Sunday, March 30, 2014

RotSM, part 7

Continuing on with the “Return of the Shattered Mail” campaign. In part 6, we discovered that the petty-thief, Stordfast, met an untimely end and has released the demon bound within the mask. Our heroine has no clue as to these events, but the fate of her friends lays in recovering and delivering the mask. Things look dire indeed!

When leaving town, does Mitra meet up with Redbeard? DoF: 6
A good result means that she gets what she wants — she collects her horse and heads out

Mitra collected Umbril and fortunately had the coin now to pay the ostler. She cast wary eyes over her shoulder to make sure she could escape from town alone and unseen. Tymora shined upon her. She saw no sign of either the militia men, the stableboy from the watering hole in which the two had been struck by ill luck, or Redbeard.

With everything that had derailed her quest, she was truly desperate and at an impasse. The outlaw she sought could have escaped to any of the four winds. She had no leads, only the vaguest inkling of what the lad looked like, and few guesses as to what his motivation or direction might be. The only guess she could make was that Stordfast might head towards the biggest city from which he could fence the exotic item. That meant Baldur’s Gate. It was desperate, but it was her only course, unless the road itself might reveal more clues.

Are there any signs yet of an approaching army? DoF: 1
1 means the worst possible scenario!

Mitra saddled up and clicked her steed forward. She headed for the northeast of town — the side to which she was closest. That took her further from the road for which she intended to make, but she wished the quickest and most direct route out of town. One could cut across country easily and circumvent the town, she reasoned.

Now for some Cubes! What do these mean? Cause a disturbance? Step on a twig? Both of these events are usually inadvertent. What would be the same event on a grander scale? Perhaps an advance warg rider scouting party from the horde have come to get recon on the town. One of them has a particularly unruly beast, gets spotted and gets thrown. The others descend upon the warrioress.

Mitra rode beyond the last outbuildings... the lesser populated north side along an old dusty miner’s road. She knew she should be feeling somewhat freer, but something weighed heavy upon her heart…something not immediately explained by her impending plight alone — something she could only feel in her gut, but not put her finger on. That was a feeling she had come to trust, one that kept her alive amid a long career of frequent peril.

She had the urge to look up at some of the line of low rugged hills that frowned upon the town as she continued forward. Lost in her thoughts, something grabbed her attention. She heard a noise like a shriek and the snarl of a beast. Then she spied movement.

Along the ridge of hills at her ten o’clock, a couple quick forms darted beyond sight. She hadn’t had much chance to see them, but she swore they were mounted. Suddenly, from another rocky blind, she saw a goblin or orc on the ground facing a massive lupine monster — undoubtedly a warg. He seemed to be disciplining the creature. The hideous hound simply bit the shrieking rider in two. It let up a howl and darted away.

Advance riders of the enemy was upon the town!

She swore under her breath. From around another bend came two more of the things. Red tongues lolled out of the beasts’ fanged mouths as the red-eyed monsters flew down toward her like a storm. Their riders bore long javelins ready to throw. It seemed the spies were bent on killing the lone witness who was only now aware of their presence. Umbril snorted and whinnied, not so much out of fear as most horses would, but a desire to meet the challenge. He was a war-trained mount, and a fine one at that.

Mitra drew her sword. Behind her, the town was perhaps a mile or more distant, while the enemy riders were the same distance but closing fast. Her warrior instincts kicked and and she spurred her steed forward to meet them. Had she turned and fled, they would surely have brought her down. She would not so quickly be silenced. With an oath to Tempus, she charged.

Descriptors: Tactician, Tough as Iron, Fencing, Uncompromising
Gear: Trusty Broadsword, Headstrong Charger
FU Points: 1
Conditions: ☐Angry, ☐Trapped, ☐Unconscious, ☐Scared, ☐Dazed, ☐Injured, ☐Tired, ☐Dying

Descriptors: expert riders, orcish scouts, tough
Gear: merciless wolf-beasts, black javelins
Conditions: ☐Angry, ☐Confused, ☐Slowed, ☐Out of Action

Does she avoid their throws? Yes, but…

She held her sword out and bore down, the gap closing rapidly. Then, the expected throws came. She veered directly into their midst. One of the missiles was overthrown and disappeared overhead, but the other rider held his throw after feigning to follow his partners example and broke free of the formation, quickly veering around to flank her. The second rider came up fast on her offhanded flank.

