The Sea
Puffs [Tengeri Puffancs] had just pulled into the port of Baklin, carrying a
cargo of oil, Kassadian wine, and passengers bound for the island and perhaps
beyond to the Twelve Kingdoms. Drolhaf
Haffnarskørung immediately noticed
a group of twenty or thirty men wearing worn white robes, and still looking
lost in the Baklin harbour. Sensing an opportunity, he approached one of them,
a bearded, middle-aged fellow and inquired of their purpose.
“We are a group of pilgrims, kind stranger. We
are looking for affordable food and lodgings before we press onwards into the
wilds” came the answer.
“I would recommend The Inn: the rooms are clean
and the rates are reasonable. And what would be your ultimate destination?”
“Oh --” the pilgrim smiled, “it is
a long way, through many travails and hazards. We are making a pilgrimage to a
sanctuary of wise and kind mystics, where we might find enlightment.”
Drolhaf continued to press the matter: “I and my
companions would gladly accompany you through the dangers of the wilderness.
There is strength in numbers, and maybe we, too, could gain from wisdom.”
“I shall tell our leader, Brother Runcius” – the man pointed at one of his companions, a stern fellow with a
decorative wooden staff. “If only such helpful and kind-hearted strangers
would receive travellers in every port, instead of the usual cheats and reprobates!”
“Have you never had to be disappointed in your
fellow men?” interjected Lafadriel Hundertwasser.
The pilgrim laughed before rejoining his companions.
“You can bet I have.”
“Where
is Harrgon Torsk when we need him?!” fumed Armand the Scumbag.
They
had tried the Golden Plate and The Inn, but he was nowhere to be seen. At last,
they returned to the Murk, the cathouse where they had spent the
previous night, now full of off-duty sailors and fishermen returning from the
fish market. However, their man wasn’t here either.
“All
right, if you see him, just tell him to look for us at the Inn” an
exasperated Armand explained to the barman.
The
fat slob scratched his bald pate. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Armand
sighed. “Here is an electrum coin.”
The
fellow seemed much more interested. “I will immediately chisel the message
on the surface, Sir!”
“I
love this!” enthused Phil the Terror of Turkeys as they returned to
the darkening street. “Everyone is so corrupt you can just buy their
favours. It is so... honest.”
“Let’s
think about our current opportunities first. Let’s go to that houndmonger whose
beasts have dug up that crawlway. With a bit of luck, it is still undiscovered,
and whatever is down there will be ours.”
“Yeah,
but let’s not attack the owner if we can help it” suggested Drolhaf.
“Give
him money, you mean?” blurted Gadur Yir.
“You
are getting too civilised for your own good” laughed Phil.
“But
first, dinner!”
“That’s
a good idea” nodded Gadur Yir. “I need to rest, I still feel very weak
from that poison.”
“What
a little ----“ giggled Phil. “We need to do it now. You are strong
enough, and we have Gunnar the Beheader with us as a backup fighter.”
***
 |
| The City of Baklin |
Accepting the plan, they rounded the harbour and
made their way to the eastern part of town. Beggars and shady fellows squatted
in the doorways, and sounds of merriment came from a night dive where a bunch
of orcs were dancing to the tunes of a fiddle, while two were outside, one
supporting the other as he disgorged his former meal on the cobblestones. Then
there was quiet again; the crumbling towers of the Masters’ Guild squatting
over arcades with boarded-up storefronts, and side streets disappearing into
dark dead ends.
The dagger came without a warning from above,
missing Armand the Scumbag by an inch and clattering noisily on the cobbles.
Phil the Terror of Turkeys spotted a dark shape on a rooftop above them, but
the apparition disappeared and they could hear sounds of clattering footsteps
over the shingles.
“Son of a ---“ Armand swore, and started
climbing the balconies and sagging timbers of the precarious building, followed
by Drolhaf, who soon found himself unable to progress after the much more nimble
Kassadian. Gadur Yir, Gunnar the Beheader, Lafadriel and Phil quickly looked
around for traces of other assailants, but there were none in evidence.
