An Obstinate Obsidian Thicket...

Lucy and Nanny k are seated in the breakfast room, a rectangular room with a long gleaming dark wood table, a side board nearly the length of the thirty-by-twenty foot room. Windows along the east wall giving a lovely view of the morning sun, and the kitchen herb garden and fruit orchard. The sun is bright in the azure sky, and there are gardeners plucking fruit and hoeing the gardens. Lucy is understandable excited about the journey.

Nanny reminds the staff to prepare a large basket of tasty morsels to share with her cousin, "Remember Lucy will be presenting it." The unspoken message that it had better be worthy for a queen to present. "Make sure there are a few cases of wine and some of that stronger stuff. The kind that fellow prefers."

Our heroes have been again, presented with a morning tray in their room, "Her Royal Highness requests that as soon as you have finished your morning ablutions that you join her in the breakfast room, if you please Sir."

Lucy is chattering three sheets to the wind, "And she has that big playground! I hope those kids are there again. They are your what? Third cousins?" she asks Nanny K.

As Morgan weaves his way to the breakfast room Amaril and Wik are not far behind. Martonis is already seated, politely waiting for them, although, as they arrive, they nod to the serving maids standing discretely nearby and the girls fill platters for each of them with a wide variety of meats, vegetables, breads and fruits. Martonis shakes his head and says a blessing over the food before he eats. Morgan is almost finished his meal when Wik and Amaril make their appearance, and he weaves himself to the server and is informed that she does not know for sure if, “Zee Vizier has been located.” She scurries off to get the information for Morgan, who, burps and excuses himself with a flourish as he bows to Queen Lucy, before exiting the morning room and stumbling out to where the carriage awaits for their journey.

As Lucy excuses herself, along with Ooma and Nanny K, the others head off to take care of their business. Martonis follows Lucy and waits for her in her sitting room while she dresses.

Wik and Amaril head down to speak with Mr. Green and are informed he is at breakfast and should return shortly. They thank the guard on duty and decide to check out the possible hidden door in the large pantry in the kitchen.

The same young lad who greeted Morgan, greets them and escorts them over to Chef Francois, who turns as he senses their approach. His manner is less than congenial.

“Whad do you want?” He asks, not hiding his contempt for those who interrupt his kitchen.

“We’ve come to search your larder. Our friend was here yesterday and he tells us there is something odd in there,” Wik condescends.

The chef, punctuating his speech with a very large carving knife, spits out, “Zare is not’ing odd in my pantree! You people, always to stir up trouble! Zee Visier, HE is lookin’ into zat catastrophe! You ‘ave no authority! Now get out of my kitchens!”

Amaril is playing with his dagger, as is Wik, they both look rather sarcastically at each other, mocking the chef. “Well, we’ve been sent to check it out. We are friends with Queen Lucy.” Wik says rather snottily.

The chef’s chest pumps out and he advances, his face red and his words forced. “I ‘ave not been informed someone would be coming to inspect. So. Get. Out. Of. My. Kitchen. Now.” He sends the young boy to bring two guards back and they return, clearly not wanting to offend neither Lucy’s guests nor the chef who feeds them daily!

Thank goodness the two Elves come to their senses and decide to leave peacefully. Speaking in Elven as they do so, determined to return later, when the kitchens are quiet, quite unaware there is a sous chef listening to their every word, and fully understanding it, her eyes glow crimson as she watches them exit the kitchen.

Morgan meanwhile is talking with Captain Roberts, who is to be escorting the party to Antoinette’s. He questions the man about the incident with the poisonings, as well as the death of the courier.

“Ah, oui, Monsieur, tragic. The Vizier has assigned some men to look into these foul deeds. Those men involved have been disciplined. No matter that the wine was said to be a gift, they did not have their captain’s permission to indulge. They have been reassigned to less important duties.”

Morgan almost feels sorry for them and mentions that the wine was probably poisoned and that he doesn’t trust the alchemist. He also inquires as to the riding and security arrangements for this ride and is not happy about the wagon-like carriage Lucy has requested.

“How many open carriages do you have available?” Morgan asks the captain.

“Three Monsieur, why?”

“It’s such a shame they all have to have their axle’s fixed today, isn’t it?”

It takes Captain Roberts a few seconds to catch on, but a wide grin showing his pearly whites satisfies Morgan.

“I mean,” Morgan uses his blade to chop heavily on the cotter-pin, cracking it, rendering it useless and causing the rest of the guards to be alerted. “It would be a damn shame that we had to use the covered carriage today.” He puts his hands up to ease the other guards retaliation.

“Yes, I see,” Captain Roberts nods, “A damn shame. Well sir, no doubt about it, we’ll have to use the covered carriage.” He smiles at Morgan, clapping him on the back before ordering, “Fredricks, Frito, you two get this broken carriage out of the way. You there, Hagan, go and see that the other carriage is brought out, suitable prepared for her Highness. Hop to it!”

Meanwhile, Wik and Amaril have found Mr. Green. Stepping inside the apothecary they inquire about the vials they brought earlier. “Have you had sufficient time to discover what they are?” Amaril asks.

“Oh yes. Well, the one. He started searching his desk, counters and shelves before pulling drawers open and shuffling papers. “Well, that’s odd?” he muttered. “Where did I put the blasted... OH! I remember!” He goes into his storage room and returns a few moments later holding the vial. “Not again!” he mutters. He holds the vial out to them, “There’s about a quarter of it missing!” He says worriedly.

Wik reaches for it, “And that will return my hair and skin to their normal colour?”

Mr. Green looks surprised. “Oh, no. No.” He says emphatically. “This is the vial that your friend brought in to have examined.”

“And did you find what it is?” Amaril asks.

“Oui Monsieur. It is a very volatile liquid, comprised of Peroxyde d’hydrogène blended with a few drops of Kanten, that, when used on its own will explode an area, maybe the size of your fist, but if in contact with a dry powder, preferably la farine or la sciure, it will produce an explosion that... well,” he lowers his voice dramatically, “que pouvoir facilement detruire au castle!”

“And some is missing? How much damage could be done with the amount that’s missing,” Amaril asks, looking worriedly at Wik.

Mr. Green wrings his hands, “Maybe, if enough farine iz used, it could level zee barn!”

You have seen these barns, they are stone foundation and wooden uppers each of the four horse barns houses two hundred horses, plus tackle and other grooming implements; and there are numerous other, equally large structures surrounding the castle.

A quick discussion ensues as the alchemist wrings his hands wondering how someone could possibly have breached his new security. “Je vous en parler à avec ça garde!” he vows, irritably.

Wik reminds him that he was to see about a potion or elixir to counter the dye pigmentation in his skin and hair.

“Oh, oui; oui!” He fiddles about, handing Wik a vial. “Use d’is in zee bath, soak for zee ‘alve ‘our an’ scrub as normal. It should turn your skin back. Your hair,” he shrugs. “I’ve not yet perfected; à l’instant même it will turn it bleu. Giv’ me a day or so, I’ve almos’ got it.”

