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...

~*~*~*~

Gendarmerie…

AWAKENING IN THE MORNING: 

Ooma:
I wake up very early to the smell of brewing coffee and cooking bacon... I smile as I stretch. I go to the water basin next to the mirror and check my face for stubble. I spot some, and a straight razor next to the basin. I give myself a quick shave, then a wash. Then I armour up, grab my gear and head down to the dining room for breakfast. I seem to be the first of our party here, so I'll grab a big table and order for the table some bread and cheese to start, and myself, a full breakfast, then I wait for my companions, sipping my, very strong, and smooth, coffee.
__________

Martonis:
Waking up, I feel thoroughly disgusted. Now I'm all for love and all, but whoever was put in the room next to mine just has no manners. Obviously the couple were, uhm, vigorous, and had plenty of energy to burn, but for the love of Pelor's Divine Radiance, MOVE the headboard of the bed away from the wall! All night long... bump... bump... whack... whack... "Ohhh baby!" ...and then again; and yet again! Oh well, might as well get up and pray.

"Oh, Divine... Pelor!” (Damned headache!) “By your radiance, let, uhm... Oh yeah, let the land be replenished, the unnatural be exposed to the Light for all to see. Let your ...ahem, Illumination awaken all to the Good that is about us. Let your Blessings, er... hmm, ahh... provide us with the skills needed to prosper, the intelligence to know that we never know all that is needed to be known, and the wisdom to realize the need continually seek for those answers. Oh blast, can't think, too tired, yadaa, yadaa. You know what's in my heart, oh Divine Radiance, please forgive this servant's poor attempt at your due!”

I then gather up my belongings and traipse sleepily down to the dining room. Spotting Ooma already at the table and I join her, requesting a cup of tea from the serving girl.
_________________

Morgan:
I will drop the pouch and broach in the wash basin and soak them both to get the itching powder off. I tear up the Turkish robe and make a sling and lash the broach to my side. I will place four silver bands and a garnet in the pouch and have it delivered to Lucy if I can. Then I go in search of the pleasant young woman to give her my thanks (and invite her to my room for a drink or two).

Unable to locate the girl from the opera, I am pleased to make the acquaintance of a pretty young lady with large green eyes and straight midnight-black hair on my way back to the hotel. She is affable to joining me in my room and we spend a happy evening enjoying each other’s company. Deniz, (her name) didn’t drink too much, but she was wise in the ways of pleasure, plus she did volunteer to take the package to Lucy. 

I wake just before dawn, finding Deniz, and the package, gone, so I set out to find a general store. I hope to purchase about ten identical belt pouches from the shop. I’d like to place few bands, charms, coins and cheap gems into each. I’ll likely get strange looks; I’ll tell them I’ve been burning the candle at both ends with the lady folk. I also need to look for replacement armour for my destroyed mithril chain shirt; preferably magic over mithril if possible. 
_________________

Wik:
I rise, perform my morning rituals gathers my belongings and head down for breakfast.
_________________


The large bed and breakfast, teeming with guests, awakes early, the crow of the rooster ensuring everyone knows the sun is rising. The proprietors bank the fires in the kitchens and dining hall, swiftly moving through a routine they have danced for several decades now.

The cook shakes her head as she fries thick rashers of bacon knowing the tantalizing odour will soon bring guests down, hungry. She sets the percolator on the flat top of the iron stove and slices thick chunks of fresh bread, (baked the afternoon before) as she punches down a new batch and sets it to proof, ready to be baked after the morning rush.

A few guests straggle in and she watches as the strange guest from last night, the queen’s acquaintances, makes his way down the oak staircase and, instead of turning to the dining room, he heads out into the street. She shakes her head, wondering whatever is he up to? Nothing is open so early. Shrugging she supposes he has a meeting, possibly with that lovely lady who joined him last night and left before the sun rose this morning. The owner thinks no more of it as she moves about the dining room, setting tables with cutlery and condiments.

Ooma takes a seat and orders The young girl who comes in to help with the breakfast fills her order and, when she is joined by Martonis and Wik a few minutes later, the serving girl cheerfully fills their orders.

Morgan, meanwhile, has found the streets fairly deserted, only a few ragged urchins, pulling tin wagons are around poking into trash bins and gathering up the bits of treasures left or tossed by the well-to-do. It appears this city stays up late, and sleeps in. After attempting the doors to the Bastille Armoury, he turns to retreat down the stairs, muttering about “lazy, good for nothing…” He is not so caught up in his mutterings that he fails to notice several large uniformed men approaching…

The scrabblers, nearing the opposite end of the block, mind their business, intent on their goals. Morgan astutely turns and retreats toward the urchins attempting to avoid contact with the uniformed men. He tosses a handful of coins to the ground in an endeavour to create a distraction allowing him to put more distance between him and them.

It works, slightly. As the men push passed the homeless, gruffly but without rancour, Morgan turns and peers at them. Deciding they maybe aren’t a threat, he pauses, waiting for them to catch up.