Meanwhile, Armand mantled up on the roof, and saw the cloaked figure from
behind a thick chimneypot, just in time to see another dagger pass him by and
fall down to street level. He lunged forward to catch the assassin, but the man
was quicker, descending a rope and beating a hasty retreat through a crooked
street. Armand cocked his crossbow, fired a bolt, but by the time the missile
could have connected, his quarry was far away.
“Darling?! There is someone outside on the
balcony!” came a woman’s whimpering voice from behind a door where Drolhaf
was still looking for a way up to the top.
“Shhhh. Just keep quiet, honey – maybe he’ll go
away – just keep quiet” someone answered, not entirely convinced of his own
argument. Drolhaf sighed, spat, and climbed down the way he came, followed by a
morose Armand.
“The daggers were freshly treated with poison”
Phil showed a greasy sheen on one of the recovered blades. “This was no
chance ambush.“
“It is out of the question it was meant for me!”
protested Armand. “What have I done? What happened in Kassadia, stayed in
Kassadia. There is no way the fathers of those fine ladies would still be angry
at me!”
“I know this sort of thing and it was for you,
rest assured” countered the hobbit.
“’Who could have done it?!’ I ask the cruel stars
– but they don’t answer!” declaimed Lafadriel Hundertwasser.
“Armand,
it may be may be time for you to change your name” explained Phil.
“How
so? I am not a creative soul!”
Lafadriel
mused: “Perhaps you could be Armand the Knave.”
Finding
no solution to the mystery of the sudden attack, they continued to the
houndmonger.
***
The
dog pound was a vacant lot by the city walls where a house had once stood,
closed off by a fence of tall wooden poles driven into the ground. Inside, a
pack of ugly-looking curs were fighting over a few measly scraps among piles of
debris and rubbish. The only building stood in the northeast corner, a wooden
shack with a smoking stovepipe chimney.
“But
how do we get in? I don’t fancy dealing with those mutts.”
“Easy” Drolhaf grabbed a
handful of stones, and hurled them at the shack. Exclamations came from inside,
the door flew open, and a group of burly, bad-mannered chaps with sticks and
clubs came to investigate, led by a colossus wearing furs and a spiked flail.
They looked ready for a brawl, but the Northman quickly calmed them with a
handful of coins, explaining them their problem with the crawlway leading below
the city.
“As
you well know, the undead may be lurking down there, and we both know what that
means. The knights of Yolanthus Kar will be over to seal off the passage, and
you gain nothing. With this arrangement, we both stand to profit.”
Tarbus
Rolf, the leader of the gang, seemed to like the proposition.
“And
how about the dogs? Do you eat them?” asked Gadur Yir.
“Now
just a minute!” spat the bearded giant. “I respect these filthy beasts.
Just because I catch ‘em and sell ‘em, don’t mean I’m doing that.”
“Indeed!”
mused Lafadriel aloud. “These are the noble monsters of the urban
wilderness.”
For
an instant, everybody froze. Tarbus Rolf’s eyes went wide, and at last he
muttered “What the fuck?!” The situation was awkward as everyone was
searching for something appropriate to say, but at last, Armand broke the
silence.
“So
this is where they don’t bark anymore?”
“What?!
...no... they still bark here. Ask your orc pals at the Skinned Cur
towards the harbour. I sell ‘em the mangy curs, and they cook ‘em in their soup
– can’t say I like it, but money’s money.”
“That’s
the pub we passed on our way here. Very interesting” noted Armand.
Tarbus
Rolf ordered his men, and his young assistant Bipkin to bring lanterns and a
table where they would illuminate the opening while the company was down there,
and watch for trouble coming. The dogs had dug a deep pit into the rubble of
the yard, revealing a tight passage westwards. Drolhaf and Phil descended
first, followed by Gadur Yir and Armand the Scumbag, and finally Lafadriel
Hundertwasser and Gunnar the Beheader as the rear guard. The irregular crawlway
travelled some 20’, where it opened into the ceiling of a deeper and larger
cavity. Peering down, the light of a thrown torch revealed an irregular
chamber, half-filled with a cave-in. A quick underground stream rushed through
the room to their east, a rough set of stairs descended to the north, and there
was a fairly wide, rubble-choked passage to the west. As Drolhaf looked, a
stone below his hand gave way and clattered down the side of a tall rubble
pile, but he kept his balance and avoided the fall.
