Roll call:
Rob, playing Talon the elf and his Nordic hireling, Sven.
Ryan, playing Slate the smelly dwarf.
Chris, playing Brandobaris the halfling.
Me, playing Nystul the magic-user and his toothful hireling, Mard.
Rob wasn’t at the last session so we started off by establishing just what Talon the elf had been doing when all the shit went down. He too had been studying magic with Ulman, and suffered the same mental and emotional violations that entailed. So at the time, he had been off in the woods meditating, trying to cleanse his soul of the degrading experience. He heard the initial explosion off in the distance and rushed back, arriving in time to see the aftermath of the battle. He chose not accompany the rest of us on our cold jaunt to the Temple of Thyre. Instead he remained behind and helped with the clean-up.
He therefore had the opportunity to interview Odo a little bit, the newly discovered were-boar. He, and by proxy we, discovered that he had been gored by another were-boar several years ago. Over the years he learned to control his changes, but he knew that he would never be accepted by the civilised world, so he founded this outpost in the wilderness. He serves as its protector against the threats of the wild. Later, when I had a chance to talk with him a little, I was like, This place? Really? This lousy little shithole? Aren’t you, like, so powerful and shit? But he was all, Don’t you judge me!
Well, whatever.
Concerning Ulman, nobody’s all that upset about the loss. He wasn’t well-liked. No big surprise there. But he was tolerated because his potions were a boon to the community. The general consensus is that the whole debacle was his fault from beginning to end, and his fate was just comeuppance for dabbling in things not meant for man. Slate is pretty concerned that we not be blamed for the events nor for his death since, let’s face it, all of it was our fault, but none of that is happening. The people aren’t happy about his death, but neither are they terribly upset, and while they’re also not entirely happy with us, for failing to save him, neither are they angry at us for it, exactly. There is some grumbling, like, Remember not so long ago when they went off with a half-dozen hirelings, and came back with none? Some heroes they’re turning out to be. Well, hey, I have no idea where anyone got the idea that we’re heroes. I don’t remember that word appearing anywhere on the press release, so fuck you. That’s how Nystul is about that sort of talk, anyway.
Talon sifts through the wreckage of Ulman’s place, searching for anything useful. He finds a candle that burns a black flame and casts no warmth, a satchel of bone dust, and the nearly destroyed remainder of his spell book. If he spends some time at it he might be able to salvage a spell or two from it.
(Slate’s all, A candle that sheds no light? What the hell is that good for? I say, There is light in the world beyond your imagination, Horatio. No heat? he says, What use is that? I say, There is heat in the world beyond your imagination, Horatio.)
In the days that follow we recuperate from our travails. I cast about, asking around for any rumours or knowledge of other spellcasters. Does anyone know of anyone? I gotta learn spells from someone. One of the serving wenches at the Bristleback Inn (oh, I see what you did there) mentions something about an the Oracle of the East. She’s kind of snotty about it, like, That’s what we’re reduced to now, those guys, because you didn’t save Ulman. I press her a little. It’s an oracle, a few priests, in the east by the coast. Pay them money, they answer questions. I file that one away for future use. I tell her to get me soup.
Slate meanwhile is testing the vibe of the town, really making sure that we’re not on the hook for the destruction or for Ulman’s death.He also goes to the other dwarf in town, the former jeweller, to ask how he can cleanse the taint from his axe, because the halfling touched it and ruined the magic. Racist. the Jeweller happens to be despondent at the moment due to the loss of his shop and livelihood, but Slate bribes him to help him out. We get some hullabaloo about how it has to be immersed in an ever-burning flame underground while some epic dwarven poem is spoken over it. Slate dimly remembers this stuff from his childhood. In fact, he can remember the poem sung for him in a childish sing-song. Sounds like a lot of work, says Slate. But, then again, there’s a few places in the dungeon we’ve been visiting that have eternal flames, aren’t there? Suddenly he’s eager for a return trip. He hands 70 GP over to the Jeweller. Seems like a hefty price to me.
