Mod Abuse: A Rise of the Runelords Campaign by Eliphal

[Gielnor]

Welcome to the official AAR thread for Eliphal's Rise of the Runelord's campaign! This is a repository of all the After Action Reports I've posted so far on our private roll20 forum. All future posts will be posted on both here and roll20 simultaneously. Many of these posts are in-character journal entries written by my character, Barun Baradum. Barun's gotten himself into the odd position of an unlikely acquaintance with Rhothomir Kane, a mysterious elf sorcerer with a hidden (read: often RPed to the GM behind our backs) agenda. As such, many of these posts include information that is known only to Barun and Rhothomir, so I'll do my best to mark these IC spoilers as they arise.

Also, this is the same campaign that Roseluck is running with a different group, so spoilers abound! I imagine he'll follow a similar session breakup though, so you can always read the relevant AAR after your equivalent session. I know for a fact that the entirety of Part 1 has been played by both groups.

Without further ado, our CAST OF CHARACTERS:

BARUNTHIC "BARUN" BURADUM, Dwarf Paladin
Played by Rainbow Dash



Barun is a dwarf of humble origins, born to two working-class smiths in the dwarven metropolis of Highhelm. His divine blessings became apparent durring his apprenticeship when his smithed hammers were found to be unnaturally massive, but could be lifted by the dwarf with ease. Barun now serves Torag, the creator god of the dwarven race, as a paladin, though the lofty responsibility of the role often clashes with his rough-and-ready laborer demeanor.

Barun is fascinated by religious work and many other creative trades besides, and has devoted the beginning of his career to exploring Golarion in study of the world's varied temples, icons, sculptures, and artifacts. He originally arrived in Sandpoint on advice from relatives in Janderhoff to study the town's new cathedral, but his role is quickly spiraling in a completely new direction.

RHOTHOMIR KANE, Elf Sorcerer
Played by Luna



Little is known about this secretive mage, and what little we do know has been released only begrudgingly. Kane is a child of the noble House of Kane, which has a tradition of setting its newest adults out into the world as adventurers before allowing them to return to the settled life of the aristocracy. As such, Kane has access to many services and resources the common folk do not, despite his best efforts to hide the fact. The most obvious evidence is his personal servant, , who has the uncanny ability to appear exactly when he is needed.

Despite his aloof and strictly organized nature, Kane's magic has a tendency to react violently and unpredictably when overused, and Kane has no concept of moderation. Even after the most nonsensical mishap, however, he always plays it off with the same "I meant to do that" attitude, and to spark an emotional response other than "beh" is a true feat.

He now has a cat named tavi, and I love it.

Tyvelian Rysland,Aasimar Zen Archer
Played by Spike

I don't have a picture for Ty, so I'm just gonna find something that roughly matches my mental picture of him. Let's see...

Poifect.
Rhothomir is an absolute trove of personal information compared to Tyvelian. All that is truly certain is that he looks like a 12-year-old boy with pale skin and a constantly cloaked face, and that he is really damned good with a bow. Good enough that only 12 years of experience doesn't seem like nearly enough. He's spoken all of two sentences since the adventure began, and like Patsy only seems to appear exaclty when he's needed.

Talathel, Elf Druid
Played by Fluttershard

Again, don't have a picture for this guy. Umm...

Yes. Yes, that's right.

Talathel is technically a local to Sandpoint, though few of the townfolk could call him a neighbor. The elf has spent most of his life living in the dense forest just outside the city walls, communing with the trees and SMOKIN' DAT HERB. Talathel often seems distant or unaware of his surroundings, but often has a great deal of knowledge on the situation. His experience in local knowledge and spellcraft has come in handy more than once.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Module I: Burnt Offerings
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Module II: The Skinsaw Murders










Module III: The Hook Mountain Massacre



Key:
Main Story Post
-Side-RP Addendum Post
---Alternate Perspective by another player
Title* : This post has been played through by Roseluck's group, and should not contain spoilers for upcoming sessions.

Feel free to discuss the campaign in this thread if you want. I'll simply link each story post to here for easy navigation. In addition, if you would like to add your own entry to the narrative, either IC or OOC, you're more than welcome to post it below and I will throw it into the Table of Contents above as a side-entry. Please keep anything pertaining to Roseluck's campaign in a separate thread, however, since the storylines and characters will likely diverge at points.

Without further ado, I present the ongoing tale of the RISE OF THE RUNELORDS.

[Gielnor]

OUR STAGE:
SANDPOINT, a small port city in the frontier region of Varisia and a satellite holding of the city state of Magnimar. The city has recently finished the construction of a magnificent new cathedral, and is in the midst of celebrating the annual Festival of the Swallowtail. Most of the city has moved into the streets for the day to browse the tents, enjoy the events, and attend the dedication of the cathedral. Whatever their motivations, our cast has arrived in Sandpoint on this particular day…

FROM THE JOURNAL OF BARUN BURADUM – DAY 1

Bloody hell, Torag. I know you like to keep me on my toes, but could you at least let me finish my fifth pint before chucking a wild bucketful of goblins at me?

Right, let me wind back a wee bit. The day started off well enough, I suppose. Sandpoint is a nice enough town, though I have no clue how these humans stand the humidity. No one should ever have to live within a hundred miles of an ocean! I was planning on taking notes of the new cathedral when I pulled into town, but looks like I arrived a day too late – the Festival of the Swallowtail is today, and I couldn’t get within spitting distance of the temple without some poor sod offering me their new Fried Swampfish on a Stick (not bad, actually. I’ll have to get a recipe for it before I leave). So I resorted to the preferred fall-back plan of any proper dwarf of the mountainhomes: I went looking for the best source of decent spirits. As it turns out the Rusty Dragon offers a damn fine mead – maybe even better than the Highhelm stuff (Torag forgive me), but perhaps it’s just been too long since my last drop of real dwarven brew.

And that’s how the day went until about dusk, when things got real bloody interesting. Deacon of the new church was about to give some rousing speech to kick of the night’s celebrations when folks started screaming bloody murder from outside the square. That’s when the singing started. I’ll spare the details, as any dwarf worth his weight in granite has heard a goblin ditty by now, but these goblin “bards” were particularly off-key. Sure enough, before you could bat an eye the mottled retches started streaming into the square and all hell broke loose.

That’s when I dropped the fifth pint of mead and decided I had new priorities.

The halflings to the south have a game they call “golf”. I’ve never really understood the appeal of the sport; it just seems like walking across a field for a few hours. But I can appreciate the main action of the game. Basically, the bloke takes a small club and tries to hit a small ball as far as he can. I’m probably missing a few details, but that’s the gist.

I mention this because the first goblin I saw may have the unique distinction of being the first participant in Goblin Golf.

