RPG Superstar 2011 Top 32
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Ah, good. I think this has been stated before - but I think a lot of people hope that you guys are still able to enjoy the game too. It shouldn't be all work, all the time for you.
I've found that actually playing the game is sometimes the best refresher for creating things for the game. We just don't want to see you guys get burned out.
Glad to hear you guys still have SOME time for yourselves.
I`ll second that. Given that I have so little free time myself, my hobby would be a lot less fulfilling (and my group would get together a lot less often) if we wasn't for all the hard work you guys put into your jobs.
Sure I still write my own adventures and come up with my own plots, but Ive lost count of the number of times you guys at Paizo have saved the day for my group. Especially when they do something annoyingly brilliant and finish the latest adventure before Ive even started writing up the next one.
So it would seem pretty sad to me if you folks spent so much time creating stuff for our games that you didnt get the chance to game yourselves. I always wondered if maybe you got so involved it stopped seeming like fun and started to feel like taking your work home with you.
So now I know.
My d20 Modern/D&D hybrid campaign: Once or twice a month on Sundays.
Would you care to expand on your D20 Modern/D&D Hybrid game in another thread if you have time? I love D20 Modern/Urban Arcana and would very much like to hear about someone else's campaign. Thanks!
to quote the wise and venrable Mr. Shiny...
"Tyralandi?
...
Miss Scrimm?
...
Ma'am?
..."
the suspense is killing me ...
Well, we are playing this Thursday. SOMEONE will have a new character.
We're now in-between calamities, so I'm sure something terrible will come up.
Creative Director
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Okay, okay.
I'll write up the latest entries now. Might take a bit for me to get them all caught up, and it's been too long so some of the stuff might get kind of glossed over, but the time to get this caught up and reveal who got killed a few weeks ago is NOW.
Well... in a few hours or so, when I'm probably done with the latest update.
<starts writing>
WOO HOO! More Tyralandi! Can't wait to read this. Hmmm do I get some sleep so I'm good for work tomorrow or hang around and read her adventures when James finishes typing... We both know I won't be able to sleep ;)
Goodmonth 14, 595 CY
“Who is it?” Demon Boy called out. I cringed, then realized that whatever was on the other side doubtless knew we were in here. A moment passed, and then a voice that sounded an awful lot like Daejin called back, “It’s me, guys. Let me in.”
To its credit, the doppelganger didn’t really seem to be putting much into the deception at this point, because it did an evil little giggle after that. Not that Daejin didn’t giggle evilly now and then. But it was obvious that it wasn’t our friend out there.
So we waited. Twice more over the next half hour knocking on the door and mocking voices called out to us. That third time was the last straw. Gar stood up with a heavy sigh and started putting his armor back on.
We emerged a few minutes later to find the hall once again quiet. Armed but low on resources, we moved back into the maze and were once again jumped by the doppelgangers. This time, though, we were better prepared, and we made short work of the deceptive freaks. It wasn’t much more work to navigate through the rest of the maze, and feeling accomplished, we stepped into a large chamber.
At one end of this chamber was a complicated chair-like device, while at the other was an upraised area and a large, full length mirror. And standing in front of that mirror was a famliar face—Allustan. Of course, the trickery would have had a better chance at getting us if we weren’t so deep in Doppelganger Dungeon. “Allustan” made some silly attempt to invite us up to hear about the “truth of things.” We responded with weary hostilitiy, as is our want.
Of course, “Allustan” seemed to be ready for that, and before any of us could reach him he hit us with confusion. I recognized the spell even as I felt it creeping into my mind, knew that the strange thoughts and compulsions racing through my head weren’t my own, but I was powerless to ignore them. I spent the next minute or so locked in a struggle for life and death against my arch enemy, Dram.
Fortunately, with me chasing after him and not being able to do much harm with my morningstar, and my chasing after him preventing him from doing the Dramelo Shuffle and getting all skirmshy kept us from really hurting one another. The rest of the group did their best against “Allustan” even as he threw walls of fire at us. Gar finally charged him, eager to engage a week wizard in melee, only to see “Allustan” transform into a hulking barbaric orc armed with an even bigger axe than Gar’s. The battle was ferocious, but it ended the same way most of our fights do—Demon Boy waiting until the foe was on his last leg and then zapping him with magic missiles.
After some awkward apologies between Dram and myself, we got to the looting. The giant mirror looked fantastic but we weren’t sure how we could safely navigate it out of the dungeon. Fortunately, there were some tapestries in the next room to wrap it in. We found some other baubles as well, including a scroll of dominate person that Demon Boy quickly snatched, and a message from someone who spells his name by drawing a tentacle. That would have been ominous enough, but the contents of the letter were worse, for they seemed to indicate that the doppleganger band we’d just defeated were in fact the minions of someone else, someone who apparently, according to the letter, lived near a sewer junction under something called a “cold forge.” Wonderful. I suppose it really was just a matter of time before we ended up in the sewer, though.
We had a little trouble on the way out. Drow trouble. They jumped us at the octopus room, but weren’t really much of a problem. The monster that had led them here to ambush us, though… different story. I only caught a glimpse of it before it vanished—human shaped, but with a face that had too many tentacles to be attractive. After dispathing the drow, Gar identified the creature as a mind flayer, and we all had a collective shudder. Who hadn’t heard stories about the brain eaters?
One more thing—after that last fight, Demon Boy used his scroll of dominate person to get himself a pet drow. His name is Garesh, and he’s rather easy on the eyes if I do say so myself. I wasn’t about to ask Demon Boy for a loaner, though. I’m not quite that desperate for company yet.
Goodmonth 15, 595 CY
We spent the whole day recovering from the ordeal below Sodden Hold today, but did manage to learn an awful lot about Garesh and the creature he worked for. Turns out, the illithid was named Zyrxog, lived in a small network of caves under the sewers in the Artisan’s Quarter, and kept himself quite a menagerie of minions, including some sort of octopus monsters called octopins, a naga, and a small army of drow warriors led by a priestess of Lolth. All brainwashed, of course. We even got Garesh to draw us a map of the caverns. Handy spell, dominate person. And as luck would have it, after my morning prayers and thinking back over my experiences of the last few days, I figured out how to cast it myself! Might just have to keep Garesh around once Demon Boy’s spell wears off…
In any event, I think I’ll go to sleep early. Demon Boy and Frothlethimble are making sounds like they want to go out on the town. I hope they don’t bring Garesh along. People don’t react well to drow, normally. But then… when the rest of that particular group’s a red-skinned halfling and a murder-mad gnome, maybe he’ll be the least of the city guard’s troubles.
