Tag: Update

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2025-05-28 Barony of Darkmoor Session 20

Session Notes

Where does our water come from? There are crumbling ruins of an ancient aqueduct system that stretch across the landscape that carry …not a drop of water. And yet we have fresh water, all of us, available from the fountains (at least those remaining intact) and cisterns wherever one seeks it.

It is I, Dear Reader, your chum and the Greatest Sage Darkmoor has ever known, Buck Headstrong! I return with your much-needed quantum of news, charm and history for your delectation. Don’t forget to tip the ragged wretch of a newsboy from whom you received this gilt-edged missive. Or, at minimum, try not to kick him with the sharp toe of your boot.

I realize that many expect me to recount the (mis-)deeds of the Circle of Darkmoor, in particular given their return to our bedraggled beloved Elder Pool. I sigh, Dear Reader, sip at my sherry and take up this burden entirely for your sake.

We have all seen the Circle in recent days as they tromp through the midst of our outpost village town city, seemingly full of purpose and noble intent and then, hours later, often filthy and forlorn, seemingly having accomplished nothing, back again. They make demands and issue directives out of a sense of authority that clearly they lack. They insult, infuriate and impugn our citizens and those with real purpose and clear authority… and to what end? Has the discord related to those attacks on the Guild been resolved? No. If anything, the Circle have simply sought to bring discredit to the Guilds, who, let us not forget, are the victims of the crimes the Circle and their “Royal Inspector” are assigned to investigate!

The Circle did manage to, so it is claimed, discover the corpse of one of those missing stevedores you may have heard about. Or not. A misplaced porter or two does not lend itself to the kind of report that your favorite Sage is likely to take up. And of the second stevedore supposedly stolen and surreptitiously strong-armed into subterranean subjugation? Were there reports of one of those Dark Cloaks formerly of that criminal band who has now joined the Circle (but I repeat myself) sneaking a figure into the Ragged Moon, a sad fellow in an oversized robe? I do not traffic in gossip, my friends, and thus will not repeat such scurrilous speculations.

The Circle in their perambulations were seen over hill and under dale, particularly at the old stables which have their own history I may come to in the future. And amongst (and within!) the ruins of the aqueducts!

Our bespattered beloved Elder Pool, founded a thousand years ago or more, was so named due to its proximity to that body west of town, fed by the once-mighty Eglantine, roaring out of the mountains and Twisty Wood to the north and west. Who has not, on a summer’s day, rented a raft and splashed joyously in the cool waters of the Pool? I certainly have not, friends, and if you are reading and this and are currently not an eldritch being beyond death, neither have you. The days of pleasant visits to a flourishing water-side attraction are long past us in these grimmer nights of the current regime.

Despite this smallish lake having long out-lived its glory days, it is the pool that, through its artesian meanderings, feeds our fountains, wells and cisterns.

The aqueducts brought water from the Sea in times past, it’s true. The water, though, was not really fit for drinking; and drinking water was not in short supply, even in those days of boom and prosperity. The water brought power. Mills of all sort, throughout the realms were powered by the water brought to them by the aqueducts. As well, the water was used in irrigation, but I find no romance in the spilling of water on the ground. The machines, however, the engines that crafted the goods that made Darkmoor an economic powerhouse, these are something worth contemplating. Contemplating with a sigh and a bit of sherry amidst an oppressive cloud of nostalgia. Those idyllic advancements are gone, Dear Reader, in these Grey Days. We can only huddle indoors and hope that the Circle do not bang on our doors with their threats and accusations.

I remain, as always, your faithful fellow traveler on our shared journey of misery.

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2025-03-03 Barony of Darkmoor Session 9

Session Notes
Dear reader, it is I, your humble chronicler. I have for you today the latest (mis-)deeds of the now-famed Circle of Darkmoor. I can not count how many mugs of inferior ale that have been slung my way since I began narrating these acts of the Circle. Truly. I can no longer count them. Nor find the door. Another round, good barkeep!

