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Last week was supposed to see the beginning of my RotRL campaign, but last-minute conflicts and cancellations made that impossible. Rather than be stymied, however, I chose to run a prologue of sorts, using the free adventure The Burning Plague as the basis and adapting it to Varisia and the specifics of the RotRL storyline. What follows is a fictionalized account of the session.
(For those interested, see the spoiler for my wife's character.)
Female human paladin 4//monk 4
LG Medium humanoid (human)
Init +2
Senses Listen +8, Spot +5
Languages Common
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AC 16 (touch 15, flat-footed 14)
hp 30 (4 HD)
Immune disease, fear
Fort +7, Ref +8, Will +9 (+11 against enchantments)
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Spd 40 ft (8 squares)
Melee unarmed strike +7 (2d6+3) or
Melee flurry of blows +5/+5 (2d6+3)
Ranged mw composite (+3) longbow +8 (1d8+3/x3)
Base Atk +4; Grp +7
Atk Options detect evil, Fiery Fist, flurry of blows, ki strike, smite evil (1/day), Strength Devotion, Stunning Fist (5/day), turn undead (3/day)
Combat Gear none
Paladin Spells Prepared (CL 2nd):
1st - protection from evil
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Abilities Str 16, Dex 14, Con 13, Int 10, Wis 16, Cha 14
SQ aura of courage, aura of good (moderate), divine grace, divine health, evasion, fast movement, lay on hands (8 hp), slow fall (20 ft), still mind
Feats Fiery Fist, Healing Devotion (3/day), Improved Natural Attack, Improved Unarmed Strike, Strength Devotion, Stunning Fist
Skills Hide +7, Jump +16, Knowledge (religion) +2, Listen +8, Move Silently +9, Spot +5, Tumble +13
Possessions masterwork cold iron longsword, masterwork silver dagger, masterwork composite (+3) longbow with 20 arrows, brute gauntlets, bracers of armor +1, healing belt, acrobat boots, adventurer's kit
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Fogscar Mountains, 7 Pharast, 4703 AR
Winter was already beginning to crack and tumble into the sea along the coast, but here in the crags and valleys of the Fogscar Mountains, less than twenty miles inland, spring had not yet made any inroads against the chill. The breezes that whistled down through Duvik’s Pass had nothing of warmth in them, no matter that the sun shone clear and golden bright in the afternoon sky.
Chelesa Surefist strode through the pass with no sign of awareness of the cutting wind, despite her simple tunic, breeches and distinct lack of a coat. In truth, the young human was keenly conscious of how very cold she was, but she welcomed the feeling; it was just the latest opportunity for her to test herself for weakness and find ways to overcome it. She smiled as another chill ran through her at a particularly sharp gust – the very motion felt like a devotion to Irori. “Body and soul, the two-edged blade: test me, hone me, perfect me, Lord,” she whispered. The catechism was lost in the wind, but continued to echo within her.
Chelesa was long since over the crest of the pass, and after two days alone on the mountain road, she was prepared to admit that a room in an inn would go well with her. The residents of Fellcreek, on the southern end of the pass, had said a town named for the pass stood at the northern end; it could not be much further, she thought, and picked up her pace a little, eyeing the sun as it drooped toward the peaks to her west.
Seemingly all at once, the pass hooked sharply west and down, the grade steepening rapidly. The next valley spread before her, and at the far end, a small walled town spread across the western slope. Even at this distance, Chelesa could make out the scraggly-edged fields, not yet green, that faced the town across the valley, and the bare stretch of earth beyond that would no doubt be pasturage in a month or two.
She could also see the closed gates, daylight notwithstanding, and the white plague flags that fluttered along the tops of the wall at every corner. She began to run.
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Minutes later, she stood in front of the gate, pounding hard upon it. Within seconds, a window in the center of the gate was thrown open, and a helmeted face appeared on the other side.
“Ho, traveler,” said the guard, in gruff but weary tones. “Duvik’s Pass is quarantined; we have the plague. We must turn you away. No one may enter here, for fear of their death.”
“Sir,” Chelesa answered quietly, “my god has blessed me and will shelter me from sickness. Please, if there is anything I can do to aid your town, I ask that you let me.”
The guard blinked, startled, then stared hard at the small figure in front of him. A slight human woman, not yet thirty, unarmored, but with the stance and equipment of a trained warrior. The hilt of a longsword thrust above her left shoulder, balanced by a dagger on her right hip, and a simple wooden icon of Irori rested comfortably between her breasts. Recognizing the symbol’s significance, the man’s eyes widened. In a hoarse whisper he asked, “Truly? You are immune to plague?” Chelesa nodded. “Just a moment, my lady,” said the guard, too rapidly, and the window closed again. Footsteps faded into the distance beyond the door, and Chelesa waited.