Does she maneuver to an offensive position against the flanking one? No, and…

She tried to wheel Umbril around, but the wolf-rider was relentless and closed before she had control. The great wolf latched onto Umbril’s foreleg, trying to pull him down.

Does Mitra keep her seat? Yes, but…

Mitra managed to stay in her seat, but it was nearly all she could manage. The horse’s terrified scream, snarling of the wolf-monster, and clash of steel filled the air. The two were locked, and now the first rider had drawn his sidearm, a wicked curved blade, and wheeled around to close in for the kill.

Does Mitra successfully leap into the seat of her opponent? No, but...
+1 FU Point

The warrior woman girdled herself. She was to be skewered on the charging riders javelin, now wielded like a lance if she was to do nothing to break the impasse. She threw herself at the rider away from her sword arm, leaping out of her own saddle and onto the back of her opponent. She missed her mark, tumbling to the ground, but she pulled the squealing rider with her and put an obstacle between herself and the second approaching rider.

Does she finish off the grounded rider? Yes, but...
Does Umbril fight off his attacker? No, and...

Getting to her feet, she faced off with the grounded rider. Her footwork was the quicker, and his eyes widened as ten inches of steel plunged through his boiled leather jerkin. From behind, she heard Umbril squeal in terror. The wolf managed to bring the great horse down and now ripped flesh from his great muscled neck. Leaping over the two forms of wolf and horse struggling in the dirt came the second rider. His javelin cut through the intervening space with astonishing power.

Does she avoid the weapon? Yes...

Mitra twisted at the last moment. The spearlike shaft missed her midsection by mere inches, embedding itself into the earth next to the riders fallen friend. Now without weapon, Mitra sneered at the rider as he and his snarling steed came forward.

Does she finish them off? Yes...
☑ Out of Action
+1 FU Point

She darted to the left and crouched. The wargs own momentum impaled it on the warrioress’s sword, dropping the rider with a sickening crunch. In moments she recovered her weapon from the dead monster and finished off the broken rider. Next she turned her attention to the beast still gorging itself on Umbril’s flesh, uncaring of the danger around it. With tears in her eyes, she plunged her blade into the sinewy backside of the evil thing.

Although she lived and had vanquished her foes, clearly Tymora did not favor her...

Okay, some harrowing moments there. Rolling so many 1s and 5s. What next for Mitra? Will she go back and warn the town? Will she continue on regardless of the danger that looms over Soubar even earlier than anyone had expected? What about the demon? Where does it set its sights, and for what purpose? What about Xavier Zalibar? Does he know of these events? If so, what does he propose to do about them. Many questions! Only time will tell...

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

RotSM, part 6

Last time, Mitra recovered her beloved black steed, and a few of her coins, but was still without her mask. On the trail of Stordfast, the alleged thief, she must guess which direction he went. In the meantime, the hordes of Dragonspear threaten to break like a tital wave over the settlements of the Sword Coast. Things look ill for our heroine!

To help, here's a summary:
  1. Part One — Mitra ventures to remote regions of the Thunder Peaks and recovers the Death Mask of the Naive King.
  2. Part Two — In Luskan, two conspirators discuss the progress of Mitra. A wizard has the means to observe her movements remotely.
  3. Part Three — After a long journey, Mitra travels west and north with her prize. Near the High Moor she encounters wounded Red Beard who warns of hobgoblins and devils. They traveled south together to Soubar to warn the folk of the region, but Mitra is robbed, her mask taken.
  4. Part Four — In Luskan, Hacarthor the wizard meets his contact's employer, Zalibar, the nemesis of Mitra. They learn that the cursed mask was stolen. We also learn that Zalibar has imprisoned Sanbar Axegrinder, Mitra's friend and his clan who are building a mechanical horror — the mask is key to its completion. We also learn in Soubar about the thieves — the Calashite orphan flees Soubar with the mask.
  5. Part Five — Mitra send Redbeard to the town's officials to break news of the impending invasion and goes in search of the thieves. She finds their lair, but the trail of the thief grows cold.
And once again, our heroine:

Descriptors: Tactician, Tough as Iron, Fencing, Uncompromising
Gear: Trusty Broadsword, Headstrong Charger
FU Points: 1

Conditions: ☐Angry, ☐Trapped, ☐Unconscious, ☐Scared, ☐Dazed, ☐Injured, ☐Tired, ☐Dying

☑ = checked

However, before we continue her story, we follow the mask with a set of freely interpreted Cubes:

lightning bolt, tower, eating watermelon

A lone cloaked figure clutched something...