Wik nods and takes the vial, secreting it deep within a hidden pocket of his cape. Bidding adieu to Mr. Green, they return to the main floor and head out to the front in time to see Lucy’s little foot stomp as she insists she wants to ride in the open carriage today.

Quickly thinking, Morgan soon has the child giggling along with Amaril and Wik’s stories and Nanny’s frowns of disapproval. Before they start their journey, Martonis asks Lucy if he may offer a blessing on her, and she tips her head, "Sure, I suppose so." He blesses her and they continue their journey.

Lucy is so excited she remembers the children who were there the last time she visited and she was allowed to play in the playground. “I hope they’ll be there again!”

After an hour and a half of bumpy, dusty roads, passing a few manors whose property touched the boulevard and seeing various foliage growing neatly in great farms and vineyards; grapes, it was touted, grown in the Champagne region, grew juicier, sweeter, larger and more prolifically than anywhere else.

Watching the fields Lucy suddenly squeals, “Were almost there!” Vines, growing thickly, their leaves unfurled to the warm sun grew stretched along cords in neat rows for as far as the eye can see. Presently, a few minutes later the carriage turned into a combed gravel drive lined with sturdy elms, standing like sentries. The house at the end of the drive is a three story, plus cellar, manor with a limestone exterior that has been whitewashed recently. Five large mullioned picture windows, to either side of the formal front doors were polished to mirror brightness! The front yard is surrounded by a low stone wall.

Seconds later, Lucy, forgetting all about decorum, bounds from the barely stopped carriage leaping into the arms of her friend, Antoinette, who, reaches down and picks the little girl up, swinging her around muttering endearments in the local language.

Lucy, remembering her manners; sort of – introduces her new friends as they emerge from the carriage. She reminds Antoinette that these were the people she told her about when she visited after she returned from Edith’s. “I told you about them, ‘member?”

Antoinette, all smiles for the cherub in her arms, laughs happily as several other children come bounding around the corner, squealing in delight as they spot Lucy, who wriggles free of Antoinette and starts for the children, stopping and turning briefly. “It is okay if I go play with them, isn’t it Nanny?”

Nanny nods to the assembled group, “I’ll keep an eye on her, you folks, I believe, have some discussions that need to be taken care of.” She leans to her cousin, kissing her cheek, “Keep an eye on the one in the tin can,” she teases. “I hear they’re letting priests marry nowadays.” She winks as Antoinette’s laughter follows her along the path. Ooma also follows Lucy around the back.

Antoinette shaking her head turns to the group, “Shall we?” leading the way through the interior graced with gleaming oak floors and plaster walls painted a dull beige with intricate crown mouldings lining the high ceilings. The furnishings are tasteful, antique and expensive. All of it is polished to a mirror finish. It’s clear the maids do not slouch in this home.

Exiting through sliding door onto a terrace with an overhanging trellis supporting yet more grape vines. There are extensive gardens, a maze, herb knots, a children's recreational area complete with turrets, pirate ship, play house, rope swings tied onto the branches of an ancient gnarly oak standing to the side providing shade during the hottest parts of the day, a sandbox and pedal cars.

The great stone terrace flows from the back of the house, with hefty tables, chairs and loungers dotting its surface. The children's playground is off to the north, while the large swimming pool is a hundred feet straight ahead; a gleaming, crystal clear oasis in the shape of a four-leafed clover. A wide ten-foot fieldstone skirt surrounds the pool before manicured lawn fills in the space between the terrace and the pool deck.

A long, wide thicket lies the length of the north side of the children's play space, where wild berries grow in the summer and are greatly prized for their exquisite sweet flavour and abundance of fruit. A small, white picket fence is in place to protect the children from accidently kicking a ball or something in the brambles. Benches are set strategically around the perimeter to enable governesses to keep a close eye on their charges.

The assembled group can hear the children’s squeals and shouts as they tear around. A low hedge, about waist height encloses the garden on three sides with two wide gates at either end to permit the gardener’s access.

Antoinette, a sturdy lass of about twenty-five years, startling blue eyes and lovely carrot-orange hair, sprinkling of freckles across a cute upturned nose. Tall for a woman, she can look Morgan in the eye, introduces her family, her mother and father, Marie and George; her elder sister Fiona, and her husband, Phillip; her widowed brother, Paul, “And these two are my younger brother, Charles and my younger sister, Stephanie,” she finishes and the group spends a few minutes on pleasantries.

Noticing Martonis eyeing his sister, Paul nudges him, “Careful there she can wield a rapier and a crossbow with incredible precision. She spends her free time gallivanting about.”

Morgan is discussing the merits of fencing and is surprised to hear the manor has no training ground!

“Non, Monsieur, but we ‘ave no need. The soldiers only come when Lucy comes. Now, we do ‘ave a lovely pond, stocked weeth fish by zee grace of our Lady Lucy.” He smiles at Morgan. “Would you care to see it? It iz very lovely,” George speaks with pride.

Marie smiles. “He supervises the plantings and he’s so proud of the vast sea of colour down there right now.”

The group nods and agree, following the aged gentleman as he leads the procession off the patio and down a cobbled path. They’ve not gone more than a hundred steps when Nanny K’s voice screams, “Where’s Lucy?”

The call is taken up by Ooma and the other governess as they frantically begin to search the playground equipment for the little queen. Our party naturally spins about and races into the playground.

“How could you lose her?” George, shaken, shouts at a guard. “Imbèciles!” And then, “Silence!” his booming voice quietens everyone present.

A plaintive cry is heard, very very weak, like its coming from a long way off. The words are not clear, but it sounds like a child calling for help. It is quickly determined Lucy must be somewhere in the thicket.

“She was swinging on the swing. I took my eyes off her for less than a second! Oh, Lucy, where are you?” Nanny K was wringing her hands, her skin pale.

Marie took Nanny K’s hand and had the other governess round up the children, “Take them to the nursery. We do not need them also getting lost or hurt.” Nanny K, Marie, the children and the other ladies present also returned to the house.

Wik goes one way around the thicket, shouting for Lucy, while Morgan and Amaril go the other. Martonis, Antoinette, Ooma, George, Phillip, Paul and Charles remained in the playground, trying to force their way into the thicket. The guards, three going with Wik and two with Morgan and Amaril, the remaining three facing the thicket.

It soon becomes apparent that Lucy is somewhere in the dense, prickle bush. As carefully as they can everyone with a sword or blade begins to slash at the vegetation, failing to notice, at first, that with each slice they cut, two ends appear, and the growth increases, slowly surrounding our seekers.

Within five minutes our party is enclosed by the vines, although they can hear Lucy’s voice louder. They can also hear those on the other side of the approximately twenty-five foot wide rambling prickle bush.