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She did not have to wait long. No more than five minutes later, a door opened in the gate, revealing four men – a well-dressed human wearing a medallion of office, a slim half-elf in clerical vestments and carrying the angel of Serenrae, and two guardsmen in leather jerkins and helmets like the one worn by the gate guard. All four, Chelesa noticed immediately, looked extremely tired.
The nobleman offered Chelesa a slight bow, which she returned yet more deeply. The priest of Serenrae exchanged nods with her, but she saw him touch his angel and whisper a prayer as he scrutinized her. As he did so, the nobleman glanced at him sidelong; after a moment’s study, the priest nodded slowly, and the nobleman heaved a sigh of relief.
“Ah, you are most welcome, my lady,” said the nobleman. “I am Cristofar Sendars, mayor of Duvik’s Pass, and this is Father Samual. May I have your name?”
“Chelesa Surefist, my lord,” Chelesa answered.
“And you say you can resist illnesses?”
“I can. Irori protects me,” Chelesa said. “I would like to offer my assistance to you and your town, if there is anything I might be able to do for you. I have some small ability with healing, though I cannot cure the plague…”
Sendars shook his head. “Father Samual and his acolytes are doing all they can; we would not expect anything more of you. We believe our well water has been cursed by some sort of magic, carried down from the mine. Father Samual and his people have been working to purify the water to prevent the further spread of this illness that we call the Burning Plague, but that is not completely effective – we have had people get sick after the purification process.”
“How many have died?” asked Chelesa.
“Sixteen in the last two weeks,” answered Sendars hollowly. “Another half a dozen or so in the two weeks before that. Our miners fell ill first, but we’ve had several children and village elders die as well.”
“You say you think the plague was carried to the village from the mine?” Chelesa asked.
“Yes,” Sendars replied, rubbing his eyes. “In fact, we…” he trailed off, then looked up at her suddenly. “In fact,” he began again, all but stumbling over his words in his haste, “we haven’t been able to contact the mine in the last two weeks because of the quarantine – we don’t know if the miners who are still up there have gotten sick, and we don’t want to risk exposing them if they haven’t. We’ve tried magical messages, but they have no spellworkers with them, so we haven’t gotten any replies. We don’t even know if they heard the messages – we haven’t been able to learn anything about their situation.” He paused, desperation plain on his face. “My lady, you might not be able to make much difference here, but if you could reach the mine and find out the circumstances of our miners, get news to them and then return with news to us…”
Chelesa asked, “How far is the mine?” and Sendars’ face abruptly glowed with hope.
“Most of a day’s travel east, into the mountains,” he answered.
She bowed again. “I would be pleased to do so. It might be best if I waited until morning, however.”
Sendars actually clapped his hands.
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Chelesa awoke several hours before sunrise, having cut short an evening spent in Sendars’ company at a local inn (on Duvik’s Pass’ coin, much to her pleased surprise). The mayor had seemed relaxed, even jovial at times; apparently, her offer had been the first good news he had had in some time. Father Samual disappeared to continue purifying the well water alongside his students, but she had had to beg off an evening of ale and dancing with explanations about her plans for an early departure. The town coffers had also provided her with an everburning lantern, some rope and a climbing kit; she hoped she would not need the latter, but better prepared than regretful.
She made better time than the Sendars had led her to expect, but she was not surprised – he likely was not used to the benefits of her training in the Irori monastery. The sun had barely reached its peak when she found herself standing before the square-timbered entrance to the mine. Picks, shovels, pails, and other equipment lay scattered before her, some poking out of the still-frozen drifts along the mountain’s face. At first glance, the mine was peaceful and still, but almost immediately, Chelesa noticed signs of trouble.
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She could see burnt-out torches lying on the mineshaft floor, their iron brackets apparently torn free of the walls. The mine timbers were marred with nicks, gouges and gashes, ripped by weaponry. Running a finger along the splintered marks, she felt the rough edges, still unsoftened by exposure to the elements. Recent battle, she thought, and looked warily down the darkened tunnel.
The mineshaft extended directly into the mountain for more than one hundred feet before opening out into a small chamber that served as a nexus for two passages that branched deeper into the stone. Chelesa slipped quietly into the room, the cone of light from her lantern spilling across two broken carts, overturned in the center of the chamber. The sparkle of silver ore caught the lantern glow, but Chelesa’s attention was entirely captured by the sight of a humanoid body, or rather the lower half of one, legs splayed and motionless beneath the nearer cart.
