut of the profits. Most especially when they weren't even receiving their proper cut to begin with.

Brewmaster Schultz was quite surprised at the sight greeting him when the Bourbon's Bounty docked at the newly renovated Nargenstal Key. Guild records showed the town numbered less than one hundred peasants. The inn operating under a rural hardship exemption. His caterpillar brows furled into a single V of consternation. It was clear the census department hadn't been through here in ages. Why the dockside itself is teaming with three ships of the Queen's Navy, a merchant cog, and half a dozen fishing boats. He could make out the flag flying atop the newly built military fort and the rising structure of a temple dedicated to one or another of the gods. Counts were made. Notes taken. Sketches drafted. Broadsheets gathered. Beards were going to be sheared when he got back to Zobeck.

It was the arrival of the Brewer's Guild and the gruff Brewmaster Schultz that brought the war to an abrupt, necessary halt. A bigger, much more dangerous fish had jumped into the pond.

Thus it was under the agreed temporary truce and limited alliance, that Scramsax returned to her room at the Dryad's Respite to find the place ransacked. It wasn't much later that shouts of concern and anger erupted from Luthael and Raseri's rooms. In fact, the only room that didn't look like it gone ten rounds with a raging terrasque was Ingryd's. But that's because her room essentially consisted of a cot and a nightstand set up in the back of the brewery.

The halfling was about to curse Britta for breaking the truce, when the owner of the Ice Maiden stormed into the Respite eyes blazing as she held up a patch of fabric from one of her favorite dresses. Rose had just finished helping the young miner to his room at the behest of Gunnar, when the room once again erupts into chaos.

"The hells you playing at halfling?" She accused. "We had a deal and you go and ransack my rooms. I'll gut you like bloated catfish."

The halfling's eyes narrow. Was she playing a long-game? Hitting herself to make her look the victim? Some other trick or ploy? She watches for the tell-tale tick of a lie. Doesn't see one. Realizes the crazy broad's telling the truth.

Scram's tongue wags faster than a hound's at a pig roast. Fortunately, Luthael, Raseri, and Gunnar were all their to ease tensions and point out their rooms had been hit as well. Someone was looking for something? The question was what? And how desperate were they to go knocking off the heroes of Nargenstal?

If you don't have it already, Inspiration for Raseri and Luthael for the enjoyable RP.

The war news was flying fast and furious through the Dryad's Respite. Tongue's were wagging like a pack of hounds on hunting day. Where were the latest fronts. Who was in retreat, who forging ahead? Most importantly what were the latest odds? The suburban tavern and B&B buzzed about the ongoing strife between The Ice Maiden and Grizzled Brew Industries.

"Haha! You should'a seen that bard race toward the jakes." A grizzled gray beard laughs into his pint of Magdar Dark. "You'd a'thought he was being chased by a pack of husbands."

"That were nothing." Hollers a brunette doxy taking a well earned break. "Why, the guard must have busted up half of Britta's common room when they captured the Scarlet Hood." A snort fit for a hog's den bursts from her nose. "You can't tell me that halfling hooch hustler didn't put the finger on poor Robbie."

"Pffftt...the daft lad had no business running around the woods robbing folk and stealing kisses from young ladies."

"Ahhh...he were harmless enough. He only stole from them wealthy out-of-towners and you can't steal what's freely offered. Hahaha*snort*"

"Say anyone heard about how's the Queen's retaliation against the ghouls is going?" An earnest young lad, barely able to grow hair on his chin asks. The room crashes into silence. Eyes suddenly discover fascinating patterns in their ale foam or a loose thread on a sleeve or wait...was that a familiar face crossing the room? No? Ah well, could'a been.

Young Rose passes by the youth. Just down from the mines, she'd wager judging by his clothes and the grit lining his fingernails. She slides another pint in front of him, leans down a offers him a bit of quiet advice.

"Politics is verboten in the Respite." She says with a smile. "Folk are here to forget about all the troubles surrounding us. So no talk of reavers, legions, dragonkin armies an such unless you've a bonafide emergency to report." She gives him a quick searching look. "Course, if you did, you wouldn't be here drinking your fill, you'd be hustling into town to see the Captain now wouldn't you."

The you man's face flushes as he quietly nods. Rose gives his arm a soft pat, then gathers up his empty mug.

"Course, the way I hear it is that the Guild showed up at Grizzled last night." Rose says dropping the little bomb she'd been saving up all afternoon.

Shouts, murmurs and curses erupt across the big common room. Old Man Hemfritter passed out into his hydra-stew. News of the Brewer's Guild always brought panic to a small community. After all, nearly everyone had themselves a few jugs brewing in a cellar, backroom, or kitchen cabinet somewhere. Just for personal consumption, don't ya know. Course, them Ironcrag bastards didn't care. Brewing was brewing, and if they caught someone operating an unlicensed still or set of fermentation jugs, why it was a fine and banishment from every pub within a fortnight's walk.

"By Thor's broad backside, who called those bearded cave scroats in?" The gray-beard splutters. He'd a batch in the still just about ready to pour. Only yesterday it barely curled the paint from his testing board. "Why they'll have us all forking over gold and playing Tami Teatotaller fer the next month."

Numerous grumbling "Aye's" and "That's the truth's" filled the hall.