...against his belly as he lurched forward. He was weak and confused. Lightning struck again, the skies boomed, and the dark heavens finally released torrents of heavy cold rain. Hungry and aimless, Stordfast sought for refuge against the elements. Off the road, the barrens were devoid of much of any cover. Trees were stunted and provided little foliage. Cursing the gods, the young man scanned the horizons. Suddenly, the broken line of a ruin in the distance caught his eye. You will find safety there, he said to himself. He cocked his head to one side. ‘I’ will find safety, he corrected.

Forward he went. The distance was greater than first appeared. For the better part of an hour he waded through soggy muck and stinking bogs to get to the place. When he climbed out of a pool and onto dry land, he lay at the foot of a once great tower. Little else remained of the attached keep. The young Calashite cared little. He only wanted shelter.

Panting, he tossed himself through a vacant crumbling doorframe overgrown with bramble and into the black stony recesses. He was exhausted, sodden, cold, and famished. You will find food here, he said to himself, or had he?

Turning to examine his surroundings, Stordfast saw a round room choked with fallen stone and debris. An empty windowframe was partially filled in by a pear tree. He wandered to the window. The tree was bent, laden with ripened fruit. The young thief eagerly picked four and devoured them, juice running down his fingers. They were sweet!

matches, descending stair, baseball

His most immediate urge taken care of, he next turned his attention to warmth. He scanned the darker recesses of the round chamber. As if waiting for him, a lantern, tinder, flint, steel, and fuel sat on the floor as if left by someone. He examined the items. They were dusty and smeared from ages of disuse. He hastily lit the lantern and tried to warm his hands against the little flame. He removed his sodden cloak to dry and rubbed his arms.

As he stood trying to warm himself, he spied a dark hole partially exposed under a collapsed stone. Curiosity got the best of him.

You will find power and riches within, he said to himself...or had he?

He picked up his newfound lantern and investigated the corner. Now he could see a winding staircase descending into blackness. The stone was easily removed. He stared down within the mysterious, frightening, and yet promising depths in awe. He descended.

He arrived at a landing. His dim flickering light illuminated little about him. It was dark with very close air. A sense of dreadful, watchful malice filled the air. Stordfast began trembling.

You are well, he said to himself. Fear not, he added with an urge to move forward. Rather than from his own mind, the thought seemed to emanate from his hip where the heavy object hung that he had stolen from the warrior woman rather from his head. Yet, too filled with wonder, he seemed not to notice. The passage moved only forward.

Shuffling along, he came to a seemingly dead end. The short passage seemed to lead nowhere. A strange crest medallion was mounted on the wall. Leaning against the wall was an old iron bar. Judging by the scratch marks near it, someone had tried to pry the medallion loose. Immediately, the old feelings of excitement filled his breast at the thought of filching an item of great beauty and value.

He picked of the bar and tried to pry. However, the stone medallion was stuck fast. After many attempts, the young Calashite grew frustrated and began banging on the wall. By some chance, he struck something that moved. Suddenly the wall gave in and swung away on hidden hinges. It was a secret door!

He fetched his lantern again and peered within the space beyond. It looked to be some treasure room! Glittering coins were strewn about...and jewels! He was rich beyond reckoning! His luck had turned astonishingly for the better.

He danced about and scooped up the shiny valuables, letting them fall between his fingers. He enjoyed feeling their weight, and the feel of their cold, smooth surfaces. He took joy in the clatter and jingle as they fell to the floor, overflowing with abundance.

crown, puzzle piece, cut with scissors

His eye was drawn deeper within the treasure room. In the back, set upon a dais of three steps was a high-backed chair. A throne! Unlike the other items, the chair was not lavish or was old, and somehow twisted. The leather looked like old desiccated skin — stretched and brittle. It was black and drab and somehow terrible beyond what eyes alone could see. It was also large...a grown man would appear small upon it.

The voice came again. Sit on the throne, it said. This time, Stordfast did not confuse it with his own thoughts. He was flooded by fear. He turned to leave, but the voice repeated. The voice was deep and commanding. So powerful was it that Stordfast might have torn off his own face with his hands if the voice so commanded. Sit!

Drawn, the lad approached irresistibly. He climbed the stairs and stood before the seat. It looked like a dead thing still possessed of a malevolent animating force. But, it was just a chair.