The ground shakes slightly, and our heroes pause briefly, before renewing their efforts. They are stunned as the thorns on the branches appear to have a change in their chemical makeup and, it isn’t long before they realise they are striking Obsidian spikes that are regenerating and growing foot-long barbs almost as fast as they can cut them!

Morgan puts his scimitar away and draws the staff that he is carrying for Ichabod, finding it a more useful weapon. Martonis also switches to his morning star, the two coming very close as they crush the stone from either side!

Suddenly the ground shifts and wavers beneath their feet as if an earthquake is churning the soil. Morgan tries to step backward, but fails as his foot slithers in a fissure and moments later his finds himself toppling down into a dark gap, landing, jarring himself, on his feet, before stumbling to the floor.

“Morgan?” a small voice cries. “Oh, Morgan!” Lucy runs over to him and wraps her arms around his waist.

“What are you doing down here?” Morgan asks rather more gruffly than he probably intends.

Lucy, her voice quivering, “I was on the swing and I was going really high and my hands slipped and I fell down here.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “Are you?”

Morgan is probably pretty glad he’s indulged a great deal already this morning as he takes stock before shaking his head, “No, no I’m not hurt either. Let’s get out of here.” He starts to look up at the tunnel, noticing the smooth, glass like sides. “Okay. You hang onto my belt and don’t let go, okay? I’m going to throw my rope up there and try to climb out, okay?”

“Okay. But Morgan? Why don’t we go that way?” She points to a wooden door about twenty feet along a passage that is barely tall and wide enough for Morgan to fit. A sign of some sort hangs on the door, but from this distance, in this light, it’s amazing they can see the door at all.

Patting Lucy’s curly head, “Because, that’s an obvious trap. We are going up; back to where everyone else is.”

“Okay,” she nods, her fingers slipping under Morgan’s belt.

Morgan smiles down at her fondly, then making a series of loops in the end of the rope, he throws it with all his might and unfortunately the rope misses catching onto anything and falls back, knocking him on the head and giving Lucy gales of laughter.

And, our group is now pondering their options. They appear to be surrounded by an obsidian thicket that is bent on keeping them in its clutches. What will they do? How shall they escape? And what has happened to those guards who were screaming in terror?

Picnics in France are bad news...

o0o

XP: 100 each, INCLUDING OOMA, who was, after all, there in spirit; 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

o0o

So I iz meurtering zee francáis... pardonner moi...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

Explosive Crème, and Tempers...

The group alights from the carriage, their peaceful picnic rudely interrupted with the discovery of a dead body.

The day is waning into early afternoon. The mood is sombre as they try to figure out what their next steps should be, they’ve left the castle guard in charge of dealing with the homicide. Nanny K suggests that she take Lucy to her room for a nap. Lucy agrees sleepily. Ooma decides to accompany them, uneasy at leaving Lucy.

Wik heads to Mr. Green, he wants his ointments tested. After the stories and tales he has spun for Lucy, he has a bee in his bonnet and the idea occurs to him that it is possible the alchemist, Mr. Green, may be able to confirm the potions are correct and will work; or not. Wik passes Morgan and nods as the pirate heads up, while he heads, down the stairs. Morgan grunts, preoccupied with his mission, his lips are moving as he talks to himself. Wik shakes his head.

“So, can you help me?” Wik asks Mr. Green, explaining the situation.

“I see,” he smiles peering closely at Wik, “This is not your normal colourings?”

Wik frowns deeply, “No, I mixed up some chemicals and they turned me these colours.”

Mr. Green nods, “Well,” he contemplates. Wik hands him the lotions he has been using to supposedly revert his colourings. “These are the products?” he confirms. “Okay, it will take me a few hours, maybe more, to figure out the ingredients.”

“That’s okay,” Wik announces taking a seat by the door and pulling out a dagger and a block of wood, “I’ll just whittle away the time; don’t mind me.”

“Y-y-yes. Okay then.” Mr. Green turns and start pulling out beakers and Petri dishes, lighting Bunsen burners and setting them up next to ones already bubbling and decanting. Mr. Green smiles at Wik, “I should have some answers for your friend soon on the contents of those vials he brought down earlier this morning.” Wik nods and goes back to whittling.

Martonis bids Lucy a good nap, and asks a passing page to direct him to the chapel; he feels the need to rest in his god’s presence for a time. He is shown to the chapel, “Mais, être désolé monsieur, the Bishop ne pas là.” The way he wrings his hands and appears nervous, Martonis is able to figure out that the pastor is not at the chapel currently.

“That is okay,” he reassures the young man, hoping he will understand him. “I’ll be fine.” He pulls open the elaborately carved Rosewood door and wanders in, closing the door behind him silently. The sun is spilling into the large building-within-a-building as enormous stained glass windows colour the interior in jewel tones. “Ahhh Pelor,” Martonis beams standing in the light, opening his arms wide.

Amaril lets the others know he is heading up to the library, “I want to locate some information on that – that, well, whatever that thing was we fought the other day!” He is shown to the library; it is just above the chapel on the third floor, in the opposite wing as their bedrooms. Not exactly gloomy, but sort of airless. Heavy, dark wood shelving and kilometres of books filling those shelves, amid curiosities and oddities placed decoratively between rows of books, or, occasionally honoured with a shelf of its own sort of had the effect of making one want to whisper, and feel apologetic as their shoes clattered on the gleaming hardwood floors.

Chairs sit beside high tea-tables and low cushioned stools. Lamps were set ready to light if the daylight from the one gigantic paned-window running the full length of the library, the view of the rolling hills to the North, failed.

He pulls a few books from the shelves after spending a good fifteen minutes peering at the massive selections and, being directed to the location where he would most likely find the information he is looking for by the diminutive, elderly woman wielding a feather duster moving about the shelves. He takes the books and sits in a tufted red-leather wing back chair, next to the window, opening the first tome, setting the others on a small table beside the chair. He peruses the information carefully, but quickly, flipping swiftly to determine if the book can reveal anything to him.

Setting the first aside and picking up the second he repeats his motions. He does this until he amasses a couple of scientific wood-bound journals complete with lovely colour illustrations, that he would like to read in-depth, and an even larger pile of books that were not what he was seeking. Just as he is considering he has all he needs, he picks up a small, blue hide-bound, ancient, hand written journal that intrigues him. “May I borrow this?” he asks the lady as she polishes the window panes.

“Oui!” she peers closely at the book. “Ahhh, zee ancient spell book.” She smiles conspiratorially with Amaril. “Such a lot of zee nonsense!” she shakes her head. “Magic, pah! Beaucoup se faire avoir; treeks,” she translates, “to amuser les enfants.” She winks.

Amaril nods sagely, “Yes ma’am. It would be nice if it were real.” He forlorn, barely able to contain the smirk he feels about to erupt.

“Ah well, zee tricks, there are entertaining, n’est pas?”

Amaril nods, as he places the book in his rucksack, “Yes ma’am. Thank you.” He decides to locate Martonis, to see if he might be able to translate the document, wondering what an ancient spellbook is doing in a modern, well, to him modern - castle?

