Vanoj's page

My hopes for wealth are as yet unfulfilled, as you well know, Fibby. I write this by candlelight our first night in Jzadirune, the gnomish fortress under Keegan Ghelve’s locksmithing establishment. I do not know how long our secret will remain so. And I do not suppose that it matters much so long as I am able to collect my portion of the reward for the return of the orphans for Jenya at the temple of St Cuthbert.

In summary, our first day has bored me. I have not had the opportunity to display my art for the party. In fact, I have simply walked about while the others have had their sanguine fun. Really, despite the moderate carnage and danger of the day, I could not avoid finding, whenever I introspected, ennui predominating my mental states, the consequence of which is that I spent more time than usual researching new spells from my notes. I always seem to drop my quill when the others engage in combat while I am scribbling my notes for a spell; and you, Fibby, are particularly apt at snatching it back for me before it rolls out of reach. For this I maintain no small amount of gratitude toward you.

But to continue with my narrative—as we entered the secret passage Ghelve discovered for us in the wall of his establishment we noticed a taint about the air. At least I think it was the air; it could just as easily have been Korah’s bodily odors. Regardless, the first step below Cauldron brought upon myself and I daresay upon us all a certain presentiment on danger and disorder. And the latter, as you know, I detest far more than the former.

The stairs continued downward at a regular angle, taking two ninety degree turns to the right before ending in a fairly large room that I will describe later in more detail. My present point of interest are the landings that accompanied the sharp turns just mentioned. These were square platforms, hardly of interest save for the sconces on the walls that were of such fine make as to impress even myself on a cursory glance. Of course, I kept as far away from every surface other than the stairs themselves as was possible. I have read stories of unwary dungeon delvers. The other members of our coterie were not so scrupulous; and this is what led to the introduction of our first bit of subterranean excitement.

That accursed halfling Joe was overcome by an urge to fiddle with the sconce that adorned the wall of the first landing; and, since we were at this point keeping a tight formation as we proceeded, his confounding curiosity set us all on edge—and quite literally, I might add. The sconce, as any educated person might expect, shifted to one side or the other (which one I could not tell, being too busy examining the walls for any hint of gnomish script), which movement sent the landing upon which we momentarily were located swiveling into a vertical position. All of us were thrown by it farther down the stairs, not without a midair curse halflingly directed. I managed to keep my balance as did Joe—much to my chagrin. Beniah and Korah were not so fortunate; and although they did not suffer badly, they did have reason after regaining their footing to distance themselves from the impertinent midget.

I shared that reason but, being in the back of the party, not that opportunity. So, while the wood elf and the half-orc poked about the room at the terminus of the stairs, I trailed Joe as he, to my utter disbelief, began once more to fiddle with the landing’s sconce! Happily, I had not set foot on the landing when I observed his interference with the sconce and so was saved a series of stressful moments. However, when after some time Joe’s activities did not seem to initiate another near disaster, I decided to join him on the landing. Something about this wall seemed aberrant. I could not precisely place it until I got nearer, but once I stood near Joe I discerned that the far wall harbored a secret passage. Where the opening mechanism was located I could not tell. That sort of thing is, after all, why I permit Joe to accompany us. I therefore left the details to him and proceeded to examine the room downstairs.

An infernal chirping appeared to emanate from twelve masks displayed on pedestals against the southern wall. After overcoming my initial annoyance at the noise, which precluded all serious thinking for some time, a mere cantrip confirmed my suspicion: the sound was illusory, which is, as you must know, Fibby, is just the sort of thing one expects from gnomes, who have nothing more significant to do with their time beside undergoing long labors to vex with illusions both guests and intruders to their structures. To entertain himself, Korah tried once unsuccessfully to rip one of the masks from the wall (although later in the day he returned and did manage to dislodge one of them from its mounting—to no great effect). There were two large geared doors in the room, which I convinced everyone to leave alone until we could persuade the halfling to examine them for traps.

I should mention, by the way, that the place is for the most part completely dark. Occasionally one will stumble upon some magical lighting, but in most areas we rely on Korah’s darkvision and a torch typically held by Beniah. As you will remember when you read this, Fibby, it’s a terrible inconvenience. After some more research, I plan to make myself a permanently lighted object, perhaps a little pebble, and affix it somehow to my person. In this way I shall always be able to read my spellbook in comfortable lighting.

Before Korah and Beniah could get into altogether too much trouble, Joe called to us that he had manipulated the secret door that I had spotted. He had already walked inside when I came to join him and in my opinion seemed absolutely mystified both that nothing of value lay in the room and that there were not exits apparent. Of course the solution to this apparently unforgivable gnomish design is that yet another secret door lay somewhere hidden in the walls. I instructed Joe to search one wall while I searched the one across from him. Eventually we met at the far end of the room; and when the others found us, we had discerned another secret door, which was fully in accordance with my expectation. As it turned out, I prudently feared that the door would be trapped; and so, Fibby, I took both of back to the entrance to the secret room, very near the landing from which we originally entered. Meanwhile, Beniah and Korah neared Joe’s location.