She rushed forward, setting down the lantern and feeling for a heartbeat or warmth in the legs, but they were cold and limp. She could not see what happened, though, and she could not take the risk of leaving him if he were somehow still alive. Standing, she circled around the body to take hold of the cart’s most intact side and heave upward. As she did so, she heard a sharp snap! and the whirr of rope sliding over stone, and then a massive explosion of sound seemed to fill the cavern, as though she were standing right next to where a lightning bolt had struck.
Thunderstone! she thought, her ears ringing, followed instantly by Trap, or alarm? Stooping only to grab her lantern, Chelesa retreated up the passage to the surface at top speed, ducking around the edge of the mine entrance to lean up against the wall and listen for pursuit, readying herself to strike as an enemy appeared. Minutes passed.
Nothing.
Finally she decided that, in fact, no pursuit was coming. She stepped away from the mountain, still wary, but did not return to the mine right away. Instead, she turned her attention to the damage she’d noticed earlier on the mine’s timbers. Looking closer, she dug a pair of small crossbow bolts, half the size of ones she’d use, out from the wood with her dagger. She turned them over in her hands, then looked back down the tunnel toward where the thunderstone trap had been.
“Traps,” she muttered. “Small crossbows. Mines.” She sighed. “…Kobolds.”
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Still warily, still quietly, Chelesa returned to the first chamber within the mine. Nothing appeared to have changed, but she could now clearly see the (obviously) dead miner’s wounds, and a moment’s work with her dagger again produced small crossbow bolts, this time from deep within the corpse’s chest, stomach and neck. She also noticed a series of pockmarks and blisters, such as she had been shown on the sufferers of the Burning Plague in Duvik’s Pass. She closed the man’s eyes, the straightened up, a darkness shadowing her expression. She looked right for a moment, then chose the left passage, heading west, parallel to the mountain face.
The passage was short, less than a dozen yards long, ending with a stout wooden door. Chelesa pushed against it just enough to determine that it was not locked, then shoved it open hard.
The room had clearly once been a mess hall for the miners; the demolished remnants of cookware, dishes, and other detritus of kitchen work lay scattered across the floor and atop three of the long wooden tables surrounded by benches that were the room’s primary furnishings. The fourth table, however, had been flipped onto its side, facing the doorway, its two benches knocked casually aside. There was a door directly behind it, but even as Chelesa took all this in, four sharp twangs echoed through the chamber. A thin line of blood opened on her right arm as a tiny crossbow bolt grazed past her. Three more scattered dust and chips of stone as they hit the wall on either side of her.
Four kobolds, their scaly noses and large dark eyes just visible over the table’s edge, pulled back their crossbows to prepare another volley. Before they could reload and raise their weapons again, however, Chelesa burst forward, slamming herself into the table with all her might. The kobolds, unprepared, were hit as by a runaway carriage, thrown backwards into the wall and knocked unconscious. With a contemptuous smile, Chelesa pushed the table aside and collected the fallen crossbows, stuffing them into her pack. The smile faded, though, and she pulled the handfuls of gold coins she found in each kobold’s purse out and put them in a larger purse in her own pack. It would not bring back the dead for their families in Duvik’s Pass, but perhaps it would ease their lives somewhat. As she straightened up, she noticed that these kobolds, like the dead man in the first chamber, showed signs of the Burning Plague. After a moment’s thought, Chelesa lifted one of the wooden benches and balanced it carefully on her right shoulder. Then she turned to the door the kobolds had been guarding, and pushed.
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It was locked.
Chelesa frowned in mild annoyance, then shrugged. For a moment, her eyelids drifted closed, and she whispered, “Behold my strength, Perfected One, wrought through your glory.” Then she took half a step backward, paused, then launched a brutal kick at the door where the lock met the jamb. It all but exploded from its hinges, splinters flying in every direction, but revealing a long, narrow storeroom beyond.
She felt the first crossbow bolts hit her – a long line of blood on her left thigh, a sharp stab of pain in her left shoulder – before the last pieces of the door even hit the floor. She also heard another sound, something ripping, like canvas or cloth. She could not immediately see what it was, and all of a sudden, she could see almost nothing at all, for the air was abruptly filled with a fine white dust that scattered and absorbed her lantern light.
Flour bags tied to the ceiling, she realized, just able to make out the canvas bags swaddled in a network of ropes against the chamber’s roof. Somehow, they’ve torn them open!