He first goes to the chapel, and finding it empty, he decides probably Lucy’s room would be the best place to locate Martonis, but before he starts down the stairs, he is stopped by a lovely maid with flowing black hair who speaks quietly to him, her eyes welling with tears as she explains her plight and begs that he might help her.

Amaril is taken by her beauty and unusual shade of her eyes, “I will see what can be done, my dear. Let me talk with the rest of my party and I will think about this.” He pats her hand and she nods before disappearing off down the hall to attend her duties, and Amaril continues down the stairs.

In the meanwhile, Morgan has made his way to the kitchens. He stops just inside the vast white room, observing the busy, noisy production as people, all dressed in white, scurried about, some clearly apprentices, (as they were ordered about by others and set to the menial tasks such as peeling root vegetables or stirring a pot hovering over a large fire).

A young boy, maybe nine or ten, comes over to Morgan. “Puis-je aider, monsieur?” he asks.

Morgan looks at him, his brow furled as it takes a few seconds for him to decipher what the boy has probably said. “Yeah, I’m investigating the incident that happened a few days ago.”

The boy looks confused, “Zee in-see-dint? We’ve ‘ad no ‘in-see-dint’?”

“When everyone fell asleep?”

The boy looks embarrassed, “Oui, monsieur. We got in zoooo mush trubble for zat. We only had zee small drink of zee wine.”

“Wine?”

The boy clearly uneasy, explains a case of wine was delivered to the kitchen with a note elucidating it was for the staff; a reward. “We were suppose to wait until zee kitchens were quiet, but Childes insisted we need not wait! He opened zee case an' filled a glass for everyone. He said one glass would not hurt us. We could celebrate later with zee rest, or so he said.”

“Who is Childes?”

“La viande cuisinier, Monsieur.”

Morgan nods, like he understands. “Who is in charge here?”

“Chef Francois, Monsieur,” he turns his gaze upon an average height man, with a tall white hat who was, at that moment, barking one of the cooks for some infraction.

“Thank you,” Morgan tells the boy, handing him a few copper coins.

“Oh non, monsieur, non,” he waves his hands gently. “Ce n’est pas necessaire.”

Morgan insists, “Keep it safe for me, and if you have a great need to spend it, you may do so, okay?”

The young boy looks at Morgan like he is a god, “Merci beaucoup, monsieur.” He slips the coins in his apron pocket. “Merci.” He watches as Morgan makes his way over to Chef Francois.

Morgan, incensed at how the Chef is riding the young cook and interrupts. The Chef turns, his face red. “Yes?” he asks his anger barely under boiling.

Morgan puffs up and gruffly intones, “Listen, we’re heard some talk that you’re mistreating the staff in here.” Morgan’s eyes look to the young man who has just received a tongue-lashing.

Chef Francois puffs himself up, all five-foot six-inches of him, and stares at Morgan. “Who are you to come into my kitchens an' speak like this? I do not mistreat my staff! Ask them! Any of them!” he waves his arm and looks about the room his manner indicating that he will gladly cut the tongue from the mouth of anyone so foolish as to describe his iron-fist control of the kitchen as mistreatment.

The staff quickly go back to their tasks vigorously, their demeanour indicating that if you DO ask, please DON’T ask THEM!

Morgan goes on, questioning the man about the wine and his whereabouts when it was consumed.

“Ahh, zees lazy shifters. I was at zee markets, and when I return I find zee staff muddled and zee Scribbles iz just coming from zee kitchen, he iz holding a vin bottle asking me what iz zee meaning of it! Zay drink zee vin too mush! Lazy shiftless...”

Morgan continues questioning him and asks about the ledgers, “Has everything been accounted for? I was informed a case of wine was delivered for the staff as a gift?”

“Pah!” he spits, “There was no wine for them. They thought they could steal from the cellar!”

“Yes, well, I’d like to see the ledgers for myself.”

“Are you accusing me of somezing?” The shorter man puffs his chest even further out and marches forward trying to intimidate Morgan.

Morgan raises an eyebrow and pulls himself to his full height, “Is there something I should be accusing you of?”

The Chef grabs a large kitchen knife from a surprised cook and points it at Morgan, “Get out of my kitchen!”

Morgan calmly stares back, “It seems like you might have something to hide.”

The Chef, spins, pushes the cook aside and begins hacking the vegetable in front of him.

“You’re going to serve those to a six-year-old queen?” he taunts the Chef, who, seething takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling. “I’d like to see the books.”

“Fine!” he drops the knife and stomps his way to his office, pulling out a ledger and turning it to a page a day or two before the incident. “There, look all you want; I ‘ave nozing to hide!” He stomps back out of the office leaving Morgan to study the ledger at his will.

After a short while, Morgan discovers three cases of wine missing and confirms this as he takes inventory of the supplies in the larders. He questions someone about the wine, and the label and, although the label is Monet, they seem to see something slightly different. “Is this the same wine you always use?” He remembers seeing it around the town in various venues, usually under lock and key. After confirming the staff probably would not have noticed anything weird about the wine, he firmly believes the Vizier, the head chef, or that witch Ichabod is behind this!

While in the large cold storage room where barrels of flour, racks of product and burlap sacks filled with vegetables resided until needed by the kitchen staff, he notices, on the wall, what appears to be the outline of a doorway. A barrel, and a few sacks sit in front of the faint rectangular depression. Taking his scimitar, Morgan carefully etches a small ‘x’ unobtrusively near the corner at the bottom.

Nodding, he exits the kitchens, satisfied with what he’s learned. Or thinks he’s learned. The Chef explained the missing wine with an impatient wave of his hand, “The Vizier is looking into that. It is hiz problem not mine. I, for one, blame zis lazy lot.” His eyes skim suspiciously over his staff.

Morgan leaves and, after determining everyone is most likely visiting Lucy’s room, this is where he goes.

Ooma and Nanny K, sit, enjoying a pleasant pot of mint tea and a plate of temptingly moist cakes and sweets. They chat quietly, in the ante chamber just outside of Lucy’s bedroom.

“So what can you tell me about the death of Lucy’s parents?”

Nanny K takes a long sip of the tea. “It was very sad. His majesty was out hunting. A glorious day for it. The queen was overseeing the preparations for a celebratory feast, we all knew the King would have a successful hunt. Only this time he returned on a cart. He’d been shot. The arrow pierced through the back of his armour and into his chest. The alchemist, not Monsieur Green, the one before him, Monsieur Brown, did all that he could, but in the end it was not enough and he died of his wounds.”

“And the Queen?”