In the previous edition, still available via our growing network of street buskers, industrious young lads as like to pick your pocket as sell you a new edition, I recounted the investigations being carried out by the Circle. This edition — I promise — contains fewer references to feces.

The Circle, having found their way to the residence of the local Guildsman who had been apparently bankrolling the despicable atrocities at the cemetery, and having rather soundly clonked said Guildsman, bound hand and foot as he was such that, as it has been reported to me, the unsavory fellow can now observe you both coming and going without the effort of moving his neck, pursued the man’s rather fetching female guest down into a subterranean passage, hidden in a wardrobe.

The follower of that faith which we should not name, Hammond, immediately made the way safe for his fellows by throwing himself onto the spikes of a pit trap so that they may proceed unharmed. Beyond this snare the Circle found a great bronze and wood door, the envy of any banker. From the far side of the door a voice addressed them, warning that there was no way forward for them. Interpreting that this meant that the speaker was trapped — a fact that when I heard it, I promise you, I sprayed ale all over my newest velvet trousers — they set about laboriously beating on the door with an axe. So if you were awakened by the sound of thunder, rest assured that it was only the vassals of Baron Darkmoor knocking about underground. Better to lay down the axe and use their skulls next time and let us all slumber peaceably.

Eventunally… eventually, they made their way through the great door to be confronted by an even greater beast chained as a sort of guard dog, to block their path. And another door further on, made of even sterner stuff. Most, at this point, I think we can all agree, seeing that the terrible monstrosity was chained in place,  might have backed away and reconsidered. Not our Circle! There is only one way, when one is a hero! Forward! No matter how many traps and doors and shocking monsters lie between us and… the furniture shop. For this is where they emerged, inside Alder Appointments, the local furnishing storefront. After hours. No sign of the fleeing lady nor of the rather rude gentleman who spoke to them through the door.

And what, I can hear your upraised voice, gentle reader, of the Guildsman? What account did he give of his role in all of this? What name did he give of the damsel who escaped the powerful Circle? I extend my closed hand in response and then, revealing that it is empty, you receive your answer. The Guildsman had been spirited away in all the pounding and hacking and ogre slaying. What then? What essential activities do they then take up, our glorious saviors?
Sawing away at the poor creature they slayed to remove his head as some sort of gruesome keepsake.

In the morning the Circle returned to the furnishing shop. Alder Appointments is, as it turns out, owned by the selfsame Guildsman — I see recognition dawning on your otherwise placid features, dear reader. Yes, that Guildsman! The shop is operated, however, by a man known as Clinton. Clinton, as we all know is that rather dry gentleman’s name. Clinton it is and has always been. Clinton, under questioning, admitted that he knew about the recent excavations under the shop — those leading to the Guildsman’s private abode, but he understood that it was in his best interest not to notice or to ask questions.

A brief aside:

I, as the newly self-appointed Great Sage of Darkmoor was requested to look into a matter that might be of some interest to all my readers. That of the identify of the “fountain girl” in the middle of Elder Pool.

I have to say, having arrived here some weeks ago, the shabby fountain, broken-down and useless, did not strike me as being of interest. Nor did it occur to me that it might be intended to represent an actual person. In that, I was mistaken.

Lisle Whiteberry, “Lil” to her friends, was a rather unassuming local girl who worked at the cheese shop that at one time occupied the space where the tiny draper sells his wares today. She was, by most accounts, pleasant enough. Plain and unmannered and often done poorly by men of the rough sort. But with a certain pluck and determination. And little did her detractors know what an important role she  was to play in the history of the governance of Darkmoor.

On that fateful night, some three or four days after the last full moon of harvest, when the traitorous Barnabus Rey allowed the cultists into the catacombs, they would have succeeded at reaching Lord Grey and, one assumes, murdering him and his family, had little Lil not seen the group entering the sewers and ascending that hidden column at Rey’s behest.

