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)

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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…

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(Click for Video Version)

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anger and greed make poor comforts...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

Rations...

The illness that holds Ooma in its grip, has reached out and nabbed the group with many succumbing to its symptoms. Drowsiness being the unifying factor as each group is forced to build a fire with the materials at hand and hope they can remain vigilant to allow this disease to pass.

They wonder, “Was it possibly the rations?”

The sound of a whistle kettle after the liquid has cooled to wafting through the bellows; a hiss, seems to ricochet off the hard surfaced walls. Ooma, Morgan, Racelette, Adrie and Fequr fight to remain awake, failing miserably. Morgan, who has slurped down a fair bit of mead, has a little more protection than those who’ve not imbibed. However, his eyes are heavy.

Ichabod and Wik are faring the best of all as Icahbod produces vials of pink and blue liquid. She drinks the blue and hands the pink to Wik, who, suspiciously sniffs, then drinks the cherry-flavoured liquid. Minutes later he is asleep. “I’ll take first watch,” Ichabod yawns, facing the direction she can hear noises that evoke a vision of a waterfall rushing over a cliff.

Jhalo, Tessalia, Amaril and Benji are at the bottom of the slide when they are overcome suddenly. Their groans cause Benji to whine, as he snuggles close to Jhalo. The group huddles close, as the sleepiness overcomes them and they rest their weary eyes. They are oblivious to any noises, except the scratching of some moles digging...

The party has taken ill, we shall return next week...

o0o

did NOT eat the rations...

Fledgling DM,

khrys...

o0o

Flushed...

Tessalia and Jahlo, having been summoned back to their respective homes briefly, are now, racing through the tunnels, they were lucky enough to find the correct opening, and are hustling along quickly, trying to catch back up to the party. In their hurry, they step, at the same time, into a trap which sends them on a slide down into a freezing cold lake, where Tessalia manages to scramble onto shore, Jahlo struggles and flounders.

Tessalia shout to reassure him, “I will save you Jahlo!” and she leans forward with her staff, offering it to Jahlo, to pull him safely to shore. Ayrowynn hears the shout and wanders over to where she can see them and instead of assisting, she starts laughing at his predicament.

Reaching for her staff, Jahlo is so cold, he cannot hang on to it and glugs under the surface again, flailing to get back up. Ayrowynn finally decides she will attempt to help, leaping in the water, swimming to Jahlo, pushing him to shore, where Tessalia hauls him onto the frosty ledge.

When she hauls her butt out of the water, Ayrowynn points up the way, “There’s a fire and camp up there.”

Ayrowynn is shaking her head, “How does a Druid nearly drown?”

As the weary, wet arrivals come to the fire, it becomes obvious that everyone is exhausted. As they sit, warming themselves, Amaril has a few questions for Tessalia.

He questions her about the vials of liquid, the scroll and the ring he’s found. The ring causes a mighty GASP from the three serving ladies. He learns the scroll he discovered is a spell. Tessalia smiles as she reads, her eyes brightening.

“May I keep this?” she asks Amaril as she explains exactly what kind of spell it is, “It’s Minor Illusions. It allows me to fool enemies.” She rolls the scroll and replaces it in the case along with the rods with golden tops. (As long as Tessalia concentrates, she can maintain the illusion, if her concentration is broken, it will last two more rounds before fading.)

Tessalia does not know anything about the ring. Jahlo asks the serving ladies if they’ve seen the ring before and they nod, fearful and amazed. “That’s like... can I see it please?”

Amaril threatens them and finally agrees they can hold the ring. It resembles a spiral staircase in red gems. As they examine it, they notice inside the top gem a figure of a Lady. She seems to be seeking something. They are told they don’t recognise the figure, but, if Jahlo, Wik or Ooma stare long enough into it, a light may dawn and they may see the resemblance to another Lady they have met in the past. (DM NOTES: IF ANY OF YOU THREE READ THIS BLOG THIS WEEK, CONTACT ME, VIA E-MAIL OR POST IN THE COMMUNITY AND YOU WILL BE GIVEN THIS INFORMATION QUIETLY...)

