I apologise for the severe lateness in getting this posted. We had two dogs die this week, a mere 24-hours apart. One, a complete surprise. After having 10k in vet bills she up and dies from a wholly unrelated, and undiagnosed, ailment. At least it was quick. Less than 3-1/2 hours from onset of symptoms to euthanasia – make that 11k. The second suffered for about 36 hours while lab results were returned. Nothing was good. Her prognosis was 'humane euthanasia'. (Adding in, the furnace offered this message: System Malfunction, call the ridiculously over priced repair dude in who won’t fix it and we’ll have to call him back again tomorrow... And, then, drill through the main (or secondary) power line to the house, effectively frying half the house. The electrician still hasn’t called.)
So, sorry for the delay.
Spin the wheel…
How did we get here? A recap might be in order. (good thing we have video evidence of what I'm about to mangle, so if you want proof, you'll need to re-watch the game…)
Starting in, where else? The Obsidian Walled room. (Or A-5 on the DM’s map…)
Waking from their slumber, and finding Amaril ghosting in overnight (and (not) wondering how he got in if they can’t get out) they begin discussing their exit strategy.
“We’ve tried everything!” (The DM snickers. Mirthfully laughing, ‘Not everything’.)
They don’t even attempt to solve the bonus riddle offered in their dreams, drawing them once again to the realms of awareness.
Quick review: The party is apparently stuck in a room with a sixty foot Obsidian sliding wall, their entrance into this frustrating puzzle. The Wall sits in slots guiding its path along troughs securing it deeply into the north and south wall, as well as the floor and ceiling. The other walls are rough rock with sharp edges. The floor is rubble strewn, sandy, rocky; worked-stone. The domed ceiling soars about forty-to-sixty feet? Thirty?
On the West wall, a carved-rock door opens inward, the open door reveals a wide tunnel, a stinky pile of two-days bowel and bladder gifts about 20-foot in, in a side alcove, and a further thirty to sixty feet beyond that, along the main trunk, is a massive cave-in from floor to ceiling large boulders and solid dirt.
The north wall in the Obsidian-walled room embraces the insidious skeleton holding room, the door still invisible to those who are actively searching for it. On the same wall, closer to the Obsidian Wall, sits a lever, (pulling it in the past resulted in a large rumble, dust and debris and the clear sound of a door being opened, but the party could not see what or where.)
The south wall has a cleverly designed panel that sits flush with the surrounding rock, opening when a key from the bank of keys, further along the wall, hidden behind another well-hidden stone panel, is turned.
The bank of keys, if you’ll remember from our last ‘episode’, has six keys fitted into six keyholes. Each key, when turned, offers different results, some more harmful than others; some with accumulative penalties.
The other panel, when a certain key is turned, opens to reveal a lovely glass vase filled with gold coins, colourful gems and jewellery pieces. It sits upon the dais as it has stumped the party and still holds its treasure tightly.
The golden tablet, now a cold, gold puddle, sits where it was knocked, the podium lies on its side in the snow. (I will assume that Morgan will be hiding the misshapen gold in his rucksack.)
A lengthy discussion ensues as to the party’s options, their strengths and weaknesses. Ooma offers several viable alternatives. Martonis searches for the opening which provides the breeze, and learns that it flows through the tunnel between the caved-in rubble.
Ooma moves to the lever and pushes upward on it, discovering it needs someone a little less height-challenged. Before she does so, Father Martonis casts a spell allowing each of our players to recover one hit point per round of combat for the next twenty-four hours!
Martonis lends a hand, lifting the lever easily, hearing it clunk into its slot. Ooma immediately hauls it down again. They hear the rumble, the room shivers and debris dust downward. Martonis mutters, “Why do I even bother?”
A deep sigh as nothing else happens. Suddenly they notice Wiks lantern light is shining through the glass vase onto the wall and there appear to be shadows of words or symbols. Wik goes to the vase and slowly spins it.
Fuzzy shadows appear, unfocussed on the wall opposite the light.
Wik requests Ooma to move the lantern back and forward, in an attempt to focus the symbols. She does so, helping him.