“She was broken-hearted of course. Though, when the King returned on the litter she was a stalwart of strength. Ordered everyone about; tore linen dressings herself! Sat up with him for two nights until she succumbed to a mysterious intestinal ailment. She never recovered; she died two days after the King, leaving Lucy as the heir to the throne. She was only a baby. Some thought her cousin, Francois, (he’s next in line to the throne should anything happen to Lucy) was better suited to take over until Lucy came of age, but in the end the Vizier remained and Francois headed out on his adventures. We sent Lucy to Madame Edith as is the custom among royalty. Edith can be counted on to bring a child up with manners and knowledge, in as normal environment as possible. I have never met her, and the Vizier was set against it, calling the custom archaic and detrimental, but the council over-ruled him and he gave in. In fact, my cousin escorted the babe to Edith’s along with a contingent of soldiers and nursemaids, of course.” She sat back and drank some tea.

Martonis perks up. “Your cousin?”

Morgan and Amaril join the tea party, quietly so as not to awaken Lucy.

Nanny K nods, nibbling a biscuit. “She is an adventurer and has made the journey a few times with various other well-to-do children.”

“It’s too bad she isn’t here. She might be willing to carry a message to Edith.”

Nanny brightens, “Oh, I’m sure she would. She lives only a few kilometres from here.”

“Could we send a messenger to her? Would she come?”

Nanny K takes another sip of her tea. “What if we went to visit her? That way we won’t have prying ears listening in.”

“An excellent idea Madame! Excellent." Martonis praises the Nanny. "I look forward to meeting your cousin.”

Nanny K nods, “I’ll arrange it so we may leave right after breakfast in the morning.”

They all turn their heads as they hear the sound that sounds like the cooing of a small dove, and Lucy peers around the door, sleepily rubbing her eyes. “What are you arranging?” she asks as Nanny rises.

“A trip for tomorrow. Would you like to visit Antoinette? You remember her, don’t you?”

“Marie?” Lucy exclaims. “Yes!” she says happily as nanny leads her back into the room to wash and dress, spouting questions too fast for nanny to respond.

In the meantime, while Morgan is busy in the kitchens and the others are pursuing their ambitions, Wik is chatting with the alchemist, who, as they chat notices the beaker with the lotion that Wik has been applying more or less faithfully, twice daily, bubbling up and the contents spilling over. He turns and gathers a small amount of it, performing various tests before turning back to Wik. “You’ve been using this on your skin to remove the colour?” at Wik’s affirmative nod, he shakes his head. “I do not believe it will remove the dye, it is plain soap.”

Wik’s eyes widen and then he gets a wry look on his face. “It figures.”

Just as he says this a loud pop and sparkles appear in the other beaker and the chemist moves quickly, but not quickly enough as the container explodes sending blobs of crème everywhere. As soon as it settles down, Mr. Green turns to Wik, “You use this in your hair?”

Wik nods, peering from behind the chair, “Y-y-yes.” He says cautiously.

“I would advise a good scrubbing in a bath, this stuff is explosive! Get near a flame and your head could go off like a Roman candle! You go bathe while I clean this mess and finish up these tests. I’ll see if I can’t create a formula that will fade the dye/ You go.” He is looking at Wik’s head nervously, like it might explode right there!

Wik, nodding, a little nervous himself, goes quickly and, finding a maid along the way, requests a bath be brought immediately to his room.

Amaril, as soon as Nanny heads into the bedroom with Lucy brings out the spellbook he’s found. “I found this upstairs in the library. The librarian says it’s full of magic spells. I was wondering if you can read it?”

Martonis takes the book and his eyes light up! “Yes, it’s a spellbook alright. Wow, ancient! I wonder how it got in the library? Can I keep it for a while? It will take me a few days to read through it, but there might be some interesting spell here. Good find!”

We leave our party enjoying afternoon tea, or a splash in the bubbly water…

o0o

XP: 250 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\forward story... 50xp X character level, for one entry per week…

o0o

un-edited video version

o0o

war is dreadfully expensive...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

Messy messengers or Dispatched dispatchers...

DM notes: I cannot believe how quickly words spoken are misheard; misunderstood and misconstrued...

We return to the scene of the bafflement...

Following one of the most confusing periods in their nocturnal activities, Martonis, Amaril and Wik have heavy hearts - their friends, Morgan and Ooma have be vapourised by an angry little Kobold, Martonis learning this only as they return to the castle! After Amaril carefully explains, with tears flowing down his cheeks, to Lucy, the men walk heavily up to their rooms.

As they are dressing and gathering their belongings a loud loud loud scream pierces the marble floors between them from below and our heroes, what's left of them, grab what is within reach and race, taking the stairs two or three at a time until they arrive on the main floor, and can see Lucy, her nanny, Mrs. K and two others with their backs to them.

Lucy, spying them points her finger at Amaril, "You lied! They're alive!" she is so happy to have Ooma and Morgan with her. "Why did you do that?" Lucy asks shaking her head, curls bouncing, a yawn escaping her jaw.

After the shock of seeing Morgan and Ooma, unscathed, standing before them, Amaril can only stutter, his words bumbling out.

“Your Majesty, I truly thought they had perished, or I would never have burdened you so.” Amaril has visions of being strung up for unintentionally lying to the Queen.

Ooma shakes her head, “No, but I did see a bright light and heard a loud roar and the air around me got hot and then I was here in the hall with Morgan.”

Lucy hugs her fiercely. The group briefly chats and then, as Lucy yawns, precipitating everyone yawning, Ooma suggests they return to bed and deal with things in the morning.

This suggestion is sleepily agreed to, and the party returns, each to their own bed. All are awakened in the morning by a servant bringing hot chocolate, tea, coffee, milk, cream and the bitter root coffee as well as croissants, butter and honey. “Breakfast is being served in the dining room,” their maid advises.

Martonis and Morgan both interrogate their maids.

Father Martonis is satisfied that the girl is naught but a lowly serving girl of average intelligence.

Morgan, after an intense questioning, nods and, though wary, believes this girl knows nothing more than what she’s told – her superior, this Marlene? Her he wants a word with. And the alchemist? Something bothers Morgan about Mr. Green.

Going to breakfast, Martonis, Ooma, Lucy and the nanny, Mrs. K enjoy a rich and artery clogging meal and, as they are nearly done, Wik joins them. Lucy suggests a picnic and the heroes smile and nod; they feel the need to keep her under their eye and learn more about the inner workings of the castle guard.

In the meantime, before breakfast, Wik heads to the basement to retrieve his new armour and weapons. Morgan accompanies him, getting his mithril shirt. Trying their newly fashioned armour on they both discover the fit to be so snug and comfortable they hardly know they are wearing anything.

Morgan nods tersely, thanking the clerks, turning and making his way to the alchemist’s, where Amaril has just entered a locked and secured quarters whereas only yesterday it had a light and friendly open door policy.

He speaks with the alchemist, and is pleased with the responses when Morgan thunders his presence, and, after the alchemist opens the door to him, steps inside, and the door is relocked. Glaring accusingly at Mr. Green, Morgan’s intense stare unnerving the poor fellow and nearly causing him to faint.