Torag’s Fury ain’t easy to use underhanded, but for a critter as small as a goblin you don’t really need too much finesse. Bugger must have flown at least thirty feet before the wall stopped him. I’ll need to see if I can find a fight on open ground and try to break a distance record.

It’s at this point that I noticed the two other goblins on either side of me. Or, rather, I noticed their biters slash into my arm. Clearly I need to meditate on your Rites of Planning a bit further, Torag.

Now, by all rights at that point I should have been a dead dwarf. But, apparently, I am not the only sod with a pair in this town. I heard a clatter to my left, and a spear fell shy of one of the goblins. I stole a quick glance behind me, and noticed a trio of characters.

The first was an elf clad in rather… rustic? garb. Clearly he was the spearthrower, as I heard his cursing before I saw his face. Probably a druid by the look of him. I still can’t tell whether he was brave or just clueless, but more on that later. By his side was an archer, by the looks of him a human boy, not even in his teens yet. But even in a quick glance I could tell he was… different. The fact he was picking off goblins like a seasoned archer was an obvious clue, but there was something deeper that I hadn’t pinpointed yet.

And then there was the third bloke. Torag save me. The bugger was firing magic missiles from his chair. He hadn’t even bothered to stand up when the goblins came charging in! And somehow, he ended up saving my ass: his missiles took out the goblin on my right and cleared my flank. Torag, you work in mysterious ways, but sometimes I feel like you’re just playing a giant joke on me.

As soon as the first three goblins were cleared out, a great clatter rang down the street at the opposite end of the square, and suddenly a flaming wagon smashed into the wall. Now, I’ll give the goblins this: using a flaming wagon as a terror weapon ain’t a bad idea. Using it as troop transport, however, could have used a wee bit more forethought. Somehow the creeps survived the ride, and leaped out of the burning heap, out of my reach.

Torag clearly wants me to stay entertained though, because at that moment one of the screeching bards came waltzing into the square like he owned the place. I immediately charged at him, but the little blighter was a wormy one; dodged my blows like a cat. Between strikes I managed a glance at the magic user, and… bloody hell. I still can’t believe this.

Somehow he had managed to teleport himself right into the mass of slightly burnt gobbos, leaving one of the buggers standing confused in his old seat. Cheeky bastard didn’t even blink, like he had meant to do that! He even tried to stand up using one of the goblins as a handhold! The goblins clearly didn’t want anything to do with the crazy bastard, and tried to slash his outstretched hand. To their credit, one of them succeeded. They probably hadn’t accounted for the electric touch attack that the mage used to burn him to a crisp, but we’ve already established that goblins aren’t that great at long-term planning.

Meanwhile I’m still swinging at the poor excuse for a singer, and he’s still managing to worm his way around Fury. Finally the sorcerer decks the other goblin (the druid had taken the liberty of impaling the teleported goblin) and tosses another magic missile at the bard. Which fails and opens a portal into the celestial plane. Which does next to nothing and closes again.

What.

Luckily the goblin seemed just as confused, and I took the opportunity to deck him in the face. So not a total waste of time, I suppose.

No time for introductions, though, because as soon as the bard fell a frantic scream echoes from the direction of the town gate. I of course immediately set off toward the gate. The druid set off behind me, and the other two fellows eventually caught up to us. No idea what kept them.

We get to the gate just in time to see a mutt get de-throated. So that’s a good start. It’s a goblin warchief sat on some unholy abomination of a mount, flanked by three other goblins. Across the street is a human in scuffed nobleman’s clothes about three seconds from shitting himself. I looked to the druid next to me and asked him what the beast was, assuming he knew something about wild critters.

“It’s a goblin dog.”
“And? Anything useful ya know about it?”
“Um… it’s a goblin dog.”

I groaned and laid my palm against my face. “Right, unless any one of ya got a clever plan, I’m chargin’ in and knockin’ the bugger in the face. Any offers?”

Silence.

I then charged into the square and knocked the bugger in the face.

I have coined a new term for what followed: I call it the “Smashorama”. Clearly Torag was getting bored of the dramatic combat scenes, so he made sure that every goblin my hammer touched collapsed into a pile of gore and brain matter. The goblins could hardly react before they were unrecognizable heaps.

Holstering Fury, I walked behind the nearby pile of barrels and hoisted the stammering mess onto his feet. Pretty generous for a nobleman (maybe he was just on an “oh my gods I didn’t die” high) and showered us with thanks and admiration. He even offered us a week’s stay at the Rusty Dragon. While the sorcerer prodded the nobleman (name of Foxglove, I believe), I went over to the mangled corpse of the goblin rider and poked around for clan markings. Should have looked up the local clans before I got here, because what Iittle I found was unrecognizable. Luckily the druid was behind me, and apparently he was a local boy. Didn’t know the markings either, but did know someone who would: an elf, name of Shalelu, out in the woods outside of Sandpoint. Shalelu had been away for quite some time, though, and by all rights should have been keeping such a goblin attack at bay. Clearly something is up.

“M’name’s Barunthic, by the way. Go by Barun. Ya fought well enough today to earn that much, friend.”
“Thanks. My name’s Talathel, like, Waffle.”
“… Waffle?”
“Yeah… like Waffle.”

Still not sure if he’s brave or stupid yet. May need to keep an eye on him just to make sure he doesn’t kill himself.

The sorcerer and the lad had already walked back to the town square, so me and Talathel (like waffle) set off to at least make introductions to the antisocial twats, seeing as the town’ll probably assume we’re a team once Foxglove has spread the word. Bugger all, when we got there, the sorcerer was back in his bloody chair, like nothing has happened, despite the circle of goblin corpses and the charred wagon. And to top it all off, he had a bloody butler bring him fucking tea.

WHAT.

Forgive me Torag, my poor brain is clearly too simple to know your plans. At least that better bloody well be the case.

Anyway, uh… right. Introductions were… attempted (mage never did give me his name), but the boy kept his head hidden and didn’t say a word. Hardly even moved. I decided then was a good time to call it a night and take a look at my new accommodations. I set off toward the inn, but not before passing a whisper to the cloaked lad.

“I know there’s more to ya than yer letting on, lad. Me n’ Torag’ll be keepin’ an eye on ya.”

He risked a glance at me. Lad has glowing red eyes.

Bloody hell, you’ve pulled me into a real twist now, haven’t ya Torag? I’ve got no doubt you have all the pieces in place exactly as you want them for the coming times…but by the gods, did you have to pick all the pieces out of the looney bargain bin?

Right. I’m tired as hell. Barkeep just handed me a free pint of mead, so it looks like I’ll get to finish my fifth drink after all. Cheers, Torag.

-BARUN

[Gielnor]

FROM THE JOURNAL OF BARUN BURADUM

DAY 2

Okay Torag, your blessedness, let me level with you for a second. I get that you need to give impromptu lessons on temptation from time to time, and I signed up on the holy warrior circuit knowing that fucking strangers is probably a no-go. But if you could please send your reminders in the form of a polite sacred text rather than a man with fists the size of tree trunks barreling toward me in a fit of rage, I would appreciate it.

