Hugo – Dorky Dungeoneer

Skullport Shakedown: Cagey Bars and Barred Cages

Volo,

Hope you enjoy this piece of limited edition Skull Island prison stationary. It was hard to come by a piece that wasn’t too spattered with blood, gore or spider bile after we cleaned up some of the more distasteful figures here. Really poor decorator, that half-ogre warden. His name was Sundeth, I believe which is – well – was fitting. The wyvern was nice, though. Would not have minded keeping it. Turns out there’s a slaves’ hall on the island here too, which I have’t seen the inside of yet, but I’m keeping it in mind if we need to cause a diversion.

Nary a whisper of your key thus far. We’ve yet to locate the messenger who went missing while carrying it– hence our unexpected prison visit – supposedly the Guild took her here. Beyond that, though, the only reason that it seems not to have arrived on your doorstep as expected, is that the Zhentarim really want to have a word with you. I know. Write a note, why don’t they? Boskynn seems an amiable fellow, and while his festhall is too tame for my aunt’s liking, there may be alignment in it for you if you, like he, want to ensure that Xanathar’s Guild doesn’t get too confident or too powerful. Apparently, they’ve been running around like dogs with two… tails. Yeah. Ways of initiating aside, he seems straightforward when talked to in person.

The supposedly still key-carrying courier we’re here for is of the Bregan d’Aerthe, who seem at least comfortable with the Zhents, but are obviously also out for their own exploits; running a cat and mouse game with the Guild. I expect we’ll set matters up so that they may aid in getting us off this island once we got who and what we came here for. Their repeated prison break experiences should come in handy when it is time for us to go, and they have offered us aid since we’re looking for some of their own. They have these little whistles that really are quite charming. Maybe they know another way off the island too, as the bridge is heavily guarded and the docks are locked away from open water by one of those heavy chains that crack a ship’s hull like a walnut if you sail into it. I’m ruling out swimming as an option on principle.

You may want to anticipate an empty spot in the Skull island prison tower, in any case, as we’ve cleared both that hideous warden and some guards from the board (thank us later?). If you happen to have a pawn who can suck up to Xanathar’s Guild, has a strong stomach and very few scruples, a swift move might land you a nice promotion and some ears on the inside. Bonus points if your candidate has a thing for iron maidens and racks and such, and more if they’re conversant in whatever Drow speak, as there seems to be – a contingent involved here as guards. Nothing too shoddy either: a female mage along with several capable male warriors and (of course) sizable spiders. Interesting to see that they’d rather serve a non-Drow slavers’ gang than work with their blood-kin mercs. Maybe one of them will enlighten me eventually as to why, though so far they seem little for talking and lots for poisoning, which is just so cliche.

Once we get our hands on the courier and her goods, we’ll book it. Maybe lend an ear to talk of nimblewrights as well. They seem to be a clever invention by Drow mages, and could be useful depending on how far their intelligence goes.

Looking forward to hearing your next move.

Tio

Skullport Shakedown: One Night in Keel Hall

“Your cloven-hooved friend plays it close to her chest.” Tio smiles and replies. “Sometimes. I wonder how long it’ll last. Her surprises are usually good ones.”

From out of nowhere, Din appears next to the pair of tieflings. “Speak of your elders and betters that way, huh? For shame.” With a wink, she disappears again, either to some dark corner or perhaps to the middle of the revelry in which Elissa holds court; the various guards and patrons of Keel Hall mill around her in a carousel of drink, gambling and shouted challenges.

Damien, off to the side, inclines his head towards the bartender, who grins and reaches under the bar for a small bottle. A single drop falls into a beer stein. The dwarf sinks into his beard with satisfaction.

“So,” Bosskyn says, nudging Tio, “have any theories on why The Guild would be after Drow couriers?” “Hm. No. It even seems early days to conclude that they actually are. Especially if they’ve been playing The Guild for fools by letting themselves get caught on purpose.” Elissa busies herself convincing a trio of the ever-present guards to form a human pyramid and seems to try to cajole Din into being at the top of it. “Though,” Tio continues “if true, I’d say that Cory and the key were bycatch of a hunt for one of those nimblewrights.” “So you have no idea what Volothamp needs that key for?” Tio shakes his head. “None of my business, either.” Boskyn tilts his head. “Really? Not even a tad bit curious?” Tio shrugs, then realizes that Bosskyn can’t see him and makes a noncommittal sound.

Din, having more or less escaped from Elissa’s acrobatic displays and random bursts of flowers which now grace the trio of piled up guards, looks up at the pair. “Of course he is curious. Hells, I’m curious.” She pokes Tio in the thigh. “Trying to play it cool, huh? But I know better. You seemed pretty willing to accept that proposal by… whatstheirfaces… Fel’rekt and Kerbbyg and their little clanky pal.” “Bhinros. From the Bregan d’ Aerthe.” “Yeah, that’un.” “Aaand you were plenty eager to help that nice old lady from the place where you can get your papers all fancy made” Bosskyn guffaws. “I’ll tell Tasselgryn you referred to her and the Poisoned Quill that way.” “As you should.” Din responds, primly, turning a gimlet eye towards the horned Zhentarim, whose eyes are fixed a few inches over her head. “She seemed quite pleasant and proper. And I noticed she was quite good friends with your scaly flying friend.” “Oh, yeah, Zsokia is very fond of her.” Din beams. “Do you think she’d know a place to find a sweet friend like that?” Bosskyn shrugs. “Maybe ask her?” Din sniffs at this unhelpful comment, turns on her heel and walks over to the stool next to Damien.