And a good thing that Korah did so. As soon as Joe attempted to disarm the trap he had spotted, the maladextrous fool set the thing off, sending the floor beneath him crumbling. I imagine that all told about ten square feet of stone fell out from beneath the unfortunate halfling, revealing a horridly smelling pit below—not too deep—filled with some orangey goo. Although Joe was not quick enough this time to evade the disaster, Korah, being dangerously near the edge of the shallow precipice, managed to extend his arm just in time to catch the little idiot before he fell to his timely death. Although I was robbed of a bit of my fun at seeing Joe survive the trap and was disheartened immediately, I later considered that it would be better to keep him alive to “disarm” more traps in such a manner.

After securing the rodent with rope about his waist (Korah holding the end of it), Joe edged around the pit and back in front of the door, balancing precariously over the peril that had moments ago nearly taken his life. But as soon as he pried the door open he motioned to us that more danger lay ahead. He jerked firmly on the rope about his waist and crawled ahead silently. Korah understood the signal, let the rope fall, and unsheathed his greataxe. Beniah followed suit with his longsword, and I, realizing myself unsuited to the feat of brute athleticism that was likely to ensue, prepared my crossbow and stood myself firmly in the back corner of the room in order to watch the developments ahead of me.

In the dim light given off by the torch Beniah dropped at his feet, I could see Joe in a split second stab one dark looking fellow in what I imagine was the kidney. The features of Joe’s victim were indiscernible from the distance at which I was standing. In any case, the thing reacted familiarly enough, letting out a groaning scream and calling for one of its associates (though its language was unintelligible to me, its tone was unmistakable.) Korah and Beniah immediately leapt across the chasm and engaged in combat. From my perspective I could make out only that there were more than the four forms of the one hostile I had spotted and my own companions. How many there were in all I would only discover minutes later as Korah jerked me rather unceremoniously across the pit. If I remember correctly, there were three of these creatures, humanoid enough to wear banded mail and to use our weapons. But their faces were of an unfamiliar type, even in my studies of goblinoids and orcish creatures. I presume that they are of some exclusively subterranean race that has emerged this closely to the surface through some compulsion. I could be mistaken of course; this is merely speculation. Although the party members that had been engaged in combat seemed to have come through it largely uninjured, these creatures had been almost torn to bits, save for one specimen who for the most part still possessed his bodily integrity. Korah’s zeal for slaughter has exceeded even my most sanguine expectations. I imagine that this feature of his will serve us well.

These pitiful individuals were, it seems, guarding an elevator mechanism that filled most of the room in which we found them. The only other feature of this room (not counting the lever that we believe operates the chain-suspended wooden elevator, which is large enough for us all to stand in it simultaneously) is a large geared door, similar to the ones that had been in the first room below the stairs by means of which we descended into Jzadirune. I noticed at this point that all of the doors of this type that we had encountered so far were marked with a gnomish letter. I shall perhaps reproduce the letters that we have found thus far; but at the moment the task does not interest me. I have yet to discern their importance, though I do have a theory regarding their signification: if it were true that all the doors spelled “Jzadirune,” then all the letters we have found are an expectandum. I have conjured up no other explanations of their significance thus far, except perhaps that they signify with what sort of trap the door is trapped. We have yet to encounter two doors with a similar marking; so I have no way as of yet to falsify this thesis. The one in the elevator room, however, gave Joe a nasty shock; so that’s one that we’ll both remember, but, of course, for different reasons.

I convinced my companions to refrain from taking the elevator at this point, even though the cryptic statement from the Star of Justice did mention that we should “descend” into the Malachite hold. To go down on an elevator is certainly one way to descend. But, as I do not wish to be ambushed once we have descended upon the elevator, I explained to the party that we should be better off if we should explore the rest of the level on which we currently find ourselves. There were four passages in that first room alone. This idea was agreeable to them; and hence we returned once more to the room with the masks.

Upon entering it, I spotted some movement in one of the tunnels ahead of us. I could not discern enough about it to make any significant statement—it easily could have been a trick of the brain—but nevertheless Korah took off running after it, whatever it was. The others followed, leaving me alone with that confounded chirping implicating itself ceaselessly in my hearing. I must say that at this point I was nonplussed. After several minutes the party returned, saying that in the meantime Korah had slain between three and five (I cannot recall the exact number, and at this point I am too tired to care) creatures that have the curious capability of being able to blend in almost seamlessly with the environment, at least when they are motionless. But the ambush the creatures had set proved to be abortive; Korah’s bloodlust overcame their stratagems. So, wearied from the slaughter, the rest of the group retired with me to one of the landings of those first stairs we saw upon descending from Ghelve’s Locks. Here we shall spend the night. I will write more at my next opportunity.