They do, and promptly arrest him. The gendarmerie try speaking with him, but the language is insurmountable and Morgan, after a small struggle, goes peacefully. The seven police officers march him through the street to the police station, a few streets along.

They enter the compound and are greeted with angry shouts and bitter comments. “Thief,” is the one word Morgan is able to understand as he is hauled up and into the marble floored, mahogany panelled station, through the public area into the property room where the guards take his visible equipment, handing it to another clerk who takes and places it in a small room behind him, locking the windowless door securely.

Morgan is then hauled through the other door into a long room with maybe twenty cells down either side, their doors opening into the common corridor. A few lights hang down the centre illuminating the depressing area. Small windows, with closely-set bars, positioned into the walls near the ten-foot ceiling allow gusts of fresh air (and, often rain or snow) to invade the area. There are three other prisoners lounging inside the cells and Morgan is thrust into an empty one. The conversation he attempts receives blank stares. He sits and thinks to while his time.

Back in the hotel dining room, our rogue, fighter and cleric are enjoying the tasty foods set before them, helping themselves from the a la carte as their plates empty; croissants, hot chocolate, a sideboard loaded with bacon, eggs – omelettes, scrambled, coddled, poached – toast, potato hash, sausage, ham, scalding bitter coffee and watered wine…

The owner cheerfully brings in the morning’s newspapers, placing one on every table. Before our party has time to peruse it, a commotion in the lobby has everyone rubber-necking to discover the source. Wik lifts the paper and his eyes grow wide as he reads an alert on the front page, he relays the information quickly to his friends. 

Moments later a squad of Gendarmerie enter the dining room, their eyes roaming over the guests. Wik, attempting to avoid their attention, scrambles under the table, dismayed when he realises the table cloth is only a few inches long and doesn’t hide him at all. The movement catches their attention and they make their way to the table hosting our heroes and an arrest is made. The language barrier causes much confusion; the proprietress shakes her head, “Bad. Thieves.”

Wik struggles briefly and is placed in irons.

The officers check their rooms, returning with an empty vase, confirming it does not belong to the hotel. The party is escorted to the station where more disgruntled patrons have arrived from the bath house and are shaking their fists, demanding justice.

The party is taken through, their belongings rucksacks and other possessions placed in the locked storage before they join Morgan, albeit in separate cells. Morgan has attempted speech with the three other prisoners without success, and is happy to have his friends join him, although, when they later transmit the reason they are being held, he is outraged.

As soon as the guards exit the cell-room, Wik begins to pick at the manacles using his thieves tools. “So glad they didn’t search me before they tossed me in here!” he sniggers to himself.

The rest of the party soon hear the metal clang on the hewn rock floor. “Now, how to get out of here.” He fiddles with his lock picks unsuccessfully at the iron grate. Frustrated until he remembers a gold skeleton-key he picked up deep in the caverns.

Fitting the key, previously hidden on his body, to the lock, he is pleased to find it opens!

“There are keys on the hook by the door,” Morgan points out. Wik goes to the hook and takes the large metal ring, returns to the cell doors and quickly releases the rest of the group, including the other prisoners. Martonis makes a point of thanking him.

A plan is quickly hatched and not one of the team feels remorse at using the three criminals, but assuage their guilt by reasoning that the three probably are guilty of their crimes. Morgan hands each two daggers, and by pantomiming is able to have the three understand, (or, at least understand their part) in the diabolical idea. He also reaches in his pouches and extracts several rings and gems that he found, stolen by the mice, and hands it to the criminals, whose eyes glitter as they laugh coarsely.

The party, plus three, cautiously moves into the storage room hatching their plan. They unlock the door to the outer room, shoving the three criminals through, hollering and causing a commotion as Morgan slams and Martonis locks the door behind them, effectively tossing the three to the wolves. Our heroes then enter the lockers and retrieve their belongings, or, at least the stuff they can readily spot, go back into the cell room and head for the emergency exit, although, why it’s called ‘sortie’ they cannot fathom.

Now, to keep the officers from simply entering and subduing them, Martonis puts the key in the lock, turns it then brings his morning star’s head heavily upon the key, snapping it, making it impossible for a key to be used from the other side.

The party expects the key in hand to open the door, but, two keys; one for the cells and one for the doors. They brainstorm quickly, Ooma suggesting they remove the hinges. This is tried successfully and Morgan catches the heavy door, leaning it to the side as they make their escape down a metal staircase and over to a high stone wall.

Morgan grabs his grappling hook and tosses it over the wall, the party scrambling up it, Martonis, using the Grace of Pelor, heaving Morgan over when he loses his grip on the rope and begins to struggle. They no sooner hit the ground when a battalion of officers round the corner at the end of the lane. They start to run, but slow when they realise Martonis cannot run he is exhausted.

Morgan, about to toss Martonis over his shoulder, thinks Wik’s idea of each taking Martonis by the arm and dragging him along is a better one. Martonis, understanding they may need to leave him behind, tosses a bag-load of marbles which, like a comedy routine, has the officers slipping, tripping and falling in their haste to recapture these hardened criminals!