Then a dude shows up in town all haggard, with a pack mule laden with supplies. We recognise him. His name’s Sigmund. He was a torchbearer for a party that went off a while back. He alone has returned. See? We’re not the only group that loses members! He’s looking for Ulman, and he’s pretty upset when he finds out the man is dead. He insists on telling us his story even though we’re clearly busy with other things, right? I guess this group knew where the entrance was to the Grand Dungeon, and not only that, but they also had a key. It was in a mausoleum in the middle of a large graveyard. They found the door and went in, leaving Sigmund outside to guard the mule. The door closed behind them. He heard screams then—
Hey you know what? Hiring some schmuck to watch the mule while we’re in the dungeon is a really great idea! We should have thought of that a long time ago. It’s really only luck and DM oversight that has kept our mule alive so far. Anyway…
After that, Sigmund says, there was silence. He waited for a few days then he came back. He produces the key. He needs a party of heroes to go in and find his friends. Won’t we do it?
Really, where are people getting this idea that we’re heroes? I mean WTF? Well, whatever, we’ll put it on our to-do list, I say, and I take the key. Sigmund says he needs a short rest then we’ll go, right? We’ll wake him up in an hour, right? The guy looks like he’s ready to sleep for three days. Yeah sure, buddy. We’ll wake you up. He gets a room.
Meanwhile, Slate is chomping at the bit to go back to the Hellmouth (or whatever) so he can “sanctify” his axe. We decide to go in the morning. Next morning Sigmund is still sleeping. Fine by us. Off we go.
We decide to go to the fire room, the one with the extendible bridges. As we go, Slate’s on the lookout for anything that’s changed in the dungeon. Any signs of activity. Yeah, says DM-J, there’s all kinds of tracks and stuff. Tracks of strange creatures we don’t recognise at all. Very comforting. We pass through the room of wells on the way. I want to test another one of the wells. One of them had made me grow small. Maybe another will have some other groovy effect. I try one in stages, dipping a stick in, then my pinkie finger, then licking water from my finger, finally cupping some in my hand and drinking a bit. I feel great! Like really, really great! Like +2 to all dice rolls great! I fill a wineskin with it.
We get to the fire room. Brandobaris fires off arrows at the triggers until the bridges extend. Although flames rise from the floor below, we feel no heat. (Slate, again: No heat? What’s the point? Me: There is heat in the world beyond your imagination, Horatio.) Brandobaris tears off a strip of cloth and tosses it in to test the fire. As the cloth reaches the floor it catches flame and turns to ash. So it does burn stuff and the axe will have to be lowered in. Rope will just burn. What to do? Well, there are these chains hanging here and there from the ceiling. They’re just hanging from hooks. Slate and Talon kind of whip a couple of chains until they manage to fling the chain from its hook. Slate accomplishes it first. The top third of the chain falls over the edge of the bridge, into the fire. The end of the chain in the fire starts to grow red in the heat, then white. It’s real damn hot. Slate pulls it up, back onto the bridge. He ties the axe onto it and lowers it into the fire. Will the axe just burn up? Will Slate lose his pride and joy? What does this dwarven ritual look like? I’m anxious to find out.
In the meantime, Brandobaris explores the adjoining hallway, searching for secret doors or whatnot. He doesn’t find anything, but he does hear a shuffling from around the corner, from something on its way toward us. He closes the door and warns us. Sven, Talon, and Mard join him to deal with that. I’m too busy enjoying the show with Slate, and Slate is too intent on his task. They open the door a crack and peer through. A gang of skeletons. They come up with a plan to work the door and let one in at a time, and kill them. The plan works reasonably well and they dispatch the undead.
All the while I get to watch while the dwarf basically desecrates a dignified dwarven ritual, reciting an epic dwarven poem like childish doggerel. He’s having and honest-to-god spiritual experience, though.
Ryan: “Do I feel closer to my god?”
DM-J: “Uhm… Yeah, you do, but your god doesn’t feel any closer to you.”
Finally, he finishes and pulls up the chain. It’s gotten so hot that the links brand round scars into his hands. “I am marked by god,” he says, “I am chosen by Ragnor.” The axe survived the ritual, but it’s so hot that it’s going to be a half hour or so before it’s cool enough to be handled. Slate insists we sit and wait until that time. While we wait the walkway starts to retract, but it’s a simple matter of pressing the trigger-buttons by each of the doors to reverse the process.
When the time comes, we decide to explore south, heretofore unvisited by us. Beyond the southern door of the room the dungeon changes dramatically. All the walls are covered in intricately engraved scrollwork. We can’t read any of it. The elf determines that it’s clearly some kind of private cult language of the religion of Thyre, and that it predates the adoption of the cult as the state religion. It’s probably the entire written corpus of the cult, engraved into the walls. I see enough arcane symbology in the writing to guess that it’s some kind of proto-divine/arcane script, written before the two languages split into specialized disciplines. The others find early symbols of Thyre in scattered places, and repetitions of certain passages. Cool stuff.