Soon, a rapid-fire questioning about the domain and history of Loviatar starts, questions high-pitched and clearly audible, answers grumbled, slightly slurred from behind beard and stein.

Elissa rappels down from somewhere near the ceiling on what looks like a decorative piece of rigging, landing on the floor boards with a decided click. “My wife, as per usual, has a point,” she says, staring at both tieflings. “Explain to me what use a glorified thieves’ guild has for religious fanatics?” The satyr seems to almost sway on her hooves, but then recovers. “Yeah, sure, they’re sadists and all, and I am sure torture is, like, both their hobby and half their trade, so why outsource the fun to a bunch of uptight, self-flaggelating godbotherers?

Bosskyn laughs. “Indeed. Not a bad point.” Elissa stares up at him, unimpressed. “We already killed one of them. Him and his fell monster buddies. What even were they. Well, doesn’t matter. Those leather-clad, pale-haired boys said there was a more powerful one up in… Skull keep. Skull castle. That prison thing.” Bosskyn smiles at the satyr. “I’m sure. But do you want to concern yourself with that right this instant, or would you rather try some Luskan sparkle?” Elissa’s eyes light up, but still she says. “I’m not that easily seduced, young man.” “Auntie,” Tio sighs, “I don’t think he’s trying to seduce you.” “Well if he has any sense he’s not. I am very firmly off the market.” “Enjoy the sparkle wine, Auntie. I’m off to bed.” She stamps a small hoof. “Mixing business with pleasure can be very edifying, Tio. You should try it sometime.” She reaches up, pats him on the cheek and moves to the bar with a hop and a skip.

As Tio turns towards the bedrooms, Bosskyn says “Not taking her advice, then, huh?” Tio smiles “To every bird its tune, Bosskyn. That’s hers. I save the revelry for after.” “I’ll remember that. I’d like for you to prosper with your family.” “I’m sure you do. Good night, Bosskyn.”

Skullport Shakedown: Breakfast at Frankie’s

From a crevice high up in the stacked stone wall, a small, beady-eyed face overlooks the room. Its nose twitches above the rolled up slip of paper it holds between its teeth. Then it wriggles its way through, short front paws pushing off against the gray stone. When its long body has cleared the crack, the weasel hops down onto the cluttered surface of the table. It drags the rolled up paper between the open books and instruments until it reaches the edge of the table, where it hops down onto a stool and then the floor. It’s claws skitter on the flagstone as it scurries to the chairs set near the window. Once there, it leaps up onto the wizard’s knee.

Volo exchanges the roll of paper for a piece of dried meat, which gets instantly devoured, then he makes a gesture. Unseen hands unroll the paper a comfortable distance away from his face. While he strokes the weasel that has splayed itself across his lap, he reads. Soon he frowns a little, then he frowns a lot.

Another gesture and the paper rolls back up and moves over to a brazier where it smolders and then lights up before scattering as ashes. A third gesture. With a tiny sound a dragon chess piece moves on one of the two boards at the opposite end of the room.

Volo sighs and looks down at the small familiar in his lap. “You’d think these adventurers would have have better sense, Vamoose.” The weasel chitters in response to its name. “I know”, the wizard continues with raised eyebrows. “Who goes and actually fights a mindflayer? You tell me… Still. They made it this far. It’d be smarter to keep them down there than to send another crew.”

The wizard rises from his chair, Vamoose digging its claws into the bejeweled robes to scamper up to Volo’s shoulder.

***

Frankie looks over the adventurers with some concern as they cross Skull Square and quietly file in through her front door. The dwarf glowers and grumbles and looks greyer-skinned than usual. The satyr and the halfling keep up lighthearted banter, but the tone is just a little too performatively cheerful to sound entirely sincere. The tiefling doesn’t say much at all, and doesn’t meet her eyes or those of his party members.

Well, it’s not the first time she’s helped a few people through a stroke of bad fortune, so she sets to work. A bucket of water from the shared pump in the square, heated over the fire with a few drops of patchouli oil to cover up the coppery smell of blood for them to wash off the worst of the grime. A quick sporeflour batter, fried in clarified goat butter, to serve along with pickled lake eel, lizard eggs and spiced root hash. She even pulls out a bottle of… well. They call it moonshine, but it’s really just the distilled byproduct of the local brewers’. Eye-wateringly sharp and tongue-looseningly strong, even for legit adventurers, she thinks, and so good enough for tonight.

Before the bottle is half-empty, and right as Din rambles through a vivid description of the various traps they dealt with on their way to Mugrub’s killer, a knocking sound reverberates through the room in which the group has spread their bedrolls.

Elissa flicks from view, probably to get a better sightline from the upper floor.

Din draws her rapier and Damien his axe. Frankie opens the door. A scaly, slit-pupiled face looks down at her. “Mistressh Fransheshca”, the dragonborn says “pleashe pash thish on to your houshe gueshtsh.” A large hand with black claws hands over a silk purse.

Before she can so much as ask the Dragonborn’s name, they turn away, using a prehensile tail to pull the door shut against her own grip on the latch.