"I blame the halfling." The brunette again. "Trouble finds her like flies find sh..."

"Course it weren't the halfling." Cedric Butterburr interrupts. "You're daft for even saying so. Elsewise, why the Guild hit the brewery first? Nah...had to've been Britta." The comment generates more than a few murmurs of agreement.

"And you're just as deft Cedric, that's why you lost your old man's inn." Replies Jenni Honeysuckle, tucking a stray wisp of golden hair behind her ear. She'd gone out with Cedric exactly three times before realizing the man was going nowhere fast and constantly blamed the loss of the Pony goblins and bad luck rather than his own poor business skills. "Britta knows how to play hard ball, sure, but she wouldn't call in the Guild. Everyone knows once the Guild's in town, they don't just stick their beards into one pub's accounts." Blonde tresses flutter as her head moves back and forth. "She's just as likely to get raked over the coals as the bear and her stubby partner."

Wiping stew from his face, Hemlock squints over at Jenni. "You reckon there's a third player in the game."

The blue-eyed blond nods and taps the side of her nose with a delicate finger that Cedric still hoped he lasso with a ring some day.

"Who the hell's is it then?" Someone asks from the back of the room.

The question fires off a flurry of speculation, wagers, side wagers, and plain gossip that keep the ale, wine, and whiskey flowing well into the night.

Sitting at his table the young boy concerned about ghouls in the area eventually passes out having gathered nothing that might help him figure out who might have taken his father from their camp a week ago.

Okay, taking care of a little housekeeping...

First up, no, we aren't switching to 2024. Sorry to those who prefer the new rules, but I'm just really not interested in the update.

Scramsax: Sure, you can trade your ring for another rare item. Given your ability to teleport, going to Zobeck is certainly possible.

Gunnar: You made your rolls to upgrade your hammer, what did you finally land on for the actual mechanical upgrade?

Raseri: For the crafting a new weapon it is Smith's Tools DC15. Failure results in a poor quality weapon.

Ingryd: Downtown length is approximately 14 days to one month max. You can set up a new business. You cannot gain a new Rogue level via downtime, nor can you gain the Sneak Attack ability. However, you can gain proficiency in Stealth or Thieves Tools or another skill.

Luthael: Yes, you can gain proficiency with the longsword.

For investigation activities it looks like we have Gunnar checking into any developments with the Undead Empire's forces. Ingryd is keeping an ear out for rumors or signs of big, nasty monsters in the area. Raseri is maybe trying to track down Arianna and Zove along with the other former companions or friends. Scramsax, might pick up some interesting news/rumors while in Zobeck. Luthael sees his family back home and maybe hears a rumor or some gossip through them. If I've missed anything, let me know.

Drinks are served. Stories told. Greeting offered and given. Most importantly, bathing is encouraged as the blood, gore, mud, smoke, and dirt of days, weeks, of travel fighting and heroic endeavors quickly ferments and spreads its aroma through the densely packed and warm confines of the Ice Maiden Inn.

Over the course of the next few couple of weeks acquaintances are renewed or made, businesses established, projects undertaken with grand enthusiasm and hope. Luthael's parents are escorted home with the help Scramsax and his magic ring. Gunnar freely offers his aid and services to those working the forge. Unfortunately the wizard's particular variety of dwarf-splaining ruffles more than a few feathers and in the spirit of maintaining comradely relations, all those involved simply agree to disagree about the proper care and storage of one's tools when working in the forge.

Perhaps it is all for the best, as the correct formulation for blending mithral with adamantine with the existing sturdy steel of his hammer ends up being more challenging than the dwarf imagined. He is forced to rework his equations more than once before the correct ratios are discovered. But the added effort is not without benefit, the thunderous cursing and lightning blasts that emanated from the forge following the fifth failed pour managed to catch the Thunder God's attention having never encountered that particular expression involving a goat, newt peckers, and hag's sagging arses before. As a parting gift the god left a small tome bound in fine leather with silver embossed scrollwork on the wizard's nightstand. Entitled One Hundred Feast Songs for the Bawdy Warrior. It is a unique insight into the god's essence.

Through sweat, devotion, intellect, and pure dwarven stubbornness, the wizard manages to blend the three metals into a single potent hammerhead. Lighter in weight, well balanced, and packing a nasty punch against many nefarious monsters and beings that often plague Midgard, the weapon maintains a functional simpleness that any warrior might appreciate.

Sorry all. I'm still around. Work has just been a giant creative energy suck over the last couple of weeks. I finally got through our board meeting and have a 2026 budget for the org, so hopefully things will ease up a little.

In the meantime we can say you each get a couple of weeks of official downtime. You can learn a new proficiency. Set up a business. Craft a new item, etc. Feel free to post how you're spending the time and the final result you're trying to achieve. Be sure to include any necessary rolls.

I'll start dropping the threads for a new adventuring opportunity or two in the next day or so.

Gunnar considers who might have been gathering the various components for the witch, but soon realizes the old crone has had plenty of time to so so after their companions decided to go off on their own. Months have passed since the likes of Trevor or Vrindel had traveled with the group. The same is true of Aterro and Ibrox. Even Vee was left back in Nargenstal over a season ago.