Legend tells us that she made her way to the manor house and managed through persistence and some amount of shin-kicking to reach the Lord’s man-at-arms, who finally, convinced of the threat, managed to spirit Lord Grey and his family away to safety with only seconds to spare.

What became of that young, brave little girl? That exemplar of bravery in the face of brutality?

The cultists –naturally– captured, tortured and murdered her and left her corpse hanging in the town square as a warning to others.

But the citizens of Elder Pool, may years later, erected that fountain in her honor. You know the one I mean: moss-covered and broken, forgotten to time.

Thus: the story of fountain girl.

Our heroes, the Circle of Darkmoor then carried their investigations to the cemetery where they met with the care-taker. That lanky figure shared a similar story to that they had previously heard from Clinton; whose name, as I have already stated, is, was and always will be Clinton: that he was paid to look away and not ask questions, despite the horrific acts being carried out within his area of responsibility.

The Circle then met with a figure of some high-standing and wide authority who we shall not name. As a result of this significant conference, the Circle now is committed to stomping out the dark cloak threat that we have all anticipated them taking up so long ago.

I applaud this new focus. Let our heroes carry the fight to where it belongs: far and away where those of who have had perhaps one ale too many can get a decent night’s sleep, undisturbed by door-smashing and free of horrible amateur taxidermy.

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2025-02-25 Barony of Darkmoor Session 8

Session Notes

Our heroes, the Circle of Darkmoor, never individuals to venture into the sewers a single time when multiple visits are at their… disposal, returned to the stinking depths, investigating a figure your humble chronicler helped them identify: Barnabus Rey.

According to my extensive research, I can report that Barnabus Rey was the one-time Captain of the Watch, entrusted to safeguard the nobles. The history recounts that Rey, at midnight, opened a hidden door that allowed the assassins of the church of Zuggtmoy to climb from the sewers into the catacombs beneath the manor house and… nearly…. to pluck the ruler of Old Darkmoor from his throne. The nobles fled, but that was the end of their rule, though the war against the Elementals continued for some years in their absence.

The Circle discovered a shadowy figure at the western extent of the sewers who, being discovered, dumped his burden into the waste stream. The heroes pursued and ran down their prey. The story that was told to me, dear reader, you will scarcely believe.

The youth they captured, a miscreant who calls himself “Timmer,” reported that he and others have for some time been serving an evil master known as Loch, who has paid them handsomely for unearthing the deceased of Darkmoor and dumping their decaying forms in piles in the sewers.

This Loch creature supposedly, is a well-dressed resident of Elder Pool who frequents a certain downtown tavern.

After further investigations the Circle traced this “Loch” to the Guild Hall, where he is reputed to be a prominent member, under a different name which I shan’t at this time reveal.

The Circle found their way to the residence of this Loch where they were met with a less than contrite welcome. During their bootless attempts to extract a confession from this dandy, Loch’s female companion slipped away through a concealed passage down into, once again, an underground complex.

Hammond, the Nicholite friar disappeared in her wake, and the others followed suit.
What happened next, you ask, eager reader? I promise to tell.

Next week.

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Session 7 Addendum

Just a couple things from last session:

Anker’s body should be returned to Aldmaar; Juttah has already indicated that he doesn’t plan to return at this time

Milestones for advancement to next level:

  1. Develop a facility associated with one of the factions
  2. Recover an artifact of the old realm (a Wolf-emblazoned item with magic still intact)
  3. Narrative milestone (to be uncovered)

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2025-02-18 Barony of Darkmoor Session 7

Session Notes

The heroes, the Circle of Darkmoor, returned from the Lord Baron’s speech to his peoples, which was met with wide-spread acclaim, to discover that their captive, a member of the highwaymen who apparently call themselves the “Silencers,” and who reportedly had professed contrition and a turning over of a new leaf, retreating from his life of crime, had been murdered in cold blood, alongside his gaoler, Anker of Aldmaar.