It did not matter, however. They were not the only ones prepared for this battle. “Valesha yin ch’e!” Chelesa shouted, words that she knew meant “horse and sun first way” in the long-dead Azlanti language, and felt the magic woven into her boots flood through her. Though the command was meant simply to activate the spells of speed in her footgear, Chelesa used the shout as a battle cry, rushing forward with inhuman quickness. After just a few steps she was clear of the flour dust still hanging in the air, and she could see clearly the row of barrels that lined the far wall, and the five kobolds that crouched behind them, crossbows at the ready. She dropped her lantern so it faced the barrels and with a mighty heave, she lifted the bench she still carried on her shoulder and hurled it toward at the kobolds. As she did so, a large dark shape caught her eye, lurking in the corner beyond the cloud of dust, right next to the entryway. She had no time for a closer examination, however, as the bench slammed into the wall over the kobolds’ heads, making them duck and giving Chelesa the opportunity to dive around the corner of the barrels herself and hide behind them.
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Her distraction was not entirely effective – two crossbows twanged at once, and she now bore a wound in her right shoulder to match the one in her left – but it was close enough. She rolled out of her hiding place, catching the nearest kobold by surprise and grabbing for his crossbow.
She missed.
With an oath, Chelesa struck again as the kobold tried to ready his weapon, and this time her blow struck true. The tiny warrior crumpled, but the rest fired crossbows once more, and this time one struck her stomach. She felt the pain, and knew she was badly hurt; in the heat of battle, though, it did not slow her. Rushing forward, Chelesa kicked out with a foot, catching a kobold beneath her chin and knocking her into her companion, sending both of them crashing to the floor. In another moment, the remaining two were unconscious as well.
Chelesa had no time to savor her victory, however. Even as she turned back toward the doorway, the shape she’d noticed in the corner earlier rushed forward, resolving itself out of the darkness as a massive weasel. Nearly eight feet long and three feet high at the shoulder, the dire animal crossed the room in seconds, lashing out with its vicious jaws. Chelesa tried to circle the barrels to meet its charge, but it struck before she had gained her preferred positioning. The dire weasel’s teeth sank deep into her leg, almost staggering her with agony, but instead she gave a mighty shout and struck into its skull with all the force of her training.
It crumpled to the floor, and Chelesa sagged in relief and pain.
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She knew several healing techniques that relied on Irori’s gifts, both for herself and others, and Chelesa called upon them now. Badly wounded as she was, in minutes Chelesa stood whole and unharmed, with only smears of blood and tears of fabric to mark where the wounds had been. Collecting her lantern, she looked around the room, then headed back toward the first chamber once more, only stopping to slip the rest of the kobolds’ crossbows and money purses into her pack alongside the others.
The tunnel that headed east from the entry chamber sloped gently downward for several yards, but then abruptly steepened significantly. Ahead, Chelesa could see an unsteady blue-green light, brightening and dimming in an irregular cycle, so she shuttered her lamp and hooked it to her pack as she went. Five strides past the point where the tunnel turned downward, Chelesa heard a soft click as she took a step. Without hesitation she leapt forward, just as the floor behind her disappeared, escaping the simple pit trap and landing in the entrance to a massive natural cavern.
The chamber roof was lost in the shadows cast by the lichen that she could now see was the source of the uneven lighting. To her left, the mostly-flat face of the cavern suggested that it had been worked by the miners at some point, an implication strengthened by the presence of ropes that hung down from a tunnel or chamber about twenty feet up the wall. Ahead of her, Chelesa saw almost a dozen human-sized stalagmites thrusting up from the stony floor, each of which was covered the softly glowing lichen. Glitters of silver, still unmined, winked at her from the cavern’s walls.
As she took a second step into the cavern, however, a voice shouted something in the guttural tongue of the kobolds and more than half a dozen crossbows sang out. Three bolts hit her, causing her to cry out in pain; before her attackers could fire again, though, she was already taking cover behind the stalagmite nearest the entrance and readying her bow.
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It was clear that her attackers, however many there were, were hiding in the space she’d noticed in the western wall of the cavern. Another hail of crossbow bolts assailed her protected spot, one nicking her slightly as it went. In response, she leaned around the stalagmite and launched an arrow into the heart of one of the kobolds – there were nine, she counted – standing at the edge of the hollow above her. Another volley of shots, none of which struck home, and she leaned out again, ending the threat of another kobold.
A third volley… did not come.
Instead, she heard a rough, croaking voice call out, the same voice that had called out before. This time, though, the words were in Common.
“You! Human! Why do you attack us?”
Carefully, Chelesa leaned around the stalagmite to see what was happening. One of the kobolds had stepped forward and was shouting down to her from the edge of the hollow. She noticed that it wore no armor, unlike the ragged leather scraps the rest of the kobolds had on. She let her eyes go slightly unfocused and studied the kobold band, reaching out with her Irori-touched senses to detect evil.
