Session
13: The Monastery in the Mountains: 07-09-2008
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Cast of
Characters:
Celceor The
Wise; Elf Mage (Dave M.)
Nick; human
rogue (Dave P.)
Wryan
O’Malley; Human fighter (Kevin)
Bent
Bullswaggit; Dwarf Mage/Bard (Brook)
Fafnir; Human
Barbarian (Jon C.)
Werkle of
Dinnsmere; Dwarf Fighter (Al)
Eggo of the
Holy Brotherhood; Human Cleric (NPC)
Skwortch;
Goblin (NPC)
Keygan
Ghelve; Gnome Expert/Illusionist (NPC)
10 other
various former slaves
13-14th of
the month of Ches
The party had
been fighting their way up a long stretch of tunnels from the goblin village of
Darktown, where they had rescued a group of slaves. A goblin guide of
dubious reputation, Skwortch, guided them on their way. They were now
close to the surface, but a giant Cyclops and his monstrous pet vulture guarded
a log bridge over a deep chasm, demanding coin or ‘pretties’ to pass.
The ex-slaves now have had no food
for two days. Eggo the NPC cleric has been burning up a 'create water'
spell every day to get them hydrated, but over the past day the wind has grown
increasingly cold and icy; the group can hear hear hacks and sniffles.
(We are also going to need to make a supplies audit first thing tonight... I'll
have to look up possible penalties for loss of STR or other abilities if you
don't have enough food...).
“You want for to cross?” shouted the
Cyclops. “For to cross, you pay me, each one you pay me. You fill
helmet with shiny coins or pretties, me let you cross, or else…” and he
gestured meaningfully at the chasm below. “You no want to pay me money
then you can give me meat. One for meat for one for to cross… me like
dwarf meat, heh heh heh…”
With a sudden feeling of dread, the
group realized that the majority of their coin was in the bag of holding
currently turned to stone with Nick. Clearly some negotiations would be
needed…
Various plans
for dealing with the Cyclops and his vulture were discussed and discarded. Finally, Wryan handed her pouch of coins to
the barbarian, Fafnir, and he poured them into the helmet with a loud rattling
sound, apparently wishing to convince the Cyclops that they were ready to pay
the toll. As the vulture winged across
the chasm to pick up the helmet full of coin, they sprung their trap. The rest of the group rained missiles down on
the Cyclops while Celceor hit the vulture with a colour spray spell.
Paralyzed and blinded, the vulture dropped into the pit. Moments later, a dim “kersplash” was heard
from below; apparently the pit had some water at the bottom.
The Cyclops
went berserk and charged across the bridge.
Anger made him clumsy; he slipped on the ice covered log and fell into
the pit with a roar; his massive hands scrabbling at the bark of the log
bridge. At the last moment he managed to
grab hold, but Wryan and Fafnir ran forward, hacking and stabbing at him as he
hung over the pit. Celceor hurled acid
arrows and scorching rays, the rest threw missiles; the Cyclops, however, had
an unexpected amount of fight in him. Muscles rippling, he scrabbled up the side of
the log bridge and drew forth the greatsword tucked into his belt, wielding it
with one hand. He roared his anger,
bringing the sword down in a mighty overhand cut. Fafnir caught the blow that would have cut a
bull in half on his magic shield and the powerful enchantment turned the
blow. Wryran, standing behind the
monster, thrust her spear through his back so mightily it came out his chest. The Cyclops toppled over, dead, and the
former slaves sent up a weak cheer interspersed with coughs and sneezes.
(In his far off dungeon, the
dungeonmeister raged at the incompetence of his Cyclops minion, spraying his
polyester robes with cheezit crumbs and spilling his flagon of Royal Crown
Cola Upstairs, one could hear his mother
vacuuming while the television blared out the opening theme to Murder She Wrote...)