In the Shackled City AP, first module. Our 2nd level party is looking for a replacement for their recently deceased ranger (death by mimic). We go to the church of St. Cuthbert both to have his funeral arrangements attended to and to ask Jenya if she knows anyone who might help us. She points us to a "cleric" that sits over in the corner playing a guitar.

Feanor (Grey elf evoker): So Jenya says that's the guy. I'm sorry.

Joe (halfling rogue): He's, uh, wearing white gloves. That's kinda weird.

Joe's player (OOC): Michael Jackson wears gloves too.

Feanor: So maybe it's not such a good idea to get him to help us with the orphans . . .

Rufus was unfortunatley of no help whatsover. I foresaw this. Nevertheless, in all his babbling idiocy, he did inspire in us a desire to visit the orphanage from which the most recent kidnappees were taken. Not a terribly interesting place. A half-orc was its steward. That should be enough to give one pause concerning the quality of the place. I think that half-orcs might possibly be worse than their fullblooded cousins. At least the trueblooded orcs have not all these pretentions of civility about them, as if they are proper companions for persons who use napkins when eating.

We did, however, find one interesting thing during our ambulation through the campus - the locks. They were, for the quality of the place that they guarded, surprisingly ornate and well crafted. We inquired after the name of the locksmith consequently and discovered that they were made by a person by the name of Keegan Ghelve. I asked how it was spelled; and, after being informed of its spelling by the mistress of the place, I could instantly judge the character of the artisan: common. Who indeed inserts a silent h after a hard g? It serves no grammatical function whatsoever, though it does fulfill a societal one. It feebly indicates that the possessor of the name wishes to distance himself, however fecklessly, from his heritage of an ignoble language, softening it in writing with that silent letter. I could not, therefore, inspire myself to confidence regarding his character.

But we visited the place neverthless. We found it curious, to say the least. The master of the hovel seemed ill at ease during the length of our visit. Observing this, Beniah, who had previously visited the establishment for, as he put it, "reconnaissance," attempted, along with Joe the nefarious halfing, to discern the source of his anxiety. He was reticent to disclose it but managed to motion that it stemmed from something that lay behind the scarlet curtain that precluded a longer view into the back of the shop. Never one for niceties regarding private property or etiquette regarding strangers, the halfling snuck through the curtain and, from what I could hear (which was not much), began to make his way up some stairs. Beniah and I remained in awkward silence with Ghelve until we heard Joe's squeaky cry of alarm. I fancy it more like a rat than that of a sentient being.

When Beniah and I rounded the corner, brushing aside the curtain, we found the petulant diminuitive engaged in combat (though not advantageously so) with some sort of creature, the likes of which I had never seen. The creature's skin seemed adaptable to the environment to some degree even among the wooden paneling of the shop; but it was obvious to me (as I'm sure it was to you as well, Fibby) that the wretch was better suited for subterranean dwelling. I kept it in an arcane stupor while my associates hacked at it with a notable gracelessness. We prevailed in a matter of seconds.

Of course at this point we felt that we had merited from Ghelve some significant explanation. So as not to bore you with tedious details, Fibby, here is the summation: these creatures and more had blackmailed Ghelve into giving them a master key of sorts for his locks throughout the town. It seems that the motivation of the creatures was to kidnap various individuals, not all of them children, like our orphans, and to bring them back through some sort of secret passage in the house and from there into an ancient labyrinthian gnomish structure called Jzadirune. (Note again the silent z. This feature in the name of this location and of Ghelve makes me think that the entire gnomish race must feel the inferiority of their ancestral language.) Presumably they were kidnapping for the purpose of some slave trade. "Precious lives bought with gold" and all that according to the Star of Justice divination.

Ghelve was in no mood to remain where he was. I cannot imagine that I would feel so inclined either, were I in his stead. We let him get away without reporting him to the authorities. I would that we could retract that gesture now. If I had been paying attention to Ghelve that never would have happened. As it was, I was too interested in the prospect of a dive into the structure beneath Ghelve's Locks.

I do not trust that Jenya woman. So when we reported back to her I told her only the most basic of information - that we had found a lead and so on. Having sworn not to reveal Ghelve's identity until he could remove himself from town turned out to be a benefit to me; she could not demand that I break my word. We asked one more thing of Jenya because of our recent battle. We realized that we would benefit from the presence of someone very strong. Beniah alone will have a difficult time keeping the vermin off of me that we are likely to encounter below the city. In light of this we asked if she could perhaps spare a cleric or a guard to accompany us.