It’ll be nice to sleep in a real bed. I’m sure I’ll be sleeping in some foul damp sewer cave tomorrow night, after all.
Goodmonth 16, 595 CY
Frothlethimble and Demon Boy weren’t very forthcoming about their time out on the town last night during breakfast, but they made it back without being thrown in jail, apparently, so I assume things weren’t all that exciting or worth talking about. There was talk for a moment about heading over to the Artisan’s Quarter to scout out Zyrxog’s lair, but we decided in the end to rest up completely. No sense heading into a new batch of peril when we weren’t in tip-top shape. I healed up the rest of the group’s wounds and then decided, finally, to visit the Temple of Wee Jas.
I’d been putting it off. It’s easy to say, “I’ll drop by later, after I’ve dealt with these murderous doppelgangers,” but in the end I finally admitted to myself that I was a little afraid of how they’d react to my developing association with the Green Lady’s vestige. It seems that it’s “moved in” more or less permanently now. My eyes have turned bright green, and now and then little wisps of green fire or mist seem to ripple over parts of me. And, if I do say so myself, the weird splotches and, um… nasty patches on my skin seem to be clearing up as well. I even feel a little taller. Whatever the effects the Green Lady’s having on me, I dare say they’re positive ones.
So, I made it to the temple without event, but it took a few moments of quiet prayer to work up the guts to actually go inside. The place is pretty huge… nowhere near as imposing and massive as the Wizard’s Guild, but a LOT nicer to look at. Wizards know their stuff with magic, but they aren’t very good at interior decoration. And their image suffers from it. Not the case here; painted statues of Wee Jas, scarlet curtain bedecked with bits of crystal, mosaics, complex tiled floors, carvings on walls and pillars, even the doors looked great!
I wandered the halls for a bit, took some time in a shrine to meditate, and then finally approached one of the acoylytes and introduced myself.
“Wait. Did you say Tyralandi?” he asked. I replied in the affirmative, and then said I’d been sent here to speak with Alamander.
“I should say so, my lady!” he replied, “He’s in his office. He’s been waiting for you.”
That threw me. Being called “My Lady” by someone who sounded sincere about it AND being told that Alamander expected me. I made haste into the office and found Alamander there behind a desk, a thin-faced man who looked up as I entered, an expression of what looked like relief and perhaps curiosity on his face. Sitting at the other side of his desk were two figures.
“Why there you are, Lady Scrimm,” he said with a smile. “I was wondering when you would come to visit.” He indicated the other figures at the table. “I believe you know my guest?”
I recognized him then; Baermon, the gruff and rather unruly oafish guardian who lived out in front of the Green Lady’s Cairn. He wasn’t looking much better for his stay so far in the city; he’d made an attempt to comb some of his hair, and was actually wearing clothes over all of his body, and appeared to have recently taken a bath, but he still looked more like a mercenary than a devotee of the Ruby Sorceress.
He staggered to his feet and seemed almost ready to engulf me in a hug before he caught himself. He blushed, figited with his clothes, then finally thrust out a giant hand to greet me.
“Lady Tyralandi! Remember me? Baermon! I walked all the way here! Remember me?” I patted him on the forearm and told him it was good to see him, then shoulderd by him to take a seat at Alamander’s desk. I shot a sideways glance to the other figure seated next to Baermon.
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“He’s my friend,” Baermon answered proudly. “And yours too! Don’t you recognize him? I brought him here for you!”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I decided to put it off for a moment. I turned to Alamander. As it turned out, he’d been speaking with Baermon for some time already, and the topic, of all things, was me. Seems the church has been watching my actions more closely than I had thought. I wasn’t sure if I was excited and honored or a little weirded out by that concept. The whole idea of an actual organized and regimented part of my faith was still something a bit new to me, but it felt… it felt right in here.
In any event, the conversation revolved around some sort of prophecy about someone called, “The Lifeless Born.” According to several prophecies carved on walls deep in the Green Lady’s Cairn, this Lifeless Born would gather friends to her side and face a great darkness that threatened the natural cycle of birth, life, and death. Baermon interrupted at this point, grabbing my shoulder roughly.
“This man thinks you’re the one, Tyralandi! He thinks you’re the lifeless born! And that makes me the friend you’re gathering to your side to fight this darkness!” He beamed, obviously honored and proud to be part of a prophecy. I made clear my displeasure at his big, unmanicured, unbelievably thick and clumsy hand on my shoulder, and as he withdrew it I turned back to Alamander.
“It can’t be me that this prophecy is about, though. I’m alive. At least, I’m pretty sure… uh…” His expression made me trail off, and he casually asked to see my arms and legs.
I knew what he was looking for—the marks. The patches of necrosis, of dead flesh, of mold and veins and softened skin and leathery wrinkles. He nodded, then asked me what I remembered of my childhood. I couldn’t tell him much, but then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Is it possible you were stillborn? That your parents had you brought back from death?”
The thought had never occurred to me, but now that it had been spoken aloud… it felt right, just like being in this temple.
Alamander and I spoke for hours, him asking me questions about how my divine powers had developed and me recounting my adventures in Diamond Lake, the Mistmarsh, and here in Greyhawk. He seemed convinced, by the end, that I was indeed the Lifeless Born.
It was all a bit much, and I think he saw that in my expression. He advised me to return to wherever I was staying and think things over—if I wanted, I could even stay here at the temple. There were records kept in the basement here, hundreds of thousands of them. I could come back at any time to look through them—records of resurrections and deaths. Perhaps somewhere in there, I would find the final bit of proof that I was indeed who he and Baermon thought I was.
I’m not sure I want to see that proof.
Before we left, I did step down into the archives for a bit, but that was more to get into a relatively private place where I could ask Baermon the question I’d been burning to ask.