Certainly Darrell would have had opportunity to gather such things from Ingryd, Luthael, Raseri, Scramsax or himself, but none of the tokens appeared to come from them, only friends of the past. And while the dwarf could not categorically rule out the halfling during her not so distant capture by the hag or one of her minions, that would also mean she'd been collecting such detritus for a longer period of time. Given there were no gems or coins involved, he didn't imagine the halfling had much interest in paladin toenails or trollkin hairs.

Thus, the puzzle of how the witch acquired her components must go unanswered for the moment. In a similar fashion, not enough essence remains among any of the aspects of the dolls to affect either the victim or the hag herself. The dwarf tries a simple scry using some of the bloody wax. For a brief moment he catches a glimpse of the old crone huddled in a shallow cave. Shrouded by trees and hidden by undergrowth, the geological hideout could be located anywhere within the bounds of the Margreve or any other northern forest. Before he can gather further information, the image fades. Dissolving into a smelly mist. Subsequent attempts result in even less information.

Eventually, it is agreed the best thing to do is return home. With some time left until the Solstice, folk could spend time with family, research the ritual to destroy the sword a little more, or invest in a new business venture.

With the destination set, it takes an hour to break camp, douse the fire, and gather everyone close. Offering food and beverage service, Scramsax announces the imminent departure of flight NN-1 bound for Nargenstal.

BAMF!

In a flash and a heartbeat the mountains of central Midgard are replaced but the bustling activity of the Ice Maiden's Inn in Nargenstal. A crowded night. Several guardsmen sit at a group of tables near the fire while regulars crowd along the bar and play cards or sling dice at other tables. A bard strums a lute in a corner while drink and food heavy trays are bustled too and fro by waitresses adding to the cacophony of voices, music, and clattering mugs and tableware. The air smells of pipeweed, ale, whiskey, and the inn's well known fish chowder.

All in all, it was as close to home as Gunnar, Ingryd, Scramsax, Raseri, or even Luthael really had since they'd set forth on a life of adventure and glory so very long ago.

Okay, so I think I just need to know where you all are heading. Given your ability to teleport, you've got plenty of options. Time-wise, it is early autumn. There are about 8 weeks until Winter Solstice and the first real opportunity to destroy the cursed sword.

I think we've got a couple of votes for a return to Nargenstal and some potential downtime activities. This is also where Scramsax took those that you rescued.

Following Gunnar's research, you have all completed a Long Rest.

While Scramsax tries to determine if the true Luthael emerged from the Shadow Realm and Raseri struggles with her own feelings of guilt and failure Gunnar investigates the dolls discovered within the witch's sanctum to try and determine the nature of the magic involved.

His ritual begins by asking Ingryd to fill a small bowl with some of her honey wine. He drinks the wine.

"Thanks."

Dropping the first wax figure into the once again empty bowl, the dwarf holds the bowl over a candle slowly melting the wax. As the wax melts he notices a sour, filthy smell emerge. Putrid and rotten. His lips purse into a frown. Hag's blood.

The melting figure slowly reveals several small items held within. He plucks out a bit of cloth, a fingernail, a knot of hair. The sympathetic components that could be needed and used to create such life like simulacrums. Buried in the center of the figure is a small black stone. It is cold to the touch. Remains cold even if the dwarf holds it in the flame. In fact the candle flame seems to diminish when the stone is in direct contact. A void pearl. The dwarf grunts with consternation.

Void pearls are extremely rare as those who attempt to harvest the stones are typically unsuccessful in the endeavor. That is due to the fact that the pearls only manifest within the kidneys of an aboleth. A typical adult aboleth usually houses two to three stones within each organ. How or why the stones are created, no scholar or wizard has been able to determine. But the stones appear to maintain some kind of direct connection to the void and the base realm of chaos. The few rare specimens that have been found have often been connected to terrible and chaos fueled magics and rituals.

Dropping the little stone into a small glass vial, the dwarf finishes his analysis of the figure discovering little else. With the physical components of their former allies, likely a bit of her own blood mixed in the wax. Enough to manifest the likeness and control over the fakes. The void stone could certainly provide the additional power to bring them to life so vividly. A dark, dangerous, and disgusting ritual. More importantly, the witch was able to gather those items from their friends and allies. The dwarf can't help but wonder, how did she achieve this. Spies. Scrying. Who could still be in danger?

The day passes without incident. The sun shines brightly overhead offering a respite of welcome and unexpected autumn warmth to the high mountains along with hearts and minds. In the vales and valleys below, the forest is quiet. It is as if the entire entity known as the Margreve Forest is taking a long awaited and much needed breath of relief and rest. With the destruction of the witch's power and the end to her influence over weather and woods, the ancient forest begins the long slow process of healing.

Not so very far to the south, the newly formed lake along the Grandfather's Tears river still fills, its rising waters burying the bones of thousands of trees and other spirit lives cut short by its creation. Smoke still rises from smoldering fires and dragon-forged stone atop the pinnacle of rock where a fortress once stood. Surrounding that transformed spire, a circle of destruction a mile wide. Trees thousands of years old, broken, uprooted and knocked down like matchsticks dropped from a hand. Thus a power broken does not occur without cost.