As the ladies hold Amarils hand (as he holds the ring), the ladies are fairly vibrating with excitement. Fequr looks directly into Amaril’s eyes, “You HAVE to save her!” She turns her eyes upon the group before releasing Amaril’s hand.

Ichabod requests to see the ring, and raises her eyebrows and smiles as Amaril offers her the same threat (to lop off her fingers) if she refuses to return the ring. Wik warns him not to let her hold it. He eyes Ichabod guardedly.

She questions him, “Why? Did I not return your ring?”

“Yes, but you took something from it, I know it.”

She laughs, and shakes her head, holding her hand out for the ring. As she draws her staff closer to the ring, it reacts with a violent start; glowing and vibrating. “This ring is part of my quest.”

Amaril asks the ladies, “Who needs saving?”

Fequr responds, “The Lady!”

As Ichabod rubs her fingers across the ring, it starts to hum. “This is the clue. DO NOT LOSE THIS RING!”

Amaril slides it on his finger, and, it is tight, and begins to vibrate or hum as he wears it. Ichabod sits very close to him and Wik sits on the other side of Ichabod as the group falls asleep, their snores softly wafting about.

The vials of coloured liquid are still a mystery.

Supplies are shared with Jahlo and Tessalia, filling their bags with rations and Jahlo is pleasantly surprised to find a squishy leather bag, about a foot by a foot big, and 10-twigs. (DM’s NOTE: JAHLO, IF YOU READ THIS PLEASE ASK ME FOR A BETTER DESCRIPTION OF THESE.)

Ooma seems to be under a sleeping spell and isn’t waking. The three, Fequr, Racelette and Adrie, offer to stay with her while the rest of the party goes off to explore.

Upon awakening, they discuss where they will head next. Wik suggests they head down to where he saw movement, and this suggestion is agreed to.

Traipsing back to the path, and down a narrow soggy sand path, down a slope and around a corner. As he crests the corner, he spies more of those reptilian creatures and immediately fires an arrow at the first one. He can see the bolt skewering through its eye and exploding his head into a mass of gore, dropping it.

Its’ friends are non-too-happy and swiftly fire back at Wik, the spear’s tip sinking into his thigh deeply. He yells, scrambling back around the corner, shouting.

The party stops and remains in place, listening to scrabbling noises. Morgan attempts to climb the hill when a spear comes sailing over the top. Ayrowynn, Jahlo and Tessalia scrape knees and fingers as they struggle to clamber up the tiered hill, and, after several tries, they are successful in cresting the top. Ayrowynn peeks over, coming face-to-face with one of the creatures. She fires her bow, killing it instantly. Catching the attention of those in the passage below.

Jahlo makes his way to Wik and lays hands on him, stitching the wound and nearly removing the injury, and as soon as he’s healed, he pops around the corner firing a bolt hitting a creature, and leaving him bloody, moving back behind the hill for cover. Ayrowynn, fires his bolt from the top down into the passage, killing it as the bolt rips through his throat as his parts splat everywhere.

Jahlo throws a bullet and nails his forehead, causing dripping blood to spurt down his face.

Morgan, finally reaches the top of the hill and chucks rocks at the creature, missing it. Tessalia throws her spear, losing it in the confusion. Wik fires an arrow, looking back at Jahlo, he snarls, “This makes us even.”

The arrow finds its way true into its heart. Wik shuffles forward, to check for loot. Amaril follows behind, and Morgan tumbles down the hill, reaching the bottom at the exact moment Amaril comes through the narrow opening.

In the flash of an eye, moving slowly, Wik steps on a trigger, a rock that moves underfoot and Morgan and Amaril are whisked away in a flush right behind him. He hears them shout and they are gone...

o0o

XP for this week – 200 EACH for Amaril, Jahlo, Morgan, Tessalia and Wik, with Ooma receiving Ayrowynn’s and Benji receiving nothing this week as he nearly let his owner drown! Ayrowynn has been called back to take care of a problem with her brother and will not be returning for the foreseeable future. She wishes the party well.

Treasure - The four reptilian creatures were carrying 24 gold pieces, and pouches containing 48 gems total, varying from 100gp to 1000gp. (8-gems each, we'll roll at the beginning of next game to determine who gets what...)