“So, this guy with you,” I said, indicating the hooded figure that never strayed further than a few feet from Baermon’s shoulder. “Who is he? You said I knew him…”
My words caught in my throat, for Baermon had reached over and pulled down his companion’s hood.
It was Filge.
My hand shot to my mornignstar—for a brief moment, I assumed Baermon had been sent by the cult of the Green Lady to finish me off, that they weren’t as happy with me binding vestiges of their saint as I’d hoped they would be. But there was something off about Filge. Then it struck me.
He was still dead. Sort of. Someone had animated him.
The irony of it all was incredible. I must have been laughing for at least five minutes by the time I caught my breath and wiped the tears from my eyes. Baermon stood patiently the whole time, waiting for me to compose myself.
“So,” I said, “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but why? Why animate this monster and walk him around Greyhawk? Why not burn his carcass and be done with him?”
Baermon shrugged. “My mistress told me it was all part of his role. His life, his death at your hand, and now his servitude to you is part of the prophecy.”
Filge. My undead minion.
“You realize that my friends won’t really understand this, do you?”
Baermon nodded.
“You know you have to keep this a secret, right? That no one needs to know?”
He nodded again.
“Fine. He can stay. I’m still not convinced that I’m this Lifeless Born, but knowing that Filge is getting a taste of his own depravity kind of makes me warm inside, truth be told. All arcane necromancers should be so lucky.”
And so Baermon and Filge accompanied me back to the Green Dragon. I wasn’t keen on having more folk added to the group, especially when one of them was the walking corpse of a man I’d killed and who the rest of the group hated, but he seemed so eager. I met the others in the common room and introduced Baermon as “my chronicler, appointed by the church.” Not completely a lie, and the title seemed to please Baermon. The rest of the group either just shrugged and went back to drinking or rolled their eyes. Gar mumbled something about “as long as they don’t get in my way, you can bring along as many servants as you want, I suppose.” I didn’t bother that with a reply; I was just glad no one seemed too interested in the other guy who was following me around. Of course, Demon Boy and Frothlethimble seemed to be deep in some sort of secret sharing game, whispering and giggling and, it seemed to me, glancing at Gar more often than not.
I excused myself, arranged for Baermon and Filge to share a room, then retired.
I wasn’t hardly asleep before Gar’s roars had me out of bed. It was impossible to understand him; he was so enraged his words were all running together, probably getting all tangled in his beard or somesuch. I threw on a robe and stepped out into the hall, where Rac and Dram were already waiting.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Gar’s freaking out again,” Dram said nonchalantly. “Should we check up on him?”
“We should,” I replied. “He sounds really pissed about something.”
Turns out, he had more than a reason to be angry. We entered his room and found the place completely, absolutely, and horrifically soaking in blood. His pillowcase was dripping with it. There was puddles of it between his sheets. It welled up between his toes from the bearskin rug astride the bed. All of his clothes looked like they’d been completely soaked to the last thread in it.
So much blood. It was a little surreal. A part of me started trying to calculate how many people had to die to produce this much of it.
“What’th goin’ on, Gar?” came a voice behind me. Frothlethimble entered the room, and his eyes widened at the sight of all the blood. “Oooh! Lookth like you goth yersthelf another murder or shomthin!” He giggled.
Gar froze.
“YOU! YOU DID THIS!”
Demon Boy and his pet drow Garesh entered as well. Demon Boy’s eyes were big and sparkling, and he was gnawing on a fistful of candy. Garesh was having a harder time of looking innocent; he was grinning like a fool.
Father Frothlethimbe shrugged. “I’m sthure I have no idea of whath your thalking about. You probably just stheep-murdered sthome bandiths or sthomething.”
“NO! YOU DID THIS! HOW MANY PEOPLE DID YOU KILL?”
Frothlethimble looked around the room with an appraising eye. “Hmmm... yeth. Looksth like whoever DID do thish to you would have had to kill what…” he glanced at Demon Boy. “Probably at leasth thwenty people? More ifth sthome of them were babiesth.”
Gar closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then slowly put down his axe. I don’t remember him picking it up, but then again, there was a lot of blood in the room.
“Okay. Stay calm, Gar. Maybe he has nothing to do with this. You’ve seen some crazy things in the past few months. So first, look for clues. Rule out the simple answers.”
Dram offered to help, but Gar waved him away with a snarl. So we watched him go over his blood-soaked room, on his hands and knees at times, his beard swirling around in the crimson soup, his hands slipping over the boards now and then. And finally, a triumphant cry. He stood, and clutched in his hand was a long thin hair. With a wave of his fingers, he used prestidigitation to clean the blood from the hair.
It was white, and about a foot long.
All eyes went from that damning hair to the rest of us. In particular, to Demon Boy, Garesh, and Frothlethimble, who all had white hair of that length.
“Wow,” said Frothlethimble, his face betraying nothing. “Wouldth you look at thath!”
That did for Demon Boy and Garesh, both of whom exploded into laughter. Slowly, the truth dawned on the rest of us—it had been a joke. A gruesome, morbid, and sinister one, sure. But a joke.
“Tell me you didn’t kill anyone, you little monster,” Gar said, his voice calm and scary.
Frothlethimble just shrugged again, and Garesh said, “Show them the goblet! It’s delightful!”
Frothlethimble shot the drow a look, and for a moment I was sure that the gnome was going to open him up. There was madness in those eyes. I’d seen it before, but this was the first time it really gave me a chill. Demon Boy and Garesh were yuking it up, but Frothlethimble just looked quietly pleased.
It took a bit of cajoling, but we finally got the truth out of them. At least part of it. They’d found a magic goblet the night before, something that turns water to blood. None of us really pressed the matter, partially because we didn’t want to know, and partially because I think we needed to give Gar some room to cool down. He’d cleaned his room with prestidigitation spells; I offered to help with my ring, but he made it pretty clear my help was Not Needed. As he finished, he made to close the door, but paused before doing so and leveled a glare at Frothlethimble.
“That one was your freebie, gnome. The next one will cost you. More than I reckon you’d be willing to pay.”