She found it, in all nine of them. Though several seconds had passed, she heard nothing more, so she called back, “Why did you kill the miners?”
The kobold immediately answered, “We killed no miners! They were dead when we arrived!”
“Dead by kobold crossbow bolts?” she shouted.
There was no prompt reply this time. After a moment, though, she heard the kobold call down, “Human! You are here to kill the demon, yes? If you kill the demon, we will not kill you!”
Chelesa cocked her head. “Demon? What demon?” she asked, unconsciously touching the hilt of her cold iron longsword.
“There is a demon in deeps of the cave! It steals our dead and makes us sick! It makes humans sick too! Kill it, and we can be in peace!”
Now it was Chelesa’s turn to pause before answering. After a long hesitation, though, she made her decision. She touched the symbol of Irori around her neck and released the protection from evil spell she had carried within herself since morning prayers. “Wanton murder and destruction are poor paths to follow, and never more so than for those without the strength to resist their consequences,” she shouted up at last, then leapt out from behind her cover and raced to the wall below the hollow. She did not slow down as she reached the ropes that dangled to the cavern floor, walking up the wall as she pulled herself up hand over hand. In an instant, she faced the kobolds atop the ledge, all of whom stared at her in open astonishment.
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They raised their crossbows, but three of them fell to Chelesa’s blows before they could take any actions. The kobold speaker, whom Chelesa had come to believe was the leader of the band, lifted his hands and began to chant; she had never learned much of spellcraft, though, and could not identify the magic. At the same time, the remaining kobolds fired their bolts at her, but this time her spells and skills protected her. Ignoring the others, Chelesa kicked out toward the kobold sorcerer, but he jumped away and kept chanting; she lunged again, punching him hard in the face, and he staggered but continued his spell, though weakly. She readied another attack, but even as she did so, the chanting stopped, and she saw something like a smile on the sorcerer’s lizard-like face.
Behind her, a rat the size of a dog appeared, a vicious spark of evil cunning in its eyes. It jumped for her – and skidded sideways off her protection spell. It could not touch her.
The sorcerer’s eyes widened. Now it was Chelesa who smiled in triumph, turning away from the fiendish rat toward the sorcerer. He began another spell, but she did not give him the chance to complete it – with a focused ki punch, she slammed the sorcerer into the wall, where he crumpled and did not move again.
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Still ignored, the summoned dire rat flickered and vanished. She turned to face the remaining kobolds. “If you leave and swear never to return to these mountains, I will not kill you,” she said. She did not know if any of the survivors spoke Common, but she thought her tone would get the message through.
One of the kobolds spoke up, answering the question for her. “We leave,” it said brokenly. It said something in the kobold tongue, and all four of them dropped their crossbows, as well as the spears they carried on their backs. Watching her warily, two of the four moved deeper into the hollow, opening up a concealed door that she had not noticed before.
After they disappeared into the hidden passage, Chelesa addressed herself to the one that spoke Common again. “Did you kill the miners?”
The kobold paused, looking uncomfortable. “Yes,” it said finally. “Raid.”
“You are weak and corrupt, impure within,” Chelesa told it. “But you can change; you can purify yourself. Do so, and you will have no fear from me or others like me. Do not…” she trailed off, but the kobold seemed to understand nevertheless. “What is this ‘demon’ he mentioned?” Chelesa asked after a moment, motioning to the body of the sorcerer.
“We not know,” the kobold answered, now looking unsettled, even scared. “It does magic. No see it. Take dead, take food. No see it. Orc.”
“It’s an orc?” Chelesa said, surprised. “How do you know that if you can’t see it?”
“Orc take food, we no see it. Orc take dead, we no see it. We see it other… other time,” replied the kobold, grasping for words.
Before she could ask any more, the hidden door opened, and she spun toward it in case the kobolds were planning betrayal after all. Instead, though, she saw two smaller kobolds, trailing behind the two that had gone off in the first place. One of the smaller ones saw the body of the sorcerer and gave a pained shout, pulling free of its larger companion to rush over and cradle the fallen sorcerer’s head. After a few moments, the taller kobold came over and gently but firmly pulled the smaller away, even as it continued to cry out and reach for the body.
“Son of M’dok,” said the kobold who was now speaking for the group, nodding toward the grieving figure. Chelesa did not reply, and the surviving members of the raiding party slowly climbed down the ropes and filed out of the cavern. Chelesa’s eyes never left the keening child.