Story XP – If you wrote in the Journal, or a story in the community, please add 100 XP to your sheet.

o0o

Ooo look, sparkles...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys

o0o

Caves Suck...

Dwarven Warrior Princesses, raised by humans, really HATE caves... 

The short version: Our Heroes tiredly struggle and emerge victorious, (though bloody, muddy and cranky), against two tough-vermin critters before Amaril is sucked away via a whirlpool trap, after locating a hidden doorway. Wik locates another hidden door and Ooma, followed by Wik, Adrie, Fequr, Racelette, Ichabod, and Morgan, with Benji bringing up the rear, go through this door, emerge in an even larger cave, (chilly, cold cave), where they dispatch one foul reptilian creature and another one rounds the bend. "I really hate caves," Ooma sighs. 

The longer, picturesque route...

As you will recall, if you were paying attention last week, we begin this week at the ready in a granite-sided tunnel with a soaring ceiling and a rubble strewn, muddy, floor with about six to eight inches of water trickling along. The scratching noises are growing and the lighted sword that Jahlo magically imbued, sputters and blinks out just as an enormous form rounds the slight curve to the south...

Alert, even though blind momentarily from the disappearance of the light, Morgan, in the lead, calmly searches his pack, listening as the noises grow, finding a torch and lighting it.

As the torch sparks to life the group gasps in shock, then fright, then horror as they perceive two monstrous centipedes, approximately 15-18-feet long, their pinkish-white scale-like skin reflecting the torchlight. Our group haven’t time to do anything further as the lead centipede lunges for Morgan, its maw wide showing the many rows of sharp needle-like teeth.

Morgan, startled, quickly transfers the torch to his offhand and draws his weapon. Wik moves forward and plunges his short sword deep into the creature’s neck, the wide gash spewing a foul yellow bile, the creature screaming and twisting, moving closer. Adrie shifts toward the creature nervously, raising the dagger given her by Wik, throwing it, but, in her nervousness, she over compensates and the party hears the knife clatter well beyond the beast.

Ooma can smell this creature, and she swings wildly with her axe, nearly decapitating Adrie and Wik. “Hey hey hey! Wait; wait! You’re not anywhere near the creature! Jeeez!” They pant as Ooma, knocked nearly off-balance from her twirl, stumbles to a stop, her axe handle gripped tightly within her hand.

Ooma mutters, “Well, I need help. Point me to the bad guy next time! Sheesh!”

The creature rears up and lunges again for Morgan, misjudging the distance, due to the yellowy-pus oozing from its neck and eats a mouthful of rubble on the ground in front of Morgan. The second beast meanwhile is crawling along the far wall, it’s length nearly as long as the line of adventurers. It remains about ten-feet up on the side of the rough, damp wall, endeavouring to come up behind his meal.

Fequr throws her dagger at the creature as it slithers along and succeeds in hitting the wall just under the beast, her blade clattering to the watery-rocks below. Amaril considers sending a flaming arrow into the side of this beast, pulling a flask of oil from his pack, and preparing the ends of two arrows, glancing at the creature often as he does this. Racelette raises her arm, throws her dagger hard and strikes the wall in front of the creature, gaining its attention as sparks flicker, but losing her dagger in the watery muck below.

Ichabod steps forward, her mighty staff swings and crushes into the second beast’s skull, the heavy jewelled top of her staff wounding the creature, leaving it with a rather bloody grin.

Morgan, meanwhile, swings his weapon at the first creature who manages to roll, avoiding the sharp blade. Morgan then moves to deftly step around the creature, turning his body so as to flank the creature between Wik and himself, circling to the right and behind, keeping both beasts in his line of vision. While Morgan does this, Wik steps forward and again tries to plunge his blade deep into this hungry creature, but, in the slimy, sloppy trail of its bile, Wik slips and the blade glances off the stone just in front of the beast.

Ooma, hearing the muttered curses and clangs upon the stones, readies her axe and shouts, “Don’t you come near me!” Warning all and sundry that she will swing at the first thing that brushes against her!