Frothlethimble met his glare, unblinking and unafraid. “You can come and thry to collecth on that paymenth anythime you feel up to ith, Gar.”
There’s something wrong with that gnome. Anyone who’s seen what Gar’s capable of doing and then all but threaten him’s got more than a deathwish. Better keep an eye on that one.
Goodmonth 19, 595 CY
Rather than head into the sewers, we decided to take a few more days to relax. Gar, in particular, wanted some time to finish off some project he was working on, and after what Frothlethimble and Demon Boy had put him through, I figured it was probably best to let him have some alone time. I spent the last few days going through the archives and talking with Baermon. Which means mostly going through the archives—Baermon’s not the most gifted conversationalist. Alas, made no discoveries yet. There’s an awful lot of records to go through.
Tomorrow morning, though, we head into Zyrxog’s lair. Armed with the map that Garesh drew for us, several spells to protect us from mind blasts and mind control, and hopes that we weren’t heading into a trap, I just hope we can keep our own interparty problems under control. Frothlethimble’s been strangely quiet lately. I’m afraid the blood prank was only the beginning.
Goodmonth 20, 595 CY
It was easier to reach the entrance to Zyrxog’s lair than I’d feared, mostly thanks to Garesh’s help in navigating the nastier than I’d feared sewers. Fortunately, the caves themselves were set off a bit from the actual business of the sewer. Why can’t monsters live in nice places? I guess that’s what makes them monsters.
With Garesh’s aid, we managed to navigate through a patch of yellow mold and caught an initial ambush of drow off guard. Using stones prepared with silence spells, we even managed to keep alarms from being raised. The spirit naga that dwelt further in gave us a little trouble; I tried to talk it into letting us by unmolested, but again, being a monster, it would rather just wallow in its damp cave and be unfriendly. Its punishment? Delivered by Gar’s axe.
The cave beyond the naga’s lair was the first to really give us trouble. There were quite a few drow in there, and the priestess hit us again with confusion. Fortunately, very few of us succumbed to the spell this time, and after a long battle involving much clambering up and down from ledges and Garesh’s a-little-too-gleeful opportunity to stab his one-time companions, we prevailed. I found a side cave in which four zombies were guarding several prisoners; I called upon Wee Jas and showed them the mockeries of their existence. Two of them fell into line immediately; I ordered them to destroy the other two. I sent them aside fro a moment and then helped guide the prisoners back to the surface—having made it this far without triggering an alarm, I felt we were doing pretty good.
Back in the caves, we moved deeper in, using the zombies as advance scouts. One of them triggered a glyph of warding and got blasted to pieces, and the other died a quick (and deserved) death when it staggered into a large cave beyond, where the first of Zyrxog’s octopins attacked us.
This was where we started to have trouble. A little. Not much. There were three of them, and they had bear traps for hands and slow spells for eyes. A few times, they got both of their grabbers onto one of us and did horrific amounts of damage as they folded and spindled the tender flesh between their razored edges. Rac took a few pretty solid hits, but I managed to patch him up quickly enough.
The room beyond saw a transition from cave to worked stone. Garesh warned us of the large brain structure in the first room, and armed with protection from evil, we were able to withstand the device’s mind controlling powers and pounded it to rubble. In the next room, we found a sort of laboratory. There was a large stack of books next to a big tank filled with murky water, and here I admit my common sense fled me. Those books were so intriguing! I went up to check them out, and the mother octopin, a monster twice the size of the others, clambered out of the tank and attacked us. I managed to escape before it realized I was in reach, and we managed to defeat it before it tore any of us to shreds.
Defeating the octopin brought us to the edge of Garesh’s knowledge about the complex, and in so doing, to the edge of the easy part.
Father Frothlethimble took the lead, moving through a side room that contained some sort of scrying pool. We barely had any time to investigate it, though, for at the far end, the hall opened into a huge round chamber. And floating in the air therein? ZYRXOG!
Frothlethimble leapt into motion. At first, I thought he might be rushing up to the mind flayer to charge it, but when he reached it, he just threw his arms wide and said something to it in Gnome. Of course, no one else in our group could speak Gnome, and I assume it’s POSSIBLE Frothlethimble was doing something uncharacteristically heroic and attempting to bar passage to the rest of us… but I doubt it. I have a feeling he was saying something entirely different to the monster.
In any event, it responded with a blast of mental power. Many of us were prepared for it with spell immunity, but alas, Frothlethimble was not and was sent reeling. The battle then began in earnest, and quickly grew more complex when two more octopins slithered up from the other hallway to assault us from behind. Rac and Garesh and I hung back, hoping to stall them while Dram and Gar took turns trying to attack the mind flayer, which had SEVERAL defensive spells in effect. Demon Boy filled the lower halls with webs, locking both octopins in place but, in all probability, sacrificing Garesh to a horrid fate somewhere within. He didn’t seem too broken up about it. Demon Boy then took my hand and dimension doored past the webs, leaving Rac behind to finish off the octopins.
Once in the central room, another mind blast sent demon boy reeling, and the mind flayer began a hit-and-run tactic, lobbing one exploding fireball after the other into the room. He’d pluck a globe off a necklace he wore and toss it into the room before levitating away, and an instant later the fire would BURN! It was horrific! I tried to dispel all the magic on the illithid but the spell just completely failed for some reason. Another ball of fire rolled in and exploded. The pain was excruciating. I tried to send a spiritual weapon against Zyrxog, but it couldn’t get through his natural resistnace to magic. And then another ball of fire burst! I fell to my knees; felt at once like crying and vomiting and just curling up. A horrible smell was filling my head, the stink of my own charred flesh. And yet Frothlethimble looked even worse; bright bone showed through his charred flesh here and there. He wasn’t quite dead; I could see his chest heaving for breath. I tried to half crawl, half roll over to him, trying to ignore how I was leaving black smears of charcoal and blood on the floor, of how the smell of burning hair was making me choke, of how my fingernails had blistered and melted away from the heat.