Gah, right... where to begin. Day started off without fanfare - the mysterious "boy" (though it's pretty obvious he's an aasimar at this point - very few children walk around town with a shortbow and glowing red eyes) left at the crack of dawn, before any of us had even gotten up. I awoke about an hour later and continued working on the whittled wooden sculpture I've been carving; I still think the beard needs work, but the ears are really starting to show that solid Toragan divinity.

My crafting meditations complete, I marched downstairs and ordered a light breakfast - eggs, bacon, toasted bread, marmalade, porridge, ham, fried potatoes, biscuits, and a pint of lager. Talathel made his way downstairs shortly after my meal arrived and, to my surprise, ordered nearly the same. Usually elves have pretty small appetites, but this guy clearly has the gut of a dwarf. I think I like this guy.

The strange mage still hadn't made his way downstairs by the time we had finished breakfast, so we decided to walk into town and try to find our new aasimar friend. Apparently we've made quite a stir in Sandpoint - shopkeepers were stopping us at almost every other store and thanking us for our efforts. The women in particular were stopping to flirt with one particular dwarf (Oh gods, I can feel myself blushing already. Torag forgive me.) Just as I had suspected, at this point most of the town assumed the four of us strangers were actually working together. It's probably easier to just stick together at this point, and hell, most of them are decent fighters, so there's no reason not to. I just hope they don't drive me bonkers.

We finally found the boy around noon, sitting quietly on the water's edge by the town pier. Quiet as ever. I finally weaseled a name out of him - Tyvelian Rysland - but before we could have anything resembling a conversation, a great burly man in rather official looking garb came striding up to us. Turns out he's the town sheriff, name of Hemlock, and he was seeking out our "adventuring party" (Adventuring Party? Damn it, I just wanted to see a bloody cathedral) for an investigation. It turns out that while the goblins were raiding the town, a tomb in the cathedral graveyard was looted... and they could still hear noises coming from inside. Tarathel stopped to interrupt him:

"Naw man, you got it all wrong. We're not a pa-"
I interrupted him in turn. "Best to just go along with it, lad. It'll be easier in the long run."

Having voluntarily dug ourselves into a hole, I gestured for Tyvelian to follow us to the cathedral cemetery. But first, we needed to stop by the inn again and see if our new sorcerer friend was finally up.

When we walked into the inn, the elf was at the bar, just now getting to his breakfast. The twat hadn't even changed out of his pajamas yet. Slightly annoyed at this point, I told him the sheriff expected him to accompany us to the graveyard for an investigation. The cheeky bastard didn't even say a word - he just left his stool and made his way up the stairs. At this point I had had enough of his bullshit and stormed my way behind him, shouting at his back as he walked into his room:

"NOW YOU LISTEN HERE, YA RIGHT POMPOUS TWAT. I'VE GOTTEN NOTHIN' BUT BLANK STARES FROM YER SORRY FACE SINCE YEH'VE BEEN HERE, AND I AM NOT LETTING YA MOVE ANOTHER BLOODY FOOT UNTIL YA GIVE US YER DAMN NAME."

He shut the door behind him like I wasn't there... and opened it again five seconds later, fully changed into a clean and well-equipped set of robes. I just stared at him.

"Rhothomir."

And without another word, he walked out of the room toward the exit. I'm pretty sure my brain had broken at this point, so I simply followed after him and made my way toward the graveyard.

When we arrived at the tomb, it was obvious something was amiss: the door was closed, but slightly ajar, and unreadable scuff marks circled the entrance. Not one to leave a good tomb desecrated, I flipped Fury into the lantern position*, lit the lamp, and opened the door.




Unfortunately, having Fury in lantern position means I can't immediately swing it without spraying burning lamp oil over myself, so the skeletons were able to strike first. Couldn't even pierce my armor, though. Rhothomir immediately grabbed a skeleton and shocked it, collapsing it into a singed pile of bones. Both Tyvelian and Talathel struck with arrow and spear, but skeletons are notoriously... porous. Even my hammer strike missed as the pile of bones bent itself into impossible positions to dodge.

Of course, it seems we can't have a fight without the mage fucking up a spell. Within ten seconds, he somehow managed to create a magic missile that both failed to hit the skeleton and created a spontaneous rainstorm.

What.

And that's when Tyvelian jumped out of nowhere, leaped over my head, and kicked the head off of a fucking skeleton.

FUCK THAT WAS COOL.

The threat dispatched, I relit my lantern and led us (including the sheriff, who had run up just as the last skeleton collapsed) into the darkness of the tomb. Rhothomir immediately sensed a magical presence, and soon led us to a tattered old cloak. He determined it was a used-up Cloak of Old Bones - a magic robe covered in patches that, when ripped off and tossed to the ground, summon a skeletal minion. Notably, the robe was nowhere near goblin size - it would probably at least fit a human. The next room would only further complicate matters.

The most obvious feature in the final burial chamber was the lack of a burial in said chamber - that is, the body had been taken. Apparently this was the tomb of the town's chief priest, who had died in the fire that consumed the old chapel. Talathel identified tracks in the dusty floor, and was ably to determine they belonged to six goblins... and a seventh significantly larger humanoid. Suddenly last night's simple goblin raid had become a lot more complex.

Finding nothing else of interest in the room (besides a severed finger bone left behind in the sarcophagus - Rhothomir kept it for possible scrying later), Rhothomir handed the evidence to the sheriff, asked his butler to fetch a pot from home to temporarily hold the finger (scared the fuck out of me, by the way - how the hell did he even get in there?) and left to see if any stores in town sold necromanic robes (spoiler: they don't). Tyvelian turned to me and actually spoke.

"Can I borrow two gold?"
"Uh... why?"
"Weapons."
"What do ya need weapons for? Ya seem t'fight pretty damn well without 'em."
"I want to buy cold iron knuckles for my feet."
"... Come with me. I'm gonna make ya a pair of headbashers meself."

One hour and a generous blacksmith later, I had a pair of dense metal plates strapped to his shins. They'll dent a skull, that's for damn sure. Right as I finished tightening the last strap, I noticed a... um... well endowed women making her way toward. In retrospect, it was pretty obvious what her intentions were, but at the time I was fairly distracted by her.. um... fuck it, she had huge knockers. Torag respects honesty. She claimed that her basement was full of huge rats, and needed a strong, strapping man to clear them out. Again, not thinking clearly, I blindly followed her to her father's shop. We stepped into the basement, which was filled with a standard assortment of stored merchandise... and a single cot.

I stumbled over to the corner and peeked over the crates.

"I'm not callin' ya a liar, ma'am, but I don't see any rats back here."

I turned around to see a topless woman slowly walking toward me.