They
descended with a rope left in place to cover their escape if something
happened. The place was cool and damp, colourful stalactites hanging from the
ceiling, particularly thick where the stream flowed through the passage and
disappeared down a natural drain. The floor was strewn with stones, some
natural and some chiselled, as well as odds and ends like broken pottery,
bones, corroded metal scraps and various animal skulls.
Phil
picked up a few pieces of junk – “We will show these to the dupes and tell
them this was all we found.”
Gadur
Yir examined the eastern, natural part of the cavern. On careful examination,
he felt a slight draft coming from the north, and discovered the rock
formations were concealing another chamber.
 |
| The Midden under Baklin |
The
fragile limestones broke easily under their blows, revealing an extension of
the cave. They entered, Gunnar hanging back to watch the northern passage. The
petrified remains of what might have been a fire pit stood in the northwest
corner, laden with charred wood turned into stone and crystal. Around the
ancient fire, four hunched figures stood frozen in limestone, already covered
with creamy lime deposits. Their low brows, deep-set eyes and crude rags
betrayed them as the inhabitants of a previous age; and the petrified chords
around their necks as the victims of violence, probably human sacrifice.
Drolhaf collected a handful of dark, indigo crystals from the ashes of the fire
pit.
“Something
is coming” came Gunnar’s whispered warning.
“Something?!”
Three
small shapes emerged from the darkness and floated into view. They were round,
disembodied eyes, the size of a large apple, scrutinising the cavern. Although
everyone was hidden, they identified their targets without trouble, shooting
paralysis rays, magic projectiles, and life-draining rays until they were at
last dispatched.
“Well
done, Gunnar! We are lucky to have you protecting our back” said Armand.
Continuing
the search of the cavern revealed another set of stalactites blocking the way
to the south. Breaking them with a warhammer and creating an opening, the
company peered into a larger cavern, dimly illuminated by glowing mushrooms on
the muddy floor. More dark figures were slumped against the walls, another row
of the petrified primitives. They wore what looked like vests woven from bark,
their mouths frozen in terrible grimaces.
“There
are about two dozen of them, give or take” whispered Phil.
A
little further to the east, they discovered something even more ominous. A
crude throne of hewn stone rested against the wall, occupied by a massive,
brutal figure of the same people as the dead around him. He was caked over with
layers of limestone, but his empty eye sockets seemed to peer forward with
malevolent intensity, and around his neck hung a crudely chiselled crystal glowing
with a deep crimson hellfire. Recalling the abandoned mines, Gadur Yir
shuddered and raised his shield in a defensive position as he passed by the
throne, ready for anything...
...the
brute stood up as pieces of limestone broke off from the mummified flesh,
making a horrible crunching sound. The crystal on his chest burned
vindictively, and all around, the dead broke from their limestone shells and
lurched forward. The unnatural apparition’s voice came like from the depths of
the grave:
“I
am Arghul the Demented! Before me are heaped meat and blood, for I am
famished and need gorge myself!”
“Run!”
cried Gadur Yir, and, still defending himself from stray blows, bolted forward
into a southern side passage.
Drolhaf
turned and fled back the way he came.
“After
Drolhaf! Don’t bother with Gadur Yir!” cried Armand the Scumbag, and the
rest of the company followed.
Shambling
corpses pursued them both, but Arghul the Demented went for Gadur Yir... who
had found himself in a dead end room where he could only made out the ancient
remains of what looked like decaying sacks. Gulping, he turned to face the
coming horde of flesh-hungry undead, and his stomach turned as he felt the
charnel stench of the prehistoric warlord. Arghul came at him and the half-orc
raised his weapon to counter-attack. Two sets of sharp claws caught him square
in his breast, and he froze, unable to move. There were horrible gnawing and
rending noises and the cracking of bones in the cavern as Arghul the Demented
and his followers feasted for the first time in many years.
The
other half of the company found themselves back in the cavern with the campfire
and the four inanimate corpses.