The Circle pursued the attackers, who they saw fleeing on the High Road. The pursued fled as long as they might, but eventually the heroes overcame them, once again demonstrating mercy in taking a captive rather than to cut the murderers down like dogs in the street.
Is there no end to these murderous onslaughts? How can the baby-faced Baron implement his far-reaching policies if at every turn the criminal element outflanks him?

After Baron Grey’s magnificent speech, the heroes were alerted, having returned to the Ragged Moon for a communal libation, that there was trouble upstairs. Juttah, the northern ranger informed them that their captive, Norwich, the former dark cloak as well as his ranger guard Anker, had been assassinated in the immediate aftermath of the speech. They raced up to the common room to discover a bloody scene, and through the window, another group of dark cloaks fleeing on the High Way.

After defeating this group of assassins, they took a captive, a creature who called herself Lucretia. She shared a typically dismal history for this type of depressing woman which had led to her joining the group of dark cloaks — the so-called Silencers. She answered the questions put to her with enough seeming sincerity that the Circle allowed her to escape, unpunished.

The party, rather unceremoniously and by most accounts, alarmingly, returned, with the blood-soaked armor and weapons of the slain assassins decorating their shoulders.

They reported what they had learned from the assassin Lucretia and put the Baron into a state of alarm that he might be the subject of additional murderous escapades. With little enough evidence, I amend parenthetically.

The Circle then returned to the matter of the mysterious waste pit discovered behind a hidden door in the catacombs having first secured a hastily-constructed rope ladder fit for purpose.

They descended the 75 or so feet down into the noisome space beneath even the catacombs. And thereby discovering an underground river of shit. Directly beneath the vertical column they had just precariously traversed, a collection of rotting or long-past rotting corpses.

From the narrow walk space alongside the slow-moving turd torrent, the heroes could see a sewer passage heading both east and west. And, dimly in the dark in each direction, light, perhaps streaming down from above.

The Circle moved east, upstream of the crap creek, with the presumption that moving towards the center of Elder Pool might yield a better result than away. After some travel on that narrow shelf adjacent to the feces flood they found themselves in a circle of diminishing daylight, from some sort of exposed grate a few score of feet above, occasionally dripping down into this space. They discerned the remnants of iron handholds in this vertical shaft, but the party, having experienced more adventure with the rope ladder than anyone had hoped, they eschewed the opportunity to ascend.

As they continued along the passage east, the waste wave accompanying them, they began to believe that the passage was trending generally upwards. And then, to their considerable surprise, they discovered a woman to the left, a door opened above a climb of shitty stairs, hurling her reeking chamber pot their direction.

Recovering admirably, they climbed the steps coated with soil of the night and after maneuvering through a cellar crowded with coal and firewood, they emerged into the ruin of an Elder Pool home, to startle the older woman squatting in this abandoned space.
And that is where we find ourselves, gentle reader. In a state of affairs where one dark cloak, intended to serve a penance has been slaughtered while under house arrest. Another who participated in this murder in the center of Elder Pool, released to perform whatever foul deeds a tramp of the meanest sort might contrive. The Baron confined to his apartments, shaking in fear. And the great heroic hope of Elder Pool playing at seek-and-hide amongst the excrement.

Every day in Darkmoor is an adventure, I must say, gentle reader.

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Upcoming Game — Waterdeep: Dragon Heist

As we’ve discussed, our next game will be a return to Waterdeep in the latest D&D module “Waterdeep: Dragon Heist.” From D&D Beyond:

 

“In this story, you are D&D heroes with swords and magic living in fantasy New York City. A lot of normal people live here trying to get by, but the city is really run by monstrous crime lords, secret nobility, and a lot of evil people trying to get very, very rich. But since this is a city with laws and a police force, you have to act like detectives or vigilantes to get results, like Batman or Robert Downey Jr.’s Sherlock Holmes. Words are weapons, and it’s better to bring villains down by revealing their deep dark secrets than by killing them with a sword.”