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She waited several minutes, then lightly jumped down from the ledge herself, using a hand on the wall to slow her fall as needed. A quick but thorough search of the chambers in the mine that she had already explored revealed no sign of living kobolds. Opening up the concealed door in the hollow, Chelesa found a small, recently excavated room containing the remains of the kobolds’ campsite: blankets, a smoldering campfire (that she quickly extinguished with water from a skin), several sacks of stolen silver ore, and a sturdy, well-woven cloak that seemed out of place amongst all the trash, not least because it was sized for a human. She collected the ore and donned the cloak, then sealed the chamber back up again and set about her less pleasant task: dealing with the consequences of her actions so far.
Chelesa spent about an hour dragging bodies out of the mine, including the dead miner the kobolds had used as bait for their trap, and making a simple pyre for them in front of the mine entrance. She said a brief prayer for them to Irori, then channeled her ki to light the flame. By the time the blaze had dwindled to ashes, night was gathering around the Fogscar Peaks. Gathering her equipment nearby and pulling her new cloak around her for warmth, Chelesa spent one last time focusing her healing energies on herself, then fell quickly asleep.
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The following sunrise found Chelesa again already awake, exercises and prayer done to greet the new day. Lantern in hand, she returned to the large chamber where she had faced the kobold sorcerer and his band, ignoring the hollow in favor of approaching the tunnel on the far side of the room, where she believed she would find the mysterious orc “demon.” The tunnel continued east, sloping down and winding slightly left and right. Perhaps 15 yards past the tunnel entrance, Chelesa began to feel a strange heat in the air, as though she were staring into a campfire at close range. It increased as she went forward, beating at her skin, making her breathing heavy and thick. The stones of the cavern remained cool, however; she could not tell if this were some kind of magical attack against her, a defense placed by the “demon,” or something else, but it was clearly not a natural phenomenon. She could smell something sick-sweet and rank from somewhere ahead as well, a stench that made her eyes water and her stomach twist. Gritting her teeth and wiping the sudden sweat away from her eyes, she pressed on.
She had to go only a few more steps before the cavern emptied out into an oval room with a floor that sloped down to the center from all directions, like a gigantic bowl. Scattered throughout the chamber, stacked like firewood or sprawling haphazardly on the floor, were dozens of bodies.
Most were humans, and many still wore miners’ clothes or equipment. Mixed in among them were several dead kobolds as well, though, as well as a few tiny, furred shapes that Chelesa was eventually able to identify as rats, feasting on the dead – or they had been, anyway. Now, most of them moved as little as the rest of the corpses, and the few that kicked or squeaked pitifully were little better. Chelesa could see the open, bleeding sores and pockmarks of the Burning Plague on them, and on every other body in the room. The smell of death and plague was everywhere.
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This is what Duvik’s Pass might look like soon, she thought, and shivered despite the raging heat.
With no further hesitation, she forced herself into the room, stepping carefully and warily past the corpses stacked or tossed like rag dolls where they fell. Looking for a way to distract herself, she studied the room itself as she crossed it, noticing with some surprise that it was a carved, carefully constructed room, more like a catacomb than a cavern. The ragged hole where the mining tunnel’s entrance gaped seemed like a vicious wound in the wall – clearly, this place had been here long before the Duvik’s Pass miners had found it. The walls were lined with faded frescoes of humans carrying weapons and wearing armor, each wearing an expression of unspeakable rage. Runes she did not recognize ran around the top of the chamber, carefully incised into the stone and filled with silver now corroded to ashy blackness. She began to wonder what sort of place this was, and who the peoples who built it might have been; the violence of the frescoes seemed all too suited to the carnage now filling the room.
It was almost a relief, therefore, when eight of the corpses stirred and began to rise.
She was most of the way across the chamber when she saw the flicker of motion to her left. She turned, and saw one of the miners’ bodies lift itself on hands and knees, then begin to stand. Three more of the human bodies were doing the same within seconds, as were four of the kobold bodies. Each bore the slack, sightless gaze of the mindless undead, and all turned toward her as one.
Perhaps it was her need in this place of evil, or perhaps it was simply the unknowable will of the gods, but as Chelesa raised her icon of Irori, presenting the Azure Palm before her like a shield, she felt a rush of benevolence like nothing she’d ever known flow through her. “Begone!” she roared, and it seemed as though there was another, greater voice echoing through the room behind that roar.
The kobold zombies simply exploded into dust. The human zombies, though made of sterner stuff, nevertheless fled with all their shambling haste away from her, up the mining tunnel and out of sight.
Extremely well-written! I'm anxiously awaiting the conclusion :)
As a side note, I take it your wife is a gestalt character, correct?