“This
is a small opening – we can defend it!” exclaimed Drolhaf, readying his
weapon to brace for the incoming horde. They fought, as the dead lunged at them
and tried to push through or drag them back into their cavern. One corpse
managed to take advantage of Armand’s weakness, and entered the cavern, but
Gunnar the Beheader struck it down before the others could follow, and took the
place of the wounded Armand. The dead retreated a little, and stood with
hateful empty eyes.
“Now
what?!”
“Arghuuuul...
Arghuuuul...” the corpses howled as they gave way to their warlord. Arghul
the Demented came, followed by undead carrying the torn-off, bloody limbs of
poor Gadur Yir. The crystal was almost burning on Arghul’s massive chest, a
dreadful eye of fire in the darkness. The cold stench of the grave filled
everyone’s nostrils, and Lafadriel almost dropped his weapon as he started
retching. Drolhaf quickly quaffed down his potion of heroism, but was
caught by Arghul’s sudden attack, and froze as the triumphant dark form towered
above him...
...desperately,
Phil threw the burning lantern at the undead, while the others yanked Drolhaf’s
passive body back into the cave, and turned to flee. Arghul howled
triumphantly, and the wave surged forward. Gunnar the Beheader held them back
as he was retreating as well as he could, but he miscalculated. Arghul’s claws
tore him limb from limb [he received two critical hits for a total of 34 Hp
damage, bringing him down to -24 Hp], and once again, the hungry undead fell
upon their prey to satiate their terrible appetites. The company – what
remained of it – quickly clambered up the rope to the crawlway, emerging
shaking and chalk-white from the pit before Tarbus Rolf and his surprised
companions. As if they had sensed something, the dogs were baying and howling
in maddened fear.
“What
– what about the half-orc? And that other guy?” asked the houndmonger.
“They...
stayed behind.”
“What
of this one? He seems... he doesn’t move none.”
“Do
you know a good pathologist?” asked Lafadriel.
“A
what? Shouldn’t we... shouldn’t we just call the knights of Yolanthus Kar?”
“We
will take care of that” responded Phil the Terror of Turkeys.
***
The
next morning at The Inn, a morose group of adventurers were eating their
breakfast in sullen silence. Redragon and Grindragon brought cold meats,
resin-flavoured beer, cheese and sausages, and a bottle of Kassadian red
especially for Armand.
“Let’s
think about Lady Callodric’s stolen shipment” recommended Drolhaf Haffnarskørung. “Where will the valuable
pieces turn up? That’s our clue. They will never sell the things we are really
looking for, but the rest will lead us to our target.”
Someone stepped up to the table. He was
olive-skinned, with curled hair, simple clothes and a mace hanging on his belt.
He introduced himself as Drusus the Historian, and mentioned how Harrgon Torsk had sent him here to find a company of
like-minded adventurers.
“We could use a man like you” nodded Armand.
“We have just lost two good fellows in an unfortunate series of events. It
concerns the living dead.”
“In the Valley of Barzak Bragoth? I have heard of
them” inquired Drusus.
“No, they are below our feet.”
The Historian jumped. “You mean the Inn!”
“No... in the poetic sense of the expression”
Lafadriel Hundertwasser interjected to correct Armand.
But Armand wasn’t listening. He was clutching at his
throat, wracked with terrible pain. He fell whimpering on the floor, his eyes
bulging, but at last he forced his fingers into his mouth, and he vomited
profusely.
“Treachery!” cried Phil, and everyone in the
common room jumped to action. Redragon and Grindragon came running, and a group
of off-duty guardsmen ran up to Armand to see what was up.
“Poison... I have been poisoned...” Armand
muttered, too frail to even stand up.
“Poison!” hollered one of the guards.
“Everyone has been poisoned! It is a mass
poisoning! Help!” cried a terrified merchant, then shrunk back
disappointedly when it turned out it was just that one person.
“The wine! The only thing he has touched we haven’t
was the wine! It was Grindragon who had brought a bottle of wine… especially
for him! Arrest the dwarf at once!”
Grindragon’s ruddy face went white, and he broke
down sobbing as the guards seized him and tied his hands behind his back.
Redragon was close to breaking down.
“Why have... you done this?” asked Armand,
still reeling from the venom.
Grindragon fell on his knees to plead for his life.
“It was not me, Sir! I just brought up the bottle in the morning to warm it
for you, just as you ordered. Please, Sir! I did not do anything!”