I’d only made it halfway to the dying gnome when another globe bounced into the room. It rolled almost playfully across the floor of the room, bounced off my shoulder, then came to a rest a few feet from my head. The pain was gone now, and somehow, I knew that was a bad sign. Pain is what the body feels when it is in danger. It tells you to move, to get to safety. A lack of pain in this situation could only mean one thing. Wee Jas was already reaching up to take me into her halls. I lay there on the floor and marveled at how the growing fire inside this last globe of fire so close to my head looked so beautiful. Like the sun setting back in Diamond Lake when I was spending nights in the boneyard. The sun, framed by gravestones. Just before it sets, there’s this final pulse of light it seems, just before it dies for the night. The globe of fire was going to pulse in the same way, just before it exploded. I closed my eyes, even though the smoke and steam had already pretty much blinded me.
I didn’t want to see that last blast of fire when it came.
Nah, I still think I'm correct that it's McArtor's character (the gnome) that died. That's the way it works. McArtor's character always dies.
Hee hee. James, ever the master show man . . .
You guys will utterly PLOTZ when you find out what happened.
I even have an illo waiting to go in the final issue of Dungeon that pays homage to Abillard's Band of stalwart heroes. But it has SPOILERS!
It will be posted on my studio blog as soon as James brings us up to date.
Goodmonth 20, 595 CY
The return of pain was glorious.
The room still smelled of smoke and blood when I opened my eyes, and when I tried to move, the pain that shot through me did more than make me cry out. It brought tears to my eyes, although I’m not sure if it was relief that I was alive or disappointment that I would have to wait a little longer to join Wee Jas’s side. Someone handed me my wand of inflict light wounds and I began burning it down, soothing the burning feeling of my almost cooked body with waves of cool, refreshing necromantic balm.
In a few moments I was able to sit up and look around without hurting.
It was Frothlethimble who had used my own wand to save my life, as it turned out. I guess he only owes me for three rescues from death now.
The rest of the group was in poor shape as well, but no one had died. As fortune would have it, that last sphere of fire the mind flayer threw was a dud—it simply failed to ignite. I like to think it wasn’t a dud, that Wee Jas reached up from Acheron and snuffed out the fire the instant it began, but I didn’t belabor the point with the others.
That we were all alive was the good news. Even Garesh had survived, if only barely. The bad news was that we’d been unable to kill Zyrxog. Between Gar and Dram, they were able to beat him down to within inches of his life. One more arrow, would have been his fate. Had I just thrown one dagger at him and hit, he would have been dead. But no. He escaped via plane shift and is still out there. I’ll be sleeping with a spiked helm on for the next few months, I suppose.
The other bad news was that when we went through his papers and loot, we found a contract. Apparently, Zyrxog himself was some sort of horrific black-market go-to guy who moonlighted as an assassin. Someone had paid him a lot of money to kill us. That someone turned out to be a man named Loris Raknian. The name seemed familiar, but Dram was the one who put a face to the name. Of course. The director of the Free City Arena.
But why would he want us dead? It made no sense.
It was good to know who was after us, of course. But after finding out that the doppelgangers were working for someone, and that someone was working for someone, I’m pretty sure that Raknian’s not the end of this conspiracy either.
Especially in light of something else we discovered in Zyrxog’s records—Raknian had recently secured from the illithid something called the Apostolic Scrolls. I remember reading something about them... one of those “banned in 50 countries” texts written by a dangerous lunatic. Worse, I seemed to recall that the dangerous lunatic in this case was none other than Kyuss. Which meant that this Age of Worms prophecy we’d been hearing about and the man who wants us all dead are somehow tied together. Delightful.
I proposed that we leave the complex and return to Eligos at once. He’d had weeks to pour over our notes and discoveries, and with this new piece to the puzzle, I really wanted to see what he’d learned. And to get back Zosiel’s Circlet—that thing really helped me focus while I was wearing it.
But there was still an unexplored tunnel, and leaving behind an unexplored tunnel is not something I’ve found that the rest of these folk like to do.
So instead, we went into the last chamber in Zyrxog’s lair. Wounded, tired, and pretty much completely out of spells, it was with a sense of relief that we found the last room was indeed the last room. Seemed to be some sort of trophy hall, with all manner of books, skulls, weapons, and other totems on display. A large statue of a vulture-headed demon loomed in the center of the room. Took that statue all of ten seconds to wake up and become a real-life flesh and blood demon, of course. Frothlethimble had something to do with it… the demon woke up an instant after the gnome raced in to the room to grab at a sharp-looking dagger on display. And again, Frothlethimble opened wide his arms and spoke to the enemy, repeating (in Gnome) what sounded like the same phrase that he’d spoken to the illithid. The vrock paused and seemed to regard the gnome’s words, then smiled and stepped around him to attack us.
The fight against the vrock was not quite as harrowing to me as the fight against Zyrxog, but that was primarily because it wasn’t trying to burn me alive. I’m pretty sure I’ll never look at fire the same way again. The vrock sprayed some sort of foul green spores on Gar and Rac, and while the two of them did a heroic job at holding it back and covering our retreat, the demon didn’t seem much to care. Once all of us were out of the room (except Frothlethimble, who was trapped on the other side of the room), Demon Boy filled the place with webs.
At this point, it was fairly obvious that Frothlethimble had betrayed us. The demon was ignoring him and focusing on us, but then when its voice forced its way into our minds (the feeling was terrible... like bits of glass grinding under the roots of your teeth as they tried to rasp their way up into the brain), the hunch became confirmed.
“The little runt tells me that you have a weakness, Gar. That you value your friends too much, that you’ll sacrifice yourself if I let the rest of them flee.”
With a popping noise, the demon teleported out of the webs and manifested on the other side of us, blocking our retreat and looming menacingly over me and Demon Boy.
“Is this true, little Gar? Would you sacrifice yourself just to give these other mortals a chance to flee like cowards?”
“HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME!?” Gar roared as he charged through us to chop at the demon with his axe. The demon took the blow and staggered a bit, but chuckled at Gar’s fury anyway. Demon Boy dismissed the webs, and we retreated back into the trophy hall while Rac and Gar held the monster at bay. One of my spiritual weapons managed to get by its resistance to magic, and Dram was peppering the thing with arrows. Demon Boy was preparing some sort of last-ditch spell. But Frothlethimble had taken a seat on one of the shelves and was only watching the fight—watching Gar fight, in particular, with a glitter in his eyes that I could only call anticipation. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and started a little jig, and began to sing. I recognized the cadence, sort of; Frothlethimble had used his newfound bardic powers a few fights before to bolster our spirits. And while I can’t deny that the tune was catchy… I’m pretty sure it didn’t raise anything in Gar but rage.