We’ll be playing in the “current” iteration of Waterdeep. As much as I have tried to avoid keeping up with the official narrative for Waterdeep (and the broader Forgotten Realms), this game will be firmly set in the setting as it is formally. We are 30+ years in the future from the time of the Open Lord Piergeiron Paladinson. But, while some of the faces have changed except for the newest “Ward:” Deepwater Harbor, the city has not changed, except that it is grander and more cosmopolitan than ever. The above reference to New York City should give some indication of how bustling, arbitrarily corrupt and immune to everyday concerns the City of Splendors is.

For Players: Make Thematic Characters
If your DM and fellow players want to play a game of urban intrigue, you would be well served to create a character that fits in that genre. This way you not only respect others’ fun, you set yourself up to have fun by creating a character well-equipped to handle the sort of challenges the campaign will throw your way. A barbarian suited only for fighting will have fun when combat encounters arise, but when a campaign is mostly based around infiltrating manor houses, schmoozing with nobility, and hunting for clues in ancient archives? You aren’t doing yourself any favors by playing that kind of character.

I will ask that you pick your race, class and background together.  In the first 1-3 sessions, I’m going to ask that everyone complete their Traits, Ideals, Bonds and, especially Flaws.  Please try to have your character’s behavior reflect all of your characters components, not just Race, Class or Alignment.

More from the article:

For Players: Get Involved in the City
Waterdeep is as much a character as any of the DM’s NPCs. Its many wards all have different moods and treat the characters differently. High-class characters with the noble background may feel out of place among rough-and-tumble sailors in muddy Dock Ward, and common city folk may feel like the North Ward’s suburban atmosphere is a bit too clean for their taste—to say nothing of the opulent extravagance of the Sea Ward. Waterdeep is teeming with personality of its own, to say nothing of the dozens upon dozens of NPCs that live there.

Your character has the opportunity to become involved in the city and make a life there. You aren’t a wanderer, camping out on the side of a road as you travel from ruin to ruin. You may have a regular room in the Yawning Portal Inn and Tavern, and get to know the locals. You might want to start up a business of your own and get to know your neighbors and customers. This creates opportunities for roleplaying, but this is a good idea even if you don’t like roleplaying very much. Making friends with the common people of Waterdeep will help you create valuable alliances that may lead you to finding new adventures, new treasure, and other rewards.

 

Thanks!

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TSM Update: The Gathering Storm

IN OUR LAST SESSION(s)…

…our heroes moved to take on Zanzibar and (presumably) Eyebite. Throm led the way out of the Vault of the Throne, and back through the great Hall of History. Along the way, Tiresius, the Secretary joined the party.

The militia, with their increasing retinue (Alamein, the centaur; Attickus, the ranger; Throm, the Seguran dwarf and Tiresius) followed Throm’s direction back along their path to the great chamber where they had previously slipped past the line of Orc drummers. The heroes dispatched the drumming group who had been frantically pounding away prior to their demise.

Throm led the group further. At the end of a hallway, a large steel door was being guarded by an ogre and orc in chainmail. The heroes dispatched the orc and Throm, in Stone Giant shape held the ogre at bay and tossed him clear once the party was through the steel door. The door was then secured from the inside.

Beyond the door were two similar passages, each festooned with murder holes and capped by a similar steel door. As the heroes made their way down the passage, an oddly uniform series of attacks began: crossbow bolts fired at those who passed, with an interval of clicks and clacks and then another volley of bolts would be unleashed. The militia sustained some damage, but managed to make their way through. The Warden’s Key, once again, proved crucial.

A single chainmail-clad orc spotted the opened door and dropped the rods he bore in either hand, linked by fine wires to some mechanism on each side of the hallway. The orc attempted to flee, but Tia pounced and struck him down before he could take more than a step or two.

The rods were in some way tied into crossbows mounted to platforms in spaces behind the walls of the hallway, positioned in front of the murder holes. Each crossbow was fed via a steel “magazine” and the firing and reloading process — part mechanical, part magical were controlled by the rods held by the orc. The following hallway was configured identically. However, the militia devised a tactic whereby Tia, made Invisible by a spell from Norm, crept down the hallway and surprised the orc operating the automated firing platforms. The orc was quickly overwhelmed.