The creature, frustrated that it can smell a meal but can’t seem to latch on, slithers speedily towards the party, its jaws opening and clamping around Racelette, who screams, pushing at it, pain radiating as the beast drops off, leaving a circle of tiny pin-holes on her leg, the poison the beast injects as it bites, trying to subdue her, fails, as she has become immune to various poisons over the years. Still blood droplets drip slowly from the piercings. She backs away, limping.

The other beast, leaps toward Wik, who jumps back, avoiding the gaping orifice. Amaril, hustles to the torch, lighting his oil-dipped arrow turning and firing before he finishes his spin causing the arrow to sail over the creature’s head landing in the shallow water with a sizzling splash fading to nothing.

Racelette, Fequr and Adrie, now weapon-less, move to stand near Ooma, their backs to the wall as Ooma shouts at them to, “Just stay put! The wolf will protect you! Protect them Benji.”

 Ichabod steps forward and with an oath, swings her staff and connects with... air, as the beast ducks. Morgan, moves into position and elevates his scimitar above his head, then down on the creature’s back, neatly drawing a line, intersecting with Wik’s earlier cut, enabling the escape of more yellowish-bile and causing the creature to rear up in fearful pain.

Amaril drops his crossbow and tries to haul out his scimitar, getting it caught in his armour and manages to twist himself about, while Ichabod swings her staff downward, and, as the beast tries to clamp onto the top, and she manages only to break one of its many teeth while pulling the staff back.

Morgan, eyeing the beast in front of him, hoping it keeps its attention focussed on Wik, swings his weapon and slices a mighty gash along its back crossing the earlier one, and splashes of ooze leaks forth. As Morgan’s blade is pulled back, Wik’s sinks in deeply, causing the creature to shriek an un-holy sound, its pain voluble.

Ooma, her eyes finally adjusting from the flash of brilliant light, wishes she couldn’t see! The large centipedes with their growling rumble and putrid scent spur her to charge the one near Wik and Morgan, her feet slipping and sliding in the slimy mass stumbling and nearly toppling arse over head. As she comes to a stop, righting herself, Morgan sardonically mumbles, “You really didn’t grow up in a cave, did you Dwarf?”

Causing Ooma to lift the hem of her dress and emphatically reply, “No, I did NOT!”

Ichabod, smiles at this exchange before swinging her staff at the beast, missing completely. While Morgan takes another swing at the one in front of him, slashing a large slice out of the beast’s side.

Wik follows, shoving his blade, again into the side, cutting upward. Ooma once more swings her axe, and cleaves a boulder in two, as the centipede manages to duck and roll out of the way of the oncoming death blow! Ooma shouts at the beast in frustration!

Amaril swing his scimitar and it connects with... air. The monsters rear up; their fear palpable. The one near Wik flips up and weakly attempts to bite Wik, but as he is so frail he is barely able to mount a splash, sliding backward, his feet sinking in the sludge. The other creature leaps for Ooma, his aim, off, the pain of losing a tooth bothering him, it instead grapples the rock Ooma cleaved into earlier.

Morgan jumps, his frustration evident, “How can we be mighty Heroes we can’t even down another of these creatures! I am going to slay you!” He thrusts his scimitar deftly inside the creature piercing straight through. The creature rears up, in a dramatic fashion, quivering and shaking before straightening and flopping down, dead. Morgan calmly steps on the centipede as he withdraws his scimitar, wiping the muck off along the creature’s side. His leather boots becoming slick with the pus and bile flowing from this dead critter. He then speedily walks toward the other beast, “Make yourself useful,” he shoves the torch into Adrie’s hands as he passes, while Ooma mutters that the ladies should find their daggers.

Adrie holds out her arm, waving it, the flickering light creating shadows, bright flashes and back to shadows again. Wik sneaks up and stabs the creature in the bum, ending its constipation problem, but earning Wik a roar of displeasure! While Ooma swings her axe as the torch light flickers, startling her and she steps back lowering her weapon in uncertainty.