High up above the grieving trees, the heroes of Nargenstal rest. No threats appear. No dragons, wyverns, devils, or guild inspectors mar the peaceful respite. Much was witnessed. Much completed. Still other tasks remain and soon the discussion turns to what comes next for these mighty heroes.

Luthael: Just confirming what Scramsax quoted, yes, average or roll whichever is better.

Scramsax: Yes, Inspiration for everyone.

And as for how the hag/witch escaped, yes she shrunk herself down and went down the small tunnel while the eldritch chipmunk enlarged and went toward the hangar. The two teapots contained more shrinking/enlarging potions which would have allowed you all to follow. However, I had kind of figured on Luthael or Raseri being able to relay that information from what they witnessed in the 'time lag' of the Shadow Realm.

Fortunately for the hag, unfortunately for our heroic pursuers, the dice did what dice do with a 1 and a follow up 2 throwing a complete wrench into things. Still, her power is indeed broken in the Margreve.

Heh...I just realized that is kind of similar to the White Council breaking the power of a certain 'necromancer' in Southern Mirkwood. Then the question becomes, which one of you is Saruman. :)

The chipmunk's final phaser blast hits the clockwork beetle like a Blackguard's baton sucker punching drunks during the Midsummer Fair. Gears, springs, belts, and all manner of other really important bits disappear in a flash of horrifying power.

Fortunate the potent weapon didn't do the same thing to her own innards, Scramsax doesn't have much time to relish her short lived luck as the flying beetle instant turns into a plunging pile of beetle dung. With visions of her final moments racing through her mind the halfling is barely aware of the strong grip tugging at her collar and pulling her free of the doomed machine. Moments later she's snug within Ingyrd's familiar furry embrace.

Electing to fly well clear of the dragon's wrath, the Narg Nasty Six, who are really only five, circle around the pillar of stone and find a perch about a mile further into the mountains where they witness the final destruction of the former fortress of the Griffon Knights turned Hag's Hideout.

Those with sharp eyes spot a few survivors scrambling through the rocks and into the cover of the trees. But the handful of terrorized goblins or gnomes aren't a threat to anyone. The tower itself ultimately melts down like a wax candle. The molten stone walls sink in upon themselves filling the numerous tunnels and caverns below. Luthael feels the ancient temple to Khors so recently cleansed of its curse suddenly disappear in a single searing molten moment.

Eventually the dragon fire meets the harnessed natural mana of the manipulated leyline. The subsequent explosion shines like a second sun forcing even the dragon to retreat from her fury. The shockwave rolls across the mountains creating a ring of fallen trees and tumbling rocks for nearly a half mile around the tower. When it rolls across the cliff where Scramsax, Ingryd, Luthael, Raseri, and Gunnar are perched it rattles the stone and pushes each back several steps before slowly weakening as it passes through the remainder of the mountains.

That second glowing sun remains for much of the day. A fireball of swirling green, yellow and orange power hovering atop the sunken remains of the rock pillar that once housed the greatest knights of Midgard.

With a final roar that reverberates across the Margreave, the dragon circles once, twice, and finally deems her revenge complete. With the sun still rising in the eastern sky, its rays glittering off her shimmering brass colored scales, the dragon flies south. South to return to her lair and her recovered eggs.

By early evening the roiling globe of flame and power has dimmed to something nearer a lighthouse lamp warning of dangerous shoals. Perhaps an apt image considering the ruin it sits atop. The still smoking center pouring all manner of foul smelling toxins into the air.

Somewhere in the distance a cackle echoes across the mountains. Shrill and utterly, completely mad. It is a laugh that sends chills of fear down spines and lightning bolt charges of rage through minds and souls. It is a cackle cut short as the old nasty crone chokes on a bite of hard boiled egg. The trail of colorful shell marking her passage deeper into the northern woods. For a moment there is hope. Hope the witch will truly choke upon her own bile and filth. Alas, it is not be be. The bit of egg spews forth from between rotted teeth to hit a passing robin in the eye. The hapless bird tumbles to the ground to be gathered into the hag's pouch. A late supper. Luck's smile graces her wart coated face as she cackles again and slips into the growing twilight.

We'll go ahead and call that Level 11.

Yes, flight should be active unless Gunnar cancelled it for some reason.

"Captain's Log, Stardate 2454.3

The dark haired man sports the gold shirt and pips of a Star Fleet captain. His square-jawed face is covered with a layer of smoke and splattered blood. His emerald eyes have the haunted look of a man who's seen too much death in a short, unexpected period of time. In the background lights blinks on panels while some sort of alarm blares. Sparks cascade from above and releasing a cloud of smoke into the area that briefly rings itself around the haggard figure. S.S. Resolution can be seen labeled across the top of one of the flashing panels. His voice is tired, scratchy, filled with shock and grief.

"The final tally is twelve dead and thirty three wounded." He says staring into the screen. "We still don't have any idea where the alien came from. Sensors do not pick up any warp, impulse or other signs of a ship in the sector. And the planet below still shows as Class D with no signs of life and only a trace atmosphere."

"Warp drive is still off line, having been damaged in the initial skirmish after the alien suddenly appeared in Main Engineering. Standing approximately five feet tall with fur covering its entire being, the creature reminded me of some of the chipmunks we used to see all the time back home in the sierra's. Of course, those didn't run around shooting deadly purple beams into people or summon forth tentacled horror out of some fiction nightmare to rip my crew apart."