Damien is the first to speak. “We know that one from the inn.” He exchanges looks with Din, who nods, and Frankie and then with Elissa as she reappears at the top of the stairs. In the silence after that, they look over at Tio, who hasn’t moved. He blinks. Blinks again. Shakes his head. Repeats, in a voice not quite his own: “Track the key. Likely contact: Boskynn, at Keelhaul, Zhentarim haunt. Look out for Drow messenger. Do not mess up again. Gold incoming. Go canny.”

Skullport Shakedown: An Unlikely Cast of Characters

Volo,

You’ll notice we haven’t reported back within the implicitly assumed time frame for your little fetch quest. If you read this and it’s still invisible, we weren’t dead yet a sun’s and moon’s rise ago. At the time of writing we’re not yet topside, but plan to be soon when I get over having my brain leak out of my ears (stop laughing, you fiend – I swear there is a perceivable difference in my performance). “Send” me if you want to adjust scope based on this report, otherwise I’ll see you at Halfway’s soon to wrap up. Do you need an overview of expenses?

Your trinket caught the interest of the magpie-eyed Zhents and has been in their possession roughly since the moment we set foot down here. This by means of a noxious feller of the brain-eating persuasion. Name’s Roxy. He’s been making meals of some of the citizens. Possible opportunity for a clever person to gain a conduit for information down here (see “Frankie” of Skull square), plus perhaps an entry for your next book, should you care to do away with the tentacled parasite. Happy to retry ourselves, if properly compensated but we’d need more firepower and significant hazard pay. Roxy seems remarkbly resistent to both banishment and appeals to morality. The latter is not a surprise. Consider figuring out how he was compelled to act- maybe the Zhents can be moved to get rid of him if he’s lost his use. Likely lower risk and cleaner than extending our contract to include assassination – it’ s not our forte.

Other persons of interest:

Goblin operator of a boxing ring / gambling den called the Batroost, name of Grubbus Pipsnout. Can possibly provide dumb muscle where needed, and has a hand in the local gambling scene (where said Roxy, apparently, had been cleaning out the house). The aunties were willing to pay lil shorty for his information, but my estimation is that he’d not be a hard nut to crack for a minor business advantage. Possibly another good source of intel. Provided the gold to pay for purchase of said trinket.

Madcap necromancer in Deadman’s Corner who makes zombies to have an audience for her conversations with herself. Cheap buy, but picky on payment type. Called Laurel Stillwater. Has a sister? Apparently willing to hold onto sums of gold without much instruction and then hand them off to whoever. Could send a runner by once a week just to ask for the petty cash, I guess.

A victim of Roxy. Orc. Mugrub, or somesuch. Not herself particularly interesting, but she’s the link where Roxy broke his clever little chain of diversion. Mugrub picked up the gold from Zombies-R-Us and went to purchase the trinket from Thimblewines, which Roxy then presumably took off of her when he had her brain for a snack. Tentacle hickies gave him away. Wonder if he tried to hide her murder by killing others, or if hels just hungry a lot.

Crystallene, operator of Thimblewines and an overall delight. Unsure if she knew we would come for the key or if the pickup by Mugrub was what she expected. Did she even know what she had? She knew to sell well, so she must’ve been aware of something. Wonder if she fences other wares, as making a living off of mechanical cockroaches and painted eggs seems unlikely.

Found both guide and initial contact to be performing within parameters. Consider a sweep of the travel route as the slavers and their pet snakes were pesky and you almost lost Gwenson, (who you apparently pay upfront). Asathra is wasted on that inn. Girl is too clever for her own good – that little puzzle of hers almost reduced cuz Damien to tears and drove auntie Elissa to drink.

The Skulls are a pesky lot with not a single sane thought still between them. Please advise on a clothier, as I do think I’d look dashing in a bow tie.

Faithfully,

Tio

Ps. Unicorn from C3 to E4.

Skullport Shakedown: introducing Din and Elissa

20 years ago:

One of the benefits of being all sneaky-sneak is that if someone is after the same mark you are, you hear them coming.
Din had quietly walked over the roofs of the townhouses of this block until she reached the middle house, climbed down to the top window at the back- making sure to not make a single sound with her light halfling step – and then carefully slid the window open and slipped inside. If she didn’t close the window, she’d probably be able to sneak out the same way after she got her hands on the ring. The merchant who owned the house, and technically owned the magic item Din was after – at least for a few more minutes – was away and all the staff were in bed. This should be an easy job, even on her own.
Easy until the owner, an older human man, came bustling in, unexpectedly returning from his travels. The staff rushed out to welcome him home, confused and asking if anything was wrong, but the merchant shrugged them off and sent them back to bed. Then, he walked up the stairs to his chambers – the very same ones Din was hidden in. ‘Fuck fuck fuck’ Din whispered to herself, but then got very quiet. Something sounded off. The sound of the merchant walking up the stairs was wrong. If she didn’t move and held her breath, Din could hear a soft clop-clopping sound instead of the soft thump of shoes on the stairs.
As soon as probably-not-the-merchant stepped into the room and closed the door, Din stepped behind them and pressed her dagger into their back. “I know you are not him. Get out, I’m on a job and I was here first”. Din heard a tinkling laugh filled with genuine joy in response, before the not-merchant whisked around and knocked the dagger out of her hand with their staff. At the same time the tip of the staff sprouted a bunch of daisies. The owner of the staff seemed nearly as surprised as Din at this. “Oooh, flowers, how very romantic, you shouldn’t have!” said Din as she stepped back and grabbed her rapier. The not-merchant laughed again and dropped their human form. Suddenly Din saw a female satyr before her, with a flowery staff in one hand, a sickle in the other, and a wickedly beautiful smile. Well, that explained the clop-clopping sound at least.
“Listen,” said the satyr “I don’t want to fight someone who looks this confident with a rapier. How about we share the loot and leave quietly so we don’t get caught?” Din felt the familiar tingle of magic at the base of their skull, trying to lure her into a false sense of security. Ohhh, this lady was dangerous… With a shake of her head Din resisted the magic, but that gave the satyr just enough time to hit her once with her staff. Ouch. Out of reflex Din tried to jump out of the way and hit a bookshelf. A few books fell, loudly, and stirring noises came from the other floors. Both women froze and waited until all was quiet.
Then Din moved into the satyr’s space, pushed her up against the wall, and held the point of her rapier to the other’s throat. Why did the satyr not stop smiling while she tilted her neck up, Din though. It was distracting. “We’re both going to get killed if we keep fighting. All I’m interested in is the ring, you can have any other loot. But no more hitting or creepy magic or stupid flowers, ok satyr lady? I just want to grab the ring and get out.” The satyr nodded and somehow widened their smile to something just beyond genuine. “Sure, I don’t care about a silly ring, I am just picking up something for Lady Titania. And you can call me Elissa.” After a hesitant nod, Din stepped back, grabbed her dagger off the floor and put her rapier away.
As Elissa rummaged through stacks of papers, Din quickly picked the locks and disassembled the traps of the heavy desk’s drawers, and opened the box the ring was in. It was beautifully inlaid with gems in a flower pattern. “Ohhh, that is pretty. I’ve changed my mind, I want it” said Elissa from just over Din’s shoulder, startling Din enough to nearly drop the ring “What does it do?”. “None of your business” answered Din. “Oh really? Do you want me to hit you with my staff again?” “Yes, because I’m soo scared of some flowers…” Quietly bickering Elissa and Din climb out of the window and up to the roof. Elissa sighs as she looks at the sliver of moon. “I really want that pretty ring though, but you have my word that I won’t use magic to get it. So how about some ale?”
A few years later, Din used that very same ring to propose to Elissa with. She always gets her way in the end.

Skullport Shakedown: Trade Secrets

Eleasis 23, Waterdeep, Dock Ward, The Hanging Lantern

The earliest hint of dawn light falls through the small basement window, filtered through dirt and cobwebs.

The kitchen is still too dark for fine needle work, so a moonlight-haired half-elf in sheer robes lights a squat, four-wicked candle. A steady dripping splishes onto the cracked, glazed tiles in front of her satin slippers.

She sighs.“You’re lucky you arrived when you did. Had you come sooner, you would have had to wait.” Tio frowns. “ A busy night? Tonight? I hadn’t thought it likely.” She nods. “An inland trade delegation.” Tio pulls a single shoulder up. “Guess they’re not here on sheep’s trade” She smiles. “Rough gems. And silver ore. Second grade.” “Will you tell Maradan of the jewelers then? You see her regularly.” “Probably. But first things first. You’re bleeding all over Polly’s floors.”

She reaches over and picks at the kerchief knotted around Tio’s upper arm. “Most people would go to a temple for this sort of thing.” Another one-shouldered shrug from the tiefling. “I prefer going to the seamstresses.” She gives him a look, then moves to kick him playfully. “Hey! Kicking a man when he is down, isn’t that against your religion, or something?” “If you cared about my religion, you should have gone to see a cleric after all.” He sighs, defeated. “Fine. Sorry.” As she unwraps the kerchief, the dripping speeds up. “That looks ugly. Why’d you let yourself get stabbed, dumbass.” “I know Hesper. No need to rub it in.” He slides over a small leather envelope. “Here, it should have needles pre-threaded.” “Did you even clean this before you tied your snotrag around it?” A third one-shouldered shrug. Hesper presses her lips together and moves her fingers in the gesture of a familiar cantrip before flicking open the envelope and picking up a curved needle.

Some time later they sit at a corner of the table, floor and silk slippers cleaned of blood, and a bottle of rum between them. Hesper’s face is more relaxed, and Tio’s a lot less grey. “You planning to spend the night?” “If Polly lets me.” “Hm. We’ve got a new girl, so no empty rooms. But we can share?” “That’d be nice. Old time’s sake, and all.” Hesper snorts at her friend. “Old times. You’re a baby, Tee. Shut your mouth.”

He gives her a smile over his glass. “Got you something, though.” He fishes around in a pocket awkwardly with his left hand before closing his fist on something and holding the closed fist out to her. She opens her hand underneath his and feels a cool weight drop into it. At first sight, it’s a smooth ring, completely unmarked. “Diamond on the inside. Casts Revivify when the wearer needs it.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Never in a hundred years could you afford that.” He shakes his head. “Was a smuggler who could, though. She didn’t deserve to have it.” “You’re kidding.” “Wish I was. If it was just contraband, I’d have let it slide. But you know what the laws are like down south, and she was shipping people. Not even just prisoners either.” “Fuck.” “Yeah.”