Under grilling from Morgan he falls apart, certain of his utter ruin! Amaril steps between Morgan and Mr. Green and holds his hands up convincing Morgan that Mr. Green couldn’t have done the deed, although it calms Morgan, he is still positive there is nefarious dealings afoot and he refuses to leave the alchemist alone, watching him and making the poor man shaky as a wheat stalk on a windy day.

Amaril leaves for a few minutes, returning with one of the vials Wik brought back from their weird trip last evening and hands it to Mr. Green. “Can you identify this? Or figure out the ingredients?”

Lifting his spectacles he peers at the vial, titling it as he examines the viscous material inside. “Yes, yes, I... well, I think I should be able to identify this. Yes. Leave it with me for a day or two and I’ll run some tests with it.” He nods at Amaril who agrees.

“Okay, I’ll do that. Morgan, Queen Lucy has decided she wants a picnic; we’re getting ready to leave. Are you coming?”

“Picnic?” scoffs Morgan bluntly, “No, I’ll pass.” His intention of guarding the alchemist firmly entrenched in his mind.

Amaril nods again and lets himself out, the alchemist moving to lock the door nervously, Morgan breathing down his neck.

Making his way to the main floor, Amaril is directed to the back of the castle where a large and fancy carriage sits, the door open, Wik just clamouring in. Amaril climbs up behind him, nods to the ladies, and sits beside Wik, opposite Ooma, Lucy and Mrs. K.

Martonis has chosen a fine large dappled grey stallion to carry him as he prefers the room to manoeuvre and feared the carriage too tight.

Wik entertains Lucy with tales that make her giggle and clutch nanny’s hand in fright, before she once again erupts into peals of laughter. The two-hour journey hardly felt like ten minutes as they arrived on the shore of a large, blue coloured lake. The sandy edge leading to a grassy level area with some hills and small dunes. Grass and wildflowers grew in perfect harmony under the azure sky.

Ooma playing with Lucy, complains that she (Ooma) needs some different clothes, “This armour is too bulky to play easily in.”

Lucy, chuckling, taps her armour and giggles loudly as it echoes. “You should ask the dressmakers. They’ll make you different clothes,” she says matter-of-factly.

Ooma, the fashion princess warrior, smiles, “I think I’ll do that when we return to the castle! Thank you!” After pushing Lucy in the swing and playing other games, Ooma and Mrs. K sit on rugs spread by the guards and Ooma shows her how to fashion daisy chains.

Running low on flowers, Lucy jumps up and skips a few feet away to a small knoll where they can see a plethora of white daisies and she bends to pick them. A loud scream erupts from her throat and she scrambles backward.

It is only seconds before Ooma, Martonis, Wik and Amaril are standing looking at the body of a young messenger, Ooma gathers Lucy to her and passes her to Mrs. K as she lumbers up, who takes Lucy, hugging her, and removes her from the immediate vicinity, to the shade of a tree, while the others, including two guards from the castle, discuss the grisly discovery.

It quickly becomes apparent that this is the messenger that was sent to retrieve Edith. A quick search of his pouch and pockets reveal a note, that after a few moments of study, Wik grins and quietly tells the group what it says.

It does not say what they expect, (a dispatch urging Edith to come to the castle), and only baffles them more as to the strange goings on in the castle. Ooma takes the note to Mrs. K who, after reading it, appears confused and startled. She shakes her head managing to convey in body language that she will not discuss the note now, not with Lucy so distraught. Ooma nods.

They pack up the picnic and head back to the castle, their light mood dampened severely. Wik, using his skills as a story teller again, distracts Lucy with tales of their journeys, (has it really only been a few weeks?) thus far.

While he holds the little girl’s attention, Mrs. K leans to Ooma. “About the note? Lucy’s birthday isn’t for months! I can’t understand this.”

They decide to hold all talk of this new development until Lucy is out of earshot and they can apprise Morgan of the events.

The carriage clatters across the cobbles stones and comes to a halt in front of the castle; footmen attend to their disembarkation...

The war room has not seen a King in many years…

o0o

XP: 250XP 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

o0o

war is dreadfully expensive...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

You lead horses not characters... my apologies...

*DM note: I really should know by now that the best laid plans will be erased by the simplest of questions or actions which my little pea-sized brain never considered – I mean, why wouldn’t you jump to the aid of a stranger about to be accused of exploding a building the size of a city-block and levelling it past its foundations?

Have discovered learned the only pre work I need to do is prepare the starting, or opening, line – after that I should just let my heroes do their thing and should they wander aimlessly for the entire evening, maybe nudge, but (I hope) NEVER lead them again... My apologies for what seemed like such a FUN side trip to acquire a bit of information and some components in a unique way, backfired into a tedious, confusing evening... (It sounded so GOOD on paper...)

Let me just ensure that the purpose of the trip is not lost:

ACQUIRED: Three (3) orange-yellow vials about as big as a man’s finger with wax stoppers.

INFORMATION: When you combine very fine dry powder with a specific insect and the vial, you obtain a lethal incendiary device with an unknown delay before it erupts spectacularly. Further testing may reveal the full process – or it is possible someone in the castle has a working knowledge of this crude and clever mechanism... It’s too bad they tossed the carcass before they returned... or did they?

The way it was supposed to go, (to find out HOW it actually unfolded, please visit the YouTube recording – if you want to see how NOT to run a campaign...)

~^~^~

Following the longest day shopping any of our heroes has ever undertaken, they are grateful for the thick eiderdown mattresses and fires crackling in the grates warming their rooms.

After a filling ‘family-style’ supper, (which Queen Lucy INSISTED they eat, and watched like a hawk that they did, teasing, "It's not poisoned," dipping her silver spoon into the serving bowls scooping dainty bites and swallowing them, feeding her guests personally if they do not ‘dig in’), of consume, bread, roast pheasant, broiled tubers, a vegetable terrine and rich cream-filled pastries for dessert, their eyes grow heavy and, uttering good evening's, they are shown to their rooms on the third floor. Lucy insists on Ooma sleeping with her on the first floor and, despite the protests of the others, they do go to their assigned rooms.

Martonis pausing in the Gentlemen's lounge intent on reading is interrupted by Wik. The two have a terse conversation, Martonis not hiding his disdain for the Elf, as Wik exchanges some of the information he learned during their tour of the castle.

Then, Wik, shrugging, yawns, excuses himself and heads to his allocated room where he enjoys a bath, re-straps his daggers to his body, puts on his ointment and the soft nightshirt left for him before slipping between the silk sheets, falling asleep, the candle burning low in the safety of the holder…

Martonis, his reading disturbed, heads to his room, performs his absolutions, undresses, puts on the nightshirt provided, and slides between the silk sheets, leaning against the padded headboard his mind a whirlwind of thought, most concerning Lucy and her apparent fragile state although a scowl creases his face as his thoughts touch upon Wik, and a frown as he thinks of Amaril...