Our heroes hasten their way along the lane, turning several times, losing the officers, and nearly colliding over a rabble group scrounging in the trash, similar to the urchins Morgan met earlier. Our group is almost passed them when Morgan gets a bright idea. He grabs one of the urchin’s trolley handles, puffs up, and stares the ragged waif down, effectively forcing him to release the trolley, where upon, Morgan unceremoniously lifts Martonis and drops his feet first into the trash barrel on wheels. The party is able to travel much quicker as they jog along the road moving through narrow lanes.

As they hustle along, they notice the roads widening; the yards growing larger, tidier. Forced into a narrow walkway between two high-walled gardens, Martonis spots, like a telescope, at the opposite end, what the party perceives to be the palace! “There, that way!”

Morgan, spying the hill, turns to Martonis and groans, “I’ll take you to the bottom, after that, you’re on your own.”

The palace guard smirk briefly as they spy Martonis, his armour-clad body clanging in the rubbish-cart. They point the way to the entrance politely, being quite oblivious that these people are wanted by the police.

Arriving at the entrance, the party observes little pomp and ceremony, asking to see Lucy.

“The Queen?” the neatly uniformed officer repeats, his practised eye inspecting this varied group. A smile creases his face, “Are you Ooma?” He turns at her nod. “And you must be Wik, and,” he glances to Morgan, “Morgan?” I must apologise, I do not know your friend?”

“This is Martonis, he wasn’t with us when we rescued Lucy.”

“Ahh, I see,” his accent strong. “Please, follow me, the queen is expecting you!”

After being led through a maze of hallways and rooms, they are led into the throne room. The guard, hardly reading their names before a loud squeal and a flying torso of limbs leaps from the enormous throne, and flies down the length of the room, and launches into Ooma’s arms.

“You’re here!” a small child’s voice sings gleefully!

The party reacquaints themselves to Lucy, Queen Lucy now, and Ooma introduces Martonis. Although schooled in courtly manners, she is still a child and she clings to Ooma, shyly peering around her to look at the metal man.

Martonis for his part, removes his helm and kneels, “My lady.”

Discussions ensue, although it seems strange to be chatting about such adult ideals with a young child, she is the one who can grant their freedom.

Looking to her they quickly tell their tale. Lucy speaks with her advisor, who nods and bows graciously, “It will be taken care of, your majesty.” His scowl is noticed only by the newcomer, Martonis, as he exits the grand room.

“Your highness, if I may. Your advisor is especially evil and should not be trusted.”

“Nonsense,” Lucy giggles. “He’s been here since my parents were killed.” She grows sombre, her voice quavering and a tear encroaching in her sparkling eyes. This nearly breaks Martonis’s heart as he holds his arms open for her. She presses closer to Ooma, a childish shyness creeping upon her.

“Who takes care of you?” they enquire and Martonis is appalled to discover the toad who is considered her advisor is the one who makes the decisions until Lucy comes of age. Martonis tries his best to tell her what he has been given a glimpse of, but it is just too much for her childish imagination to take in.

“Nana, my governess.”

“Can we meet her?”

A wide smile fills Lucy’s face, “Oh, yes!”

“What happened to Edith? Can we send for her? Can she come and look after you?”

“Yes. If she will. My advisor can arrange it.”

“Maybe we’ll stay until she arrives, would you like that? If we stay until Edith arrives?”

Typical of a little girl who has just been given a very coveted gift she squeals and jumps up and down. “Will you!? Yippee!!” She clings to Ooma’s arm and begins to drag her along the carpet. “Come, you must meet Madame, and she’ll arrange your rooms!”

The four adventurers follow the small waif through the splendid gallery and further; the magnificence of the palace inspiring new respect at every turn.

 The party follows blindly a six-year-old child...

o0o

XP: 1150 each; surprising, ‘eh? 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

blindly following the child...
fledgling Dungeon Mistress,
khrys...

~*~*~*~ 

Mousicians… and deceit...

Our party finds itself in a Turkish bath house. Large natural stone-bowls of steaming, clear, bluish-green water dot this underground grotto, with heewn stone floors, walls and ceilings. Lichen line the walls, offering a soft glow throughout the stone maze.

Our party stares dumbfounded as several ladies approach. Too shocked to protest, they soon find themselves being expertly bathed by these exotic beauties, the dust, dirt and grime whisked away before they are rinsed in cool, clear water and then led to either the massage tables, the steam room or the soaking pools. Wine is offered freely, as are small dates and figs on salvers.

Being unfamiliar with the surprises the party has found, Martonis chooses to dress and not lounge about. He is followed by Amaril, Morgan and finally Ooma and Wik. All are pleasantly surprised to discover their belongings have been cleaned, polished, sharpened, repaired, oiled, refined, and restocked. Amaril learns the secret to the glass vase as he sees the lady pour the contents back into the vase and retop it while he is being dressed and chooses to keep this information to himself, sharing it with Wik later.