“Are you sure you want to take more jobs from this new patron of yours? You landed here for two out of three. He throws you at dangerous people.” Tio looks down at the table. “It’s better than the jobs for the gambling halls. That’s squeezing people with problems for gold they don’t have.” “You almost sound like an altruist.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “Pay is better. Equipment too. And that ring really has a clever enchantment. It doesn’t go off if you lose the finger it’s on.” “Okay, still not an altruist then.” “Well, I did give you that ring.” Hesper shakes her head, blows out the candle and grabs her friend by the uninjured arm. “Time for bed.”

Early that afternoon, as the Lantern’s staff stumbles out of bed and assembles over platters of hotcakes, cream and preserves, Hesper presses on. “You keep taking jobs like this, you need access to a real healer. This’ll scar and get stiff. You’re more likely to get injured again.” “Hesp, I swear, none of those god-botherers want to be seen anywhere near hellspawn like me. You know how it is.” “Bullshit, Tee, you’re bigoted.” “You can’t be a bigot about other people’s opinions.” “You know what I mean.”

From across the long trestle table, kohl-rimmed dwarven eyes stare at the tiefling and his friend. “My brother Damien would help you, as long as you didn’t, like, sacrifice to Asmodeus in front of him.” Tio arches an eyebrow. “Graz’zt, actually. Great-great-grandmother was a daughter of his.” Now Hesper really does kick him. He winces. “The little shit means to say he’s interested, and would like to know where to find your brother. Don’t believe him if he ever tells you that this ancestor was a princess, either. All tieflings claim a “princess” as their evil ancestor. Pretentious twerps, the lot.” Tio rolls his eyes. “Sure. Whatever she says. I’m Tio. Pleased to meet you, new girl.” “It’s Ingfrid. And my brother Damien lives at the sanctuary of Chauntea.” “Hm.” “You should go see him.”

The next time Tio shows up to see Hesper, he speaks of a new friend. And he didn’t bleed all over Polly’s old store room.

Skullport Shakedown: Moving Pieces

Flamerule 1 (Founder’s Day), Waterdeep, Halfway Inn, Brother’s Barkeeper Charity Chess Tournament

A carefully manicured hand with glassy nails moved to the earth level of the dragon chess board and nudged a white warrior piece forward. “So, how are the book sales these days?”

The human wizard smiled at his opponent and moved a black basilisk piece on the lower level. “Not bad, really. There was that… unfortunate happenstance at the docks some time back, which caused a modest increase in demand.”

A soft chuckle and another white warrior slides gently forward. “One orc’s death is another orc’s breath, I do suppose.”

He cocks an eyebrow as the black sylph finds a new home on the upper level of the board. “That’s a more poetic translation than I usually hear. Not a common proverb either. Do you count the orcs among your friends?”

A smile reveals slightly pointed teeth. “There are many orcs. Certainly a few would consider me such.” A third white warrior moves. “One caravan master told me that whenever she and I go out on the town, she has a very wicked time.” Bright red eyes crinkle at the pun.

Volothamp considers his options. The tiefling who drew lots against him doesn’t seem overly concerned with the moves he had made thus far, and he had preferred a standard opening sequence. Maybe he could pull off the Stone Thief’s Mate. It would be a quick way out. He positions the black dwarf in preparation. No alarm shows on the face at the other side of the table. An amateur then, most likely. “Wicked, no less.” he says, “That’s something, from those who drink fermented warg’s milk with their morning porridge.”

They pick up the pace of their play. White Oliphant. Second black Basilisk. White unicorn. Volothamp makes his penultimate move, nudging the black Sylph forward again, face neutral.

His opponent’s head dips, tipping a dark curl forward from behind a slim, pale antler. “Fermented warg’s milk…” he shudders. “Personally I prefer southern brandy. Even the product of our beloved local Chauntea sanctuary, which is probably just distilled novice sweat, is vastly superior to that.” Eyes still down, the tiefling lifts his hand towards the middle board, then pauses, sending a pupilless glance up from under curls and eyebrows. “That said. A drink?” He pulls out the Paladin piece and drops it to the lower board, beckoning over one of the ale boys with his free hand.

Time to recalculate. The Paladin’s Counter wasn’t the strongest response to his manoeuvre, but it was a clever one. Effective. Profoundly noncommittal in response to his own decisiveness. Held until the last possible moment, too. He stretched in his seat. This could yet be an interesting game.

Two glasses of brandy later, with the game’s end a decently engaging victory, Volo finds himself lingering at the bar to await the drawings for the third round of the tournament. The slight tiefling leans back beside him, a booted leg stretched out into the walkway. “Shame to find such a strong opponent this early on. I could have used the prize money.”

The wizard smiles. “This is where I might offer to keep an ear to the ground for any interesting opportunities. However, knowing neither your name nor your trade, I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Yourself too, perhaps, if it turns out we could be of use to one another.”

The tiefling extends a hand. “Tio. Sometimes I work with local guilds to follow up on accounts. See if things can’t be resolved… harmoniously. Beyond that, well, it is said that I like to entertain.”

Journey to Fate’s Doorstep: the second gem

Dear Jonathan,

How many letters have I written to you like this? One for every week. Twelve letters. This one will be a little different, sweetheart.