Slowly, he turned and lowered himself. The feel of the old leather was sickening. The smell of decay was in his nostrils. There was old evil within it...terrible, ancient, and unearthly. As though bound into place, Stordfast could not move.

Put on the mask, came the voice. The lad's hand moved to the bag at his hip. Fingers undid bindings and the hideous visage stared at him, eye holes alight with greenish flame. Put on the mask!

Stordfast did as he was compelled to do. As if a fine-fighting piece of a jigsaw puzzle, it seemed perfectly contoured to his face. Suddenly, it fused to his skin with painful burning. He cried a shriek of agony, muffled behind gold. Green flame wreathed his body and the throne upon which he was set. He convulsed and wrenched painfully, screaming, but he could not rip the mask free, nor get up from the hideous seat. His skin rippled and bubbled as though the green flame boiled within him. His shrieks continued, until his own skin ripped open along hundreds of fissures and cuts as though it were mere paper to be torn. Revealed underneath was a demonic form with fearsome face of gold that shed the shell of flesh that was only moments before, Stordfast.

Tune in next time... Mitra wants to quietly pay the hostler, collect her horse and begin her search. Does she lose Redbeard to continue her doomed quest? Does she find sign of Stordfast’s trail? Do the hordes of Dragonspear overtake her? Does she meet the horror unwittingly released by the young Calashite?

These answers and more await...

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Hour of Dream, part 4

Here is the next part of my "Last of the Drowsbane" campaign. Things get a little crazy here, but fun!

Scene 8

Setup: Tengrym sneaks through the night to find a quiet and seemingly unoccupied granary near the shipyard
CF: 4
Altered? Interrupt! Focus — move away from a thread (stop Shandorin’s plan); meaning — Eating Watermelon, Little Faerie, Key
Interpretation: it is a fantasy after all — so, here’s the gonzo — Tengrym hears noise and sees an elf being led in chains to an ogre in a building who is seemingly ready to make a meal of the elf. I’m also adding in another hook — “Last of the Drowsbane”.

Tengrym hastened back into town, keeping to the shadows along the edge of the street and staying alert in case he had another chance encounter with Shandorin. Instead, along a more desolate part of town where the shipyards, warehouses, and granary lay, the half-elf ducked behind cover as he heard approaching whispers.

What’s the elf look like? Eye, cauldron, sunflower
Male? Yes, and… (a great physical specimen)

Four figures escorted a fifth in chains. The four were dressed in black — a deeper-than-night black that might have been the cloaks of dark elves. The fifth was plainly a moon elf. He had pale skin, long hair the hue of black iron, and striking golden eyes. By his bruises and cuts, it appeared he had been in some sort of fight.

What is his relationship to the Drowsbanes? ‘L’, counting coins, magic beans

The tall elf was familiar to Tengrym. Something registered in his tired brain — something deep and nearly forgotten.

The elf was led to one of the warehouses. The figures stopped and rapped on the door. It was flung wide revealing a massive figure of gargantuan proportions and ugly distorted goblin-like features backlit by pale yellow light from within — an ogre!

“Just in time for me meal!” the giant grumbled in bass tones. “Elf flesh, no less!”

“Do with him as you will, Hapray,” answered one of the four.

The elf was thrust inside and the door slammed shut. As the four returned to the direction from which they came, Tengrym reeled. He knew the elf!

Arafraulyn — ‘Ara’ — was the highest paid of Dergan Drowsbane’s servants. Master of Arms for the noble house, Ara taught the novice lordlings the art of dueling and swordplay, sewing the seeds of future warlords, as well as leading the soldiery of Sullaspryn. Indeed, Tengrym had apprenticed under his rigorous and disciplined tutelage, learning the elvish tongue and art of elvish fencing from a true master.

What was Ara doing in Scardale?

Tengrym leaned back and tried to absorb the implications. Ara was a trusted ally and friend of Tengrym’s dearly departed father, and the young half-elf had respected and feared him…he owed much to the master elf who had taught him courage, self-reliance, and the skills to survive in a dangerous and ruthless world.

As Tengrym eyed the timber structure, a great owl alighted on a bent lamppost just above him. Its flapping wings startled the half-elf. He looked up at the golden-eyed bird with a frown. He contemplated lobbing a stone at the nuisance, but turned his attention back on the building.