They are led from the bathing pools to a foyer, or lobby with thick carpeting, festive walls, and large wall sconces burning fragrant candles. Several ornate benches with thick, plush pillows are arranged artfully around the large space, and a few people, with khol-lined eyes, sit, awaiting the giggling-ladies to show them into the pools. The window openings to the outside are heavily draped with brilliant scarves and thick rugs.

Morgan is determined to talk to these people but is thwarted as their language resembles nothing he knows, and yet he has a sense he should.

“The Moors were Muslim inhabitants of the Maghreb, the Iberian Peninsula, Sicily, and Malta during the Middle Ages. The Moors were initially of Berber and Arab descent, though the term was later applied to Africans, Iberian Christian converts to Islam, and people of mixed ancestry. Who in modern times are found sailing the high seas as pirates...”

Opposite the doors into the bathing pools are sixteen-foot high Moorish doors, their ornamentation bright and gaudy. As the party moves towards the doors, smiling and inclining their heads politely as they pass couples, families and individuals, two large, elaborately outfitted men pull back the heavy doors, salaaming our heroes as they exit ...into a wide lobby with a red carpet with tiny gold fleur de leis woven into the deep-red carpeting, flowing luxuriously throughout the space. Turning back, the Moorish doors are already fading into blackness...

Given mere moments to absorb their new surroundings, they are whisked up a wide marble staircase by an animated young lady who is positively glowing with excitement.

“Here you are! Isn’t it exciting? Come now, we’ll have to get you seated before it begins, follow me; follow me.” She turns. “Here you are!” She holds back the curtain to a private balcony with six wide, upholstered seats. She waits for you to enter and settle yourselves before murmuring that, “The Mousicians are already entering the stage!”

As they drink from crystal goblets filled with liquid refreshments the curtain rises, and the orchestra, tiny mice, softly begins their show. Nearly asleep as our heroes wonder when they can leave without attracting unwanted attention, they fidget and peer about the large amphitheatre. Morgan and Ooma, notice mice scurrying along dropping into balconies, unnoticed by the patrons. Morgan notes that the mice have red eyes. Wik sees them racing along the rafters.

A cache of tiny trinkets is found and collected by Martonis, as Morgan points out the trail he sees leading to it. The party then make their way down the stairs and begins filing toward the exit. Wik excuses himself to visit the private loo, returning a few minutes later. “Where is Morgan?” he asks.

Morgan, seeking a different exit, leaves and then locates the party outside, on the long avenue. Undecided as to direction they peer up and down the miles long, straight boulevard.

Wik spots a sign in the distance that only brings more questions. “What’s an Eiffel Tower? Or an Arc de Triomphe?”

Undecided still, the Paige pokes her head out of the Theatre. “Are you lost? I thought you would be at the hotel. They are waiting for you.”

Martonis asks, “Why would they be waiting for us?”

The Paige goes red and stammers, begging them to forget she has said this. Martonis is adamant and wishes to know who is waiting for them.

Reluctantly she murmurs in a low voice, “You saved the child.”

“Lucy?” Ooma asks surprised.

The girls nods, “Please, I do not wish to spoil the surprise.”

“Who is Lucy? Are you sure it is the same one?”

“Oui, Lucy, heir to the throne. She is to be crowned queen.”

A silence envelops our heroes as they digest this information, and then, seemingly all at once deny that they did the deed for gain. “We do this sort of stuff. It’s kinda what we do.”

“Please don’t tell them I mentioned anything,” the Paige pleads.

“Of course not,” the party agrees.

“Your hotel is at the end of this avenue,

As they enter the bed and breakfast, they are greeted cordially, and, because of the late hour they rush the party up the stairs and into individual bedrooms, well appointed with everything royalty would expect! On a sideboard in the sitting room each hero will locate several bottles of fortifications. Morgan, being fond of rum is overjoyed to find three large bottles of the Captain’s stuff sitting beside a large cut-glass tumbler.

Thinking swiftly, he saunters across the hall to Martonis’s room, and, on the pretence of admiring the luxuries afforded them, he eyes the liquor cabinet greedily. Martonis waves his hand, “Help yourself, friend.”

Morgan wastes no time in relieving the board of its stash of three more bottles of rum. Ooma wanders in, “We should get Wik and Amaril and divide that treasure up. Maybe take another look at that vase, ‘eh?”

With Martonis and Morgan in agreement, Ooma knocks on their doors, finding Amaril in Wik’s room. “Come to Martonis’s room, and bring the vase,” she hollers.

When they arrive, Amaril is confronted about the vase. “I don’t have it any more, maybe those bath ladies took it?” he offers weakly.

Martonis challenges him. “I don’t believe you.”

An argument ensues, with Wik being dragged in as Amaril flounders on open sea. Martonis, Ooma and Morgan all disbelieving the tales regarding the loss of the vase and its treasure. “Well, I tell you, I can’t abide those who won’t tell the truth!” Martonis emphatically growls. “I remove my spell of protection from you both and don’t expect any further healing from me in the future!”

Wik laughs, “Don’t expect my help when you need a trap examined.”