“It is the Sacker for you, knave!” snapped a
guard, preparing to lead him away, but Armand bid him stay a moment.
“But I didn’t order anything, Grindragon. Explain
yourself – now!”
“It was – it was right there on this slip of
paper, you see, Sir? The one you left under our door” stammered the
confused dwarf, producing a brief written message.
Armand examined the paper carefully, trying to focus
his eyes. Then, rising to his knees and supporting himself by the counter, he
said: “You can release him. He is telling the truth. But this is not my
writing.”
As the two dwarves were beside themselves with
relief, and the guards released Grindragon on Armand’s word, Greg examined the
bottle.
“As I have guessed. The wax seal has been
tampered with” he nodded. “This is a strong poison, and expensive.
Someone wasn’t looking at saving his money when he tried to kill you. You are a
very valuable man, my friend.”
“Excuse me? Is there a certain Drolhaf – ah, here
you are, gentlemen!” came a voice from behind them. The newcomer was
Harkell the Butler, Lady Callodric’s manservant. “I would have word with you
in private – and quickly.”
They went up to their room, where Harkell explained
the reason for his visit. In the morning, a dreadful discovery had been made in
Hightowne: Tomurgen the Bard, who had spoken of the enchanted flower to Lady
Callodric, and who promised to say more once it was retrieved, was found
murdered in his own home. He had not come out in days, and there was no answer
when the lady’s messengers were looking for him. Finally, the watch opened his
apartment to discover the corpse, which was now in the House of the Dead
maintained by the knights of Yolanthus Kar, awaiting transportation to the Valley
of Barzak Bragoth. For now, the watch resealed the apartment, and posted a
guard at the entrance.
“We will seek out Lady Callodric in a few hours,
Harkell. Thank you for your warning.”
To make sure, Armand tried to conceal his features
as well as he could under the circumstances; changing clothes, altering
features and cutting some of his hair.
“But what could be the reason?” he protested.
“Because I had asked after Sarbit the Gravedigger?”
Phil shook his head. “Harrgon Torks could be in
it, though. He has underworld connections – anything for money, no?”
“I must have gone somewhere where I shouldn’t
have” grumbled Armand. “For now, please call me Yil the Mysterious. It is not much, but every little counts.”
***
The company’s first visit went to Hightowne, to
visit the knights of Yolanthus Kar. The House of the Dead was an austere
building next to Fantagor the Kassadian’s gaudy palace. Stepping inside, they
found themselves in a cool antechamber, guarded by stern-looking knights in
black full plate armour. Drolhaf approached one of the older-looking ones to
ask for one of the superiors. The knight bid them wait while he fetched a man,
tall of stature and valiant of step. He had piercing eyes and dark hanging moustaches,
introducing himself as Sir Boron of the
Cliffs [Vitéz Sziklay Boron]. Sir Boron took the
report about undead beneath the city very seriously.
“I will consult the venerable Chrisostom the Reedy [Kákos Krizosztom], the eldest knight in this house. Alas, our order is
stretched thin over the island, so that we cannot draw sword to dispatch these
foul monsters at once. For the nonce, I recommend that the opening should be
blockaded and any entry strictly forbidden.”
“I would gladly contribute to the cause, Sir
Knight” suggested Drolhaf. “To contribute to the safety of the place, I
would gladly commission a small, securely locked crypt in the name of Gladuor,
my patron god.”
“A crypt! Surely you know that no crypt or grave
might be raised on the island, and no dead may rest elsewhere but the Valley of
Barzak Bragoth.”
“Let’s call it a ‘protective structure’,
then. I would gladly do it, in memory of our companions, who now rest there...
well, were eaten there, but that’s beside the point. And there is another
matter, Sir Boron” he probed further. “It has come to our attention that
Tomurgen the Bard has been found murdered.”
Sir Boron’s expression darkened. “Verily, it is
so! This old and beloved man, whose song had lifted the hearts of so many
before he withdrew after his wife’s death, was slain by treachery, by a swordstrike
to the back. Cowardly and shameful conduct, and an ignoble end to a long and
distinguished life.”
“Do you believe there are assassins lurking in
this town?” asked Armand. “Are they known to exist here?”