Half of the
party concerned themselves with dragging the Cyclops off the bridge, stripping
the corpse of its furs and skins and using the same to clothe the poor freezing
slaves. Snow flakes whipped down from
the slate grey sky. Celceor retrieved a
necklace of ivory tusks from the beast, Fafnir took the greatsword and Bent
severed the beast’s neck and stuck it up on a stick as a ‘fuck you’ to the rest
of the Cyclopskin.
Meanwhile,
Wryan and Bane explored the other side of the chasm. Here they found a passage leading to the surface
as well as a small side cave, equipped with a large fire, an enormous bed made
of moss, furs and rags and an iron cage large enough to hold a human. To their delight, there were enormous chunks
of smoked bear meat hanging on wooden stakes driven into the walls. In addition, a large stone jar, eight feet
tall, four feet around and equipped with an enormous stone lid aroused their
curiosity.
After they
had finally gathered all of the former slaves into the cyclop’s lair, where
these worthies busied themselves warming themselves at the fire, gnawing on
bear meat, wrapping their feet in rags and scraps of leather, etc., the rest of
the group attempted to open the jar.
Bent borrowed Eggo’s mace and attempted to bash a hole in the side of
the jar, but since it was Eggo’s best formalwear mace, the NPC cleric made him
stop, muttering at the dwarf’s lack of respect for weapons. By working together, several of the strongest
party members were able to lever the lid off of the jar, but the massive lid
fell on Werkle’s foot, causing the dwarf to leap around the room clutching his
foot and shouting SHIT SHIT SHIT as the rest of the group chuckled behind their
hands.
After the
comedic value of a crippled dwarf in pain hopping around the room had worn off,
the taller group members raised Bane the half elf up to the lip of the jar for
a look see. Bane could see a wide
variety of objects piled haphazardly in the jar, and climbed in for a closer
look.
Bane found a
few small vials (which contained anti-toxin and holy water) which he pocketed,
a spear, studded leather armor, a cloak, a tiny suit of banded mail and a hand
axe sized for a pixie, a pile of gold (which somehow became a little smaller
before it was transferred over the rim of the jar to the crowd outside), an
embroidered silk mantle with numerous moonstones (the Cyclops ate Liberace!), a
sapphire pendant, a brass mug with jade inlays, a silver handled shortsword
with a black blade and black scabbard, a ginourmous pile of copper coins, a
barrel of wine and a 3’ tall stone statue of a man holding an ivory rod. Of all of these objects, the short sword
aroused the most comment. Its jet black
blade had weird silvery letters running along the edge that looked to be in the
language of demons or devils.
A detect
magic showed that the spear, the cloak, the sword and the ivory rod (but not
the statue) were all magical. Since they
were camping for the night, Celceor crushed up the 4 pearls he had found
earlier, and, using wine from the barrel as well as owl feathers donated by Rune,
he cast identify spells on some of
the loot. The spear was +1, the cloak
was a cloak of protection +1, the ivory rod was a rod of break enchantment (1 charge).
The inscription on the sword read, “In appreciation for your many years
of service, regards, B.” The weapon was
+2 and anarchic (meaning it does extra damage to lawful creatures). In addition, when gripped in the hand, the
sword confers +2 to the user’s Dexterity.
The group
squabbled over the treasure, finally awarding the spear to Wryan, the magic
cloak to Bane, the shortsword to Fafnir and the tiny axe (useful for trimming a
bonsai tree) to Werkle. Eggo was given
the rod of break enchantment. The cleric stepped forward, tapped the
forehead of the statue of Nick the petrified rogue, and, with a crackling
sound, Nick turned back to flesh and bone in mid scream. “Ook out!” he cried. “It’s a basilisk!” The ivory rod crumbled to dust in Eggo’s
hand.
After
everyone had a laugh at the rogue’s expense, they explained the situation to
him and happily piled more treasure into Nick’s bag of holding. The barrel
of wine made the night much more bearable.