The help to which she guided us was not particularly ideal. The person was, in fact, a half-orc, my opinion of whom I have hinted at by my commentary on his race above. It presently escapes me how this figure, who calls himself Korah, came to Jenya's attention; but, whatever the case, our need drove us to some debased dive or another, with which Joe, of course, was intimate. As Jenya said, we found the hulking beast over in a corner. I stood back and thus, mercifully, could not hear what Joe said in order to convince the cretin to accompany us. But I surmise that he did it only with the help of some god; for there were times during their discourse that I imagined Korah was fain to strike Joe down. And how disappointed I was that he did not act upon this whim!

But, despite my misgivings, Korah is obviously a lovely match for the party, at least functionally. He was head and shoulders taller and twice as wide as almost everyone we passed in the street on our way back to Ghelve's Locks. Better, he was almost completely noninquisitve. He walked as taciturnly as an animated statue - a statue with a large doublebladed axe slung on its back. I do not know when I shall have time to write next; but, when that time comes, I hope to be much, much richer.

Having met with Jenya, I must say that I am encouraged by our future prospects. She has offered us 2,500 gold pieces should we merely rescue the unfortunate brats from the orphanage! At least those—I fear that my memory fails me (as it so often does) in recalling whether she requires us to return the other disappeared persons as well. Whatever the case, I can’t imagine it shall be too difficult. Presuming all were kidnapped by the same party (and let’s not infer fallaciously this early on in the matter), everyone should be around the same location—if the kidnapping party is intelligent. This is a proposition concerning which I maintain serious doubt. It is in my experience always preferable to manipulate someone to do what you wish so that they perform it voluntarily; violation of the law is the resort of the feeble-minded.

Now then, Jenya also mentioned that she had done something rather foolish (I do not think, should I have done something comparable, that I would have revealed my folly): she had taken up the Star of Justice against the orders of her superior, who, as I wrote earlier, is in absentia, in order to divine the location of the lost persons for whom we are now to search. She was unwise to look into it; even I, at my current state of training, would have shied from it, especially considering that her endeavoring to utilize the item necessitated a breach of order. Thus again a violation of law will lead her downward; she will at least be short 2,500 gold and the few curative potions with which she gifted us.

Jenya did mention that the Star of Justice provided her a riddle about the location of the kidnapped—something about the locks being the key, going beyond the curtain and below the cauldron, being cautious about toothy doors, something else about a malachite hold, a half-dwarf, and lives being bought with gold. That last part is some sort of slave trade, I presume. And no doubt dwarven blood—any amount of that blood in one’s veins—could lead one to such sack-and-sugar-Jack knavery as kidnapping. I must say that I grow delighted when I think that, having permission from the church of St. Cuthbert, I shall be able to kill these worthless fellows that have made themselves an opportunity for our advancement, Fibby. We shall show them to their own faces what are the consequences for the transgression of the laws—and a stupidly executed transgression at that. The only salvation for which these rogues may hope is that they show themselves smarter in person that they appear by the reconstruction of their deeds. If all this has been charade and posturing and they have so fooled us, even us, by it, then I should count myself wise to remain in their company.

After a bit of discussion, we decided to head tomorrow to Rufus’s apartment. Jenya told us what she knew. It wasn’t that helpful. But what, really, is one to expect from a cloisterate such as her? That failed combatant might be able to better inform us. I suppose that now it is time, as the halfling Joe calls it, to “sleep.” I do hope that the elf Beniah takes as much delight in the inappropriateness of the halfling’s equation as I.

Probably he cannot.

Now, I didn't think it - the scream, that is - anything out of the ordinary. After all, Fibby, one must keep in mind that this is a wretched little city filled with the offscouring and refuse of the world, set in the slopes of a volcano as if it were begging at every moment for its own extinction - a sentiment with which I concord, although I would appreciate it if Nature kept this pore inactive until we should have the opportunity to depart.

Nevertheless, since I was bound to follow that knavish halfing, I forced myself to follow on his heels as he and the elf went to investigate. The sound emanated from an alley a little ways ahead of us; and, in the sonic lulls between the beating of the one who had screamed, we heard as we neared the alley entrance someone saying, "If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from the orphanage." Sage advice, I thought. Who does wish to be around those dreadful places. The very smell of so many youthful wretches congregated in one place should bring any but the most fortitudinous to nausea.