Again, Torag looks poorly upon taking random strangers into bed, especially if you're a paladin. Needless to say, I had a bit of a predicament here. Nothing unavoidable - a few sweet words and I could probably squirm my way onto the street untouched. That's when I heard footsteps coming down the cellar stairs.

"THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH MY DAUGHTER, BOY??"

In walked a man that I can only assume is the living incarnation of Torag's fury. He was built like a rock, and he was pissed. I tried to talk my way out of the situation, but clearly I was beyond the point of reasoning. Now I was in an unavoidable situation. The brute let out a yell of pure rage and swung at me like a charging bull. I somehow managed to dart the bulk of my armor underneath his swing and darted up the stairs and out the front door. The man charged up the stairs and yelled back at me,

"BOY, IF I EVER SEE YOU AROUND MY STORE AGAIN, YOU'RE A DEAD DWARF, Y'HEAR? A DEAD GODS-DAMNED DWARF!"

I somehow managed to find my way back to the inn, and stumbled through the door only to notice Aldern Foxglove, cheery as ever, sitting at a table with the rest of the party... except for Tyvelian, who came in right behind me. He must have followed me into the shop... Torag's Beard (Torag forgive me). Foxglove gestured to me, pointing to a seat directly next to him.

"Barun, the man of the hour! Come sit with me, friend! I would love to hear of your adventures today!"
"... Get me a drink."
"But of course, my friend! My, you look like you've had quite a day! Tell us the tales of your wondrous adve-"
"Get me a bloody drink."

As soon as my ale arrived, I immediately buried my face into it for the next fifteen minutes.

Soon, though, I was provided a welcome, if awkward, distraction from the day's events. An aging, but furious man suddenly stormed into the bar, alternating between yells of "WHERE THE HELL IS MY DAUGHTER" and rants in some indiscernible foreign language. At one point he approached our table in a particularly vehement rage.

"YOU DAMN FOREIGNERS ARE ALL THE REASON THIS TOWN IS IN DANGER. ALWAYS BRINGING YOUR TROUBLES WITH YOU!"

As far as I have traveled from Highhelm, I've had my fair share of both xenophobic morons and raucous barfights. Used to the former and not really in the mood for the latter, I merely smirked at his fumings. Soon enough, the innkeeper stomped out of the kitchen. Ameiko Kaijitsu. I had a chat with her over my breakfast: has a respectable stock of stories to share, and carries a damn fine blade to boot. Anyway, she blazes out of the kitchen, soup ladel still in hand, ranting in the same strange language as her father. The arguement continued to escalate until finally he shouted,

"YOU ARE AS DEAD TO ME AS YOUR MOTHER!"

I then learned that a soup ladle makes for a pretty effective improvised club - Ameiko smashed the spoon into his face, splitting his lip and probably breaking a tooth considering the amount of blood dripping onto the floor. Wordlessly, he stomped back out of the pub, hand over his bleeding face. Ameiko calmly picked up the ladle from the floor.

"Looks like I'm gonna have to get a new ladle," she said, picking a hair from the spoon, "because jackass stew isn't on the menu."



Once the bar had died down, the conversation at our table naturally turned to the Kaijitsu family. Apparently Ameiko's father owns a rather successful glassblowing business, while her mother had died in "mysterious circumstances" a couple years ago. Her death was the first of what the locals call "the late unpleasantness," a weeks-long spree of horrific murders, culminating in the burning of the original chapel and the death of Priest Ezekial - the same priest whose body had just gone missing.

Aldern also noted that the priest had an adopted daughter - an aasimar. Which explained why the rest of the town hadn't batted an eye at the boy with glowing eyes and a shortbow.

Clearly trying to steer the conversation away from such morbid matters, Foxglove invited us for a boar hunt in the morning. I'm a lousy shot with a crossbow, but I could use a bit of country air. Hopefully I won't make a fool of myself by falling off the horse.

I'll be setting off shortly to finally study the cathedral in close detail - hopefully at this time of night I can get some sketches and measurements without distraction. And don't worry Torag, I won't let any loose maidens lead me astray this time, you wily old bastard.

-BARUN



DAY 3
(The entry is hastily scrawled in shorthand rather than carefully penned dwarven runes. "Midday" is scratched in the upper margin.)
(SPOILER WARNING: this entry contains information known only to Barun. If you don't want any OOC information, skip this entry.)

Quick midday entry, as a lot has happened and I'd rather pen it to memory now than wait until tonight.
Rhothomir took me aside when I got back from the cathedral. He told me Shalelu, the elven ranger, was arriving in town earlier than planned, and that "the rats are getting ready to leave the ship". Some human turn-of-phrase I think - I'll have to look it up later. I was more suspicious than usual, especially when he asked for the clan marking I pulled off of the dead goblin. I pulled it from my pouch, but hesitated before handing it over. I tried to sense evil.

Nothing. Well, at least he has that going for him.

I handed the "signet" (a rougly cut shard of jagged metal) to him and told him not to lose it, then retreated to bed in time for the morning's hunt.

The hunt was uneventful. Foxglove's a hell of a talker though - bloke would not shut up about us the entire morning. I nearly jumped for joy when Sheriff Hemlock approached us upon our return and called us to a meeting at the mayor's house. We bade Foxglove farewell without giving him a chance to chat further and made our way to the estate. Waiting for us was the sheriff, the mayor, and an elven ranger who could only be Shalelu - powerful looking, but haggard and clearly strained.

I'll spare the details, but basically the five goblin clans near Sandpoint usually keep themselves in check with infighting, but some outside force has convinced all five clans to cooperate in a combined assault on Sandpoint. Any other intel is scarce - we only know of five goblin "heroes" (for lack of a better term) plus a lone bugbear out in the wilds. It's unlikely that the six alone could orchestrate this massed assault; there is almost certainly a higher power pulling the strings. Sheriff Hemlock has left for Magnimar with this news, hoping to bring back reinforcements should the goblins dare a second assault. He wants us for to keep watch over the city while he is gone, to maintain the peace and keep the populace calm.

In summary, the town sheriff's office is now a buzzed out elf, a sorcerer with a penchant for backfiring, a vaguely creepy child, and a dwarf who is barred from a local shop for alleged sexual misconduct.

Torag help me.

-BARUN

[Gielnor]

FROM THE JOURNAL OF BARUN BURADUM
DAY 4

Cripes. Today was a bad day for far too many innocent people. Sometimes I wonder why the gods let goblins continue to exist instead of smiting them from existence. They cause nothing but annoyance to the heroes and suffering to everyone else.

All four of us were woken up this morning by the whimpering of a townswoman crying at the inn door. She held her son’s arm, who was also crying, but had the notable distinction of a great bloody (adjective and exclamation) bite mark on his arm.