As I write this, the world around me is cloudy, eerie, misty. Not that much different from how I have felt most of this time, but now it isn’t just me. Everyone I am with feels it too. They seem used to it, even more than I am, though perhaps for different reasons. We’re inside a holy place, they say, though it looks like army barracks to me. You would have loved to see this place, little soldier.

It was perhaps an hour ago that I was inside the greenhouse. Your father had told me it was best if I stayed there for the duration of the meeting he had called, but his new companions, marked with the black hand of Bane struck me as untrustworthy. Evil. I made myself invisible and watched as they performed a ritual that made my blood run cold. They struck among their own. A young man, black of hair and pale of skin, like from the southern coast. I cannot describe the effects properly, but everyone there transformed before my eyes into something I barely recognized. I am not sure what language was spoken during the ritual, but surely nothing of our faith would ever translate as “Draig tgo Bain-iise”. My own house turned inside out, corrupted and changed in ways that I cannot explain. Worse, it seemed to spread. Rapidly.

While your father and his men were in the throes of completion of whatever it was they wrought, I snuck among them and took the dagger. That probably seems strange to you, baby, but if I had had the time to teach you my craft you would know that much power of any ritual remains within the instrument with which it is performed. I ran, then. Back to the greenhouse. Back to you and to the place where I pray. Where your father used to pray with me. He must have stopped, some time in these last tear-stained weeks. I don’t recall that he did. I so recall feeling angry with him. Deserted by him. Feeling like he left you as well as me.

One of the creeds of our faith is “From death, life”. It seemed to me then, as I ran back towards your resting place, that what your father could do, so I could do. If Luther claimed a stranger’s life and damned my house, why could I not claim a life and bless my sanctuary? The fog withdrew, little man. For the first time in a long time, things were absolutely clear. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Not as much as birthing you did, and the goal was much the same.

Rather than facing death and judgment (and in stupid, desperate maternal hopes, a reunion with you, darling), I blinked and faced a quartet of strangers looking most fierce. A dwarf in heavy armor, extended a hand to me, called himself Mordrock, servant of Kelemvor, and demanded the dagger, now the carrier of power of two lifeblood rituals. A human man, bristling with knives called upon a power and healed me, but it seemed weakened. Holding them for men of Bane, I swore that they must leave; that their ritual had not been able to corrupt this sacred space. It shows the selfishness of our fears for in that moment, I knew for certain they would not do what cruel and evil men do to women they find after their victories. Though I am not fully sure of their morality as yet, I am glad not to have to write you of that particular fate, and find that it gives me faith in their intent. There were more attempts at healing, but it took a most powerful spell before they managed to restore me. You would be much awed by these men, Johnny. They wield awesome powers and their stories tell of fighting Tiamat and demon lords!

One of them, a bald-headed human called Royce, carries a blade that spreads real sunlight far and wide. I wonder if he knows of the significance of such weapons in our faith, but I consider it a beacon of hope even if he does not. He serves a god of war, which seems a strange calling for a dawnbringer’s weapon. They tell me that 26 years have passed since your father’s ritual. Since, supposedly, my death. Twenty six years, twelve weeks and three days since yours. I think that was yesterday.

To find such men here must mean that the evil Luther caused is greater than I could imagine. In the hopes of aiding them I retrieve my staff from the sanctuary, and explain to them my suspicions surrounding the nature of what has befallen our house. Based on my instincts as a mage, I ventured to think that killing the vessel for the ritual might be a way to defeat the curse. With those words I condemn your father, though to what fate I do not know. You can blame me later, my heart. We set out together, though one of the four barely speaks and travels far ahead. This half orc, Nong, wields an instrument of the vilest evil, though his companions ensure me that this is only out of the greatest need and that his heart is not as corrupted as the tool he uses. I will take them at their word, though his gaze makes my blood run cold.

The house itself is alien and strange now. Directions seem meaningless and the gallery of ancestors was entirely upside down. The man with the knives, who goes by Naismith, explained to me the various hazards that they had encountered in making their way to the garden. It makes no sense to me. Luther’s captain of the guard an undead menace to be killed over and over again. Strange vegetation that attempts to strangle and devour. It is madness. Then again, what isn’t. Maybe I am still dying. Dreaming. Maybe you will be here soon to find me and explain all this to me. Idle hope is another sign of madness.

After a perilous traverse of the hallways and stairways, we encounter a statue unknown to me. When approached it provides a perspective where it presents its sword as a walkway to be climbed. At the top, a skull is summoned from the statue’s throat. Naismith eventually places the gem from the ritual dagger and another gem into the eye sockets of the skull, much to the eerie amusement of his companion Nong.

This unlocks a door. We pass through, though the half orc stays behind. We enter a room where I see a small skeleton covered in decades worth of dust and the outline of a man curled protectively around it. My breath stalls. Has Luther taken your remains? Has he guarded them? What has grief done to him if this is how he looks for solace?