Dressed in the hides and skins of bears, raccoons, skunks, wolves and
nutria, the former slaves looked like a group of furries at an anime
convention. Fortunately, there was more
than enough firewood to keep the cave fairly cozy that night and the next
morning the whole group felt a little better.
Bane, Fafnir
and Wryan went out to scout. Outside the
cave, they found themselves in a snowy pass high in the mountains. The sky looked grey and the air was chilly,
but in the distance they could see what looked like a road. Hampered by the snow, they moved to the road
and found a set of human looking footprints leading up and down the road; as if
someone had come north on the road, turned around and gone south again. The prints looked more than a day old and
were partially filled in. Bane could
discern a squat tower, high on a mountain peak, to the south of their current
position. After conferring with their
comrades back at the cave, they elected to check it out.
First Celceor
sent his owl, Rune, on a recon mission.
After Rune returned, he told Celceor, via their ‘psychic connection’
that he smelled smoke and death at the man-structure but did not see any living
creatures. ‘Undead!’ the party
concluded. Being the brave sort, they
then sent the half elf to check it out while they all huddled in the cave.
Due to the
snow and ice, it took Bane some time to reach the tower. It was a fortified round tower, almost eighty
feet in diameter, surrounded by a tall stone wall. In front there was a gatehouse with gates
that appeared to be locked tight. The
tower looked old but was in good repair; one could see that the current
residents had kept up on their tuck pointing.
He could smell a whiff of wood smoke, but the place looked unlit and
uninhabited. Above the gates was a
statue of a monk holding a book in one hand and the other hand raised in
admonishment.
Before
turning back, Bane saw something in the snow.
Digging with the tip of his weapon, he soon uncovered a frozen human in
a monk’s robe with a bag at his side.
The monk had a few coins in his pouch, a holy symbol in the form of a
silver hoop engraved with runes and a bag of food. Bane took the holy symbol and the bag of food
back to the group.
Eggo
recognized the symbol as belonging to the worshippers of the Allfather. They were a related sect to his own, but
whereas the Holy Brotherhood that Eggo belonged to liked to sing Kumbaya and
make orphans happy, the Allfather’s followers were of a much more lawful and
zealous bent that liked to tell sinners that they were going to hell. Eggo confessed that he didn’t like them much,
but they were not evil; just ‘overenthusiastic’ about their creed.
They prepared
the rescued slaves to depart and made the hike to the monastery, arriving near
dusk just as a storm was brewing up.
After a few attempts, they managed to pick the locks. Opening the gate, they found themselves in a
narrow tunnel with murderholes overhead that led to the courtyard. The tower stood in the center, a graveyard
covered in snow was to the left and a row of houses and stables, all burned
down but one, were to the right.
Two doors in
the gatehouse led to a guardroom and a weapons store room. The group stocked up on crossbow bolts and
checked out the second level of the guardhouse.
Here they found a guard’s bunkroom with beds, footlockers and some
soldier’s clothes hanging on pegs as well as racks for armor storage (but no
armor). Everyone helped themselves to
wool socks, clean underwear and similar luxuries. Bent found an ivory pipe and Fafnir found a
book of pornographic woodblock prints under one of the mattresses. After the players had been doing a lot of
nudge nudge wink wink over the more explicit pictures, Eggo reminded them that
there were children present and they put the book away for future reference.
Leaving the
former prisoners in the guardhouse beside a warm fire, the players checked out
the last remaining cottage. This place
had inspirational phrases painted on the wall (“Judge not lest ye be found
wanting,” “Do unto others before they
can do unto you,” “Faith lies in a stout heart and a ready billet,” etc.). The furniture had been tossed about and there
was blood on the bed sheets. The place
had a somewhat plain, functional atmosphere with empty drawers and a paper
ribbon over the chamber pot that said, “Sanitized for your protection!” Fafnir found a Gideon’s Bible on the side
table and a sign that said, “Ye check out thyme is XI o’clock.” Obviously, it was a guest cottage.