Between gasps we were able to gather that the boy had been hearing noises coming from his closet, as young boys are wont to do. What was notable however was the barking of the family dog at the same closet door. Turns out the dog was right to be suspicious, because just before sunrise a beast sprang from the darkness and bit at the boy until the dog forced him off. The man of the house had run into the bedroom to fight off the menace as the woman and her child fled, and they were looking for help in killing the monster before it could harm the father.

It’s been pretty well established by this point that I accept any requests for help pretty much by default, so without waiting for a response from the others I followed the woman to her house, pretty much dragging the rest of the party behind me (to be fair, Talathel seemed more willing than the others, but then again I’m not entirely sure he’s aware of what’s happening at any given time).

Leaving the woman and her child outside, we stepped into the house and made our way to the child’s bedroom. The house was dark and, most notably, silent. Considering the woman had told us her husband had stayed behind to fight the beast, I was already expecting disaster to come. Leading the way with Tyvelian notching his bow, I gently nudged the door open.

The room looked like one of those cheesy funhouse haunts the travelling circuses like to set up nowadays, but terrifyingly real. The room was adorned with all the standard toys a young boy would have, but all splattered with a thick puddle of blood. The mangled remains of what was once a dog spilled over the center of the floor, and by the closet door was a dark, huddled mass.

I approached the closet and my terrible suspicions were confirmed. The huddled mass was a pair of human legs, breeches torn and skin bloodied. The upper body was hidden in the darkness of the closet, collapsed into what looked like a rough-hewn hole in the floorboards. Leaning in to get a closer look, Talathel grabbed the man’s shoulders and pulled him upright.

Two things became evident at that moment. Firstly, the poor fool was, in fact, missing his damn face. Secondly, and more pressingly, a goblin had sprung out of the hole and was making a beeline toward any exposed ankles he could find.

The resulting scuffle was chaotic, but short. The damn biter managed to squirm its way around my hammer, but a few well-placed magic missiles and arrowheads shut it up before long. A quick investigation of the goblin and his hidey hole revealed no greater grand conspiracy or hidden army – the goblin had simply been left behind in the goblin raid, and this family had the misfortune of hosting a starving and increasingly desperate grot underneath their child’s room. And now a father was dead for it.

With a sigh, I grabbed the sheet from the boy’s bed and draped it over the man’s face – it was crude, but considering the circumstances it was better than nothing. Informing the next of kin went about as well as one could expect, but luckily the town priest arrived shortly after our arrival (word travels fasts in this town. I’ll have to remember that.) and offered to care for the family’s affairs. Torag bless him, that man has had far too much to deal with this week. Reprieved, we made our way back to the inn in an attempt to get lunch.

Vittles turned out to be out of the question, however. Halfway to the Rusty Dragon, one of the inn’s barmaids came rushing down the street to us. She was obviously flustered, and explained that Ameiko, the innkeeper, had been called away last night. She handed us a note – luckily she had translated it because the original writing looked like chicken scratch to me. To make a long story short, Ameiko’s estranged half-elf half-brother (why can’t family relations be simple anymore?) had apparently returned to Sandpoint after a long exile, and claimed to have evidence that Lonjiku, their father, was behind the recent goblin attack. He called on his half-sister to meet him at the family Glassworks at midnight and confront their father.

The way I figured it, this was going to end in one of two ways: either we would find an important clue in the rapidly spiraling goblin conspiracy, or an innocent old man was about to get the stuffing punched out of him. Either way, making a stop by the town glassworks was probably wise. The barmaid then revealed the cincher: the letter was received last night. Ameiko had not yet returned, and it was nearly noon of the next day.
Of course, we went to the glassworks, because we have a reputation to uphold at this point.

I always find it strange that humans build independent houses for their furnaces. Back at the mountainhomes, every forge and oven is carved from the heart of the earth: no wasted material, no risk of fire, and near perfect heat insulation. But at any rate, that’s exactly what the glassworks was; a large stone house just outside of town with a stonking great oven in the middle of it. As we walked down the shoreline road, I could see the smoke cheerfully rising from the smokestack. Once we got closer, however, there was obviously something amiss: all the windows were tightly shut, and the curtains drawn. Even a dwarf can only stand the heat of a roaring furnace for so long without cracking a window open. There were some uncovered windows, however: namely, a set of skylights on the roof.

“Oy, lad.” I said to the boy. “Think ye could climb yer way onto the roof and get a peek inside fer us?”

Two minutes, my rope, and a grappling hook from Rhothomir later, Tyvelian was scaling the wall onto the roof. Meanwhile, the heavier members of the party made our way to the workshop windows, and attempted to listen through. All we could make out was the steady roar of the furnaces, a near-constant clatter of glass striking the floor… and the mad cackling of goblins. Yaaaaaaay~.

Tyvelian finally managed to work his way to the roof, and peeked into the skylight just above our listening post. His reports were not pretty, to say the least. There were half a dozen goblins throwing vases, glasses, and crystalware about like toys, and the glassworkers were merely standing by. This was because they were dead. The goblins were clumsily pouring molten glass onto their corpses in an attempt to create grotesque sculptures. In one sense they had already succeeded, for in the center of the workshop stood the frozen and screaming form of Lonjiku Kaijitsu, fully encased in glass.

I would call this barbaric, but to be fair the dwarven glass artist Urist Kurdumlush once made a gallery exhibition consisting entirely of goblin corpses dipped in molten glass and arranged into a scene of a poker game. So these goblins didn’t even have the distinction of being original.

Modern art is strange.

At any rate, we decided we couldn’t just let the goblins have free reign of the building, especially being so close to town. Rhothomir quickly devised a plan. Tyvelian quietly eased the skylight open, while Rhothomir and Talathel arranged themselves just behind window. I stood next to the window, and knocked on it.

Hard.

With my hammer.

The window shattered open, but between the already constant sound of shattering glass and the goblin’s sick revelry, the intrusion was hardly noticed. They did notice, however, when a magic missile soared through the window, struck a goblin, and carried him straight into the open furnace.

This was the beginning of what I can only assume will be one day known as the Great Goblin Barbecue.

When another goblin was felled by a quick strike of arrows from above, the remaining goblins suddenly realized “Hey! We’re being killed!” One particularly brave goblin grabbed his biter, locked eyes with the mage just outside the window, and dashed toward him.

Of course, he did not see my hammer readied to swing until he passed through the window frame.

It seems like I have to make a lot of sports references in this journal. Maybe I should consider going pro once this is over. I mention this because of a game the Men of the south have called stickball, or “baseball” in some secluded circles. It basically involves hitting an oncoming ball with a club and running in circles. Again, it sounds pointless, but it seems more exciting than golf at any rate.

Anyway, I imagine I’d be a pretty solid batter as well. The goblin leaped through the window, his face smashed into my oncoming hammer, and he was thrown back inside, straight into the furnace. I think that’s what the stickballers would call a “home run”.