“No, not here...” the knight pondered. “But
aye, in Gont, they say their evil lurks.”
“If it was a sword, it need not have been an
assassin. But the slayer is out – and may he be brought to justice” said
Drolhaf.
***
“Well,
that was interesting. Shall we go down again before they get involved?”
“Maybe
we ought to check on Harrgon Torsk to determine if he is innocent.”
“And
I would like to seek out the Skinned Cur” said Armand. “An old
acquaintance from Kassadia who could help me can be found there.”
“I
know what I’m doing – will be right back” said Drusus the Historian,
leaving behind the company, and heading for the tower of Slarkeron the Wizard.
Peering into the garden filled with tall hedgerows and twisted statues, he
wrote a quick letter of introduction to the mage, where he listed his skills
and requested that he learn from his better. Finding no mailbox, he opened the
iron gate and took a step into the garden. A leering gargoyle seemed to watch
him with its dead stone eyes. Drusus held up the rolled-up parchment.
“Give
it to your master. I am of the guild myself, and would like to learn.”
The
stone monstrosity came alive, and hissed malevolently. “If you are of the
guild, just step forward.”
“...but
truthfully, I have not yet taken my Master Exam. I’ll be back.”
Drusus
left the message before the statue, and quickly backed out of the peaceful but
sinister garden.
To
their luck, they found the cheerful Harrgon Torsk at the Inn, and at once,
invited him up to their room.
“I
have received your message. How may I be of service?”
After
listening to the company’s theories, his eyes narrowed and he bluntly stated “No.
The painting wasn’t taken by local professionals. This is the work of
outsiders... and if that they be, these professionals will see that they leave
town one way or another.”
“There
is the wizard who smells of mint. What of him?”
“Ah,
yes, I have discovered his identity for you. You are dealing with Filodont the
wizard. He has been seen in Baklin multiple times. He comes and goes with his adventuring
companions. The last time, he met a pretty hobbit girl named Lizadorn.”
“What
of her?” asked Phil, his interest piqued.
“She
left town with another of her kind named Boffo Badgervest [Borzbekecses
Boffó].”
“You
may have more trouble on your hands than these adventurers” said Armand. “There
was Tomurgen’s recent murder, and two attempts on my life. Assassinations seem
to be getting awfully common around here.”
The
roguish Harrgon seemed none too happy when he heard the news, but at last he
came up with a plan. “We... let’s say we can offer you a safe place to hide.
Go back to the Murk and tell the bartender the phrase ‘yellow ribbon’. A
safe room and a means of escape will be at your disposal.”
Harrgon
left, but as soon as he did, something else turned up. A messenger boy came,
calling for “Armand”. Armand – now Yil the Mysterious – concealed himself in a
corner while the others took the letter for him. Nervously, Armand put on
gloves, and took every precaution known to man to avoid a trick with poison as
he opened up the envelope. It contained a slip of parchment, a pre-paid,
one-way ticket to Kassadia on board the Sea Puffs.
“If
I show up, they might as well kill me there and then” Armand protested.
“They
really want to see you in the Valley of Barzak Bragoth” agreed Drusus the
Historian.
They
considered who might want Armand dead, and who might have put the hit on him.
Bella, the prostitute at the cathouse, for asking too eagerly about the local
thieves? Someone from Baklin’s ruling circles? Was it just Harrgon Torsk,
trying to milk them for easy money?
“Just
a moment” Phil hissed. “Hear that? Footsteps!”
He
snuck out, and returned at once. “I saw a nondescript man. Maybe too
nondescript. Bull’s neck, balding, baggy pants. He was loitering in the
corridor before our room, and is now climbing up to the next floor.”
They
looked at each other, and everyone went their way. Phil quickly looked out
their window, seeing two porters involved in an argument next to a broken down
cart carrying newly made shingles. One of the porters was balding, and the
other looked similar to the first one. Phil and Lafadriel went downstairs to
check them out, while Armand and Drolhaf followed the bull-necked man upstairs,
seeing him disappear behind a door. They briefly hesitated, then followed
inside, where they spotted their surprised quarry resting on his back, enjoying
the air coming in through the open window.
“What
the???” the man asked.