Finally, they
decided it was time to check out the main tower. Approaching, they heard the wind moaning as
shutters slammed in the wind. Flakes of
snow whipped down from the bitter grey sky.
They went up the steps and entered the main hall, where they found long
tables covered in a meal that looked like it had been abandoned days ago. The room was cold and dark. Some silver cups on the fireplace mantle
looked valuable and were set aside for future plundering. Bent opened one door where he found cloaks
and coats as well as shoes and a stairway leading upwards. Gleefully, he selected new footwear. The rest of the group went through a
different door and found a row of bins as well as a staircase leading
downwards.
Fafnir began checking out the bins and found grain, leeks,
beets, turnips, etc. The last bin he
opened contained potatoes (boil
‘em, mash ‘em, stick ‘em in a stew…), but just as he turned to announce, “Taters!” a man in a monks robe leapt
from inside the bin where he had been hiding and hit him with a claw-like
hand. Fafnir went limp and fell to the
floor, and, snarling, the man in the monk’s robe grabbed the barbarian’s arm
and bit a chunk out of it, slurping up the blood with glee.
A web spell from
Celceor filled part of the room and hindered the group more than the ghoul (and
nearly tangled up Bane, who somehow managed to do the backwards Michael
Jackson‘moondance’ out of the filaments without getting tangled). The ghoul/monk, who was now protected from
all of their attacks by the webbing, continued to chew on Fafnir. ‘Doh!’ said Celceor, slapping his
forehead. Eggo raised his holy symbol
and intoned a prayer and the ghoul scuttled back into the tater bin. Finally they got the webbing cleared away and
Bent attempted a shocking grasp on
the ghoul, but fumbled and managed only to fry a tater. Werkle hit the ghoul with an axe and suddenly
the taters were less appetizing, having been spattered with the ghoul’s pus and
gore as the monster fell to bits within the tater bin from the mighty blow.
Here is Dave
M’s rather succinct synopsis:
Carrion don't
fly too well when stunned, blinded and unconscious. Stricken with grief the one eyed giant
attempted to kill himself by jumping into
the chasm but it failed. The party, always willing to help, lunged forward and
put the big beast out of its misery. No one was hurt.
Much treasure, winter provisions, and food were found. The party was clothed
and well fed. Celceor, strangely enough, was able to scrounge up all the
reagents necessary to cast identify spells, and a handful of items became
known. The enchantment on Nick was broken and thus the bag of money was saved.
The next day we exited the underdark into a cold white mountainous wilderness.
Scwortch suggested he was done and was going to leave. There was talk of
dropping the goblin down the chasm. Scwortch decided to stay awhile longer. We
found an abandoned monastery. Fafnir found some porn and disappeared for long
periods at a time. The inner tower proved to be haunted. A ghoulish monk was
found in the pantry where Celceor misjudged the cubic area of the room and of
his new spell. The ghoul was destroyed and the potatoes now need to be washed.
Fafnir will likely need to be put down having been bitten and likely infected
with wereghoul disease.
We ended
here…
A note about XP:
I have decided to reinstitute 5% bonuses
for ‘landing the killing blow.’ So Wryan
got extra xp off the top for stabbing
the Cyclops and Werkle and Celceor got a few extra for defeating the Ghoul and
Vulture, respectively. I also added some
extra XP to Bent Bullswaggit retroactively for toppliung the statue onto the
basilisk in episode 12; since I had already awarded XP for that encounter, I
just added those as bonus XP (not subtracted from the total).
As usual,
NPCs got ½ and Skwortch got 50xp. Nick
didn’t get any XP because he spent most
of the session petrified and didn’t do anything other than pick a lock which
was part of the impatient DM’s wish to handwave his way past a lot of
dicerolling at the gate of the monastery (OK, I try again! A six! Does that open the lock? No? OK, I try again! Twelve!
Does that open the lock?...).