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Chelesa sagged a little as she felt the power leave her. She shook her head, amazed, then bowed her head and prayed in utter gratitude for the protection of her Lord even here, so far away from his perfection.
Once she finished, she squared her shoulders and completed her crossing of the plague chamber. Up the steps, the archway revealed a corridor, constructed and polished with the same care taken with the previous room. The same frescoes lined the corridor here, though Chelesa noticed that the strange, spiky runes were gone. As she walked, the dreadful heat began to abate. Ahead, she could see some kind of flickering light, not the pulsing glow of the moss and lichen from the mining caverns, but an oddly rippling, shifting light, orange-red and hellish. She closed her lantern shutter, letting the darkness swallow her up as she carefully crept toward the fiery glow.
The room was massive, more than a hundred feet square, with a high vaulted ceiling that resembled nothing so much as a cathedral’s arch. Frescoes of war, demons, and a woman wielding fire and lightning covered every visible inch of the walls, intertwining amongst a complex weave of the spiky runes Chelesa had noticed in the smaller chamber. To her left, against the south wall, Chelesa could see a pair of massive stone doors surrounding an “entranceway” of blank rock. In the center of the room was a pool of water perhaps forty feet across, the edge of which was lined with waxen skulls mounted on sharp spikes. In the center of the pool, a circular stone column twenty feet high and about that wide rose up from the water, atop which Chelesa could see a triangular golden altar that seemed to be smoking. The shimmering, rippling orange light was coming from the altar.
This has to be it, Chelesa thought to herself. The corruption’s source is here. She touched the Azure Palm on her breast, reminded again of Irori’s protection, and then called upon it once more to cast protection from evil on herself. As she felt the spell settle over her, she stepped into the room.
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A set of carved stone steps less than a yard wide circled around the column, connected to the rest of the chamber by a narrow stone walkway that split the pool and provided the only break in the ring of mounted skulls. Chelesa began to circle around toward the walkway’s beginning – it faced the doors set in the southern wall – but she noticed a stooped but massive figure huddled on the steps on the far side of the column. It looked up at her, and for a moment, she looked into the maddened eyes of the enraged orc “demon.”
She saw it retrieve and drink a potion from a pouch, and then reach for a scroll case tied to its waist. Hoping to prevent whatever spell it might be about to cast, Chelesa readied herself to perform the most powerful technique she had learned during her time in Irori’s service: the Fist of Divine Fire. Abruptly her hands and feet were surrounded in flames of pure ki, and she gave a mighty shout as she rushed forward with all the speed she could muster. She did not take the time to veer around and go across on the stone path; instead, she went straight for the pool’s edge. Just before she reached the circle of stone spikes, she leapt into the air, clearing not only the spikes but the pool itself to land on the stairs directly in front of the orc. The flames that encircled her fists suddenly blazed higher, Irori’s might filling them, and she launched a blow at the orc that seemed to shake the air itself.
And missed.
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The orc threw itself sideways, the flames of her strike passing within an inch of its ear. Chelesa howled in frustration. The orc rebounded off the column and finished its spell. She heard a hiss behind her, then something spat with fury; a quick glance revealed a cobra almost 9 feet long and 4 inches wide across the body, its eyes glowing red and Infernal markings in the scales along its back.
They just never learn, do they? she thought.
Once again, she was protected by her spell. The cobra, try though it might, could not strike her. The flames around her fists were no longer shining with divine power, but she renewed them nonetheless as her enemy began another spell. She could see now from the oozing pox on its skin that the orc was suffering from the Burning Plague as well, and perhaps that was what made its reactions slow as it began the divine ritual; it did not matter to Chelesa, however. She saw the opening and took it. A stiffened palm to the orc’s face broke its nose, scorched its skin, and disrupted any chance that it might complete whatever prayer it had begun to its dark god. She caught an outstretched arm and used it to slam the orc into the wall, breaking bones and burning flesh; it staggered, already dead on its feet, but Chelesa threw herself into the air for a final spinning kick that simply ripped the orc’s head from its body.
Above her, the orange light flared brighter.
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Chelesa landed, watching the body of the orc fall in a slow, bloody arc down the column to the stone steps. After a few moments, she climbed the steps the rest of the way to the top of the column, where she saw that the golden altar was in fact a basin, filled with roiling, bubbling water, lit from within by the strange orange glow. The spiky runes were carved on every available surface, though she saw that some have been defaced by other, more recent carvings, in what looked like the orc tongue. Her hand outstretched toward the basin felt an intense, painful cold, the very opposite extreme of the charnel room beyond; she did not risk touching the water itself.
