Has anybody tried to run this module written by the first RPG Superstar winner?
(Yes--and I'm loving it. Here's a little backstory i wrote to help explain the events that led to the adventure. Each part was revealed in flashbacks as the party explored Sigreir's Pledge.)
Lay of Helrun
I. She cradles his head in her lap, a broken helm sits to the side, rent by dragon’s claw, on the steps below the great forge-altar of Sigreir’s pledge.
“I still cannot believe you accepted their help, my love. I fear for you,” she caresses his red braids in one hand while looking thoughtfully towards the altar. A brilliant gleam from the jewel upon her breast catches the light as she leans down to kiss his beleaguered brow.
“They demanded a king’s ransom,” he frowns, “but what good is a ransom to a king with no kingdom. “It was a high price. But at least now I am able to preserve that which is most valuable to me.” He says, reaching a bloodied arm up to support the one that cradles him. “And now that I am king, we can be together. At last.”
“There is much that needs to be done before that, my lord Ezelgar,” she smiles, “I am still Forge priestess of the Pledge, and the daughters of Sigreir must be ready to help you rebuild your kingdom. You cannot trust your new allies to provide the healing and stone work that the sisterhood can. It must have been a devil’s deal, but knowing your crafty tongue, I dare not surmise which the devil was.” Her tone is teasing, even though earnest. Besides,” she scolds, “my vows are not so easily swept aside.”
The king smirks and tries to rise, a look of pain shooting across his grin. “Your gift has already been paid for, and you are not like the others,” The king says, his hand lowering to her kilted thigh in an intimate caress, letting it linger there, until she, blushing, brushes it aside. “There will be time for vows later. For now, let us think of us.” He reaches forward to kiss her, gently brushing aside her long blonde braids that hang from her head like a wedding veil. Just as their lips are about to meet, a thunderous boom from deep within the mountain shakes the temple. Several others follow quickly even as the priestess struggles to rise.
A pledge maiden rushes into the temple, “Forge-Mother Helrun, the Pledge is breached!”
The Priestess limps heavily down one of the steps, weighed down by her fears and the injured leg the king had just been caressing. “Is it… the dragon? Has it survived? And returned?”
“No Mother, but there is smoke, and poisons.” Another explosion rocks the temple. “And stone-thunder.”
“Mistbreathers!” The name itself is a curse. She turns to look at the King who is now lifting himself to stand, a look of hurt and confusion on his face. “Your new allies have betrayed you. I told you they would not release their grudge so easily.”
The King reaches for his possessions, seeking to don equipment for the fight but wheezing from broken ribs as he bends to gather his armor. Two very loud thunderings, this time closer, break his efforts. They look at each other, realizing the truth, the enemy is inside, and closing. “There is no time,” he says, and with a grimace hefts his great axe.
“Folgritta, find as many of the sisters as you can and flee. If you can reach the vault of mercy hide there—you will be saved—and you may find some thing there to help us.”
The King closes with his love and holds her hands in his. “They come for the Heartstone, no doubt, not just revenge. They will want the prize you wear. Let us hide it in the stone from which it was taken before they come. You have the means. I will hold them off if they come.”
They rush to the back of the great bronze altar to the smooth marble wall polished from the stone of the mountain itself. Both limp though, he from his wounds and she from her lifelong injury—the price of the stone mystery. In the shadow of the altar she leans against the stone, praying intently that Folgrit the watchful mother, wife of Torag, help protect her charges, the widows and orphans of the Pledge. Sounds of combat begin to echo from the chamber hall just outside the temple proper, as the stone slowly swallows her entire form with little more than a whisper as she meditates.
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II. The king turns to face the aggressor as the temple doors are blasted open by Mistbreather magic, the remains of two battle sisters splashing into the room with them. Several stealthy figures push in, going to hide behind the great columns while one strides in directly and purposefully, an array of battle gear hanging from his frame, a smoking wandrifle cradled in arm.
“Fleshdrinker.” The King speaks the name as he matches the entering stride, without betraying any sign of injury, and stands before the altar.
“My King,” says the Mistbreather clanhead, smiling, while eyes take in all the surroundings. “Where is the Oracle?” Shadowy figures advance along the sides of the chamber, the glint of barrel and quarrel visible in the light of the dwarf lamps high above.
“She was never part of the deal, Mistbreather, you have come in vain. She has already fled through stone.”
“That is unfortunate, my King. The heartstone would have been a sweet prize for my forefather’s shame. But you always had a serpent’s tongue and an angel’s face.” He makes a quick motion with one hand and the shadows recede. Once gone, and satisfied of their privacy, the treacherous cipher returns his gaze to the king. “There will be no witnesses now, My liege.”
A whispering sound is heard behind them as the stone begins to shift again, the Oracle’s spell coming to its end. The King turns between the wall and his visitor, a look of panic momentarily fleeting across the eyes, but it is enough for the well trained killer.
“I told you she would never leave you. Cripples cling to the hope that those they love will never abandon them.” Fleshdrinker seems to be enjoying the torment he now sees upon his Lord’s face. “Here,” he says as he throws the king a silver flask from his gear, “or would you like me to do it?”
Ezelgar scowls as he catches the item and limps to the wall, just as Helrun begins to emerge from it. He opens the flask and pours its contents upon the stone which crackle with sudden splinters as the stone strains against the competing forces at work upon it.