As I approach to try to determine if this is really you and really him, the room changes. It expands. An altar appears, as do wraith-like beings in each dimension of the room. Strange black armored beings too and then your father, my husband. Luther the bright-eyed. Luther the harpist. A gentle man. He looks aged. Both how I imagined him long after you would have given us a grandchild and also very much not. Yes his hair is long and free and his crown sits atop his head with gravity and grace but his eyes are wild and mad and his clothes are torn and perhaps unchanged since yesterday twenty-six years ago. This is the man I love. This is not the man I love. It is. It is not. It is, but not like this. And if it is… Should I not do what love demands and put an end to his suffering? He’s done enough of it all these years. I blink away the pointless tears. He could not let you lie in peace. I will do what he could not. He is so much stronger than I am, but this I will do. I will buy you a quiet grave, little one. Don’t worry. I am here now.

He points at me. Says the words I have avoided even thinking. He blames me for your death. Isn’t it always a mother’s fault? Should not a mother’s love always keep her child safe from harm and disease? If he is right, where did I err? This is a familiar maelstrom and on instinct I feel the lie behind what he just said. It is not my fault that you were not returned to him. No fair, good, trustworthy power would ever promise such a thing to a mourning father. I decide to take a chance. Conjure up an image of you, my hand protectively on your shoulder. I tell him that he is wrong. That you are safe with me. I have his interest for a moment, but it is not enough. In some way he manages to change the orientation of the room, upending us all. And with that, we fight.

Though fierce and of legendary repute, the campaigners are overmatched by the restless dead, and I am of little help. My spells seem not to do nearly as much damage as I expect them to, and we are held back by having to find ways to adjust to the revolving room while Luther’s lieutenants swarm us. The godsworn do their best to heal us over again as we take fell damage from the swords and spells of the undead occupiers, but in the end we are outclassed. I am not sure who falls after I do, but after a moment we awaken in this strange misty place that Royce says is a temple to Tempus, the god he serves. We are in the plane ethereal and can look out into the dining room of our home. We regroup with rest and meditation, then come together to plan.

Based on what we saw during the fight, the way to harm Luther is through the wraith-like beings that house in each aspect of the room. We have taken out some of them, but still more remain. I wonder if those aspects with the remaining wraiths relate somehow to how he twists the room about and around.

The heroes and I sit in council for a long time and try to come up with a plan. Lathander willing, it is enough.

I must go now, baby. We need to return to this fight and do better.

Don’t forget – we love you.

A thousand kisses,

Judith

Curse of Strahd 12 – The Cold Light of Morning

In which the party’s druid Fitzworth writes a few words of wisdom after the sudden disappearance of Sumu after the fight against Strahd and his minions at the church in Vallaki. In which the group loses their regular scribe as Sumu’s player leaves the group.

Sumu is gone. Umus, too, but that makes me less sad.

I woke up and found a note from her which I will share later, but she is gone. Yesterday, it seemed that she might have found some of her family among the bodies and maybe that had something to do with it. I also noticed that she left something with Samael, but that is his story to tell or not tell.

But the last 36 hours have been hard.

The priest had repeatedly asked us to recover some bones (likely the remains of the patron saint of the church) and return them to their resting place, because their presence protected the church and possibly the entire town. We put it off to get involved in the political machinations of the Burgomaster and his rivals, the Wacher family.

As a result, the church was personally attacked by Strahd and six vampires (and also a set of animate pews… but that’s neither here nor there).

While we killed the six and drove Strahd back, the priest, his acolyte and much of the congregation at evening mass was slaughtered. Also, there’s a hole in the roof of the church.

We recovered the bones and found that the mastermind behind this plan to steal the bones – and the man who who also smuggled six vampires into town – is Vassily Von Holst. He’s a human male of medium height, clean shaven with black hair. Based on his clothing, he is possible noble. We didn’t see him, but we got his description.

Some members of the town who, frankly, owe a debt, will be working to restore the church and possibly take up vocational duties.

The Burgomaster, who was also brother-in-law to the late priest, will help.

We killed Izek Strazni, the Burgomaster’s right hand man (the one with the monstrous… right hand), but have set up the Wachter family to take the fall. It was Fiona Wachter who asked us to take out Strasni, so she could launch a coup. There will be a parade tomorrow and shit is likely to go down.

Also, the Martakov family of were-ravens seem ready to help, but not yet openly. Either one of them or, possibly, Ireena, could be installed as the new burgomaster. I see the reason behind installing Ireena, but am unsure as long as we know Strahd seeks her.

I got a little heated yesterday and I, at least, am ready to cleanse the earth of evil, though I’m also cooling down a bit. Ismark is seeming ready to take on the mantle of power to which his blood entitles him. Chand is seeming downright moral and is notably protective of children. Sumu was always our moral compass, but now she’s gone. I don’t know what’s up with Samael, but our sailor friend has a serious drinking problem and we might need to consider an intervention and a restoration spell to cure him of the disease or moral failing (not sure how everyone comes down on this issue) of addiction.

Curse of Strahd – 11 – A Fire in the Night

In which the party fails to realize the significance of missing bones and gets embroiled in local politics more than they would like to.

It is the night’s darkest hour. Midnight has come and gone, taking with it its vicious bats and hysterical screaming, leaving behind the bitter dregs: tired adventurers and piles of rubble in the church yard.