Goblins of course are remarkably stupid, and sure enough another goblin came darting through the window on my backswing, but actually had the agility to make it to Rhothomir and slash at his robes. Meanwhile, the goblins inside, now aware of Tyvelian’s death-from-above, had taken to chucking shards of broken glass up through the skylight. One of them managed the most magnificent blunder I have ever seen: he somehow threw a glass shard perfectly straight into the air, which upon falling back to earth found its home right in the eye of the same goblin. Blinded, he stumbled… straight into the furnace.

Unfortunately, the Great Goblin Barbecue ended here, not because of our inability, but because the furnace was full of burning goblin. Never forget.

I decided at this point that the nearest goblin had been bothering Rhothomir for too long, and therefore picked the bugger up with my shield hand and threw him to the ground, pinning him under my shield. He squirmed a bit, but froze in fear when his eyes locked on something just out of my vision. “RUN! RUN! THE LONGSHANKS IS COMING!” he shrieked in terror. The other goblins paused momentarily as their brains processed the new information, then frantically scurried out of sight like headless chickens. Nothing’s more annoying than a screaming goblin (Ever hear a particularly springy plank of wood squeak as it’s ripped the wrong way? It sounds like that), so I shut it up with a square clock to the head.

With the goblins shut up, I could now clearly hear the distinct clatter of arrowheads against stone from within the workshop: clearly Tyvelian was still fighing something much quieter than any goblin inside. Rhothomir and I carefully climbed through the shattered window to investigate. I immediately determined three things:

1) The new combatant was a half-elf, and unless the half-elf population has spiked dramatically in the last few years, it was probably the same half-elf we were looking for.
2) He was fucking evil.
3) He was swatting full-draw arrows out of the air like damned flies.

In summary, Tyvelian was now being attacked by an angry, evil half-elf who probably had information we needed. Given the circumstances, Torag was more than happy to bless ol’ Fury with some extra smiting power as I took a whack at the bugger.

In retrospect, it’s pretty obvious that a bloke that can dodge arrows would probably had no trouble dancing around a great bloody Warhammer. However, before long it became obvious that he could only dodge so many blows at once, and Ty was apparently quite good at throwing lots and lots of arrows downrange.

Eventually he decided that being beat on by three angry men and one especially angry child was ill advised, and so he made a break for the door. We immediately charged in to re-engage, again finding our blows swinging wide, but one or two nasty hammer strikes made contact. The half-elf was apparently of very thick stock, though, and refused to yield.

Tyvelian would have none of that, and against better judgement jumped through the open skylight to the floor. I’m pretty sure I heard a nasty crunch, but he seemed unfazed as he immediately drew and fired as soon as he hit the ground. The arrow struck the half-elf in the chest, and with a moan he collapsed unconscious onto the floor.

Knowing that the now profusely bleeding half-elf was no good to us dead, Talathel patched up his wounds while I looked into restraining our new prisoner. Rhothomir handed me a rope, and I nonchalantly began tying the half-elf’s arms before I noticed that the rope shimmered softly in the glow of the nearby furnaces.

“Spider silk? Where tha hell did ye find this?”

The elf merely shrugged.

Of course, he said nothing more. I can only assume that the bugger can get anything he bloody well wants until I see otherwise. Bloke could own the deeds to half of Varisia for all I know.

I’m not one to take belongings from a defenseless sod, but none of the others have moral qualms of that sort. Thank Torag they did, though – among assorted valuables was a leather-bound journal. We all took turns looking at it. Well, except for Talathel. I saw him wander over to the furnaces and light up a sprig of the local weed. Surprise of the century.

Anyway the journal. Lots of drawings of boobs, for starters. Half-elf’s apparently not much of a buttocks man. Talathel noted after a brief glance that they were all of the late priest’s aasimar daughter, who disappeared after his death. Aasimar don’t usually have demon wings, though: that part was new. The end of the journal was the most interesting though. Apparently the bastard (I mean that in the literal sense,it just so happens) knew about, or even orchestrated, the last goblin raid, and that an even larger one was in the works. Seems the aforementioned aasimar girl decided she wanted to be a demon instead, and used the raid to steal her father’s corpse and use the ashes in some gods-forsaken ritual down in the basement.

Suddenly the basement seemed a lot more interesting. I lead the way into the cellar as we made our way around the circular hallway. Toward the end of the hall I spotted a huddled mass – Ameiko Kaijitsu, tied up and unconscious, but breathing. We quickly drained a bottle of health potion as I undid the ropes.

Poor girl has a lot to deal with today, that’s for damn sure. Between her father dying, her half-brother kidnapping her, and her town newly threatened by even more goblins, I do not envy her one bit. Still, she took it much better than most people would. She seemed to be getting pretty hot-tempered over the traitor though, so me and Rhothomir made a point of carrying his unconscious body far ahead of her as we made our way back into Sandpoint.

We left Talathel behind to watch the Glassworks until some guards can reprieve him, because while exploring the cellar we also found a pair of hidden tunnels. One simply ran to the beach – probably an old smuggler’s route. The other, however, ran deep into the bluff behind what was once a brick wall, but one that had been recently demolished. Looks like the Glassworks is a possible invasion point until further notice. We’ll investigate further in the morning.

I’ve just dropped of Tsuto, the half-elf, at the city jail. After Rhothomir showed them the journal, the guards seemed pretty happy to keep him there for the next long while. They even implied that they would look the other way should we need to do anything to him. I’m not sure I appreciate their moral ambiguity, but a lack of oversight will probably do us more good than harm.

I’d love to get a bite to eat now, but Rhothomir requested an audience after I dropped off our “friend”. I’ve probably taken too long to pen this entry as it is, but considering his sleeping habits I think he’ll be up for a while longer yet. Cheers, Torag.
-BARUN

[Gielnor]

[SPOILER WARNING: The following information is only known to Barun and Rhothomir, and is OOC knowledge. Stop reading if you want to avoid any OOC info. Otherwise, read on!]

Barun set the stylus down with a slight sigh, and walked into the hallway. The sun was just setting over Sandpoint, and the low drum of music and laughter in the hall below was beginning to build as the workday came to a close. In other circumstances, Barun would be down with the rest of them far into the night, but a good dwarf never forgets an appointment. He walked to the next room, opened the door, and gently shut it behind him.

“Alright, elf” he said, turning toward the sorcerer. “What’s on yer mind that’s got ye actually wantin’ ta talk fer on-“ He suddenly paused, finally seeing what was before him. “Torag’s Beard, what a spread!”

The modest dining table was filled with as much food as could possibly fit on it without it collapsing. On the floor sat a gallon barrel of tavern ale and a matching pint mug. Barun stared at the display like a kid at a candy store.

Rhothomir, sitting at the opposite end of the table, gestured to the chair across from him as the dwarf finally recovered and took a seat.