The height was too high and sheer to climb. However, a word and a gesture blinked the half-elf on the perch. Gingerly, he crept over to an open vent onto the rafters of the ceiling within, looking down over a most filthy habitat. Even now, the giant stirred a pot of boiling liquid, adding some roots.

“This be Hapray’s tastiest meal in a long spell,” the ogre said.

“May my bones stick in your gullet,” answered Ara.

Does their banter reveal clues as to what Ara is doing there? Yes, and… (reveals some other relevant truth)
What? crab, scary shadow, compass

“How about I pull out your tongue while the pot is stewing?”

“Had I not been pinched tailing Shandorin, I might be separating your head from your neck about now,” answered Ara, unimpressed. “Curse this mess! If only I had his moon dial, I could be free of this gods-forsaken place!”

Moon dial? Tengrym had never heard of such a device before. Obviously, Ara had tracked the enemy here for wholly other purposes. Tengrym was intrigued.

Nonetheless, it was time to save his old mentor. Plucking an eyelash and producing a pinch of sand, he began chanting.

“Eh, what’s that?!” the ogre growled turning to follow the sound up in the dark rafters. Then the big oaf fell into a snoring heap.

Another word of magic brought Tengrym floating lazily down to the floor by the ogre’s side. He relieved the sleeping giant of his keys and released the elf.

“It’s been a great many years, master Arafraulyn,” he said.

Is Ara not surprised to see Tengrym? No, but… (he guards his reaction)

“Only by the count of men,” the elf replied cooly.

“What are you doing here?” asked Tengrym.

“Can we not talk next to this snoring, stinking heap?”

The two made their way to the door which was barred from within. As they unlocked the door, a curious owl watched their movements from above.

Do any negatives hear their escape? Yes, and… (the four drow are waiting outside)

The two were talking when they pushed the door open, but came up short, face-to-face with the same four dark elves that had escorted Ara to the ogre. Perhaps Tengrym had not been perfectly silent in his rescue. Dark steel was borne in the evil elves’ hands.

Arafraulyn, who was weapon-less, leaned back against a beam and gestured to Tengrym. The half-elf’s face twisted to a sarcastic grin. He drew steel and advanced.

The exchange was quick and fierce. Tengrym rolled before a magical globe of darkness targeted him, avoiding the impenetrable blackness. Steel sang as blows were countered and the four seemed at first to outmatch the one. However, the seemingly slow grace effectively countered each blow as one by one, Tengrym found and exploited each dark elf’s defenses. In moments, he had soundly defeated them without a mark or a scratch in return.

Ara applauded. “Well done! Very fine execution — if a bit unconventional.”

“Isn’t convention in combat synonymous with predictable — and defeated — to quote a master?” Tengrym countered.

“Yes, young Drowsbane…however, unpredictability and a flawless technique are two separate things entirely.”

Tengrym rolled his eyes. “I assume I will ever be the pupil.”

Ara relieved one of the dead drow of his blade. The two dragged the bodies into the warehouse. “These may be needed to prove my claim to the officials here,” Tengrym said.

“Don’t you think we should take care of him?” Ara asked, pointing to the ogre who continued to snore. “Tengrym, he could be a further nuisance.”

“About my name,” Tengrym corrected. “I’ve been going by the name, Veldis.”

“Veldis? You’re hiding from your good name? A finer and truer epithet could not suffice.”

“Not hiding…discretion. The last bit of blood in my veins and that of my brother is a commodity rather in demand by fell forces these days…”

“You would do well to wear your namesake’s livery once again.”

“Perhaps the opportunity will present itself.”

“And the ogre?”

“Leave him be…he may sleep a good while.”

The two left as Tengrym quickly filled in his old mentor on Shandorin’s plot.

Is this moon-dial some relic from Sullaspryn? Yes…
Is Ara under the employ of living members of the Drowsbanes of which Tengrym is yet unaware? Yes…
Who? falling, bouncing ball, drama
Interpretation: someone dear to Tengrym, thought dead, but actually alive
Does Ara withhold the identity? Yes, and… (won’t tell under any circumstance for the time being)

Arafraulyn briefly told Tengrym about the moon-dial, a holy relic taken from the chapel of Sel√Ľne in Sullaspryn which Shandorin had stolen. Ara had been tracking the renegade for years. Tengrym naturally asked for whom the elvish swordsmaster was working. “Why would you have any further loyalty to an all-but-dead family from which you have been released for decades?”