Morgan, after Ooma assures him she will sleep in the same bed as Lucy, finally is persuaded to follow the others to his own room. He enters, spies the rum, turns, smiles at Martonis, who is going to the lounge, "Goodnight." His plans changing from an evening in the library to an evening before the fire. Closing his door and setting his backpack and other items on a large round table and fixing the new contraption he purchased to his possessions before cracking open a bottle, he grabs a mug and settles himself in the overstuffed easy chair, putting his feet on the pouffe, filling his mug, tossing it back, and repeating the process… a fluttering of a greyish vision infiltrates his dreams. Awakening, he puts another log onto the fire, goes back to the chair and resumes consuming rum...

Amaril also has a bath, but before he can get into bed, he has a visitor, whom he receives after pulling on the nightshirt laid out for him. When his guest leaves, he ponders his next move whilst climbing into his comfortable bed, blowing the candle's flame out. Resting his head on his hands he thinks, staring into the darkness...

__________________________________________

About an hour after the last of our heroes enters their room, a loud explosion rattles the castle and they grab the robe at the foot of their beds and rush out of their rooms tugging the cloak-like robe on, Ooma, mace in hand, tells Lucy to hide under the bed as she exits the room into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind her. Martonis manages to snatch his morning star as he rushes from the room. Wik and Amaril, daggers strapped to their bodies fling the robes on and pull back their doors, following Martonis to the rail. Morgan takes both his staff and scimitar as he hustles, still fully clothed into the hall... (DM note: ALL weaponry and armour was to be left behind – they were supposed to rush so quickly out that they were caught with their pants down, so to speak, to avoid an lengthy discussion I allowed these items.)

Damnit - we're not in Kansas any more…

Morgan, Wik, Amaril and Martonis find themselves looking over a wooden balcony-rail two stories above the main salon. Pandemonium reigns as people scramble about the large area, furniture scattered and flung about, some broken, most toppled. Ooma, on the main floor of a public house or tavern, is looking around and up at the bedlam. Shouts, gasps and shrieks fill the evening air.

Others, nearly everyone is a Gnome, exiting their rooms, are pushing past rudely in their haste to find out what happened, or to escape in-case it should happen again.

Their room doors locked, they descend the sturdy wood-staircase, (making their way towards Ooma), catching snippets and bits of conversation – enough to piece together a large explosion has taken place across the street from the fashionable inn and everyone is shaken. A squad of soldiers are ineffectual in calming the crowd, although no one is particularly out-of-control.

Our heroes catch snippets of conversations...

“Whatcha think, ‘eh? Inklebyrds Incendiary Devices or Estale Eitherdip’s Exciting Explosions?”
“Yah, Balderk’s Blazing Bonfires would never be so careless, a dwarf who’d make a mistake like that would be run out of town!”
“No, Samuel Valdkjurdi’d never allow that!” Ribald snorts.
“Did the fireworks started early!” a particularly drunken man spouts.
“Wonder if the celebrations will be cancelled?”
“Anyone hurt?”

The squad's captain shaking his head at the carnage, making his way to the front of the thick, stone foundationed building when a comely woman runs in. Screeching when she spies the captain, moving towards him her fists balled and her arms animated.

"I told you that note was trouble, now look! It’s already started! Rywyn is a fool! What are we going to do?" He goes to her and wraps his arms about her, embracing her as she clenches him. He peers around and, in the confusion, spies our heroes standing in a group, their white robes denoting their higher station in the town guard.

A smile forms on his face, brightening it, "Look my dear, we are saved, these must be the ones the Manor has sent to help us. They must have thought the note had merit after all!"

He strides over to the group and extends a hand, "You must be the detectives my cousin, Rywyn Nackle, promised from the Manor. I thought he was in jest. I’m Errick Nackle, Town Guard Captain. You've come at the best and worst time. We've a lunatic on the loose who...," he flushes, stammering.

The woman speaks up, "We received THIS!" She forces a note under your noses. “We have to find

out who is doing this or my husband will be unfairly blamed, not to mention, if this lunatic succeeds someone could... WILL ...get hurt!" Her face flush as her eyes glitter in the torch lighting. “Rywyn sent you, so you must help,” she pleads.

As the noise and cacophony of voices becomes louder with the arrival of those in nearby establishments, seeking information, Martonis grasps Errick’s hand, “I am Martonis, but I’m afraid there’s been some confusion, we have not been sent by this Rywyn Nackle, nor the Manor. In fact we aren’t sure where we are?”

This elicits raised eyebrows and confused gazes. Errick’s wife pleads, clasping Morgan’s arm, “Please, please help my husband. If you are not from the Manor, then it’s true, they do not believe him and are going to blame him for this disaster! We will be ruined because of a madman!”

Morgan rolls his eyes; his demeanour suggests he is not thrilled with this development. Martonis, on the other hand, wears an expression of sympathy. “We will help, but what would you have us do?”

The party tries to return to their rooms to no avail, with nothing else to do they are forced to accept the challenge. They agree, reluctantly, to assist Errick and the town through their immediate troubles, and begin posing questions.

They learn from the bartender, a lovely red-headed human, that a tall, lanky human fellow with a slight limp, had been lurking around the exploded building about two weeks ago. Several of the gnomish patrons nod thoughtfully corroborating her recollection, one commenting, “I think it was only a week ago, though.” Another describing the fellow in question so well, Errick is immediately able to name him!

“That sounds like Arnold Bennedikt, a soldier under my command! Are you certain?” Several nods firms his resolve and he beseeches the party to go with him to an establishment called the Rabid Rodent, “He can usually be found there. This could be the reason he has not reported for duty for the last two evenings.” (DM NOTE: THIS is a alteration of MY plans. Errick was to go and drum up more help while the party courageously deciphered clues, swiftly located and brought our culprit to justice, OR were caught in an explosion of epic proportions...)

(Here we blend what our heroes did and what I, the DM, forced upon them...) The party, still in the throes of utter confusion themselves, decide to examine the detonated site to look for clues or patterns or gain some indications as to what happened before the sun completely set and the land was awash in inky blackness. A thorough inspection provides some surprising evidence. Amaril climbs around inside the smouldering remains and, with careful processes, discovers that the pattern of the explosion verifies the building was targeted from the inside, and he locates the probable source. Continuing, Wik discovers a white powder residue lightly coating the area and, upon closer scrutinizing, announces, “Flour. It’s flour? Now why would there be flour everywhere?” Outside Wik locates two large hind legs of some kind of insect.

Across the River Bridge on the western banks of the Sparkle River, GlitterTop becomes a dissimilar place. The safety of the town’s walls and sanitation of its streets are replaced by a muddy, filthy neighbourhood filled with lean-tos and shelters in improvised shantytowns between the few standing edifices. Drunks and ruffians of all sorts stagger around, carousing without a care in the world. The Rabid Rodent Tavern, discernible by a sign containing a crude depiction of its namesake, stands as the most solid building in the whole neighbourhood. It’s still a two-story wooden jumble, however.