“The drink is for you,” the elf said, pointing to the ale. “I never had the palate for it.”

“Suit yerself,” the dwarf replied. Barun immediately poured a pint and downed it in almost a single motion.

“So… we need to determine what to do with our new friend.” Rhothomir said once the mug was clear of the dwarf’s mouth.

Barun wiped the foam from his whiskers. “Seems simple ta me. Walk to the jail, get the answers outta him we need, and let the court magistrates have their way with 'em after.”

“Yes, about that…” The elf paused for a moment as the dwarf raised an eyebrow. “I assume the concept of torture isn't really something you'd be willing to entertain.”

Barun’s expression darkened. “Aye. Unjust sufferin' ain't somthin’ I'd be kin to.” He paused, taking a bite of a nearby chicken leg. “Plus, ye never get the truth. Only what ye want ta hear.”

Rhothomir seemed unfazed. “This is more or less why I'm willing to engage with you. The fact of the matter is that the motives of a paladin are easier not to question.”

“Good constable, bad constable, eh?” Barun said with a smirk.

If Rhothomir understood the quip, he didn’t acknowledge it. “I've send advance word to the guard that no one is allowed to engage him unless accompanied by you or I. I will warn you though that if we can't get what we need from him, you might want to avert your presence.”

"Again, I won't be kin to it.” Barun said with a frown. “But even if worse comes ta worst, don't do anythin' excessive, aye?"

“Nothing permanent; I only need to strike the fear of it into him. I just can't have you giving that much away. If you think I'm going to harm him a lot, you might stop me; if you don't, he might figure it out.”

The dwarf replaced his frown with a smirk. “Heh. Never was much on an actor. I'll try ta accommodate though.”

Rhothomir seemed satisfied. He drew a simple, but well-made backpack from under the table. “Now that that’s settled,” he said, and poured the contents of the bag onto the middle of the table, which Barun had done an admirable job at clearing. The contents were the spoils taken from their new prisoner; Barun was no salesman, but his dwarven senses could tell there was a hefty sum of gold in front of him. “There's probably a couple hundred worth of gold here,” the elf noted, as if in response to his thoughts.

“Ah, I was wonderin' where ye stashed those!” the dwarf exclaimed. “I'll be honest with ye, elf... I was almost afraid yeh'd wandered off with them!”

“Not yet, in any case.” Rhothomir replied. “The question is what to do about them. I feel that we know enough to not give him any of it back; I imagine when we're done with him, he'll be rotting the rest of his days.”

“At any rate, I don't think our friend will be needin’ them anymore. I don't think they let those kinds of accessories in the Magnimar dungeons, aye?” the dwarf quipped.

“However,” the elf replied, “it might be worthwhile as a bargaining chip if we discover otherwise.”

“Smart lad.” Barun looked down at the assorted baubles laid out on the table. “Anythin’ of particular use?”

“Only two things, which is why I brought it up in the first place.” Rhothomir slid a golden ring and a small potion bottle across the table. “The ring is a protective one. Since you're in the faces of people that otherwise want to kill you, I'm just going to make the executive decision that you should be holding onto it. The potion is just a typical cure light wounds.”

Wiping his hands, Barun retrieved a small magnifying glass from his artisan’s kit and inspected the ring. The delicate golden band was engraved with an intricate pattern of interlocking swirls, and the small gem at its peak shone with unnatural light. “That's fine craft, that is.” The dwarf noted quietly, turning the ring in his hands. “Lotta work went inta this, I can tell.”

“You should see the lockpicks,” Rhothomir responded, fishing a set of small but perfectly straight pins from his breast pocket. “It’s a shame we don’t know a thief or a bard… that I know of.”

Barun beamed as he put the lens away. “I can certainly try a song or two!” He inhaled with excessive melodrama. “OH DAAAANNY BOOOOOOY-“

Rhothomir frowned. “No, please.”

“Eh, suit yerself.”

The elf quickly changed the subject before another song could erupt. “I assume you brought my rope back?”

“Aye.” Barun retrieved the rope from his pack, inspecting the shimmering pearl strands again as they sparkled in the candlelight. “Spider silk, eh? How'd yeh get yer hands on this? Can’t exactly get it at the corner shop.”

“It doesn’t come cheap.”

“Aye, but I've gathered at this point yer not an elf of eh... ordinary stock, hm?”

“Just consider me a careful planner… which brings me to this.”

Returning the rope to his sack, Rhothomir replaced it with a mangled mess of leather and metal – the tribal marker that Barun pulled from the goblin rider on their first night in the town. The elf’s brow furrowed.

“This thing does not portend good things for the town.”

Barun frowned as he inspected the “signet” again. “If today's events were any indication, this town's got a hell of a future in the next weeks, lad. An’ that elf’s journal, and the drawin’s inside… it’s got the taint of evil in it.”

Rhothomir began a slight aside. “I sent my servant to set up a meeting with Ameiko this morning. Obviously he could not. As far as I see it, Ameiko might as well be the lord of this town, especially after the events of today.” He paused to take a bite to eat, the first time Barun has noticed him doing so since the meeting began.

Placing his fork down, Rhothomir picked up the signet and turned it toward Barun.

“Do you remember how no one could identify this marking?”

“Aye.”

“That's what bothers me the most. I had a few words with our ranger friend while the rest of you left. None of you seemed to notice, but whatever.”

Barun stayed silent, but shifted in his seat as he remembered the faux pas.

“This marking is nothing more than a goblin tribe identifier. It's probably not of any use because of that, but I'll keep it for now in case something of use can be scryed. The problem that I have, however, is that not even the sheriff knew the marking.” Rhothomir frowned as he set the signet back onto the table. “I feel that the truth is less that the ranger is a specialist, and more that no one else had the brains to learn about their surroundings.”

“Aye, that is odd, now that ye mention it. Ye reckon the town's just gotten soft from peace?”

The elf seemed slightly thrown off by Barun’s vernacular. “I "reckon" that much, yes. If the peace is to be maintained, the guard is going to need to be whipped into shape... in a matter of speaking. At the very least, they should know about such simple things.”

“Aye. Mayhap's I'll do an inspection of their armory in the morrow. Can’t bloody well take down a goblin invasion without some good arms.”

“Or,” Rhothomir offered, nodding towards the dwarf’s weapon, “we could take matters into our own hands with that hammer of yours.”

The elf reached into his pack once again and pulled out a map. The map looked like a standard local chart for use by pilgrims and visiting merchants, but it was overlaid with “X”s and shorthanded notes in red ink.

“This map marks the location of all five tribal camps in respect to the town.”

“Ah, now that’s the ticket!” Barun said excitedly. “I suppose yer expectin' us ta pay a visit?”