Ah, but I catch myself once more. I have forgotten another element of my narrative in my haste to write down the principle things, omitting those parts of the narrative that may be tiresome or irrelvant. But for convenience's sake, though it be both tiresome and irrelevant, I suppose I will name these two with me. The halfling's name is Joe. Absolutely common. No doubt he was the son of a prostitute and was named by his similiarly uneducated, unthoughtful, and uncivilized ruffian companions on the streets. So it is, I think, with all names of one syllable - as if one does not expect the child to be capable of remembering his own name should it reach into the realm of polysyllabity. The elf's name (I did not hear it from him; he speaks rarely) is Beniah. Although it is a quaint appellation, it is certainly superior to "Joe" and is also considerably more advanced than the average nomenclatural inventions of the rude wood elves; for that is the race from which his face evidences him to have descended.

Now back to the event. When we all arrived in the alley, I took a peek around the corner and saw that three men were beating the man of whose scream we earlier were auditors. Our approach not having been designed to mask our presence, they soon looked up and saw us observing them. In response my impetuous would-be hosts drew their weapons. Beniah, the elf, took a few steps backward and trained his longbow on one of the fellows; and I could see that rogue Joe skulking along the wall - no doubt his usual mode of ambulance.

As I'm sure you remember, Fibby, all this martial pomp was simply trite. There are in any one encounter an infinitude of plausibilities opened up to one's mind; and yet most - my new companions included - like dumb beasts permit instinct to give them bit and bridle; and they are led about by the passions, harnessed by a metal rod between the teeth. That is, when threatened they cease whatever thinking of which they may have been capable and reach for their metal shafts. From there the outcome is predictable.

To forestall these infelicities (and in the hope that, by my example, these brutes may one day rise above their own tendencies, even for a moment, and become rational) I simply called upon the knowledge of the arcane that I had instilled in my mind that morning through fresh study; and, with a word and gesture, I put all three sorry jacks to sleep. At that our attention was directed up to the roof of one of the buildings whose side formed the alleyway; and upon it we say a woman dressed in black, who, seeing the downfall of the men below her, cursed and ran away across the rooftops. I could not, unfortunately, make out what she said; but I know it was in Draconic. Whoever the woman is, she is of no meagre learning. I fancy she would like to meet me had she the opportunity.

The men I subdued had - how effeminate - their faces painted like clowns. The humiliation of it all! Surely they were subjected to such rude treatment by the learned woman above them. I believe them to be her slaves. Joe seems to think that they are from some criminal organization or another; and, as much as I am disinclined to believe anything that cretin halfling says, I should be amiss if I should discount his knowledge of criminal activity. The Last Laugh I believe he said the name was. Perhaps the name is accurate. If these three be representative of the caliber of their operatives, then the Last Laugh is cause for jocularity indeed.

The elf Beniah soon had the poor wretch revived. He was dressed in the vestments of Saint Cuthbert and informed us that he was in the process of investigating a series of kidnappings that recently had become a plague on Cauldron - which, in turn, is a plague on the world. There is almost a poetic quality to it. Nevertheless, I do admit that I felt some remorse that even those filthy creatures that populate whatever orphanage the cleric had visited should come to harm. It is a sign of weakness, Fibby, I know it - some bestial vestiage of a survival mechanism, to feel pity or tenderness for the young of a race. As such, it was easily overcome - but yet the tinge still was present - a flaw that greater learning perhaps shall enable me to eliminate.

The acoylte informed us that he was called Rufus that the pro tempore head of the Church of Saint Cuthbert, a woman by the name of Jenya, would likely wish to see us - and possibly to reward us for our actions. Well, my actions, really. This prospect delighted me exceedingly, Fibby, for this meant that, if nothing else, we should not have to spend the night in some fetid halfling-hole of a house. Thus, I volunteered to escort the unfortunate acolyte back to the church, permitting Joe and Beniah to do what they willed with the snoozing scoundrels. Who knows what they shall do with them? I do not permit myself to think of it. But whatever it is, I can't say that I shall feel sorry for them. The cosmos is governed by law, after all; and their violent deeds could not help but be repaid upon their own heads at penalty.

Having returned Rufus to his place, the other acolytes offered me a place by the fire, some food and drink, as well as a cot. So here I sit, waiting for my unscrupulous companions to return. When they do Rufus said that we should all three meet with Jenya. Ah, here they are now.

[Note: The statblock above should have sleep in the place of identify.]

Well, Fibby, this eve, ill-begotten and inauspicious as it appeared to the mind of a one even such as I, has unveiled more enticing a prospect for our economic comfort than I predicted. Not that it is the economics for which I care; you know how I despise those multitudinous fools who spend themselves with spending, then with gathering, so that they may return to their state of unhappiness, only to wrench themselves from it once more. Those recreants make recursive the greatest miseries - and count it a pleasure and and end.