As the party enters the barely habitable establishment, Errick, in the lead, peers through the sooty dimness spotting his man fairly quickly. Marching his direction, he is almost to the table when Arnold lifts his bleary head, his eyes unfocussed, he utters a nonsensical muttering before his head drops again, his fingers tightly clutched around the handle of a Toby-jar, the contents mere drops clinging to the bottom.

“Soldier!” Errick barks at the slovenly male.

Arnold leaps to his feet, his chair tipping backward and landing on the dirt floor with a thud. “cursh in the shervice of the greedy Nacklesh!” He pulls a long sword awkwardly from his belt, waving it wildly as it flies from his hand and drops a distance away. “Yoush sink yor sho graysh... he’ll showsh you, all you hoity-toity shnomes...” He falls across the table. Errick lifts his head by the hair, Arnold barely notices, muttering, “Eshplode; all exshplode.” He laughs maniacally.

“Explode? What do you know of this?”

Arnold fixes his one open eye on Errick, “Gnomes, bah! Learn yoursh lesshon shewonight.” He belches loudly, jerking his head back and stumbling into a few other drunks. One of whom turns to the party, “Piss off,” he rumbles, tossing his empty mug at the party, missing, before launching himself unsteadily at Wik.

A wonderful melee ensues as the party fully over compensates to their drunken antics, especially as the other twelve or fifteen patrons in the bar takes no notice as the five stumble about, flailing their arms ineffectually. As they are knocked unconscious, one at a time, Arnold holds his hands up in surrender, and falls back into a chair his eyes rolling and his head lolling a sudden panic overwhelming him. “Hurshy, on hish shway...”

Errick searches the man and pulls a map from his cloak. Spreading it on the table, the party can see, in the dim greasy light, several ‘x’s’ placed about. “It’s a map of GlitterTop!” Errick gasps.

The party concludes the X’s are where the devices have been placed. Is this where the explosions will take place? At Arnold’s giggle, he continues, “My gawds man! That the Tenements! A lot of families live there! We’ll need to split up it’ll take too long otherwise.” Errick concludes. "We still don’t know what we're are looking for."

Errick quickly explains the map to the party, pointing the various places and ease to get there; GlitterTop is not a large town. Memorising the map, our party nods and hurries toward the door. Before they exit Arnold rises halfway up from his seat, “Fower; barrelsh of dry flours; dry! Dry! Dry floursh; barrelsh of dries flour in place. Another rounsh!” He swings his arm widely, falling off the seat.

Carefully retracing their steps they come to the bridge, the party decides to split up, each taking a separate ‘X’ on the map, joining the others as they or when they diffuse the explosion or fail to deactivate or diffuse the trigger. As they query people on the bridge a loud explosion rocks the waterfront and off to the south a fiery ball lights up the sky and the air is thick with the faint screams of the injured or dying.

Ooma elects to search the bridge. “I’ll catch up with you if I can’t find anything,” she tells Morgan.

Morgan elects to search the fireworks factory and sets off at a quick pace to locate the nearly city-long building across from the marina, while Martonis sighs and runs, clinking and clanking to the forge, several minutes away.

Amaril and Wik choose to search the Tenements and get some help from a few tenants rushing to the dockside fire who report seeing someone moving stuff in, or out, of the basement in building seven, and either building four, five or six. Searching they discover the barrels of flour and thinking quickly, using the nearby sinks, they pour water in the barrels, soaking the flour before digging their hands in the sludgy mess.

They discover a large bug, about two-feet in length in the centre of the flour. Wik discovers the bug is dead; a knife has sliced its stomach right up the middle. He also sees a small glass tube inside, filled with an orangeish liquid. He shakes the bug and notices a small ‘poof’ of smoke. Nothing else.

They decide to find Morgan first, as they have diffused their barrels.

In the meantime, a large stone forge burns with the red heat that boils to pure white at its centre. Several smaller forges burn, each with a burly apprentice swinging a hammer, watching metal shards take shape into useful items, currently horseshoes. The heat is as hot as the lava that pours down the side of the mountain on the island across the ocean. Six youthful apprentices and one respected master, a dwarf, who’s trained many blacksmiths in their art work in the forge and live in the attached small wooden structure with a deep root-cellar. The barrel has been placed in the root cellar near the main post. Martonis reaches the forge district and runs toward the door, “Run, get out now.” He moves to explain to a sturdy dwarf who astutely grasps the situation when Martonis mentions the first two, and is aided by the rumble of a third.

The two search the root cellar and quickly locate the barrel. The timer has not been set, but they know not this. As the forge master, Samuel Valdkjurdi, lifts the lid, Martonis instantly casts a ‘water’ spell, and a deluge of water pours from a cloud that appears above the barrel, much to the surprise of Samuel. Martonis also searches the barrel, after waiting a short time and finds the large beetle-like bug.

As they exit to the outdoors a loud, massive explosion ripples the ground and knocks them backward, felling Wik and Amaril. A white light shoots upward and many rockets, roman candles, sparklers and other unrestrained fireworks began shooting, their dangerous fires torching nearby thatch roofs and shanties. The call of “Fire!” goes out and uninjured townsfolk begin responding.

A boy comes running up to Martonis, ”Sir, they need you at the Inn, someone is there with a message.”

About the same time, Wik and Amaril are lifted to their feet, the blast ringing in their ears and are directed to the Inn. They stare at the gapping, fire-spewing hole that was the building Morgan was to inspect. “Maybe Ooma didn’t get here yet,” Amaril shouts to Wik, wiping a tear from his eye.

Grimly, Wik nods and they wobbly follow the page sent to get them.

Finding the Inn crowded with uninjured and seeing people going into and out of their rooms, our heroes dash for their rooms; all except Amaril – he tests Ooma’s door and finds he can open it. He steps through and finds himself inside Queen Lucy’s bed chamber and it is still night.

Queen Lucy, awakening and crawling out from under the bed confronts Amaril who, very gently and tenderly using simple words he explains to the child that Ooma and Morgan were killed as they fought bravely to save many others. He endures her anger and pain as she pounds his shoulders, her arms tightly gripping him, her tears falling in deep sadness, her sobs bringing tears to Amaril and Madame K’s eyes.

As Martonis and Wik enter their rooms, they check that their stuff is there. They go to the doors and find that when they open them now, they enter the castle hallways. Puzzled, they stand for a moment.

A piercing scream jangles the castle walls. Wik and Martonis glance at each other and dive for the stairwell, two or three at a time they descend the spiral, square staircase, barely pausing on the large landings, they hit the main floor and turn toward Queen Lucy’s room.

As they enter, they pull up short. Before them, alive and seemingly well, are Ooma and Morgan!

Queen Lucy, tears drying on her cheeks, “You lied! They aren’t dead!”

What the hell...?

o0o

XP: 1,500 EACH for allowing me to annoy the hell out of you; 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 Truth (the written one is so much better)

o0o

promising to never lead again...

fledgling floundering Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~