The KEY to the solution... begins to come into focus. Wik freezes. “Ooma, walk around me with the lantern, see if there are more words.”
Clearing on the wall, “Is making ORDER from chaos.”
Wik excitedly turns the vase, and then back again as the letters fade. Ooma moves the lantern again, Wik moving out of the light.
Martonis speculates quietly, “The order of the keys; okay we’ll need to turn the keys in order.”
The last two sentences loom on the wall:
When all that is LEFT;
The solution must be RIGHT.
“Turn the keys to the left!” Martonis insists. “You’ve been turning them to the right, turn them left.”
“We can try that, and if that doesn’t work, we can try turning them from left to right,” Wik nods.
“I think we should try turning them to the right,” Martonis murmurs.
Wik agrees, stating, “We’ll try that, then my way, whichever works.” So Martonis moves to turn the keys the left most to the right most. Turning the green key first, a piano begins to play a delightful melody.
He moves to turn the red key. They hold their breath, watching for another pile of red ooze, when... the drums join the piano! Getting excited, the blue key is turned, and the string instruments start twanging along. The yellow key sets the vase shivering, and the horn section blares to life!
Wik runs to the vase expecting it to shatter and release its treasure. It does neither.
The black key brings forth the clashing of cymbals and the white key utters forth the mighty triangles upon the melody, which rises and our adventurers hear a loud ‘crack’, incorrectly concluding the wall has shattered. What they find is the wall has broken free and slides open.
Wik looks at the jar while Martonis hustles for the exit. Ooma grabs the lantern and walks to the edge of the threshold, stopping hesitatingly. Amaril follows Wik to the dais, admiring the clear vase. Wik picks up the vase, hands it to Amaril, who places it in his rucksack, then follows Wik out of the room. Ooma is right behind them. The door remains open.
Wik notices that the sconce he saw earlier when peering through the glass that had burnt out, is now brightly lit, the oil having been replaced at some time, recently too, as he only peered out twelve hours or less ago.
They find themselves in a deep valley type corridor with a wide opening at either end. Our party chooses to go south then along the eastern curve, following the strongest of the breezes. The sound of the ocean is roaring and the tang of the ocean wafts around, pushing north. The stench of fish invades periodically souring the fresh air.
Shuffling noises also reach their ears.
As they come to a wide crossroad of a sort, their ears perceive a familiar muttering. Martonis looks quizzically at the others.
The jibberish grows louder as they inch around the corner keeping close to the walls. Martonis takes his cue from the others and tenses nervously. Wik mutters, “Not again.” He spies the now familiar shape of the white-haired stocky creature with his back to them arguing with the western side of an outcropping of rock, apparently. He leans back and whispers to Martonis, “That creature is evil. Its brothers have tried to kill us twice now.”
Martonis nods, “I’ll hold my judgement on evil.”Ooma whispers, “Yah, if we can avoid an encounter with this dude, tha’d be great. These dudes are nasty.”
To either side of the outcropping is a path, one going south, the other veering west. There is also a wide path heading east.
Martonis responds to Wik’s suggestion that he ‘turn’ the creature with, “I cannot turn that which is not undead; he is not dead, so I cannot turn him.”
Ooma hisses a little too loudly, “Shoot him with your bow, Wik!”
The creature turns and he spots Wik! Charging, his short sword, raised, he stumbles and slides beyond Wik about ten-feet. Wik slices at him with his dagger, missing as the creature ducks and rolls away.
Jumping to his feet, the creature narrowly misses another swing of Wik’s dagger. Amaril pulls his scimitar and steps back. Martonis sneaks passed the creature and rises to his rear, and swings his morning star, hitting his back, punching several bloody holes along his body.
The creature stumbles as he slices at Martonis, knocking a dent in his armour. While Ooma ploughs into him with her mace, knocking his skull to the left and down the hall. His body crumples to the floor. “Home run!” Martonis calls.