There is a pause as the man turns away. Someone else can be heard off screen, but the words are overrun by the alarms and continued burst of electronic static.

"Ensign Mayberry just died, bringing the death toll up to thirteen." The man swallows, sets his jaw. "That is the single largest loss of life the ship has suffered since the encounter with the Klingons two years ago."

"Search teams continue to scour the ship for the alien since it killed Lieutenant Tompkins and disappeared. Commander Grock saw the rodent grab Tompkins phaser so it is even more heavily armed than before." He runs a hand through his short cropped hair. "Fortunately we still have impulse power. I've set the Resolution on a course for Starbase 7 and left a beacon here in the Tourmaline system warning off all ships until the alien's origins can be determined. God willing, we'll have the warp drive back online in a month, otherwise it's going to be a damned long ride back home. Captain Randall out."

It is unclear how, why, or even what the image projected onto Ingryd's shield meant. The shield itself does not wish to discuss the casting's origin or anything remotely connected to its sudden appearance and equally sudden disappearance. In fact, when Ingryd and Gunnar attempt to ask further questions, it complains of the smoke and gore covering its lovely metal and acts as if the event never happened at all.

"Oh look!" The shield exclaims. "Isn't that the overgrown rat you were trying to kill earlier?" The wayward spirit adds taking full advantage of the well timed distraction.

And indeed, the eldritch chipmunk comes racing into the hangar steps ahead of a wave of molten rock. For a moment it's eyes focus on the hovering clockwork beetle and the adventurer's flying around its mechanical frame like a school of oversized pilot fish. At the same moment Luthael sends a fireball streaking toward the creature, the creature squeaks with fury and raises a strange looking wand held loosely in its clawed paw. A beam of light instantaneously bores into the flying machine.

A moment later the fireball explodes. The eldritch chipmunk is engulf in a tornado of flame and fury. Its dying screeches echo from the hangar opening for several long seconds before another roar of rage rattle the very foundations of the mountain from above. More stone trembles and shakes. The pillar of flaming rodent bounces wildly among the collapsing columns within the hangar until the entire sight disappears beneath several tons of stone and molten rock. A billowing cloud of smoke spews forth from the collapsing maw.

Inside the clockwork flyer, panels that were only moments ago a pleasant quiet green now beep and blare at the halfling as more than half how flash an ugly shade of red or grim yellow. Smoke fills the pilot's cabin the machine lists hard to starboard sending the machine into a slow downward spiral as it loses momentum and power.

Scramsax: DEX(Piloting Clockwork) vs DC16 to land the beetle without crashing.

A wave of heat ripples through the air. The tower shudders yet again. A slow moving stream of molten rock ripples down the stairwell from above. Giving even the usually stalwart dwarf a momentary start. He keen eyes quickly flick toward the ceiling. He blinks. Blinks again. Sweat beads upon his forehead. There is a definite glow to several of the stones. Somewhere near the far wall there is a soft splat. A molten red glob smolders like a fresh bird dropping.

The gate trembles and flickers. Then with a burst of scurrying feet and pumping arms, Raseri and Luthael crash through the gate. Eerie horns blare upon their heels along with more the more spine chilling calls of things that lurk in the depths of Shadow.

Heeding the priestesses shouted cry, Gunnar slams the gate closed. As hurries toward the narrow descending stairwell.

A flight below the fleeing trio, Ingryd waits. If one could see her knuckles, they would be white with fury as she gripped Ennui and waited for the disguised hag to pop back into existence. The hammer merely sighs as remarks upon the futility of such mortal emotions as anger and hate. For a brief moment, the bearkin ponders the hammer's words. Was her anger holding her here against all better judgement?

As if to punctuate the consideration a large stone suddenly tumbles from the ceiling above and smashes itself into gravel shards just a few paces away.

A odd clackety buzzing sound drifts from the hallway Scramsax disappeared into, while muffled shouts and the smell of molten stone waft down from above.

Suddenly, there is a tension in the air. The soft elemental hum of magic. She turns. Her eyes blaze at the spot where the eldritch chipmunk disappeared into whatever dark, vile dimension Gunnar sent it into. The fur on her neck and arms stands on end while her nose tingled. Surely it was only moments until the creature returned.

A pair of rocks break off and tumble from the ceiling. The sound of running boot steps signal someone is coming from above. Meanwhile the rough clattering from the other archway seems to have steadied itself after a few brief moments of grinding metal and wrenching gears.

It takes a few tries, but Scramsax finds she has a knack for flight. Perhaps it was the fae influence from the dryad. Perhaps it was thinking how much easier it would be to reach the top of Grand Burgher's Tower if one landed on the roof verses attempting to climb the thousand feet from the bottom. Such possibilities drive innovation. Thus with a deft hand and an easy touch, the halfling gets the clockwork flyer off the ground and manages to hold it steady a few feet from the rapidly shrinking tower.

From her vantage just outside, Scramsax sees the dragon hovering only a hundred or so paces above. Her wingspan is enormous. Her roaring, fury filled voice ear shattering. The top of the tower is simply gone. Another burst of dragonfire turns another layer of stone into molten sludge. Great globs of melted or partially melted stone slough away into the morning light. Dropping the thousands of feet to smash into the forest and rocks below. Spot fires erupt for a few minutes, but they are snuffed out before they can set the entire forest ablaze.