With this the beast lunges at her and, as she steps back again, soars over her to the left and slithers to a stop on square one, square two, square... Ooma, taking advantage of his near miss, swings her axe, chopping a gash in its scaly hide. Wik, ever watchful, sees the creature sliding to a stop beside him quickly stabs with his shortsword, rendering a mighty twelve-inch gash before hauling the sticky blade out of the centipede’s side.

Amaril jumps and brings his arm down, his scimitar gashing a huge hole in its belly, spilling a glistening, round, egg-like sac, the slime-coated pearls sinking into the murky water. Bothered by the creature’s apparent state of motherhood, Ichabod’s staff swishes above the centipede, merely fanning it.

Morgan pulls his scabbard out and flails at the centipede, the scabbard causing the creature to vomit and spew bile in his direction before dropping like a stone, dead, laying in its own fetid excrement.

The party takes a short break, resting their weary bodies, Ooma vocally objecting to continuing further into these caves, “I tell you, I smell a trap!” The ladies shake their heads sadly.

“No wonder you don’t live underground, this place sucks!” Morgan agrees with Ooma, then offers the ladies a swig from one of the bottles of liquor he filched from the bar and raises an eyebrow when they shake their heads.

“No, thanks, we don’t drink.”

Ooma’s ears perk and she turns to them, “A Dwarf that doesn’t drink?” She shakes her head, “Now I’m certain we’re going into a trap.”

“It’s not so bad living underground,” the youngest, sister, Racelette, murmurs.

Ooma petulantly snipes at the serving ladies, “Fine, if you like it, you can find your own way from here. Fuck this shit! I’m out! If you can handle this shit what do you need us for? Ruined my new dress.”

Afraid they might have offended their benefactors, Adrie reaches for the bottle, and, grimacing slightly she swallows a mouthful, and hands the bottle to her sister Fequr who gulps a mouthful, shuddering as she passes the bottle to Racelette, who sees Morgan watching her intently. She lets him see the liquid spill into her mouth, raising the bottle high and pouring, before she swallows and hands the bottle back to Morgan, shuddering. “Vile stuff, that is.”

“My faith has been restored!” He gulps a few mouthfuls of the ‘fire-water’.

“Don’t worry, we’ll clean and repair your dress. We wouldn’t have asked but this way to our home is one we’ve travelled only once before. We don’t know what to expect.”

“And, as you see, we’re not battle maidens,” one adds softly.

As they sense animosity from the Dwarf in the group, the three move off, locating two of their three daggers, and moving to harvest the feet.

Morgan staggers over and asks, “Why didn’t t’ch’all make your home closer to the entrance?” As he swallows more of clear liquid in the bottle.

As they are resting, wiping their tools, drinking, nibbling some food they’d managed to pocket as they left the party grounds, Wik and Amaril feel a tingle in their noodles. Ooma would have too, if her heart had been less hardened against being underground, the other ladies should have been aware of the hidden door, but their minds are focussed elsewhere.

Amaril, peering about suddenly exclaims, “Hey ya’ll, see this?” He points to the solid block of granite. Wik grins, nodding. Amaril locates the tiniest hairline fracture darkening a rectangular block of granite and notices a small finger-hold along the left-hand edge, and he warns the party, “Ya’ll need to move to the front of the cave here, I think I’ve found a trap.”

Wik nudges one of the servants, “Do you know anything about this?”

Glancing, “No, would you like us to take a look?” At his nod, they pile the feet they have gathered into the makeshift bag, with the others from the previous kill, stand, walk toward the spot Amaril has indicated.

Amaril walks in front of the ladies, his thoughts focussed on distinguishing any traps, and, although he does, before he can speak, the floor around him opens up and he is drawn in the wink-of-an-eye into a smooth, deep-purple almost black, glass-like tube about five-feet in diameter, immersing him in arctic-cold rushing-water propelling him downward at an amazing rate of speed prior to branching to a 45-degree slide, enabling Amaril to lift his head and gasp a lungful of air before the 30-second ride culminates in a fifteen-foot freefall-plunge into a shockingly-cold naturally-carved stone bowl.