Then the party does the worst thing possible. They go to bed angry. This does not seem to bother some, but Martonis is bitter at the fibs and struggles throughout the night listening to an annoying tapping sound, awakening fatigued. Others are perturbed by the wails of some ethereal form or other. Others sleep like dead-fall logs...

Hoping day break brings softer attitudes and clearer reasonings…

o0o

XP: 150 each. (Decided by subtracting, multiplying and dividing all of the choices made...) 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

(Click for Video Version)

o0o

anger and greed make poor comforts...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

Turkish Delight...

will the fun never stop on this dizzy ride through wonderland...? Probably not…

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...

~*~*~*~

We have the key...

As we should recall our party was immersed in darkness when we left last week, the lights being extinguished as the puzzle was correctly answered...

“Oh shit!” The battle cry emerges as the lights wink out and our party is plunged into inky-blackness, the dark so deep it takes even Ooma a moment to adjust her keen eyesight!

The golden glow above the podium is no longer glowing. Wik dropping to his knees, fills his lantern, strikes his flint and steel sparking the wick, bringing a small amount of light to the room again.

The light reveals a light haze, or fog, puffing out from under the dais, its odour a pleasant, sweet smell. The red ooze, released when the glowing red key was turned sits slightly over ten-foot from Wik, sparkling on the floor, about a cubic-foot, or a large pumpkin-size, puddle. Martonis manages to elude the penalty of the sleeping gas; our other team members already entertain immunity to its consequences.

• DM SHTUFFS: A discussion ensued, clearing up a minor rule function. Ie: Up to level FOUR, you may receive your character’s FULL hit-die points, beyond level four you must ROLL to see how many more hit points you add. A roll of ‘one’ is a ‘botch’ and you can roll again.
• When you (the party) takes a full, eight hour, (Elves, four) rest, you recover 1-point, per (your) level PLUS your constitution modifier.

Wik finally shows his party members the keys he’s found. 

Martonis is indignant. “You found keys? And didn’t tell anyone? You just turned them? I know I’m the new guy, but, really?”

Wik describes his discovery behind the sliding panel, to the group.

A series of six glowing coloured keys set in keyholes in a horizontal row behind a sliding panel of stone. From left to right the keys are Green, Red, Blue, Yellow, White and Black. They are unmarked in any other way.

Ooma returns to the podium, rechecking to see if a new riddle has been written. She is disappointed.

A deep sigh and Ooma looks around.

The door on the west wall, with a cave-in a few metres down the corridor; a lever on the north wall, next to a faintly discernible rectangle, which the skeletons appear with far too much regularity; the Obsidian glass wall being the whole eastern wall of this sinister room. A panel of keys on the south wall, near the western door, and the podium, sitting on the dais, with the gold plaque atop it, in the centre of the room.

She looks up and down a slight puzzled look creasing her brow. The walls are solid black rock, jagged in places, smooth in others, the ceiling, or what she can see of it, appears to be the same material.

Wik strolls close to the Obsidian wall, attempting to peer through the opaque, polished glass-like rock, noticing the absence of a glowing sconce that lit the entry into this “tomb.”

Martonis repeatedly asks if anyone has a torch, to which Wik replies, “I’ve just lit a lantern.”

Martonis acknowledges this but has a different use in mind as he again asks for a torch.

Ooma and Wik return to examine the ooze intently. Ooma kneels next to the puddle, peering closely, waving her hand, attempting to have catch a whiff of the ooze’s aroma. Although her hand brings nothing of note to her nostrils, she does feel a cold wetness slithering about her chainmail armour-clad knees and calves, creeping along her armour.

As Ooma attempts to stand she discovers her legs glued to the floor. She tries to hit the red glob, bringing her mace down on the sticky substance coating her calves. Pieces chip off the main body, but as a whole, it appears unfazed.

Wik calls everyone over and instructs them to pull. As they lift Ooma from the floor, the substance forces her legs to remain in their bent, kneeling position. Morgan attempts to use his crowbar to pry the stuff loose from her legs as they lift her.

They set Ooma down again, all chip in and help untying her leggings, dropping them to the floor. Martonis again asks someone for a torch, explaining that the heat may burn away the glue.

Morgan lights a torch and fires the armour, watching as the heat melts the red substance, and, getting a little too close with the flame, Morgan touches the newly liquefied ooze, and it explodes the jelly-like substance, which separates the mass into particles about two-to-five centimetres diameter. Deftly our group manages to duck, dodge and evade the projectiles, which affix themselves all over the room, harmless now. A small scream assails their ears as this happens.

Ooma puts her armour back on after examining and discovering no harm has come to it through the ooze. While Ooma redresses, Wik takes a moment to discuss the panel of keys.

Martonis’s request that they take an eight-hour rest is heeded and they bed down for the night, Wik massaging the crème he has into his skin to try to return his natural colour. The pink is fading from his hair, and if you look closely you can see the yellow skin slowly easing to a pink-flesh tone, but only on close examination, from afar, these slight changes are hardly noticeable.