“Not all the Drowsbanes are gone,” Ara answered cryptically. “Even those believed long dead…”

“Who? Who, Ara?!”

The elf kept his lips sealed, however. From above, an owl blinked.


CF: +1
NPCs: Anoris Shandorin, Dark Elves, Thedric, Illistyl Elventree, the basilisk, Dynas Dundragon, Orlimpar Eveningfall, Arlgoth the Mighty, Soldiers of Sembia, Arafraulyn, Hapray the Ogre
Threads: Find a new safe haven, Stop Shandorin’s plan, Hunt down Shandorin and challenge him in single combat

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

The Hour of Dream, part 3

Hello all! I've been absent for some time from this here blog, and not by lack of desire. RL has intervened, of course. I also have plenty of distractions during my scant dosages of free moments. That has been eaten by a little fun reading, working on my own adaptation of John Harper's World of Dungeons, and trying to get in on the Fate Core popularity.

Too little time. Too many distractions.

Ensuing frustration results.

In any case, I'm posting the next part in my "Last of the Drowsbane" campaign. I'm going one or two scenes at a time, since they are stretching longer at this point. This is old, by I want to get this on the blog.

Here is a brief scene wherein Thedric, the protagonist's sidekick, goes in search of help for their predicament. Using Questers of the Middle Realms for this as well as my Epic Mythic GM Emulator lite adaptation.

Scene 7

Setup: Thedric goes to the first garrison, finding a sleepy skeleton garrison of Cormyr
CF: 3
Altered? Yes
Interpretation: Only the Sembian garrison admits anyone at this hour

Are there many there? No, but… (more are within a quick call)
Is their stance unfriendly? Yes, and…* (they’re in no mood for shannanigans)
*Twist: focus — Protagonist positive; meaning — cauldron, goblin, lightning bolt
Interpretation: Tengrym may have some un-looked for help in the form of one rival wizard

Heaving breaths, Thedric braced himself in the doorway of the only garrison headquarters he found with light inside. The only Sembian warrior — a man on the portly side and not so spry — looked up in anger from his warm bowl of stew. He sat at a table facing the roguish intruder with a look so sour — marked by suspicion that the newcomer to take his meal.

“What do YOU want?!” the man blurted out.

“I…I need…” Thedric couldn’t quite spit the words out. “I need help!”

The man grimaced. “Come back in the morning! We’re closed, can’t you see?!”

“No, wait!” Thedric panted. “Do you want DARK ELVES overrunning this town, and every other town in the Dales and… probably… all of Sembia and Cormyr with it?” he said, making it all up as he went. The off-the-cuff manner was all too apparent, he realized. Yet, on he went. “Free do dominate with sleepy folks who can’t do a thing ’cause it’s too late already?”

The man turned a brighter shade of red. “What nonsense is this? You been in your cups? Looks like you’ve been bruised up a fair bit.” The man pushed his chair back and approached, obviously to push Thedric out the door of the little lodge. “Sleep it off, I say. Come back in the morning if there’s still an emergency.”

“STOP!” screamed Thedric. “You Fool!” He tried to sound a bit like his half-brother for effect — to shame the man. However, it had quite the opposite effect. The man turned even brighter and tried to land his hands on Thedric.

The younger man easily spun out of reach and was now in the room, running with the older on his tail. Thedric leapt up on the table and knocked the stew to the floor. He swung on the chandelier and alighted far away. This angered the soldier even more. This was going nowhere. Thedric needed to do something. Tengrym counted on him!

The man turned to the wall and went to heft a great battle axe from its resting stops. With deft maneuvers, Thedric sent two daggers end over end. Each pinned the man’s arms to the wall through the loose fabric of his sleeves. The man’s eyes went wide with fear now and he struggled to pull them free.

“Hold!” Thedric said, holding his hands out in a peaceful gesture. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. Just listen! Could a drunkard throw like that? I need you to listen!”

Note: I will leave this scene hanging as-is for now. The result of whether he could talk sense into him I will leave for a roll at the critical time in an upcoming scene.


CF: +1
NPCs: Anoris Shandorin, Dark Elves, Thedric, Illistyl Elventree, the basilisk, Dynas Dundragon, Orlimpar Eveningfall, Arlgoth the Mighty, Soldiers of Sembia
Threads: Find a new safe haven, Stop Shandorin’s plan, Hunt down Shandorin and challenge him in single combat