No, I will have none of that. It is only as a base condition that I am enticed by the generous offer of the gynopriest. What's her name again? J something or the other I believe it was. Ah, yes, there it is. A wretched acolyte calls it out just now - Jenya. Oh, but what has become of my narration? I forget myself and jump about from one thing to the next. None knows what confusion I shall enter into if I should read this a mere three days from now. I hope for your own sake, Fibby, that your memory will prove the stronger of when you have matured.

Unhappily, I was correct in what I wrote last night: the undesirable who owns this "establishment" apparently did not retain me in the pleasant regions of his heart when my magic dissipated. The indignity of it all is unspeakable. Well, I don't suppose that's true, now is it? I could well speak it, just as anything else. Enough quibbling with my language - on to the deeds.

Unceremoniously (and dangerously might I add, were I not in so affable a mood last night that even the rude over-prole could not bespoil it) he tossed me out. How those low schadenfreudes bellowed out their merriment at our plight! But let them laugh; let them flood their brains with empty pleasure at the observation of a body's movement from one place to another. If they shall be entertained with such, let them; but do not let them complain when one stronger and craftier than they rules over them without ruth. Such will be the fate of all those who indulge themselves in the pleasures of the weakminded.

It was then that our fortunes, it would seem, mounted the airy currents of chance and began their ascent. As soon as I had finished marking that place with a spell so that I could find it later - to avoid it - an impertinent, besoiled halfling approached me, trailed a few feet by an elf of, I must say, inferior countenance and bearing to those of my own region and lineage. But you should not take my judgment as a harshness to him, Fibby, but rather as a memento of the excellency of my own ancestry, yes, even though there remains but one pillar left of that house. But that pillar, Fibby, I am confident will fortify itself until it grows into a house that surpasses in glory and strength that which it formerly supported.

Now about the halfling. He had (and has, as you know) an unfavorable visage to him. But so do all of his race. I am no judge of halfling nobility, if such an idea were proper to invoke by the conjunction of two words. Well, whatever the status of this halfling's person relative to that of his fellows, I do not favor him. In fact I find him utterly repugnant. How he talks of you! You should rejoice that as yet you cannot understand his speech. There are times that I wish I could not as well, so barbaric is his Common - to say nothing of that dreadful native tongue of theirs.

The elf is more of a mystery. I must own that he looks and smells ever of the wilderness. And he does have that nasty penchant for the pipe, which no doubt contributes to his uncivilized aura. He is a strange companion for the halfling. It seems at times, so taciturn is he, that he guards the halfling's person. Ah, me, the riotous absurdities into which my mind drifts if I do not bear down on it continually with the heaviest intent of my will! The halfling worthy of bodyguard! Forgive me, Fibby, if the amused passions that bestir my body have given you an uncomfortable jostling.

After a bit of insouciant prying into my plans and estate, of which he had presumably learned a little from the innkeep - that caudix stultissimus! - the halfling made me a most untoward offer: to go with him and his elf to his pitiful hovel in the slums! I must admit, I was taken aback and visibly so. But, curse him, the halfling was correct in assuming that the field of my dormitorial choices had shrunk considerably of late. I was forced to go with him, though he invite me only to rob me or else to make general sport at my expense. And then he talked ill of you, Fibby. That's when I knew I hated him. But as I said I was forced into his offer by the constricting pathways of circumstance.

But as we began our walk, which I was sure at the time was ill-fated, we heard a noise that portended that good reversal I mentioned earlier in this auto-epistle: a scream.

Just why do the cretinous vermin that nest in this city - if one may without semantic infelicity append to it that appellation - look at me so queerly when I stroke my toad?

Have their minute brains been so deformed by quotidian trauma that they cannot fathom that my dear Fibby, undoubtedly of an amphibian morphology, nevertheless possess an intellect approaching that of their own - and with that possession lays upon me a reciprocative obligation to charity? Well, think (which, again, may here be not apropos) what they like; he soon shall surpass them all.

But now there is the prospect of my financial future. I am not delighted by models I have prognosticated. I do not believe that my only fair facility with the arcane arts shall retain me in the good favor of the man below. In fact, it should not surprise me in the least if he should barge in here this minute - calling for me with that grating voice, using barbaric monosyllables from the vulgar lexicon of his limited mind.

Yes, I can hear him now, Fibby; for it's to you I write this record so that, when you are grown to the mental fortitude to which you are surely destined, you may read here of the beginnings of the changed life of both you and me, the dyadic via sophias upon which we are presently embarking.

Oh dear, I do believe that it was not my imagination that agitated my senses just now. Yes, he's coming; his bastardized syntax precedes him. Remind me to prepare charm person twice next time I require a room. . . .