Here’s the last thing I ever heard Frothlethimble sing:
“At attracting foes,
There is none who’s greater.
Let all the world sing the praise
Of Gar, the Master Baiter.”
Suddenly, the world seemed to explode into sound. I dropped to my knees, stunned by the vrock’s sudden shriek. Through watering eyes, I could see that the monster’s shriek was born of desperation; its body was bleeding ichor from dozens of places, and its shriek probably would have given it a chance to finish us off if, as fortune would have it, it had stunned us all.
Unfortunatley for the vrock, it hadn’t stunned Gar. The dwarf, still enlarged from his magic, stepped up to the demon and did what he did best. One swing of the axe later, and the vrock’s headless body was staggering back against a wall and collapsing.
The stunning screech persisted after the demon’s death, thoguh, and we could do nothing but watch as Gar strode across the room to where Frothlethimble sat, his hands clutched to his ears. I’m not sure if the gnome realized that he’d pushed Gar too far, even then.
“That’s enough out of you, gnome.” And with one more swing of the axe, a gnome’s head joined the vrock’s on the floor.
Goodmonth 21, 595 CY
I’ve had the benefit of a good night’s sleep at the Green Dragon to think things over, now, and I’m pretty sure that Frothlethimble was doomed from the moment he decided it might be funny to soak everything Gar owned in blood. Betraying us first to a mind flayer and then to a vrock certainly sealed the deal, but in hindsight, I’m pretty sure that the blood prank is what started his death clock ticking.
Demon Boy seemed to take the turn of events the hardest. He cried all the way out of the dungeon. That he didn’t seem to blame Gar pointed to the fact that he didn’t quibble with the method. None of us, I think, felt that Frothlethimble had been murdered or even executed. It was more like he committed suicide, really.
I wrapped up his body in his cloak and made sure we didn’t leave it down there in the dark. He may have been a traitor and a coward, but he saved my life. The least I owed to him was a proper burial.
We recovered a few more items of value from Zyrxog’s trophy hall, but the thrill of the adventure had been muted by the burning, the horror, and the death. I’m not sure it was right of Gar to take the law into his own hands—but I can’t argue with the expediency of his sentence. And I’m positive that, had Frothlethimble gone to trial for his treachery, the end result would have been the same.
I’ve been thinking more about this whole “Lifeless Born” thing as well. It doesn’t seem to be that encouraging. If I’m prophesized to bring my friends against this coming darkness, doesn’t that just mean that I’m doomed to lead everyone who I befriend to their death? It certainly seems like how it’s been working out so far. Of the twelve people that have comprised “Abelard’s Band” over the past few months… half of them are dead. Abelard, of course, but also Vyth, Kol, Tassilo, Belgrak, and now Frothlethimble. With one more death, the dead will outnumber the living in our group. Seems morbidly appropriate.
Looking back on all of my friends and companions who have died, I can’t say that it’ll be Frothlethimble that I’ll miss the most, but damn, that last song WAS pretty catchy.
As you all may have noticed, there is mention in Tyralandi's journal of a private expedition by Frothy, Garish, and myself. After we got out of the doppleganger's lair, I decided it was time to have some fun. A night on the town so to speak, no sick-in-the-muds invited. Erik agreed to run a special session for Frothy and me, on one condition. I had to revive my Campaign Journal long enough to record it. The following is the result of that promise. I figured I'd post it here rather than dust off the old thread, as I'm not planning on posting that often, but still, consider this a "guest journal."
The following takes place between the hours of 1pm and 3 am on the evening of Goodmonth 15.
A letter from Demon Boy to Tyrilandi, to be opened in the event of my disappearance or unexplained death.
Tyrilandi,
It occurs to me, as I write this, that I may have made a terrible mistake. The world outside the Emporium is a lot more complicated, and I don’t really understand some of the rules. If your reading this, than I probably am either dead, gone, or you’re a stupid, sneaking spy, in which case you should stop reading now!
If, on the other hand, I’m actually dead (an odd thought), then its possible, however unlikely, that it might have been my own fault. You see, aside from the enemies we both share (those dirty Ebon Triad cultists and that spooky mind flayer creep) and the enemies you know about (the Emporium, for example), I just went off and made a new super powerful enemy all on my own. He seems like the type of guy that is just as likely to kill me in secret as not, so it might be helpful for you to know something about him, in case he decides to carry on his vengeance beyond just me and old Frothy.
It all started the evening after we broke up the doppleganger gang. If you recall (and you might not, if your memory is anything like mine) during the last battle with these weird elves (no not Taan, these guys had black skin, white hair, and red eyes) I used one of the scrolls I’d snagged from the corpse of the chief dead doppleganger and enslaved one of these weird elves.
I was sitting in the tavern that evening amusing myself by dropping things on the ground and ordering Garesh (that was the elf’s name) to pick them back up for me. I never knew having slaves could be this much fun. (He deserved it though. He told me some stuff about the place he’s from, apparently its underground, they have lots of slaves, and they kill people for fun. Doesn’t sound very nice. Although on the other hand he did mention that they are fond of burning people alive.) Anyway after awhile I got bored with that and asked Frothy if he had any ideas about fun stuff to do in a big city. We got to talking (Frothy and Garesh and I, that is), and we agreed that somewhere in this city there must live a mean old coot with lots of money that we could steal without feeling too guilty about it.
Without wasting any more time, we headed off to a marketplace. Because it seemed to me that the best way to find a mean, rich man was to ask the beggars. After all, they talk to rich men all day, probably hate most of them, and for sure know which ones are the meanest. Sure enough it didn’t take too long to find a desperate old guy willing to sell his soul for a good meal. Which I provided. Artur (that was his name) told us about Barten Borsk the bookseller that apparently kidnapped people and ate them. Or something. Well I wasn’t sure about that, but it seemed like it was worth checking out, so we headed over there. I knew right off that this guy was up to no good, after all, the three of us walk into the shop and ask to see a cookbook, and he just plopps one down on the counter without any fuss. That would make him the first person I’ve met in this city whose first question wasn’t “And what are you supposed to be?” so naturally, he was clearly evil.