Instead, she returned the body of the dead orc, searching it quickly. She found more potions and scrolls, along with additional money and jewels. She also discovered a collection of writings in Orc, containing sketches of both the column and altar, along with several lines of the spiky runes. She was not surprised to see that the holy symbol on the orc’s chest belonged to the cult of Rovagug.
Some time puzzling over the drawings and sketches in the notes revealed that the corpses in the charnel room were the “raw materials” for the plague spell the orc was casting via the altar; daily “doses” of dead bodies were needed to maintain the effect. Sealing the tunnel to the altar, then, would not only end the plague, but also prevent it from returning. Chelesa frowned. She had no explosives, no tools… but then she remembered something from her girlhood in the little town of Sandpoint, when she would go to visit her uncle at the local mill.
Chelesa quickly gathered the remaining sacks of flour from the mine’s storage room, looking with a certain reluctant admiration at the barbed-wire pull mechanism that the kobolds had used to trigger their flour dust trap. (She was both relieved and worried to find that the remaining zombies had apparently left the mine.) She stacked the bags of flour across the entrance to the charnel room, rigging up the wire just as the kobolds had, and then tracing a line of rope and a line of lamp oil both back up the larger main cavern. She slowly tightened the slack on the rope until it could be tightened no more and she felt the tension of the wire digging into the canvas of the flour bags. Then she focused her ki and lit the oil, watching the bright flame catch and race down the tunnel to the flour bags. Just as it arrived, she pulled on the rope as hard as she could, sending fine flour dust into the air.
The tunnel exploded.
Chelesa’s Irori-honed reflexes allowed her to duck behind a nearby stalagmite as the sudden wind and heat flared through the room, sending stones and dust everywhere. The roar continued for several more seconds down the tunnel, even after Chelesa stepped back out from her cover – rock from the tunnel continued to tumble down and pile in the passage. Her lantern showed no way through to the charnel room on the other side.
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By shortly after noon the following day, Chelesa had returned to Duvik’s Pass. She had the spoils she had collected to distribute to the families of the dead men, but apparently word of her success had somehow preceded her – she could hear singing in the streets as she approached the town gates. The gates were still closed, though, and the plague flags still draped the walls. She pounded once more on the door, but the guardsman who opened the portal was jubilant to see her, thanking her profusely for her efforts.
“How did you know what happened?” she asked, a little stunned.
The guard grinned. “This morning, Father Samual announced that the well didn’t need any purifying. There could only be one reason for that! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he said, forgetting military decorum enough to give her a hug.
Similarly overexcited meetings with Cristofar Sendars and even the previously reserved Father Samual occurred as well. Unfortunately, Chelesa’s encounters with the dead miners’ families were less happy, though each said they appreciated her efforts and the money she had returned with for them. Once that sad task was completed, Chelesa sought out Father Samual, asking if he knew anyone who could read Orc. A few hours later, she was sitting with a local scholar named Jendash Sennet, listening to the dead orc’s tale.
His name was Jakk, and he was the last surviving member of a tribe that had lived in the Fogscar Mountains, killed by the Duvik’s Pass militia in retaliation for a series of brutal raids some years previous. The month before, he had awakened from an intense dream with the knowledge of how to use an altar hidden within the mine the humans used to gain revenge for the massacre. He believed the dream had been sent by Rovagug himself to guide the orc’s path, and so he had not hesitated. Using potions and a wand of stone shape, he had slipped unseen into the mine and extended the tunnel himself in a single night, opening up the passage (and closing it behind him, at least at first) so he could begin the process of establishing the curse.
Jakk apparently had though it was possible to use the altar, which he called a runewell, to do other things, possibly even greater magics, but he did not know how. When he realized he had caught his own plague, and his own curing prayers could not affect it, he decided that this revenge was all he was meant to perform.
“He was ready to die,” Chelesa said musingly. Sennet nodded, a little uncomfortably.
She looked up at the wall, and through it toward where the runewell lay buried under tons of mountain stone. It’s still there, she thought, still waiting. But as long as no one goes near it again, the danger is over.
And at that very moment, hundreds of miles away, in the private chambers of the priest of the Sandpoint chapel, a beautiful woman with silver hair and violet eyes suddenly awoke, her mind filled with visions of monsters, demons, and a peculiar golden bowl filled with water that glowed with a hellish orange light.
“Let the burning begin,” she whispered.
FIN.
Very well done. A fun read.
I sure hope you can write some more.
This was the first module I ever ran!
It went a little less smoothly for our chaotic crew, but was fun none the less. Good job!