Throm warned that the path now lead to an ever-broadening passage that emerged into a wide stone stair leading to a “Control” area (per Tiresius) and side stairwells that descended into the mining operation proper.
Norm had made contact with the Kruthik swarm, which was nearby and awaiting his instruction. He could see through the creatures’ eyes that ten or so orcs commanded a few dozen dwarves in two areas at the base of the descending stairs. The militia planned to advance, take the rightmost stairs down, and with help from the Kruthiks, defeat the orcs and free the dwarves on that side, then repeat on the other.

However, as the militia approached the staircase, they realized that a small orc contingent was holding the stairs leading up and would be an obstacle to descending either the left or right staircase. The heroes were able to close within 50 feet of the nearest orcs and unleash attacks before spotted. A volley of arrows and spells, followed-up by charging attacks from the speedy Tovlakov and the galloping Alamein, with Dain astride, crushed this orc force with hardly a blow falling the heroes’ way.

Next came twin assaults on the orc forces at the base of the stairs. However, as the militia carefully advanced on the now-alerted foes downstairs, Norm unleashed the Kruthiks, who boiled forth like an unstoppable tide and within moments had killed the orcs and begun to feast.

Many of the freed dwarves joined the heroes, as did the Kruthiks. Those dwarves too feeble to shape-change were left behind to assist the wounded dwarves lying about in the mines.

This new juggernaut task force, the militia, twenty-or-so Seguran dwarves in Stone Giant form, Attickus, Alamein, Tiresius and the Kruthik swarm moved up the stairs to a great set of double doors beyond which, if the incessant drumming was any omen, the remaining enemy force had gathered in defense.

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TSM Update: Hope You Guess My Name

IN OUR LAST SESSION…
… our heroes faced the necromancer Eyebite and his master, Lord Segur. Eyebite immediately began to animate the skeletal and rotting remains of the many corpses piled near the great doors of the Vault. Segur reached out and magically drew the Warden’s Key from Tia and used it to open the doors.
A great battle then began, with a score of zombies, including some reanimated ogres advancing towards the heroes and holding them in place while Segur made for the great Throne.
The militiamen first targeted Segur, then as he passed out of sight, they moved to focusing on Eyebite. For some reason Uddar and his team held back.
In the mean time, Tovlakov used his superior speed to rush around the growing wall of undead, and to zoom past Eyebite in pursuit of Segur.
The militiamen had their hands full trying to fight their way through the zombies and skeletons. They sought to move past the front ranks of relatively small fry to get to Eyebite. The greater zombies, however, were able to hold the heroes at bay for a while. Eventually, Eyebite, who during this time was a target of repeated attacks seemed to draw sustenance from his undead such that the bolus of damage he took seemed to have little impact.
The heroes’ continued threat, however, did drive Eyebite back and through the great doors. The militiamen followed.
Tovlakov had continued to pursue Segur, despite his significant head start. It soon became clear that Segur could not outrun Tovlakov down this massive hallway with a long strip of red carpet stretching toward an enormous stone throne.
Segur warned Tovlakov not to try to reach the throne. “I don’t have any reason to want you dead,” he said, hinting at some unidentified threat. Segur then met Tovlakov and attacked him with a vicious concealed knife. The two fought, one-on-one. Tovlakov, though, had been worn down in his many travails since falling from the great bridge, and was dispatched by the Count. Segur then set out once again for the throne.
Only the speedy Alamein could stop him. The centaur rushed forward and confronted Segur. The two fought, and once again Segur came out on top. He closed the distance to the great Throne and perched upon it.
All seemed lost. Then Segur seemed to fumble about for something, tapping around on the Throne as if he might have lost something. With no warning, the great dark head of a massive, ancient dragon descended from the depths of the ceiling and snatched up Segur, swallowing him in one bite.
Eyebite disapparated.
After a moment, the great dragon descended on the throne, perched atop it, far too large to be seated. The great wyrm then transformed into a Giant-sized dwarf in armor, with a glistening crown at his brow.
This was the King of Old. This entire dwarven complex had been ruled by a dragon, those many generations ago.
The King, after introductions, indicated that he might wish to rebuild the long-lost relationship between the Dwarven stronghold and Rankford. He asked that the heroes help by freeing the Dwarven slaves still held inside the mine.
Throm indicated that he knew where Zanzibar and his forces kept the slaves. The heroes agreed to free the slaves, to defeat Zanzibar.
The ancient prisoner, who Dain now realized was a physical manifestation of his deity Ilmater, had one final discussion with his cleric, and disappeared.