Their sleep goes uninterrupted and they awaken refreshed. The corner of the tunnel, near the cave-in is beginning to have a privy-kind of smell, if you catch its drift. Immediately upon waking, they resume tackling the keys, discussing the ramifications of turning them. Wik relights the lantern during his watch, so it still burns brightly.

“Alright, there’s six keys. We’ve turned one, the red one, there’s green, blue, yellow, black and white left,” Wik informs the party.

Ooma, after pondering for a few moments, “I recommend we don’t turn the black one, black signifies something bad; even worse than red.”

Wik pipes in, “So, you guys want to turn white then?”

The discussion ensuing results in the white key being turned by Wik while everyone else stands near the podium, about thirty-foot back, Martonis moves a few feet further. Wik turns it, then turns it back, hearing a click both ways. Confused, he tries again, leaving the key turned for a few seconds before turning it back.

Floating down from the ceiling come big, white fluffy flakes of snow! It lands on our party, melting and dripping to the floor. The room also seems to drop a degree or two in temperature.

A sigh and they turn back to the keys, Morgan commenting, “I’m worried about turning that yellow key, I just have this feeling it’s going to be urine; a stream of urine!” (After much giggles...)

“The green one could be acid,” Wik reflects. The discussion continues until a consensus is reached.

“Green? Okay.” Wik turns the green key and the faraway tinkling sounds of a musical tune fills the room, and he switches the key off. Looking around they see nothing of note.

Twisting the yellow key, Ooma holds her shield above her head, but instead of the expected deluge of urine, a panel slides smoothly open at the opposite end of the wall, closer to the Obsidian partition.

Ooma runs over to the alcove, a stone niche of about two-foot wide, high and deep, finding a clear glass vase about eighteen inches in height, and about ten inches in girth. The vase is filled with gold coins, glittering gems, gold chains, silver bars, rings, and such. Ooma looks for any kind of pressure plate before she grabs the vase speedily backing away hurriedly. The vase is surprisingly heavy, and Ooma instantly feels a drain on her energy. She sets the vase down on the floor.

She tries to reach in to extract a coin, finding a glass cover on the top of the vase, impeding her fingers. “Hey guys, look at this,” she calls to the others, Wik’s eyes bulging as he moves swiftly to the riches-filled glass container.

They all approach, and Ooma waves her hands telling them what she’s found. Martonis suggests breaking it. Wik examines it closely, his eyes glittering as his mind whirls at the riches inside. He sees a crystal clear vase, or urn with wealth nearly spilling out. Ooma suggests turning the green key to see if the music will crack the glass and Wik, greedily enthralled with the vase nods, “Go ahead, I’m not setting this down.”

Ooma tells Wik to bring the vase over and set it next to the keys. He turns the green key, starting the pleasant musical tune, which they leave playing for over a minute, watching the vase intently to see if any changes occur and are disappointed. Nothing appears to happen.

Wik lifts the vase above his head and, in a moment of misplaced frustration, drops it hard, to the stone floor and is not only surprised, but stupefied when the vase does not shatter. Wik grabs it, examining it closely, not ascertaining the deception, and so, determinedly tries to place it in his backpack.

Ooma objects, her mind starting to wrap around the clues they are discovering and trying to make sense of them. “So we have snow, we’ve got this red ooze that likes to envelop things, and we’ve got this music, and I’m wondering if we put this out, and the red ooze envelops it, let it snow and then the music comes on... and...,” she pauses, “let’s find out what the other keys do! ‘Cause there might be like a sequence of events here.”

Wik agrees to this suggestion, yet still puts the vase in his backpack before turning the blue key.

As the key turns a sudden snapping, crackling sound comes from over head and shooting out from the southeast corner of the soaring ceiling, comes a jagged lightning bolt, it’s blue flame-like sizzle rapidly bouncing off the hard surfaces of the room hungrily until it finds its point, zapping Martonis’s plate-mail suit, stumbling him backward as it dissipates. Martonis feels the heat and is very grateful for the suit which protects him from serious damage.

Morgan, spying the smoke wafting from Martonis’s face shield, knocks on his armour, “You okay in there?” he laughs faintly.

“Yeh, I’m alive,” Martonis barks, trying to clear his head. “Wow! That was better than a fifth of...” his voice trails off.

Wik immediately turns back to the key bank, “Only black to go! Shall we spread out a little bit?”

As the group returns to their positions near the podium, Morgan holding his breath and closing his eyes, peeking from under his lashes as Wik turns the black key.

Martonis prays, “I may see you soon Lawrd,” he half-jokes. Leaving the key turned for a few seconds before turning it back, they look about the room, trying to determine what, if anything, has happened. They hear something flowing; gushing and Martonis finally notices a thick black trickle slowly oozing down the north wall, a couple of gallons or so spills forth before the key is turned back.

Martonis comments, “Uh-oh, we’ve got problems.”

Morgan relights a torch and sets it against the substance, hesitatingly. It seems to make the substance liquidier, and grows darker in colour. The smell reminds our party of ...clovers?