Glancing back at the landing area, she sees part of the roof collapse. The entire area is filling with smoke and dust and grit. Landing back on the pad was going to be dangerous. She glances down into the abyss below. More dangerous than missing the leap aboard? She wasn't sure.

OOC: Unless there is a delay, all can reaching the landing area this turn. It is a DEX(Piloting) roll vs DC14 to safely land the flyer back in the landing area. It is a DEX(Acrobatics) or STR(Athletics) check vs DC16 to make the leap from the landing pad and into the flyer's hold if Scramsax doesn't land. No need for this check if you have a flight speed.

The golden flare of Gunnar's firebolt is a beacon of relief and glory to weary eyes of Luthael and Raseri. It is a beacon of danger and hate for most of the other denizens of that dim, gray world known as Shadow. Knowing they didn't have much time, prophet and priestess scramble up the hillside of shattered stone. Screeches, hoot, and howls echo all around from the dark recesses hidden just out of sight. Somewhere drums begin to pound out a steady, bone rumbling beat.

Light had been brazenly, boldly, foolishly displayed within Shadow's domain. Such a challenge could not go unanswered. Such an affront could not go unpunished. And although time has no real meaning within a realm where neither sun, moon, stars, or anything else truly mark its passage, it is the first time in the memories of the realms youngest denizens that those drums have sounded. Even the oldest struggle to recall when the drums sounded last. A few did recall. Golden eyes glance at an elf head mounted upon a wall, another pulls a human crafted trinket from a drawer stuffed with various baubles. Memories of long ago. It had been a long time since a Hunt was called.

Raseri is the first to spot Gunnar standing silhouetted in the narrow gateway. The drums continue to beat. Somewhere in the distance a low mournful horn blows. The sound echoes like the wailing cries of a thousand widows across a blood soaked field. The prophet of light and priestess of thunder hurry onward toward the gleaming oval of flickering power. Their muffled cries drowned by the growing cacophony of Shadow's stirring.

Within the ancient tower, Scramsax struggles to understand the complicated array of levers, buttons, pedals, and other controls of the clockwork contraption. She also gains instant insight into the dragon's progress in her revenge as a massive chunk of stone and debris littered with a sprinkling of goblins and ghouls goes tumbling past the hanger opening. Moments later a thick crack opens in the ceiling as the entire tower shudders and tilts ominously toward the sheer edge of the several thousand foot drop.

She shouts back up the stairs. Ingryd curses the lack of final bloodshed, while Gunnar searches the shadow filled wasteland for some sign of his companions. An egg rolls out of the small archway, now packed with sticks, feathers, and bits of string. The dwarf couldn't recall that being there before. Before he can investigate the brightly colored egg, a stone drops from a growing series of cracks in the ceiling and crushes the potential breakfast delight with a sickening final thud.

The narrow door leading back into the hag's chamber shudders. There is a flash of fire light. Heat billows through the opening followed by thick black smoke and the rumble of collapsing stone. Cracks erupt in the walls, ceiling and floor of the chamber. The arcane gateway flickers, but remains thanks to Gunnar's focused effort.

Scramsax's shouts echo from below. The urgency clear in the halfling's high pitched shouts. He starts to turn away knowing his companions could take care of themselves. But the booming drums and echoing eerie horn has him concerned. Another stone falls, misses by only a few inches. The wizard starts to pull back from the gateway. Then he spots the haggard, hurrying figures racing through the gloom.

Scramsax: INT check vs DC13 to properly understand the flight controls.

Gunnar: DEX check vs DC13 to avoid falling stone and maintain the gateway. On a fail take 3d6 ⇒ (2, 3, 5) = 10 crushing damage.

Luthael and Raseri: CON check vs DC13 to increase your pace fast enough to make the gateway in the next round. Fail and it'll take a second round to reach the gate.

Ingryd waits. The bearkin grips Ennui in her grasp, her lips curled into a resolute snarl. Seconds tick past slowly. The rage boiling within her veins begins to ebb as she sees Scramsax slip through the opposite door while Gunnar seeks the prophet and priestess within the Shadow Realm.

Gunnar forces open a window into Shadow's gray land. The realm ripples and trembles with the recent comings and goings and bursts of powerful magics just the other side of the thin fabrics that both separate and hold together the weave of space and time. It is like looking through a jar of muddy water, that window into Shadow. Stirred sediments block the view making it difficult for him to see anything, better yet the minor specks that might be Luthael and Raseri. Still the dwarf continues, steadfast that he will not leave anyone behind amidst the coming conflagration of the dragon's anger.

Gunnar searches. Ingryd waits. Scramsax scouts. The halfling hurries through the other door. Passes down a hall lined with narrow doors. A peek here and poke there and it appears to be the hall where the hag's most potent allies might spend their time within the tower. Posh beds, gilt mirrors, handcrafted dressers, and individual washbasins and water closets. Rooms better than even many of the finest Barsallen inns.

Alas, all have already been pilfered and ransacked by their fleeing occupants. Drawer's line open, bedding unmade, closets are simply tiny dark rooms with a hangar or two rocking back and forth with each concussive expression of a dragon's revenge battering the tower.