The priestess’ head and upper arms emerge from the stone suddenly with a sudden burst of force, surprising both King and interloper. But she screams in pain as her slow and crippled lower body is unable to push itself out of the stone that is hardening around her.
“Ezelgar help!” she cries out, tears from the agony clouding her eyes so she does not see the Mistbreather silently approaching. Ezelgar can only step back in shock as he witnesses the effects of his treachery upon her already broken body. “Ezelgar, what have you done?” she wails as she begins to see what has happened. “I can’t move. How is this so?” Ezelgar can only fall to his knee, leaning heavily on the shaft of his axe.
Shards of stone that broke from the wall before it set into solid form again crunch under the boot of the one called by his cipher name “Fleshdrinker.” He seems to be looking up at the writhing priestess, marveling at the success of his own work, nodding in appreciation at both the efficiency of the alchemy and the pain it is inflicting on his enemy.
“Don’t be troubled, my Lord. You have a greater power now at your disposal. You see how the prayers of mere gods bow before the laws of nature we have unlocked in our time of exile? You don’t need her anymore to be king. Glimmerhold will never again be crippled by these wenches again.” He gives one of her braids an unceremonious yank, half-heartedly testing the hold that the stone has on her. “Now finish it, and begin your reign as the greatest king Glimmerhold has ever known.”
The King rises again from his knee, and with what strength remains, lifts his axe. He cannot look her in the face as he she, quiet know but flooded with tears, looks for a sign of his love.
“My love, why?” He hesitates at her voice, his strength falters and the axe head slides down to clank among the shards.
“I see, my Lord. To rule as a King requires hard decisions. It is better to let others take these burdens upon them. You still need us. You will always need us. We are your ever faithful servants, as per our agreement.” The cipher steps forward to take up the king’s axe from him, but just as he does so the king pivots lightly on one foot, his arm twisting around the haft. The sound of a metallic spring is heard as the spear tip comes fully free of the haft. He falls backward with it, into the surprised Mistbreather, plunging the blade deep into his ribs under the breastplate. They tumble down the steps, the urgrosh making a deeper mess of the lungs and closing on the heart in the fall. The king is also cut by his own blade, but it is the spear tip that has the deathblade poison, and even the cipher-alchemist’s training cannot save him now.
The king’s man tries to laugh but blood gurgles out of his mouth as his face grows pale from the poisoned wound. He spits and the tainted blood sizzles upon his beard. “You think this is the end, Ezelgar? You think you can fool my brethren for long?” He convulses and seizes his belly, the heavy wargear stills trapped uncomfortably around the weapon haft. “This grudge has just begun. Is it not written, ‘A Rough beast shall eat you all?’” he laughs once more as Ezelgar steps forward, himself bleeding from the side, and yanks the weapons down and out, spilling the rest of the servant’s lifesblood on the temple floor. But as he does so he cannot miss the tell-tale off-time ticking of the Mistbreather bomb that the cipher triggered in his last death throe.
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III. The explosive acidic burst destroys the evidence of the King’s murder, but also the remedy for his treachery, no stone salve to free his love remains, melting it away even as it drinks up the flesh of the one who invented both traps. The King himself, though wounded remains light on his feet manages to dive into one of the clean pools of the temple as the fire spreads across the room above. The water is cleansing, the last bits of its healing power washing and healing his wound, so that he has strength once again at least to crawl to his love, trapped in the wall of her mountain’s heart.
She remains trapped, partially submerged in living stone itself. “Help me” she barely whispers, the pain of breathing itself is evident.
He can barely reach her, her body having begun to emerge much higher than the floor when the transformation struck. He reaches up to her hand, a loose braid dangling down, two others partly trapped in the stone and holding her head up to survey the chamber and what has transpired. Sounds of slaughter and lamentation can be heard from the chambers of the monastery. The Mistbreathers are having their revenge. Though Ezelgar touches her hand, she does not respond.
“What have you done?” her eyes, now clear and hot but not from tears look down upon him. A terrible look comes upon her face. “You have done this.”
The king now weeps, bowing his head, childishly and cowardly. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He cannot even bring himself to justify his deeds. He can manufacture no excuse.
The sounds of Mistbreather scouts calling for their captain echo into the room from the tunnel beyond.
“They must not find you. They will kill you.” The king seems mad. “I will tell them that Fleshdrinker killed you but that your magic slew him as well. I, I shall protect you from them. I shall hide you…” He tumbles away from her burning gaze and gathers his gear, picking up a last remnant of the Mistbreather chief to give credence to his story. He looks back once more, her terrible visage now shrouded by smoke and shadow. “I will come for you, Helrun, I will come for you.”
IV. She watches him leave. She does not hear his lies and his devil’s tongue. Her heart is broken. She barely notices it when the Mistbreather sappers blow the tunnel, sealing her in her temple. She weeps for a time, in spite of the pain.
Her prayers sustain her. She forgives Ezelgar in her heart. And she prays. And she waits.
And the days go by. And she prays and she waits.
And the weeks go by. And she prays, and she waits.
And the years go by. And still she prays, and still she waits.
And Ezelgar never comes. And so she prays. And so she waits. But she no longer forgives. And now her prays are being heard.
“You cannot stop what is coming.”
I've incorporated it into my Eberron campaign, running it right after the "Seeds of Sehan" adventure path. Both Sehan and Clash of the Kingmakers takes place in the Icehorn Mountains between the Demon Wastes and the Eldeen Reaches. Running it right now, as a matter of fact.
I'm thinking of running this for a party of all dwarves. Would that work?