As he pops back above the surface, “What the heck!?!” he chokes, coughing mouthfuls of water out. His teeth are chattering and he hastily forces his frozen limbs to the shore of the large body of water he has just splashed into. Grasping onto the rock that serves as the shore, coughing and shaking, he pulls his body from the crystal-clear water. A soft glow radiates from lime green organic, rectangular-ish blobs, both, on the walls of the cave and under the water. Along with the evenly spaced glowing-blobs, the bottom of the Rock Bowl is encrusted with vibrant, colourful gems entrenched deep in the rough stony surface.

As Amaril stares, a slow, rhythmic thrum begins to emanate from somewhere, vibrating the level-surface of the placid water in concentric circles.

To the east, on the shore, a small, unattended, fire crackles. A structure, resembling a three-sided tent, sits behind the fire. From his location Amaril can see various items in and around the tent. His teeth chattering and mind numb, he, at first thinks it best to stay put, but as his fingertips begin to deaden, he makes the connection between fire and warmth; mincing his way around the narrow, five-foot ledge, to the larger circle where the fire snaps, his toes frozen.

A stack of wood, or roots? lay waiting as fuel for the fire, and beside that is a hollowed out log, containing ten tinder dry twigs. A roll and blanket are tucked in the back of the tent, the awning re-directing much of the heat inside, a bulls-eye lantern sits next to the bedroll with two flasks, presumably of oil, sit nearby. Three small, sealed wooden boxes sit by themselves on a low bench, as Amaril peers into them, he finds a leather pouch tied with a red bit of string in each.

As he continues to explore this bounty, he unearths a leather bag with a drawstring that, when lifted, feels oddly heavy and squishy. An assortment of tools: a grappling hook attached to a long hemp rope, a small, rusty miner’s pick, a pure silver signal whistle, a three-inch round mirror, a leather tube with a tightly fitted lid, that, when opened reveals a parchment written in Elven, (but it makes little sense to him), a long, thin vial of inky-black liquid, a pen, and three, foot-long metal rods with golden tips. In a leather rucksack Amaril discovers three clear-glass vials containing a pinkish liquid, a clear vial with a light blue liquid, a heap of trail rations and a small pouch that appears to be a Healer’s kit, mostly intact.

He sits down in his wet clothes to think, his breath puffing little clouds in the frigid air, staying near the fire, both warming and drying himself. 

Above him, back in the tunnel, the ladies scream as Amaril is flushed. The group stars open mouthed. “He... he just ...disappeared!”

Ooma comments, with dry humour, “I think there’s a trap over there.”

The group begins to hear a thrum vibrate its rhythmic, mesmerising beat causing them to glance at each other in concern. When the party turns to look at the serving girls they discern fear. The ladies are clutching each other’s hands, wide-eyed, their mouths open.

“That shu’na be hap’en’n,” Fequr’s shaky voice expels. “Nuthin’ any good ever come from that thrummin’.” The other two nod in agreement. “We’ve long since sought the source, but we naught know from whence it comes.” They look at each other as if passing a secret between them, that goes unnoticed by our Heroes.

Their speech has thickened, the party doesn’t seem to have noticed this either.

Ooma suddenly asks “What do you do with the feet you remove from the centipedes?”

Looking at her, questioningly. “The feet contain the poison. We gather them and use them as weapons; poisonous darts,” she explains.

Wik begins to search the cave, and his eyes notice another dark outline in the cave wall. He searches for traps, carefully examining the long wide corridor. He only is concerned about the whirlpool and the two apparent doors, and he wanders back to the apparent door after considering trying to disable the whirlpool trap and sensing something about the swirling water that isn’t normal, he changes his mind.

The door is almost exactly as the other, and Wik, cautiously, orders one of the Dwarf servants to open it. Fequr obliges, examining the doorway, puzzling, “There’s a finger hold lock-mechanism here.” As she speaks, she presses her finger in the opening, drawing it back with a yelp, sucking on it to staunch the trickle of blood. “Has anyone a small round instrument?”

A quick(ish) search of the area turns up nothing. Wik thinks of his glove and hands it to her with a warning, “Don’t wreck it.”

She looks at him, “It pierced me finger. Do you expect me to put that glove on, and not tear it? Are ya daft, man?”