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TSM Update: Pleased to Meet You

IN OUR LAST SESSION…

… our heroes made friends with some dwarves led by Uddar, priest of Berronar Truesilver. The dwarves had been trying for some time to get through the door leading to the Vault of the Throne. So far they have been unsuccessful. Uddar helped the heroes to identify the creatures heard the previous night clomping through the hallway: kor!

Uddar and crew had helped the heroes up in to the space above the hallway, and participated in the fight against the flameskull. The heroes had hoped to perhaps use the kor’s ability to teleport to pass through the door.

Their other new friend, Jermiah, who they had freed from the previously-explored vampire spawn lair, seemed to feel that the militiamen had it within themselves to open the door. Once the attempt to use the kor’s teleport ability seemed infeasible (or would take too long), the militimen, accompanied by their Segurian dwarf allies Strom and Throm, Jeremiah, Uddar and his three associates, the centaur Alamein and his ranger friend Attickus, the heroes all pushed on the door together…

“You strain, your party members sweating alongside. Dust and plaster fall into your hair. Your muscles burn, tendons stretch and threaten to snap. Your breath is hot and increasingly ragged against the cold stone of the door. Through gritted teeth you urge your allies on for one last push, and the door begins to creak and then with an audible crack and a rush of air, the door gives.

You find yourself blinking in the dim but seemingly omnipresent light of a great stone hall, in the grandest dwarven fashion. The themes that you have seen previously in Dol Seguria — on the forest door; in the spectacular entrance beyond the drawbridge; at the base of the stairs where the orc drummers pounded out their mysterious message — are all represented in this space. The stonework is exquisite, the carvings perfectly in tune with the natural color gradations of the marble, slate, granite and sandstone. The minutely intricate art of the stonemason’s craft converges through the walls and ceilings of the space on two enormous doors. Your back and shoulders still aching from prying open this far more modest door all but groan at the sight of this new obstacle.

Despite all of this grandeur, your eyes quickly settle on the floor before the colossal doors. A hundred, perhaps a thousand corpses repose in an angry and dismaying pile, at places five or six bodies high. Most are skeletal, though bits of dry flesh and desiccated clothing remain here and there. Some have been clearly dragged from the main mass and been gnawed clean. The majority, though, seem to still lie as they fell, in some forgotten day long past, in some horrible conflict or holocaust. Glancing along this dismal collection, you quickly realize that with only a handful of exceptions, while the skeletons seem to represent a great variety of races, dwarven corpses are glaringly absent.

The scene is simultaneously spectacular and spectacularly gruesome. As your brain attempts to take it all in, Strom beside you lets out a heart-rending groan of misery at this tableau, and, simultaneously Throm draws the longsword provided to him by Dmitrov from its well-oiled sheath, and in a single, effortless gesture,slices it through the neck of his brother, such that Strom’s head momentarily hovers in mid-air as his body, now beginning to fountain blood, slides sideways and collapses with a crunch to the flagstones, before the severed head itself thuds wetly alongside.
Throm now turns the shining sword, slick with the blood of his fellow inward. His intent is clear: he means to disembowel himself.
A scant instant before he can complete that task of self-mutilation, there is a flash and a pop and an odor of brimstone, and near the great doors, a foot or so before that hellish pile of deceased, two forms blink into view. One lavishly dressed, his longe blonde hair uncharacteristically unkempt, a smirk on his unshaven face, the other dressed in black robes, white paint on his face, his dark eyes red and manic. “Too late,” Segur says with some cheer to Throm.”