Another open doorway exists at the end of the hall. Another stairway leading down. Flickering sconces light the way. Spiraling down and down until the halfling comes to another landing and another archway. This opens onto a large open area where most of the far wall stands open to the outside. An occasional piece of stone drops past that opening. The wide chamber itself is practically empty with the exception of a few scattered barrels, crates, or torn sacks spilling their contents like gutted deer.

Looking to the far end of the chamber, Scramsax spots what may have been the chipmunk's final objective. Sitting in the corner, a large insectoid clockwork contraption. Winged with what the halfling can only guess is a small two person cockpit and perhaps some kind of cargo area in the midsection, she supposes this to be how the eldrtich rodent planned to escape the tower and the region altogether. For certainly there is nothing else here save a long drop into the river valley far below.

Happy 2026 everyone. Hope you all have a great year this year.

The residual magics from the recent fight with the eldritch chipmunk along with the dragon's attack and the general chaos caused by the recent reorientation of the wild ley line has the entire fabric of the arcane field in disarray. It is difficult for the dwarf to read. Nearly impossible for him to get a solid sense of what happened to Luthael and Raseri or where they might be.

Backtracking up the stairs a short distance, Gunnar is able to detect a narrow thread of shadow and storm magic that mimics the magics the priestess had been casting in the hag's chamber. Worryingly, those same residues appear to the wizard as little more than arcane flotsam. Drifting remnants of a spell, or more likely, a portal, gone terribly wrong.

He glances back up the stairwell where the flash of dragon fire occasionally flickers and the stones of the tower quiver and tremble. If they were lost upon the shadow roads, it was possible they might never return. But the dwarf quickly pushes the worst aside. Assuming they can return, they would most likely try to do so at the easiest point possible, the point where they were attempting to reach in the first place. The Hag's Observation Room.

Gunnar overcomes the initial pain and confusion brought on by the chipmunk's void speech and castings. In a flurry of arcane retribution the wizard unleashes his own thunderous magic upon the eldritch varmit. Too late does it realize its tactical mistake in attempting to bypass the wizard. A costly lesson as now he finds himself...elsewhere. And surely, by the time he returned his true quarry would once again have slipped away.

With the chipmunk's shunting into another dimension, Ingryd is forced to vent her fury upon the only remaining targets in the area. The pair of driders. She is able to catch a glimpse of the arachnoid abominations stumbling about in the thick gray fog that quickly filled the staircase and entrance into the chamber. Wasting little time, the bearkin charges and slams Ennui into the first drider unfortunate enough to get in her way.

Bones crack. Internal organs liquefy. Blood splatters the surrounding walls, ceiling, floor, ally, and hidden halflings. For a few heartbeats, the hapless drider's mind doesn't realize it is no longer inhabiting a functioning body. Images of the drider's fencing prowess flood its confused mind as it slays the halfling, bearkin, and dwarf is a display of unparalleled derring-do. So after, he receives a promotion and rewards from his superiors. A weeks leave among the temple concubines. Then the pain strikes. With a gasp the already dead drider crumples to the ground, the last imaginary images spilling away faster than his life blood. Moments later sweet blackness and the embrace of death.

Through the haze of fog, the sole remaining drider sees his companion fall. Hears the roar of fury from the raging bearkin. Smells the ozone emanating from the dwarven wizard whose gnashing teeth crackle with sparks of lightning. And somewhere still, the halfling lurked with her lethal blade and greedy eyes.

For the first time in weeks, the drider makes the right decision. He tosses down his sword and flees. Unfortunately, although the decision to flee is, according to most betting statistitians, the correct one to make and allows for a sixty percent chance of escape, the direction of his flight reduces those chances to zero. For in his haste to escape, and since no one had mentioned that the tower was being assaulted by a very, very furious dragon, the drider elected to head up the stairway.

This ill-fated choice would result in his nearly instant incineration within the next five minutes as another blast of dragon fire melts the entire upper section of the tower into a rippling, oozing, red-hot mass of liquid rock and vapor.

Combat over. Chipmunk is banished. Drider 1 is dead. Drider 2 Disengages and flees toward his own doom.

Party is up.

[spoiler=GM rolls]

CHA Save vs DC17: 1d20 ⇒ 16

You are still inside the castle itself, although it is certainly a section you have not been before.

Sorry for the slow posting rate. Holidays and work have been kicking my backside this last couple of weeks.

Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and have a Happy New Year. Cheers all.

The dissonant syllables of the eldritch chipmunk's void speech and chaos seed completely fracture the logical structures and inner balance of the dwarven wizard. For a brief moment his thoughts flail upon the chaotic tides of uncreation and wild entropy. Stunned until his senses can once again focus and believe in the solid stone beneath his feet, the air filling his lungs, his own bone and tissue of a physical form. Only then, does the lightning spark once again fill his eyes and thunder rumble in his chest.

While Gunnar wrestles with the unexpected brittleness of the multiverse, Ingryd brushes off such esoteric concerns and simply unleashes the burning surety of her hatred upon what she believes to be the hag in disguise. The angry hum of bees accompanies her roar of fury and the whistle of her ancient hammer through the air.