Wik sighs, “Don’t you laugh at my hair.” he warns, as he removes his turban and hands it to her.

“Whatcha ex’pect me ta doo wit’ that?”

“Stuff it in, see if it will open,” Wik sarcastically mentions.

She looks at him, sure he is daft, but shrugs, “Okay.” After tearing it in the opening, he tells her she can keep it. She frowns and wraps her shoulders with it. “I need som’thin’ round. An’ stiff.”

Wik remember the poison spines he has and he offers Fequr one. She nods. “Aye. That’ll do. These come from Madame Quirry’s specimens, I’ll be thinkin’.”

She pushes the spine, needle-nose first, in, hearing a click as the gate/door pops open an inch or so. Several attempts at tugging the door open result in minor success. Morgan swaggers over, “Here, let me help you.” And they yanks several more times, until they all, mad as heck, yank the door which finally results in it grinding open, revealing a short corridor, ten-to-fifteen foot, with a sharp turn. The ceilings are about eight foot high, and the jagged stone carved tunnel is about five-foot wide. The stench that seeps out is foul. Luckily, it dissipates fairly quickly.

Morgan diligently pounds several pitons in the framework of the door’s mechanism, over-compensating in fear the door will slam close after they enter. “If you close after we enter,” he threatens the inanimate object, “I am going to haul you out of here take you back to the city and pulverise you into dust! Don’t you even THINK about closing!”

Ooma is very adamant that they ought to just abandon this decision and leave the cave, go back to the Inn get a room and call it a night. “I mean, c’mon guys, a bed, some food...”

Morgan reminds her of Amaril, who could be trapped somewhere.

“He could be dead,” she grouses, looking at her destroyed tunic in dismay.

“Well, if you want to go back, you go ahead,” Morgan encourages, “But I’m going to find our lost friend.”

“Oh, fine!” Ooma agrees, cranky because of lack of sleep and needing the comforts of a bath and clean clothes. “We’ll probably never get out of here.”

Ooma, her axe and shield out and ready, is elected to lead the party and vehemently opposes being followed by either of the serving girls. Wik enters behind her, followed by the rest of the party, cautiously with Wik holding his bow ready, above Ooma’s head.

Ichabod, the second to last one to go in the tunnel, pauses and shakes her head at Morgan, pounding pitons in all four sides, “I think it’ll stay open.” When he is satisfied, he nods to Ichabod, whom he follows into the tunnel.

The group walks down the narrow passageway, turn the corner and round a wide bend, for about forty metres. The ceiling begins to get much higher and the sides smoother. Looking around they get a sense the space they have entered is enormous although they can only see a high ceilinged tunnel.

“It’s getting cold,” Ooma complains, and the party notices a chill seeming to permeate the further in they go.

They continue forward, silently stopping short as a person suddenly materializes, with its back to them. Wik, keyed up and nervous, pulls the trigger on his crossbow and lands the stone tipped head deep within the creature’s back.

Stumbling, the monster, a lizard creature turns to face Ooma, and the rest, gasping and burping a foul cloud of stench that thankfully, is sucked away swiftly before it is able to incapacitate the party.

Unexpectedly Wik hears a loud, piercing whistle.

Before he can alert the group, Ooma charges the lizard creature cleaving the beast’s arm off and his head rolls He lets loose a tortured bellow. From off in the distance a loud shout, “Hey? You okay?” before the sound of wet feet slapping on the smooth rock reaches their ears.

Amaril hears a loud bellow, and, sitting up he tilts his head, listening as he hears another shout, the words fuzzy.

“Oh shit!” Ooma mutters tiredly.

o0o

PLEASE ADD

100 EXPERIENCE POINTS for July 1^st.

and

450 EXPERIENCE POINTS EACH FOR Amaril, Morgan, Ooma and Wik, for July 8^th. Also, Benji receives 450 points for sitting and staying while his Handler (Jahlo) had an emergency out-of-cave-experience.

For those who added to the Journal, or other story addition in the Mysterious Tavern community, remember to add 100 – XP. Once per week, sorry...

o0o

shivering in the arctic blast...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

*~*~*~*~*