And that’s where we left our heroes.

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TSM Update: That’s the Spirit!

IN OUR LAST SESSION…
… our hero Tovlakov, separated from the rest of the milita due to clumsiness and gravity, sought to find his way back to his militia friends. After tumbling into darkness, he had arrived at a wide passage with options to head back towards what seemed to be the orc drumming line the heroes had seen from Segur’s entrance to the lost mine,and another heading into darkness.

As he moved, Tovlakov ran into the wererat members of the local thieves group. Tovlakov met up with a stout holy warrior named Dmitrov, and together they vanquished some of the wererat menace, and following a hallway with many doors, they freed the priestess of Gond, Pearl who had been held captive here, as had Dmitrov.

Together they continued and eventually the hallway led through a heavy door spiked open and another wererat who the party dealt with. Beyond, a wide passage swept downwards, and a scaffolding, mounted to the near wall, led in a similar direction, but at a consistent height. Tovlakov and his new friends mounted the scaffold and followed it.

After some distance, the heroes observed that the scaffold led to a rough hole in a wall, with just the plank extended a few feet through the opening. Beyond suspended by ropes attached to pitons in the stone ceiling was a small crew of four of these curious grey dwarves, a member of which, it seemed, Dementia Lancaster had been, toiled, attempting to open a hole in the naked stone.

Far below, presumably at the base of the downward sloping passage the team had eschewed, was a small force of various races, urging the dwarves on.

Very quickly a shout arose and the dwarves attempted to surge back onto the scaffolding, chased, as it turned out, by a young adult dragon. The wyrm snatched up one of the dwarves, then quickly returned and made off with a second.

Tovlakov’s crew questioned these dwarves, who only spoke an ancient variant of the dwarven tongue. They indicated that they did this work because Zanzibar demanded it of them. They understood that they were supposed to cut an opening in the ceiling here that would lead to something known as the Vault of the Throne. That this Vault (or, more likely, the Throne) was what Zanzibar and his master or masters were truly seeking down here.

Tovlakov and crew, now with two dwarven additions, retreated. They deduced that the force at the foot of the sloping path would certainly send someone to encourage the dwarves to return to their work. Tovlakov and team set an ambush for this messenger, and managed to nab him, a runner, as it turned out.
Tovlakov just wanted to find his way back to his militiaman party. Through threats and intimidation, they convinced the runner to lead them to another hole that had been cut by the dwarves. This route lead, via an arching passage up a very steep staircase to a hole guarded by elven archers. The party overwhelmed the archers and then descended through the hole to a great dwarven promenade that the militia had previously navigated, lead at that time by the dwarven ghost Mudron Voon.

The party now was lead through this landscape by the grey dwarves, who by a direct passage delivered the party to the Guardian, the great, snake-like Naga who secured the massive doors leading to the bridge from which Tovlakov had stumbled.

The Naga healed the injured among the party and ultimately allowed them to pass:  all except Pearl and Dmitrov. “Only the living may pass,” the Naga pronounced, halting the progress of Tovlakov’s new friends. Tovlakov and the grey dwarves continued on.

The militiamen, having retreated to a previously expolored room as a temporary sanctuary, rested. During his watch, Norm heard a clumsy banging of several creatures passing through the outer hallway.

Once fully rested, as the militiamen emerged into the hallway once more, they discovered the sound of heavy chains moving. Attickus was asked to investigate. He proceed back down the passage towards the bridge, guessing that the sound was of the great chains that raised and lowered the drawbridge leading to this place. Attickus, then, came face-to-face with Tovlakov and his new grey dwarf friends.