Fëanor
Male Grey Elf Evoker1
LN Medium humanoid
Init +4; Senses Listen +6, Spot +6
Languages Common, Draconic, Elven, Gnome, Goblin, Sylvan
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AC 14, touch 14, flat-footed 10
hp 8 (1d4)+4
Fort +1, Ref +4, Will +4
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Speed Walk 30 ft.
Melee Quarterstaff +1 (1d6/20 x2)
Ranged None
Base Atk +0; Grp +1
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Abilities Str 13, Dex 19, Con 13, Int 19, Wis15, Cha 10
SQ toad familiar (Fibby)
Feats Alertness, Scribe Scroll, Spell Focus (Evocation)
Skills Concentration +5, Decipher Script +8, Knowledge (Arcana) +8, Knowledge (The Planes) +8, Listen +6, Search +6, Spellcraft +8, Spot +6, Tumble +6
Possessions Fëanor's spellbook, quarterstaff. That's it.
Spellbook 0—all minus Necromancy and Illusion; 1st—burning hands, charm person, identify, mage armor, magic missle, shield, true strike

The following will the progress of my group of friends through the Shackled City Adventure Path. I will write in character and update the following statblock as Fëanor gains levels.

Our group started with three people. Fortunately, we managed to attain a fourth on the second session (we've had only these two). Both sessions lasted for about five hours. The other members in the party are a Wood Elf Rgr1, a Half-orc Bbn1, and a Halfling Rog1.

Background

Fëanor is the only child of a couple of landed-poor grey elves, who were murdered by a goblin raid on their caravan around his 100th birthday. (He is currently 144 years old.) Being inclined to learning - but not to labor - Fëanor used the remnants of his parents's wealth to seek out knowledge of the arcane arts. He learned Goblin as well in the hopes of perhaps being able one day to exact retribution on the aforementioned goblin tribe.

Fëanor studied until he achieved what he considered a tolerable mastery of the arcane (which consideration was surely helped on by the concurrent expiration of his inheritance), the crowning achievement of which was the summoning of his beloved toad familiar, christened Fibby. Heading out to the closest decently-sized town, Fëanor arrived in Cauldron and, charming the innkeeper into giving him a room for free, he took up a room for the night at the Drunken Morkoth. Fëanor plans to seek out a tutoring job - as a scribe perhaps - to provide him with some capital. His liquid assets currently amount to zero.

What's that in my eye? Nothing. It's nothing, man. *Sniff*

One of the things Gavgoyle mentioned in its post merits some commentary. As an official Southern Baptist I feel privileged to speak on it, too. (I'm correct in assuming that SBCers are the paragonal class of "fundamentalists," correct?) After that I think I'll just ramble a bit, dressing it up with numbered section breaks.

(1) Re: Southern Baptists, most generalizations are problematic. (And not simply because generalizations are problematic in general - quite a paradoxical statement). The cause is the ecclesiastical structure of the Southern Baptist Convention "Southern Baptist" is not technically a denomination, for reasons I shall presently explain. In authentic denominations, there is a top-down ecclesiastical/governmental apparatus that determines such things as (a) doctrine, (b) appointment of new elders/pastors, and (c) distribution of denominational funds. For instance, when a Presbyterian church wants to implement a new elder, the greater presbytery of the region has to okay the selection. The local congregation can't act without this approval.

But in the Southern Baptist Convention, this isn't the case. The closest thing we have to a confession of faith, the _Baptist Faith and Message 2000_, is so vague that almost anyone that takes a favorable view of the Bible and doesn't wish to baptize his or her children will accept it. Furthermore, the SBC doesn't have any body (and doesn't plan to have any body) that enforces the preaching of what doctrine _is_ in the BF&M2000. What all this means is that "Southern Baptist" looks (or can look) totally different from church to church. In my opinion, this is a flaw, though it stems from noble goals - the preservation of local autonomy, freedom of conscience, and all that. So when you encounter a Southern Baptist who gives his opinion on X, if it's not explicitly covered in the BF&M2000 or may be deliberated upon by implication therefrom, he's just speaking as Joe Smith, not as Baptist acolyte.

(2) That may or may not be important to anyone. Perhaps it's interesting for its Trivial Pursuit value. Speaking for myself, I come from a currently minority strain in SBC life, being Reformed/Calvinistic/theologically deterministic/whatever-you-wish-to-call-it. Because of this many of my fellow SBCers would consider me a heretic. But in the strain of Reformed theology (which unites Baptists and Presbyterians), you'll be much more unlikely to find such vituperous denunciations of D&D and similar pastimes because roleplaying games emphasize reading, writing, mathematics, creativity, and social interaction - as opposed to the more or less mindless button-mashing of video games.