As Morgan finishes flaming the sticky, clover-smelling substance, Wik determinedly moves to examine the lever, sensing that it has a trap attached to it, but is unable to discover the purpose. He does discover that it will open, or close, a door, but not which door.

Wik shrugs, “It’s the only thing we haven’t tried.”

They discussed the purposes, as Morgan puzzles over what made the skeleton door open, if they haven’t yet pulled the lever? Wik astutely tells him that moving the gold tablet caused the door to open.

“The lever is the last thing we can try. Shall I pull it?” Wik queries the party. “Just make sure we’re all prepared for a fight.” He looks to each.

“Ahh, sure,” Morgan shrugs.

“Yeh, I guess,” Ooma decides, unenthusiastically.

“Martonis? You’re the one that’s probably going to get the heaviest workout,” Wik reminds him.

“Probably,” Martonis nods. “Go ahead.”

Wik pulls the lever and the party hears a large stone scraping along other stones and it rumbles in the room; a slight shaking and small dust particles floating downward. The noise seems to come from beyond the Obsidian wall. It rumbles for about ten to thirty seconds before ceasing.

Morgan exits and looks down the tunnel where the collapse, or cave-in, happened. He sees nothing that sets off alarm bells and decides to stroll the length, to the rubble, turning and retreating back to the room when there appears to be no changes to the corridor.

Wik, in the meantime, peers at the glass wall carefully, attempting to see if there is anything they may have missed.

He sees very little in the cavern beyond the wall, the dark purplish-smoky colour of the Obsidian making clear visibility difficult. He does note that the sconce, that burned on the wall next to the lever that released the door’s catch allowing them to enter the room, has burned out.

The wall is set into a groove in the floor and along the ceiling, and pushes tightly into slots at the north and south ends of the mostly square room. He is unable to determine how deep the glass sinks into the groove or how far it is inset into the stone slots.

Martonis tilts his head. Walking up to the wall, he knocks on it with his fist. “Open up,” he commands. He is not truly surprised when nothing happens. He next swings his morning star at the wall, Wik moving swiftly away to avoid being hit by the weapon and the flying chips of glass that are sure to fly about.

The wall resists his efforts.

Ooma shakes her head, “I still think it has something to do with these coloured keys.”

“Oh, probably,” Martonis sighs.

Wik suggests they turn the non-damaging keys. The yellow and green and leave the others unturned.

Ooma stands next to Wik and suggests the others stand in the doorway to the tunnel on the west wall. “Let’s do the red one again, plus then make it snow.”

Wik pipes up, “Were not doing the red one again! We’ll do the yellow white and,” he pauses, thinking, “and green one.”

Omma reminds him that, “The red was non-damaging; it just stuck to my armour.”

Martonis agrees, “It was just glue.”

Ooma continues, “So, I don’t know, like, maybe you should put the red ooze, make it snow, play the music, I don’t know, a combination of these things. Lightning; I dunno – it’s weird. Could these be like elementals?” she ponders.

Before any of that can happen, Morgan determinedly moves to the podium and touches the tablet. Ooma sees him, “Oh, gawd damn it!”

His finger resting on the tablet, he stares at the skeleton’s entry door. When nothing occurs, he picks the tablet up, dropping it back into place immediately, but, the damage is done, from the north wall, a door slides open and three obsidian skeletons with glowing red-eyes march out, going to the podium.

Morgan looks past the marching glass-undead into the room they have emerged from, attempting to discover if anything looks different from his earlier glimpse. From his vantage point he sees nothing that causes him to think the lever pulled moved anything in that room. He then scoops up a few of the glowing eyes strewn about the floor and throws them at the marching skeletons, before running to the tunnel in the west wall.

Martonis casts a spell, his arms raising and in a very deep voice, he intones, “By the glory and reign of Pelor, be gone!!” And, by the glory of Pelor, the Obsidian bones of the skeleton’s dissolves to fine particles and disappears!

Morgan looks at him and grins, “You’re getting better at this.”

Ooma smiles and shouts, “Nice one, Holy man!”

Wik turns immediately back to the keys. “Okay, I’m turning on the snow and the music and what was the other one?”

Ooma suggest the yellow one, “To see if another panel opens up.”

Wik turns the keys. As the white one is left turn, large fluffy flakes drift downward and the room’s temperature drops noticeably. As the green key is left turned, the music plays, echoing off the hard surfaces, its sound pleasant. When the yellow key is turned, the panel the vase was in formerly, rises again, revealing an empty niche.

Wik begins to feel very tired, quickly discovering the vase to be the cause and sets the vase on the ground. “Okay, anyone want to try to smash that?”

Morgan steps up and deftly brings Ichabod’s staff down hard on the glass. Wik raises an eyebrow, “You know if you shatter that she’s going to kill you, right?”

“She has to unkill herself first.” He laughs, the stick hitting the vase, the reverberations tingling up his arms from the ineffective strike.

Wik instructs Ooma and Martonis to try. Ooma shakes her head, “Sweetie, let’s work on getting out of here first, then we’ll look at the vase. One problem at a time.”