Wik picks up the dagger, offering it to Martonis, who politely refuses, so into his rucksack Wik drops it. Searching his body Martonis’ hands get slimy, but he does pick up ten clear, uncut stones, that Ooma recognises as diamonds worth about ten gold each.
The stones are divided among the fighters, leaving Amaril a single stone.
The party continues to the south, the east side of the divide of the outcropping the Derro creature was shouting at.
The path narrows tightly as it twists, and the air grows colder and clammier. It also appears to be slanting downward. Coming to another divergence, the party chooses south again. Ten minutes along this path, the lantern starts to gut. Wik refills and relights it while Martonis and Amaril keep watch. Ooma walks further along the corridor and she notices a slight alcove in the rock wall. Her keen eyes also perceive a doorway.
“Hey, guys? Come here,” Ooma whispers.
The party moves toward her, Martonis’ armour clanking loudly – or seemingly loud in the close environment of hard surfaces.
Wik hands the lantern to Ooma as he careful examines the wall, locating the hinges and the panel that slides showing a thumb-latch, to which he was unfamiliar, but soon learns it is a simple handle, with no locks.
As he opens the door they see a dark corridor of hewn stone, the hinges do not squeak, and at the end a glow of light pervades around a sharp corner. Martonis casts a light spell on his morning star, bathing the area in a gentle light.
The air wafts with aromas that entice our heroes onward. Moving about five-feet down the hall, the door clangs closed.
As they proceed, weapons at the ready; Wik, an arrow nocked, down the smoothly hewn hall and around the corner and along and around the next corner, peering, their jaws drop.
“Whaaaat...?” they gasp, their mouths moving but no sound coming forth.
They burst into... a very large, very clean, busy, hustling commercial kitchen! With the mouth watering scents of seafood; the sounds of a kitchen operating flawlessly; a low murmur, steaks sizzling, soups bubbling. Wait staff move about; dishwashers go about their tasks, chefs put the finishing touches on dishes as staff whisk lip-smacking arrangements away.
A haughty, well-dressed French Maître ‘d with a moustache, clucking his tongue, speaking so quickly his words become meaningless as he marches them through the kitchen to the dining room, seating them in a coveted booth near an art piece of polished jade styled to resemble an enormous eighty-foot Iris vase with a sixty-foot white and gray-onyx lifelike stork on spindly legs moulded into a heavily ornate ‘swamp’ footing. A giant slab of, what appears ancient stone, sits, balanced on the top of the statuary with carved stone grapes dripping from its inverted pyramid sides. Vines and other artistic greenery spills out and upward from this slab, toward a massive, one-hundred foot-long thirty-foot wide stained glass oval dome reflecting dancing sunlight through the fanciful coloured glass, lead and brass creation.
Martonis is especially smiling as his eyes look into the sunlight. “Ah, Pelor,” he sighs.
All around our group are the soft noises of a full bistro; diners, soft music played by a string quartet, the table our party is seated at is covered in a fine linen cloth with an overlay of spun silver. The cutlery, laid dizzyingly, appears silver. The booth itself is comfortable, with thick padding and a luxuriously soft blood-red tufted-hide covering.
A crystal bowl with floating carnations atop tiny silver stars sits in the centre front of the table, with three lighted hurricane-candles, their light subdued. Sconces, with enormous arms, suspend globes like delicate faerie lights. Gold painted walls and dark timbers arches and lintels reach to the edge of the domed ceiling complementing the effect nicely.
It seems our party is expected. No menu is brought but within moments of being seated, fresh, still hot from the oven, breads and condiments arrive.
Moments later a snotty creature rolls a steaming pot of bisque to the booth and begins serving each a huge bowl, with a tiny dribble of the creamy fragrant soup and several, perfectly divine, oysters on a separate plate. (Conversation appears fruitless as this person doesn’t react to the party at all.)
After a minute, a sommelier arrives, pours each of you a glass of wine, and disappears, after setting several fresh bottles on the table.
Before the bottles are empty, a small urchin arrives and removes the soup plates. Following on her heels, a boy with a cheese board, knife and more spreads, and on his heels, the sommelier with fresh wine for all. Wait staff move smoothly, carrying steamy platters of fragrant morsels past the tables, removing dirty dishes with discretion. A general ambiance of a happy, gay evening is extended; everyone appears to be smiling and enjoying themselves.