In my own experience, D&D has been conducive to my following of my religion. Like I said earlier, it encourages (even necessitates!) more involved social contact than the usual for today between people who are often strangers. Although my gaming group is largely composed of high-school and college friends (and all of these are Christians of one stripe or another - I do live in Alabama, after all), it does include at least one avowed non-believer. Our religion hasn't come up during the course of the game, but in social conversation outside the game (during breaks, etc.), we've talked about the differences in our ideologies, all the while remaining cool about it and friendly but still emphasizing that our ideologies are significantly different and dearly held.

(3) I suppose my only complaint is that D&D makes me wish that YHWH would hook me up with some sweet divine spells. I mean, I'm only talking one or two per day. Is that too much to ask? I'm sure there are a lot of nasty people out there (the Hitlers and such of the world) upon whom the Nazarene Carpenter wouldn't mind me using a nicely aimed Disintegrate spell. Right?

New to the area and looking for a new gaming group. Played variety of characters in many different systems; D&D, L5R, SR, most all of the white wolf systems.

I presume you mean Foley, Alabama? Where in the world is that? Ah, I see, near the coast. Well, hope you find a group. I do believe that 5 hours to Birmingham is a bit much to travel.

Awesome work. Thanks a bajillion.

I'm 20 myself and just got into it this year, first time around as DM. Three of my high school (and now college) buddies are in the game as well, ages 21-23. Also in the game we have a couple of 17 year olds. So we've got a pretty below-average group for this thread. I'm fairly sure that when I snag a wife you'll be able to add her and my kids to the fold. Poor kids. . . .

Excellent, excellent. I like your style, sir. A nice bit of writing there, and, I must say, the touch with the bits of green shirt acting as a trail was clever. I agree that it's nice to have adventures that don't require you to kill everything that moves but that allow you to do so if you're so inclined. This creates interesting party dynamics if you've got some people that have high Charisma scores and don't like to hack n' slash constantly.

I'm a first-time DM (and, in fact, a first timer with respect to d20 generally) who in his hubris decided to have a homebrew campaign based entirely in the fictional world I have composed for a novel series I'm writing. Perhaps a bit too much to chew. But it's turning out pretty well, I think.

The PC group is themed. We've got 6 players, and they are all in a quasi-secret (though not so secret anymore) society called the Nailav ("silent ones"). Although they have a long backstory, their emphasis is on stealth and utter efficiency. It's a low-magic world (until the PCs hit level three, their group comprised all the people who could use anything resembling magic) that is becoming via plot events (that correspond to events in the novel) more "magical." The climax is going to come in a few more levels for the PCs, after which I may run the Shackled City campaign or start a new one in this world but kicked ahead a few centuries to achieve a setting more amenable to getting magic items, etc. (One will note that if only your little group does "magic," then you have to get your magic items from the group.)

So far it's been interesting; and the experience of doing an entire campaign world from scratch my first time to play DnD (and four of my PCs are totally new, just as I am; one has played perhaps part of one game; the other is experienced) has really helped me along, I think - a sort of sink-or-swim situation. And then there's my compulsion to have to create a map in Photoshop of every significant place I can that the PCs will visit. (Thanks a lot, Boredflak. Sheesh. Got me map-OCD.)

Right now, with the PCs feeling out the game a bit more and starting to roleplay better than at first, the theme is producing interesting dynamics. One character, our rogue (I kept the original classes since it's the first go) Aijath, just threw a grappling hook through the third story glass window of a place the party was seeking to infiltrate, of course alarming all the guards. Not only this, but he then proceeded to firebomb the place with nicely tossed Alchemist's Fires. Now this sort of behavior might (MIGHT) be a problem to control for non-themed campaigns; but in my setting, this level 3 guy is responsible to the level 15 or so boss of the organization. And the other players are too. He'll probably get court martialed for that bit of shenanigans, which really hacked off the other PCs, and perhaps be committed to indentured servitude until he pays off the damage (since there was no proof); or perhaps he will be executed.

Anyway, it's been extremely fun so far; and the players, diverse though they are in Class (we've got a sorcer, a ranger, a monk, a rogue, a barb, and a cleric) and in personality (different religions, and those who are Christians in the group have widely varying interpretations of its philosophical impact; different majors: biomedical engineering, history, philosophy/english, and two prep schoolers), have cohered nicely in game and out of game. I think the in-game cohesion has even helped with the latter. Of course, a theme like mine does, especially at low level, restrict roleplaying a bit (they have to ACT like lawful good or at worst lawful neutral, though they may actually be hypocrites to be exposed at a later time). Nevertheless, I'm thoroughly pleased.

We've got a campaign blog. Here's the addy, if any of y'all are interested.

<a href="http://nailavim.blogspot.com">http://nailavim.blogspot.com</a&g t;