“Stop!
We were following a thief” snapped Drolhaf as he scanned the area, and
looked through the window. His worst assumptions seemed to be confirmed as he
spotted a red handkerchief tied to the windowsill. Was the man signalling
someone?
“I
wish you would explain...”
“Now,
make no mistake. We have no quarrel with the guild.”
“The
– guild?”
“None
else.”
“Uh-huh...
I think the guild is fine. Very fine.”
“Don’t
play the innocent” growled Armand, as Drolhaf climbed out the window to
check the rooftop above them. “And... what is that there? Come back,
Drolhaf!”
“What
is what?!” the man acted genuinely confused as Drolhaf Haffnarskørung climbed back in.
“He
was writing a message. Come on. Read it, Drolhaf.”
“With
pleasure! It is unfinished. Let’s see – ‘Dear Arhalia. I am involved in a
risky venture. The cargo has safely arrived at the discussed location. Also...’
That’s all he wrote” he put down the piece of paper.
“Hm.
I can’t make sense of it. Still...”
“Er...
could you please explain me what’s going on?”
“Nothing.
You carry on with your business. We could have made a mistake” said
Drolhaf as he took one long, last look at the fellow before leaving the room.
The man sighed, sauntered to the window, still looking at them incredulously.
Just as they left, Armand saw out of the corner of his eye that he had taken
off the red handkerchief, and shaken it vigorously before wiping his forehead.
“The
handkerchief! It is too late... it was the handkerchief all along! He has given
the signal, Drolhaf. Now they know I am in here. We must leave at once.”
Down
in their room, they recounted the story to the others, who had come to a
similar dead end with the porters. “They said their cart broke down. Didn’t
react when we told them about a ship ticket, but that could have been their
sheer professionalism. Said they were potters from some coastal dump”
recalled Phil.
“We
have to get going.”
Disguising
Armand as well as they could, they quickly left The Inn through a back door,
passing through a street with only a few passers-by. There was a pervasive,
almost nauseating feeling of being watched; seemingly respectable citizens and
strolling servants appeared to take an unhealthy interest in their group. Every
rooftop looked like a potential hive of assassins. Then, a little boy walked up
to the company.
“Have
you brought the milk?” he asked.
“It
will be done” answered Lafadriel, and they left the spot as fast as
possible.
After
a while, they emerged at the Murk, mostly empty in the afternoon save for a
bored group of girls chatting over tea in one of the booths.
Armand
walked up to the counter and whispered “yellow ribbon” to the barkeep,
who nodded and ushered him up the stairs.
“Remember,
second door to the left. There’s a bell – one ring means ‘okay’, two is for
‘company’, three for ‘boat’.”
Armand
took stock of his safe room. He quickly discovered a wardrobe outfitted with
peeping holes, a comfortable couch, and a second door opening to nothingness –
he could see the bay below him, and a pier with an anchored boat close by.
Finally, he collapsed on the couch, and tried to get some rest. The others took
a good look at their surroundings. Phil the Terror of Turkeys was quickly
discovered by the bored prostitutes, who immediately dragged their little
darling into their booth for some tea and pastries. Drolhaf examined the
bayside front of the Murk, while Lafadriel called for a girl.
“The
thing is, I have tastes which may be called... peculiar. I am attracted to the
rooftops. Take me to a spot where we can look over the tavern without being
seen.”
“How
romantic!”
She
did, in fact, know a spot. They climbed up on a crooked roof, where Lafadriel
settled himself next to a chimney pot before shooing away the girl.
“Now
be off with you. No; bring me some tea while you’re gone. I need to think.”
***
There
was only one among them who did not stay at the cathouse. Drusus the Historian,
more interested in his own endeavours, parted ways with his newfound
companions, and made for Hightowne. Approaching Slarkeron’s garden gate, he
examined the garden carefully. All seemed peaceful, but the letter was gone. He
opened the gate, walked forward among the torsos decorating the carefully
tended hedges. Slarkeron’s tower rose like a crooked finger in the background.