Although unnaturally large, the chipmunk is still quite fast and nimble. The bearkin's first blow strikes nothing but air as her foe slips aside. But the barbarian warrior is no green recruit in the ways of battle. A snarl curls her lip, a gleam glitters in her eye. Dip left, lean low. Then in a display of her own speed and strength, for few could wield such a heavy weapon with such directions shifting speed and accuracy, Ingryd shifts her balance, moves right and centers a blow directly in the chipmunk's midsection. Ennui, completely unphased and unsurprised by the glimpse of world devouring chaos that so staggered the wizard, attempts to drain away the chipmunk's own essence. But the creature's own entropic origin provides a brief protection from the weapon's magic.

But the chipmunk's chaos origins cannot fend off another agent of the wild and uncertain. Cannot in fact, fend off the potent aura of one who's own links to the churning unknowable antithesis to life and order helped uplift the eldritch woodland rodent into its current state of existence. And so, from out of the shadows, Scramsax strikes like a desert rattler. Her blade punches through robes and hide in an instant. The chipmunk only begins to register the pain, notice the sudden weakness, by the time the halfling is already slipping back into the shadows.

Yet, there is a bond between halfling and chipmunk. One forged of hate, grief, revenge and the previously mentioned chaos. So it is, the the chipmunk pivots and through the haze of pain, bees, and flying bear spit, he spots the halfling as she sneaks back into the imperfect shadows just beyond the chamber's entrance. The gleam of a bloody dagger blade. The toe of a mate crushing boot. The leering smirk that peeks back into the room. The beady eyes calculating her next round of death. The chipmunk sees it all. So does one of the hag's arachniod creations.

"Chitter! Squeak chit chit squeak chitter." The chipmunk blurts.

The driders click-clack forward, hands suddenly covering their ears.

A moment later the room fills once again with the world rending dissonance of unguarded void speech. A section of stone suddenly turns into tapioca pudding. The lumpy, sweet mass oozes onto the floor causing the remainder of the wall to suddenly crack, slump, and lean precariously. An old rotted barrel grows arms and legs, lifts up its half bashed lip and runs off screaming through the door on the opposite side of the room. The chipmunk's eyes shine with ebony abandon as a set of curling horns suddenly burst forth atop its furry head.

The words roll across the room like a crashing avalanche of uncertainty. Minds revolt. Blood cells burst. Muscles turn spongy. For a moment all is truly chaotic until the final echoing phrase dissipates down the stairs and into oblivion.

Uncovering their ears, the drider's obey, although the more clever of the two considers the attack upon the halfling a tactical mistake when they could have potentially dealt with the dangerous wizard while the dwarf was under the influence of the munk's earlier void conjuration. But both had served the hag and her allies long enough to know that thinking and acting against the orders of a superior were sure fire ways to loose their pension and end up in one of the experimentation vats. So onward they charged. Theirs but to do and die.

All: WIS save vs DC15 or take 15 psychic damage and no reactions. Half on a success and still can react.

Scramsax: Take 10 damage from one hit.

Party is up.

Gunnar: No. It is a magic item, so not subject to counterspell. Judging by the puffiness of his cheeks, he probably has more of them stashed in there.

Ugh. My fault, I should have gone back and rechecked. Forgot you were using the sling. I'll switch the damage to the chipmuck next turn. Doesn't really change anything else, just gives him more reason to attack in Scram's direction.

And also, Happy Solstice all.

Gunnar's arcane fist continues to hold the struggling eldritch chipmunk in place. Th woodland rodent's eyes blaze with hate and power, but buried beneath that layer of revenge-fueled malevolence is a desire for rest, peace. It emits a harsh squeak as ribs bend, begin to pop and lungs struggle to pull in air. For just a whisper of a moment, the dwarven wizard can see the creature setting aside its quest. Can see the desire to return to a life of simpler pleasures and routines. Then its gaze catches sight of another.

A potent, fury of chittering and chaos laced muck-speech fills the room as a certain halfling emerges from the fading shadows to plant a dagger in the drider nearest the doorway. A halfling that smells of a dryad's glade, magic beans, and callous greed. The One had come. It was as the old crone had predicted. A madness grin of hate and vengeance crosses his puffy-cheeked face. A word of pure chaos is uttered which causes the stone in the room to tremble. Vision blurs and ears ring upon hearing the entropic syllables.

The chipmunk disappears it a puff of shadow and spite. Reappears again across the room. It's eyes blaze in the direction of the One. The source of its hatred and fury. The roaring bearkin means nothing to him as she pummels one of the hag's creatures with her ancient hammer rending armor and flesh all the same.

Its cheeks puff, lips snarl and twist. It sucks in a breath then spits a seed across the room with the deftness and accuracy of a dockside regular hitting a spittoon.

The empowered offspring of the ancient forest explodes a few inches from where the halfling had emerged to stab the drider and unleashes the stored power of chaos upon all those nearby. Driders, bearkin, dwarf and hidden halfling. The blast of unmaking washes across the room once again tearing at the very fabrics of reality and creation.

Ingryd takes 6,9, and 8 points of slashing damage from three drider hits.

All: Dex Save vs DC15 or take 32 points of force damage. Half on save. Also CON Save vs DC12 or gain Stunned until the end of your next turn.

Both Driders are stunned by the seed's magic.

Party is up.