Turns out whatever else this guy is, he’s a maniacal book collector. He brings me back this “rare” cookbook written in some ancient language I’ve never seen before. I go along and pretend to be interested, and he starts lecturing me about its history. I nod absently before deciding to have a little fun with him. In my most imperious tone (don’t look at me like that, I can sound imperious if I want to) I inform him that this book won’t do at all, that I already own a copy of it, and that my copy is clearly superior to this cheap knock off. Tyrilandi, I wish you could have seen the expression on his face! For a couple of seconds, I wasn’t the only one in the room with cherry-red skin.
The next step was to stake out his shop and wait for him to go home. As I repeatedly explained to my companions, he wouldn’t keep most of his valuables in his shop anyway. They would most likely be in his house. The thing to do was ambush him there, rob him blind, then come back to his shop for the pickings. But, it turns out I was totally wrong about all of that.
After we waited for four or five hours (I was totally calm, but Frothy was having kittens by that point, to say nothing of Garesh, which I won’t). I finally agreed to let Frothy go over and scope the place out. He came back and said that there was someone asleep (and snoring) on the other side of the door. The next step was obvious. With a well-placed ghost sound spell, Frothy woke the poor bastard up and scurried behind the shop. We all waited, and sure enough after a couple of minutes the door opened, to reveal a man I had never seen before.
It was at this point that I realized that this might be more complicated that I thought. This man, whoever he was (actually, I later learned his name was Horatio), was wearing armor and carrying a sword, which was, when you think about it, pretty strange. He moved outside and walked around to the back of the shop. I’m not sure if he was looking for the source of the noise, or just looking for a place to take a piss, but either way he was back there for several minutes, allowing the three of us to sneak in through the front door, through the front room, and into the office without him being the wiser. Sure enough, when we lifted up the carpet on the office floor, a trap door appeared underneath it.
A quick whispered conversation ensued. Garesh wanted to lure the guy back to the office and quietly gut him, leaving us free to loot the shop and whatever might be below it. But I wasn’t entirely sure we could take the guy out that quickly (and quietly), and in the end I got my way. Using a clever plan and a bit of magic, we managed to sneak down the trap door, close it behind us, and pull the carpet over it so it looked undisturbed. That was Frothy’s idea (got to give him some credit).
Sure enough, we found the bookseller underneath the shop, sleeping in a big bed, with a large chest (did I mention it was large?) at the foot of the bed. Again a whispered conversation, but I could restrain my companions no more. Gorash and Frothy were thirsty for blood and, in the end, well, the guy was clearly evil.
Unfortunately, it turns out that, for a homicidal maniac, Frothy isn’t actually very good at killing people. Lestways, he stabbed him right in the chest with his dagger, and the next thing I knew it was hailing rocks underground. After a brief but bitter battle we killed Barten Borsk and started taking his stuff. We only had a few seconds before Horatio came rushing down, but that was enough to learn three things.
First: He had loot. Yay loot!
Second: He had two, small parallel puncture marks in his neck.
Third: His loot was, to say the least odd.
After we escaped (turns out dimension door is a quality spell). We examined the “take.” Once item stood out immediately: an ornate silver goblet that appears to turn water into blood. Hmm. Yeah.
Vampire.
So, if you’re reading this, you might want to sharpen some stakes, find a silver weapon, and stock up on the holy water, cause you’re next.
Cordially yours (from beyond the grave),
Demon Boy
PS. Be sure and burn my corpse.
The portrait of Abilard's Band, from happier times, is now featured on my blog, The Last Human Ghost, under the heading "A Nerd Indulgence".
Tyralandi was elsewhere in the magazine during this shoot.
Great stuff James and Jeremy. That's three posts so Erik should give you three hero points right James? :) And of course I was right Mike. ;)
The "Hmm, yeah. Vampire" bit was funny.
Okay, so let's see Kyle's art for this.
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The portrait of Abilard's Band, from happier times, is now featured on my blog, The Last Human Ghost, under the heading "A Nerd Indulgence".
Tyralandi was elsewhere in the magazine during this shoot.
Love the shot of Dram in the background. Just says, "Not my problem..."
Edit: and it took me a second look to realize that is an enlarged Gar lol.
And of course I was right Mike. ;):P
That it was Jason's character that killed Frothelthimble makes it even more special.
Bravo!!!
Definitely worth the wait! (Not that I'm in anyway in support of long waits for Tyralandi's reports ;-)
The mind boggles at what wonderous events lie ahead, and whom the new member of the party will be to replace Frothy....
Bravo!!!
Definitely worth the wait! (Not that I'm in anyway in support of long waits for Tyralandi's reports ;-)
The mind boggles at what wonderous events lie ahead, and whom the new member of the party will be to replace Frothy....
...Troll paladin...
Because you know you want to.
I have fallen to my knees in a vertiable orgy of fan-boy geekdom! Thank-you for the update on the boys (and gal) from Abillards.
Hmmm, Tyrlandi the Risen Martyr?
...Troll paladin....Because you know you want to.The mind boggles at what wonderous events lie ahead, and whom the new member of the party will be to replace Frothy....
Does this mean we can now offer suggestions or take a poll on what Mike's next character should be? Or are you guys already beyond this point in your actual play and he's already selected his next character? If not, I vote for a Paladin as well, but not a Troll...preferrably a Human...someone reminiscent of Abelard himself.
In fact, for story-purposes, I think it would be neat to introduce an ex-paladin (or fallen paladin, though not a blackguard) who's struggling with his faith and in search of a quest to fulfill an atonement for whatever sin lies in his past. That way, Abelard's spirit kind of comes back into the group, though it might take quite some portion of the adventure path for him to regain his paladin abilities again. And by the final conflict, this guy could then stand as a true hero against the horrors of the Age of Worms.