Drusus looked around, and cast an inquiring look at the gargoyle, but it was
silent and unmoving. Shrugging, he continued, passing by a narrow path leading
deeper into the hedge maze. A wide, straight path lead up to the tower door,
flanked by marble benches. There was a sweet, coying smell in the air that was
almost maddeningly intoxicating. Drusus stepped forward, and almost plunged
headfirst into a deep pit. Pit? There was no pit before him, just the garden
path, and the sweet smell. He withdrew, thought. He felt something in the pit
of his stomach, and spoke the words of a protection from evil spell –
just in case. Turning back, he made for the exit, which now seemed much, much
further than it was the way in. Space was strangely crooked and it seemed to
have treacherous gaps and discontinuities. The open gate beckoned.
Concentrating on stepping through the opening, he walked through the arch, and
found himself in a cool, dark hall.
Colourful
panes of glass illuminated this chamber of the tower. Glass apparatuses and
weird instruments stood around; astronomical symbols decorated the walls and
ceiling.
“You
have come to me?”
Drusus
spun around, finding himself face to face with an ancient man with white hair
and milky white eyes shot with something looking like spiderweb.
“You
have the nerve, to come here and lie about yourself. You are no guildsman!”
“I
just wanted your attention, great Slarkeron” bowed Drusus. “I would like
to learn from one such as you.”
“Mmhmmm.
I see the spark of talent within your insolence. I will take you for an
apprentice – after you do something for me. You see -- ”and he pointed at
thin glass panes fastened together with metal clamps, containing the
cross-sections of brains. “I have long been seeking the secrets of
cognition. Where does it stem from? How does it work? The secret of brain
fluids must be innumerable! I will take you in if you fulfil just one of the
tasks I set before you.”
“And
these would be?”
“First,
bring me the brain of a mind-scanner. Second, bring me proof whether
transcendental meditation, this new fad I have been hearing about, is fraud or
reality. Third, go to the Valley of Barzak Bragoth, and descend to the
catacombs there to seek the stone statue’s brain and Nibel’s tablets. Then, and
only then, my apprentice you will be.”
“I
surmise these are hard tasks” responded Drusus. “But I will embark to
complete them.”
“Very
good. I promise that ere you return with one of these tasks completed, I will
use your excellent brain for noble purposes.”
Slarkeron
drew a rectangle in the air, and where his fingers traced its sides, a silvery
light spread, until it emerged into a fully formed shimmering rectangle. Drusus
bowed again, walked through the portal, and found himself back in the street,
before the gates to Slarkeron’s garden.
(Session
date 6 August 2017).
***
Notable quotes:
Marvin, offtopic: “One day, I’d like to be as
manly as him.” (referring to another player stirring his raspberry syrup
with a hunting knife)
***
Referee’s notes: This was a long
game, starting early and concluding in the evening with a steak dinner, so the
writeup is also lengthier than usual. In this adventure, the last of the
original characters died, and with that, the campaign will inevitably go in
new, perhaps entirely unforeseen directions (although the current group does
know about the Inheritance, even if they have not pursued it). By now, the
number of possible plot threads to follow has grown considerably, so we should
be fine in that area.
It
was very much a fun session (Arghul the Demented was particularly great, for
which I must express my thanks to my Gamescience dice), but some admonishment
is in order. For all they did (and they did a lot), the players did not do very
well this time. In the first half of the adventure, they pursued a side plot
that was much less urgent than the others they were involved in, and even managed
to walk into clearly telegraphed danger right after finding a way below Baklin.
Sure, the battle could have gone another way (as the players assumed in our
post-game chat), but this was carelessness, and they had to pay for it dearly.
If
the first half was about rash and foolhardy action, the second half seemed to
involve more than the proper share of inaction and indecisiveness. I had a lot
of fun cranking up the paranoia to the point of absurdity, but the action did
not really move forward. If the players have powerful enemies who want them
fail, then they surely succeeded at stalling them while they advanced whatever
schemes they had in mind. Or to put it this way: there is a reason D&D is
an adventure game where resourceful and decisive action tends to save the day.
If you do something, even if you fail, things keep moving and you will get to
try something else or at least pick up the pieces and move on. If you stay put,
you may be safe, but you get nowhere. Pick your battles carefully, but fight
them when you can. Things are inevitably more complicated, but this is the gist
of it.
And
that should be the lesson for our next game session this Sunday.
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