Around the corner we meet a door of black obsidian, without any visible hinges, handle or doorknob, every square inch engraved with gold encrusted script. In this case it’s the same two lines repeated over and over again. I transcribe those two lines at least. Slate examines the door. It’s dwarven work and it slides open, into the wall. He slides it open.
We enter a room with lit torches in sconces on the wall. Six sarcophagi occupy the room. All the walls, ceilings, floors, everything is covered in inscriptions, the same two lines repeated on the door, repeated in here. Three of the sarcophagi have already been pried open and their lids sit on them slightly askew. All the lids also have shallow cups carved into the stone, to hold some missing decoration.
We open one of the previously disturbed sarcophagi. A skeleton lies within, not undead or anything, just a skeleton. It’s been stripped of anything of value. The other two opened caskets are the same story. The three unopened sarcophagi, we find, are untouched within, but don’t have much of value, really. The robes they wear look finely wrought, with gold thread. They might have some value to collectors, maybe. Brandobaris takes them, though. He wants to collect holy things, and try to build a church in Zelkor’s Ferry, and attract a cleric.
We search around some more and find a secret door. Cool beans. Secret doors are the best. It leads down a short hallway into another room, through a second secret door, though it is not hidden on the hallway side.
The room is lit by ever-burning torches, like the other. There is a door in the south wall, barred up on this side. Our map tells us that it almost surely opens to the hallway through which we entered this part of the dungeon, like, the two rooms, the main hallway and the hallway between the secret doors make a circle.
In the middle of this room is a large statue of Thyre. It has four faces, in a sort of trompe-l’oeil effect that makes it seem as though it is always looking in your direction, no matter where in the room you are. The body is amorphous, with no clear front or back. It’s probably not the statue that the priests in the Temple of Thyre want us to destroy. It’s not desecrated.
There are three sarcophagi in this room, like those in the other room, except that these are not lacking their decoration. Each bears a large red jewel, nearly spherical, many faceted. None of the sarcophagi are disturbed. We snatch gem off the nearest one and pry it open. A warrior lies inside. He has a beautiful sword and wears fine chainmail armor.
Talon takes the sword. It is très awesome, the sort of sword his elder elven trainers would carry. But the torches flicker and we see a shadow flit about the room. Shadows reach out and brush Talon. He feels a biting chill that damages him and saps his strength (really saps it, -1 Strength). He hears a whisper, Not yours; you do not have permission. Then they do the same to me.
Put the sword back! I cry, in retreat. He does but the shadow thing does not seem appeased. Slate wants to take a closer look and maybe communicate. He goes into the room. He holds out his scarred hands, his holy symbols, the sign of his god’s favour. He asks his god to converse with the spirit through him. This guy is totally delusional. He feels nothing in response. No, he feels empty. Maybe he’s hungry? No, he only just ate.
Brandobaris tries to communicate next. He tries to persuade the shadow-thing that we’re taking the treasure from the crypt rightfully, that we’re going to put it back into the service of Thyre. The thing is not fooled and the two of them are attacked for their trouble. They hear the thing whisper. It’s hungry. It wants more.
Slate then unbars the door while Brandobaris tries to attack the thing. His attack is true but has no effect. Talon has the bright idea (not sarcasm) of grabbing the special sword back from the tomb and attacking the shadow-thing with it. That works. He, Sven, and Brandobaris attack the creature while the rest of us watch from outside. Only Talon’s attacks are worthwhile. He suffers several blows and uses up a couple of Get Out of Jail Free cards, whittling away at the thing. Then he trips up and falls. Brandobaris takes up the sword from him and finishes off the shadow.
We uncrate the other two caskets, ready to combat another shadow, but nothing else appears. The second sarcophagus holds a priestly figure, holding an ornate goblet. The third was not sealed like the others. It once held a book, but it’s all decayed beyond recovery. We loot everything because that’s how we roll, then we go home.
The shadow weakness wears off after about an hour. Once the kakow of that special water from the well-room wears off, I try some more from the wineskin, but it has no effect. Oh la. The next day, Talon and I memorize Detect Magic and take a look at everything. The sword lights up. So does an arrowhead that Brandobaris has been carrying around for a while. Slate asks us to take a look at his axe. We tell him, Oh yeah! Big time magic!