Wik looks at her, “Okay, whose going to carry it, and feel exhausted?”

Martonis, thinking, asks, “Are there any other keys you might have found?”

A short discussion and the answer appears to be an abrupt, “No, we didn’t find nothing. What you see is what we’ve found.”

The snow is piling up, about two-feet deep, before Wik re-turns the keys, shutting them off.

Ooma has an idea, warning everyone to get into the hall where the cave-in occurred. “I want to try something. Set the vase in the centre of the room first, Wik.” When everyone is safely peeking around the stone door of the corridor, she turns the blue key, emitting the lightning shaped blast that bounces around the room, unfortunately it chooses to dispel on Ooma’s scale armour, missing as Ooma lifts her wooden shield feeling the shudder of the blast, pushing her against the wall solidly, a second blast of lightning pops out just before Ooma can switch the key off, bouncing around the room in unleashed glory, dissipating against the wall.

“Well, that didn’t work.” Ooma walks forward and smashes the vase with her gold-plated mace, which recoils so violently in her hand it almost pulls it from her grip. Yet the vase remains, unbroken.

Martonis also decides to smash it, swinging his morning star soundly against the side, knocking it over and causing it to roll about five-foot.

Wik tries the simple route, walking over to where it stops and commanding, “Open.” He shrugs a sheepish grin on his face. While Ooma ambles over and proceeds to rub it with her new gloves, succeeding in obtaining a classic shine, but zilch-else transpires.

“Okay, this thing is – I mean, let’s just figure this out later; let’s just try and get out of here first,” Ooma comments, proceeding to question Morgan about the skeletons, learning that the skeletons in the room seemed to be immobile. She once again requests everyone to get back in the corridor. She wants to turn all the keys.

Martonis seems a little worried about this decision, but, as he has just joined this group, he bends to their choices, his unholy-like remarks filtering under his breath.

When they are all in the corridor, Ooma begins turning keys. Black, then red, then white, green, yellow and lastly blue. She crouches down and holds her shield above her head.

As the keys are turned, the familiar patterns appear. Black key: a brownish-black liquid seeps between the stones and down the north wall; the red key brings forth about a cubic foot of red ooze from a crack in the south wall, quite close to Ooma. The white key has snow falling at a steady pace. Turning the green key brings the sound of music to the room and the yellow one lifts and lowers the niche panel. The blue key sends forth its frightening bolt of electricity, which eventually ploughs into Ooma’s shield, scorching the wood nearly through. A second bolt flashes out, and every six-to-eight seconds a new bolt flashes forth.

After the second bolt flashes, Ooma jumps and switches them off, starting with the blue key.

The party returns to the room, deflated. “There has to be a way out!”

Wik asks, “Shall we go clear that cave-in?”

Ooma has another suggestion, “Why don’t we pry open that skeleton door and see if we can make our way through without disturbing them?”

Morgan warms to this, “Why don’t we try to kill them with the lightning?”

Ooma points out, “I don’t know. They’re made of glass not metal.”

Morgan asks if the keys are removable, and Wik reassures him, “Nope, they’re fixed.”

Pondering their options, Wik again suggests they try clearing out the hallway.

“Wait,” Morgan pipes up. “Did we try moving the podium?” He walks up to it and lifts it, taking a half-step before the door slides open and three more skeletons enter the room, going toward the podium and taking up their stances. Morgan, ignoring the skeletons, continues his examination of the wooden podium, peering at the bottom, hoping for a trigger; trip wires or a pressure plate, and discovering a solid surface. He then runs to the corridor door with the podium. As he tilts the podium the tablet falls onto the ground.

Martonis, ready, his arms held thusly, his holy symbol raised, commands in an authoritative voice, “By divine radiance, I command thee, be gone!” His efforts are two-thirds successful as two of the skeletons turn and walk away from Martonis, bumping the Obsidian wall, their mindlessness causing them to continue to try to walk through the wall.

The party then joins the fight, their weapons flying. Ooma, an idea forming, turns the green key, causing the music to play and the skeleton’s legs to imitate dancing. (The Undead Boogie or the Monster Mash.)

The party continues their battle until the last skeleton drops and a vortex of glass shards spins the glass shards slicing our heroes, as it whirls and disappears. (DM Note: The DM’s count of the death, or, ‘re-death’ order of the skeleton’s WAS correct; C, (Ooma) then A, (Morgan) then, finally, B, (Morgan).)

As the vortex begins, the gold tablet on the ground melts into a puddle of molten gold, a slight steam rising as the snow around it melts. The glass vase, filled with treasures, sits on the dais where it was placed many minutes before. The podium lays forgotten on its side on the ground, a snow drift piled against it...

The party decides to take a long rest, recovering their powers and healing their bodies... puzzling over the way to leave this room. The DM will trust they set up their tents or at least wrap in their winter blankets. The room is much colder and the snow is icing over...

o0o

XP: 1375 XP 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 (your) character level, for one entry per week...

( the verbal recount... )

o0o

so close... so darn close...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

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