Fillegan sits at a table in the Blue Water Inn, looking crumpled and miserable. Every now and then he pulls out a handkerchief and hacks a loogie into it. After the third time, Ireena moves her chair a little further away, causing Ismark to give her a stern glance. “I am trying to bandage this cut, sister. Sit still.” She huffs a little, but stops moving. “Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on other things, brother? Like the mayor’s mansion? You seemed so keen on it before.” Ismark scowls.”Irinka, it’s hardly fair of you to lay all that at my feet. Yes, I think you would make a better burgomaster than whoever has the job know, and I certainly trust you over Fiona Wachter. But if I had known… If any of us had known the danger that the town was in…” Ireena sighs. “You’re right. Sorry. I’m just angry.” Ismark smiles begrudgingly, then ruffles her hair. “Me too.”

Chand and Fitzworth arrive at the table carrying wine for everyone. Fillegan turns towards them and grins cheerfully. With a voice like a rasp he says “So, what did you light on fire? It lit up the bedroom and woke me up, and neither Ismark nor Ireena has seen fit to tell me what wind we’re sailing with, here.” Fitzworth sits down, takes a deep draught of wine, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, then says: “Nothing burned. Well, the bodies did, but you wouldn’t have seen that. You may have seen Sumu, who used that little trinket we picked up a while back. It’s quite spectacular, the amount of light that thing gives off.”

Fitzworth gulps more wine. “What happened is that Father Lucien is dead, as is his altar boy. They were torn apart by Strahd.” Fillegan turns pale. “Strahd was here? He attacked the priest?” He sounds incredulous and looks at everyone in turn. Ireena frowns and rubs her forehead. Ismark picks at a fraying edge on the bandage he just tied off. Fitzworth stares into his wine with chagrin and Chand grips his cup like he wants to throttle it. “We could’ve prevented it.” Chand says, after a strained pause. “We could have… should have… marched straight down to that coffin maker and wrenched those bones out of his damned hands. Instead, a bit of wine and conversation distracted…” “You mean,” Fitzworth interrupts “a bit of wine and conversation, a cheap magic trick and an offer to assassinate someone and hand the burgomaster’s seat to that overly-perfumed old biddy and her good-for-nothing drunkard sons.” Chand chuckles at Fitzworth’s unflattering description. “You better make sure she does not hear you say that.”

Fillegan’s stares wide-eyed. “We’re going to assassinate the burgomaster? And that caused Strahd to come and kill the priest?”

“Not quite,” Chand says “Remember, when we first entered Vallaki, the priest at the temple asked us for help. Something to do with grave robbery. In our hurry to get to Krezk, we ignored his pleas. When we returned here, we asked the priest to take in the children we had found in the windmill. The priest then insisted that the church would not be safe without these bones, so we took some time to ask questions of he boy he suspected of the theft. The culprit admitted straight away, but we chose to keep our dinner invitation with Lady Wachter rather than chase down the man who ordered the boy to steal the bones. It seems this may have allowed a way for Strahd to attack the church.”

The little sailor nods. “And the assassination?” Ismark looks up. “Lady Wachter takes issue with the way the town is run. She’s asked for our assistance in ensuring that the Burgomaster’s right-hand man – that fellow with the misshapen arm – is not a concern when she allows her sons to move on the Burgomaster himself.” Fillegan makes a mouth like he bit into a lemon. “We’re going to let them do that?” “I proposed otherwise,” Ismark responds, “as you might have gathered from my sister’s words. Perhaps we can foil the Wachters and let my sister assume control of the town.” “And place her not just under scrutiny of Strahd, but in direct opposition of a powerful family that makes no bones about their service to him? I thought you cared for the lass, Ismark.” Chand’s tone is light when he says this, but the look he sends to the fighter is not.

###

Samael slides his hand down Dusk’s leg. “No real heat here.” he says hoarsely. “Legs and hooves all seem fine. She certainly doesn’t have colic or anything of the sort.” From the other side of the big warhorse, Sumu responds “No, but s-she seems a little out of sorts, right? I’m not imagining that?” “No, you’re not. But did it warrant dragging me out to the stable in the dead of night? You don’t seem that concerned.”

Dusk snorts, as if to underline the point. “True.” Sumu says “I… well, there is something else. I’d hoped to talk.” This time, it’s Samael who snorts, then coughs a little. “Why talk to me, sister? We’ve barely met.” “It’s maybe s-something that… I mean… They’re not god-sworn, like you or I. Can we talk under the seal, Samael?” The paladin thinks for a second. “We can, if you need to.”

Sumu sinks down onto a bale of straw, and Samael does the same. “You’ll recall that we dug up those graves underneath the gallows?” Samael nods. “Dirty business, if you ask me.” “You’ll also recall that we… f-found something there – a holy symbol – and that I have carried it since.” Another nod. “I had reason to use it tonight. It worked, b-but not willingly. Not like I think it should.” Sumu reaches up to untie the ribbon that’s kept her hair tied and shakes her head.

Samael looks at her. “Why would that be? Is it…” He nods at the back of Sumu’s head where Umus, now free, begins to mutter to herself. It sounds as depraved as ever. “Maybe. I t-think so. The amulet seems determined to only serve those to fight for good and dedicate their lives to a divine force. That leaves precious few people capable of wielding it, and if it deems me unworthy…” “What do you intend to do?” Sumu shakes her head. “I was hoping you had any ideas. Beyond prayer, I mean.” Samael laughs, then coughs. “I am a champion of Kelemvor who is the Judge of the Damned, sister. Redemption may not be entirely within his remit.”

Their conversation continues while Dusk picks at her hay. Once the big mare falls asleep, the two get up to join their fellows at their drink.