Wik explores the silverware. Ooma sips the wine indulgently, delicately forking her oysters to her lips. Behind the booth stage-whispers catch their attention, and, peering through the wheatgrass greenery, excited voices inform that there are famous people seated some distance away.
Amaril, nervously fidgeting twirls his ring, peering closely at it. In the centre stone, where he previously saw the shadow of a lady, now he sees two. “Holy sheep-dung! Hey, Wik. Look at this!”
The second looks like Ichabod! As Amaril stares into the ring, puzzled, he ponders aloud as to how Ichabod got into the ring? Wik remarks that, “Possibly the creature that flew off with her put her there.” Amaril continues staring at the ring, confused. Gazing at the stone he sit up. It appears that Ichabod is shouting, her arms flailing as she pounds upward...? Unseen, the staff glows as Morgan’s ghost salivates at the boards of food being set on the table before him... His hand wavers through the glass frustratingly.
Martonis suggests that possibly Ichabod and the lady may be ‘scrying’ through the ring.
As they enjoy the food, Martonis and Amaril suspiciously avoiding eating or drinking while Wik and Ooma enjoy themselves eating the rich foods and tasty wines, Ooma recites the tale of their journey so far. Describing the ‘FireStone’, a cape of jewels and a bag of jewels... Ooma swallows a large sips of wine as she speaks the lengthy tale to Martonis.
Martonis mentions he found a large bag of jewels and a healthy discussion ensures, about jewels and the FireStone.
“Speaking of money, how much is in the vase?” Martonis asks.
“We don’t know yet,” Wik assures him.
Ooma brags about Ichabod when Martonis politely refuses to eat reminding them he can create water and food as needed. “Can you summon potatoes, man? She could do that. It was awesome.”
A plate of dark chocolates on a silver salver is brought to end their supper.
Wik is dismayed to notice in a reflection in a spoon, that his skin is barely converting at all. Which allows Martonis to approach the delicate subject. “What kind of elf are you?” he asks politely curious.
Wik rudely retorts, “I’m a wood elf who had an accident with a couple of potions, now leave it alone.”
“A wood elf, huh? Well,” Martonis smiles, his grin widening, “Your hair blends in.”
Ooma asks Wik if he’s taken his medicines lately? To which he replies in the affirmative as they stand and move toward the front of the establishment.
Large windows to either side show cobbled streets, with – hey! Those iron rolling carts! Horses and buggies. Martonis is cautiously curious as he gasps, “What in the blazes are those?!”
Ooma laughs as they make their way toward the front, “I don’t know, but somehow,” she pauses, “I want one!”
They continue moving toward the door, cautiously. Ooma suggests Wik cover his head, to avoid being noticed, alerting Martonis he may be wanted by the law. Something Amaril is watching for the wanted poster and the reward...
Mincing their way to the door, shifting their heads casually as they do so, they exit through the wide, double foyer doors, into an air chamber. Pulling open the doors to the street and walking through, they are shocked to discover themselves in a Turkish bath house, standing on a wide tiled floor.
Spinning around, they discover the doorway is a solid brick wall.
Turning back, large bowls of steaming clear, bluish-green water dot this underground grotto. Lichen line the walls, offering a soft glow throughout the stone maze.
Young ladies, dressed in linen shifts, move toward the party, their giggling reminding one of young school-girls. It is obvious they are there to assist our heroes into one of the many pools, where a few other persons, male and female are reclining in the heated water.
A bath? I can’t believe Ooma isn’t already diving under the pleasantly oiled water... because, like, what could ever erupt from a tiny sluiceway and a few cauldrons of molten rock, right?
o0o
XP: 150 each. EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness); or an insight into their character’s back story... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week...
o0o
(video version: Mysterious Tavern - Turkish Delight)
o0o
just go with the flow...
fledgling Dungeon Mistress,
khrys...
~*~*~*~
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