Of course, judging by the questionable ethics this group has displayed, it might prove difficult finding the right opportunity to achieve that atonement. But, all in all, I think such a character could inject an even greater conscience into the group for the trials ahead...and even serve as an opportunity for redemption for some of the more jaded members in the band, too...at least, by the adventure's end.
Just my two-cents,
--Neil
P.S. Great campaign journal! I've tagged along for awhile now, but never commented before.
Hmmm, Tyrlandi the Risen Martyr?
Eew... no thanks. That prestige class has a built-in timer on it—once you hit 10th level, you're done.
Well... that, and you have to be good aligned to qualify for the class. Which Tyralandi does not (and probably never will) qualify for.
Actaully... once I burn through all 5 levels of the Apostle of the Green Lady prestige class... not sure where I'll be going after that.
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Bravo!!!
Definitely worth the wait! (Not that I'm in anyway in support of long waits for Tyralandi's reports ;-)
The mind boggles at what wonderous events lie ahead, and whom the new member of the party will be to replace Frothy....
...Troll paladin...
Because you know you want to.
A half-copper dragon dragon shaman or bard aiming for dragonsong lyrist. Gnomish prankishness, now with more twinkishness.
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Hmmm, Tyrlandi the Risen Martyr?Eew... no thanks. That prestige class has a built-in timer on it—once you hit 10th level, you're done.
Well... that, and you have to be good aligned to qualify for the class. Which Tyralandi does not (and probably never will) qualify for.
Actaully... once I burn through all 5 levels of the Apostle of the Green Lady prestige class... not sure where I'll be going after that.
I thought she' was going to take some levels of the wormhunter PrC?
Hmmm, Tyrlandi the Risen Martyr?Eew... no thanks. That prestige class has a built-in timer on it—once you hit 10th level, you're done.
Well... that, and you have to be good aligned to qualify for the class. Which Tyralandi does not (and probably never will) qualify for.
Actaully... once I burn through all 5 levels of the Apostle of the Green Lady prestige class... not sure where I'll be going after that.
Is this a homebrew P-class? I've never heard of it, nor the Green Lady vestige. If it is homebrew, I'd love to hear some details; I love the binder class and devour any info I can find on vestiges.
Thanks
Is this a homebrew P-class? I've never heard of it, nor the Green Lady vestige. If it is homebrew, I'd love to hear some details; I love the binder class and devour any info I can find on vestiges.Thanks
Lets see if I can find it. Ah there it is. Check out around nine or ten posts down here
I thought she' was going to take some levels of the wormhunter PrC?
I have to say that my own NPC cleric got mad mileage out of the Wormhunter PrC. (1st Gift: increased turning; 2nd gift: two bonus feats; 3rd gift: increased caster level.) The prestige class forces you to slow down until you hit that fifth level, but once you do, it more than makes up for it. (Sorry for the threadjack. Love the journal, and I'm anxious to see more!)
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Creative Director
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Wormhunter's certainly a possibility... and Tyralandi's certainly already got the hardest part of that class' prerequisites done, thanks to that EVENT back at Blackwall Keep... but I'm not sure I can handle going more levels without spellcasting.
And we just played another session, so once again I'm behind. Hopefully I'll be able to keep up though, now that Dungeon's done and I'm very soon getting back to just having one full-time job... yay!
Dont you mean your not sure if the rest of the party can handle her going another level without spellcasting lol.
If I remember correctly, none of the other party healers have lasted more than about two weeks of game time :P
So much for being the chosen one, eh?
In my albeit limited game experience, being the "Chosen One" usually means being the first one in line to be, uh, er...
Warning, unsafe for kids coming next!You're the lucky winner of being f#@*ed over by the DM first! :D
:D
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Chief Creative Officer, Publisher
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Good session? So how much game do a group of gaming professionals get in in an average gaming session, out of interest?
(This question is being asked by a DM who is going to be running his group through their sixth session of Flood Season tomorrow...)
We played for about three and a half hours last night. It was an unusual session in that there was about 10 minutes of roleplaying to come to the decision "Let's leave Xyrzog's Lair", about an hour of shopping and character upkeep following the conclusion of "Hall of Harsh Reflections," and about an hour and a half of exposition from the beginning of "The Champion's Belt." Next time we'll start with the Champion's Feast, and then we're off to the races.
It took us 20 sessions to get through "The Whispering Cairn," though, so please don't get the impression that we move quickly. I did, after all, start this campaign before we even started editing Dungeon #124.
We've been at it for a while, now.
--Erik
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Here’s the last thing I ever heard Frothlethimble sing:
“At attracting foes,
There is none who’s greater.
Let all the world sing the praise
Of Gar, the Master Baiter.”Suddenly, the world seemed to explode into sound. I dropped to my knees, stunned by the vrock’s sudden shriek. Through watering eyes, I could see that the monster’s shriek was born of desperation; its body was bleeding ichor from dozens of places, and its shriek probably would have given it a chance to finish us off if, as fortune would have it, it had stunned us all.
Unfortunatley for the vrock, it hadn’t stunned Gar. The dwarf, still enlarged from his magic, stepped up to the demon and did what he did best. One swing of the axe later, and the vrock’s headless body was staggering back against a wall and collapsing.
The stunning screech persisted after the demon’s death, thoguh, and we could do nothing but watch as Gar strode across the room to where Frothlethimble sat, his hands clutched to his ears. I’m not sure if the gnome realized that he’d pushed Gar too far, even then.
“That’s enough out of you, gnome.” And with one more swing of the axe, a gnome’s head joined the vrock’s on the floor.
I have to wonder...was this just an amazingly insane little gnome (with good roleplaying) or was Mike just ready to try something new?
I have to wonder...was this just an amazingly insane little gnome (with good roleplaying) or was Mike just ready to try something new?Both.
So the combination of the two is "amazingly insane little Mike". :D
Or are you guys already beyond this point in your actual play and he's already selected his next character?My next character is all done except for picking spells.
And oh what an onerous task that is!
Ooops. I made a stupid. An even bigger one considering I used to have one of these squishy "I`m not yet dead" types as my PC before last. Someone, I cant see Tyrlanid ever qualifying as "Exalted", even if she is the chosen one (in which case she needs a pair of shades and a leather raincoat or a deacons robe).