“Perhaps. There's something in that tunnel that bears investigation first, but I imagine our ranger friend might be willing to help us deal with the issue. Here’s the issue with simply taking out the camps, though." He paused to take another solitary bite. “As opposed to what you might have learned in your studies as a paladin,” Rhothomir said as the dwarf put on a frown, “There is no implicit "good" in doing any particular action. We can dispose of the threat entirely, but then the town guard will only become more complacent.”

Barun’s frown softened and turned into a slight grin.

“Yeh under estimate Torag, lad. Most people do. He ain't just the god of honor and good...” He gripped the handle of his Warhammer tightly, “He's the god of plannin'. Strategy. An no good paladin o' Torag will assume the pest is gone once the rats disappear. Yeh gotta seal the larder ta keep ‘em gone.”

Rhothomir put on what could almost be described as a grin.

“Then I'm hoping you can come to my meeting with Ameiko and plan this out with her. Ultimately the good of the town appears to be her pejorative. I'll try to meet with her before we talk with her disgraced kin,” he finished with a slight sneer.

“Wouldn't have it any other way. Lass could use some help anyway, bein’ the last of her kin,” Barun said thoughtfully. “Can't be easy havin’ a legacy like that on yer shoulders, aye.”

“I detect there's more to it than immediately appears,” the elf responded, looking down again at the day’s spoils. “Something about the glassworks strikes me as amiss.”

“There always is. If everythin’ was at face value, I'd never have to detect the stench of evil, eh? They’d just tell me!” Barun said with a laugh.

Rhothomir slightly acknowledged the dwarf’s joke as he pulled out the journal and began thumbing through it. Without warning, he began speaking in a mysterious tongue. Barun could not understand a word of it, but the very sound of it sent a chill down his spine.

“The bloody hell was that??” the dwarf asked as the elf finished speaking.

“That would be the demonic tongue, Abyssal,” the sorcerer said matter-of-factly. “not an uncommon language for someone of magical skill to know.” He pointed to one of the nude drawings in the journal.

“This person is supposed to be an aasimar, but looks like a demon. Aasimars know the Celestial tongue. Incidentally, I know them both. So,I wonder if our friend might know one or the other, or even both."

Barun recalled his own reading of the diary. “From what I gathered from the text, she apparently wasn't too happy with the Celestial ancestry. Ye suppose she transformed herself into a demon?”

“Hard to say. Transformed herself, was transformed… the point is, I'm going to say some things to you while we're talking to him, and they're going to be in Abyssal. I just want you to nod when I do as if you understand and agree with what I'm saying. To see what makes him tick.”

“Aye, just eh…” the paladin paused, nervously scratching his neck before continuing. “Give me a small signal when ye do. Ye may not be evil, but that bloody tongue reeks of it and it’s... a tad distracting.”

He paused again. “Ye wouldn't understand, I assume. Most people cannae really sense evil in the same way us paladins do. Just take me word for it,” His face darkened for a moment. “Yer better off for it.”

The elf merely nodded. “I wouldn't say that I mind it; even the evil can have their uses.” He quickly changed the subject as he saw the paladin react with slight alarm.

“Anyway, that leaves us with one more bit to discuss,” Rhothomir said as he leaned back slightly in his chair, “The recently departed Lonjiku. I've sent the town guard ahead to secure him. I've been assured that he will be prepared in the respect that corpses should be given…”

“Good. Can't say I exactly feel sorry for the old git, but he didn't deserve that fate.”

“… and his personal effects delivered to me.”

“To you?” Barun looked up with surprise. “Yeh've got a penchant for nickin' peoples goods, don’t ye lad?”

“I have a penchant to investigate,” the elf replied, “which is why I also have the map and know what the signet means, including its more subtle undertones.”

“I think I've heard a term fer that before... ‘rationalization’?” Barun said with a smirk. Rhothomir seemed moderately annoyed. “Only toyin' with yeh lad. I know the importance of evidence. Just try to keep the desecration of the dead an' innocent to a minimum, aye?”

“I trust myself to do what needs to be done. I can't say as much for the rest of our friends. I'm not touching the body anyway, and it's not like he should be buried in the same clothes. I'd like to say it's because of honor, but you and I both know that would be a lie.”

‘Aye, our friends,” the dwarf said, glancing toward the door. “What'dye think of our messy little camaraderie, anyway?”

“We’ll see. The lad with the glowing eyes for instance. He's an aasimar in case you haven't figured it out.”

“I gathered,” the dwarf said as he pointed to the holy script tattooed into his forehead. “The druid's harmless enough I suppose... though I can't say I approve of his habits. But the aasimar lad... I dunno. Something's off about 'im.” He frowned. “It ain't evil...yet, I don't think. But I suggest yeh keep an eye on him... though yeh probably already have three, if we include yer assistant friend.”

“I was like him as a younger elf. It might as well be a phase,” Rhothomir noted. “But yes, my assistant is good at digging up information. Anyway, I do have a request as far as operational function goes in the future.”

“Name it, elf.”

Rhothomir leaned forward, his face particularly stern.

“There are some delicate parts to my investigation which I don't expect you to understand immediately. I also have no wish to even speak to the other two... at least not yet. So, I want you to take the charge as you have so far, but if I tell you that you shouldn't do something, I really need you to believe that.”

Barun looked thoughtfully at the elf for a moment.

“I'm not sure I appreciate the implication, lad...” he replied, pausing with a sigh. “but, despite me misgivings, yeh've been nothin’ but truthful so far... if a bit evasive. I'll give yeh the benefit of the doubt... fer the next while, at least.”

The sorcerer shifted slightly in his chair. “I don't have the intention of backstabbing you on these issues, but I'm not always going to be forthcoming either.” He picked up the goblin badge once again. “For instance, I never had the inkling that this signet would help us with scrying, but I needed it from you.”

“I've gathered as much. I don't like it... but I figure I'd better get use ta it.”

“Either way, I will do my best to explain my thoughts when we meet privately, so please feel free to visit my room between our... adventures.”

Barun grinned in reply. “Plan on it lad. Ye may not think so, but clearly Torag's got somethin’ planned, hookin’ us misfits tagether.”

He lifted the mug toward the ceiling as he finished the last of the ale. With a slight belch, he rose from his seat.

“Right, it’s getting’ late. Ye know where I am if ye need me, lad.”

Rhothomir raised his hand slightly. “One last thing.” The dwarf glanced over as he gathered his belongings, along with a few of the scattered leftovers.

“Keep everything here between me, you, and whatever journal I see you writing in.”

The dwarf smiled, sincerely this time.

“Torag’s promise, elf. Torag’s promise.”

The dwarf grabbed the last remaining chicken leg as he walked out of the door. “Rest easy,” the elf called back as the door shut, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

[Gielnor]

FROM THE JOURNAL OF BARUN BURADUM

DAY 5

I’ve ordered a whisky alongside the normal ale tonight. Not as an intoxicant – booze doesn’t really work like that on dwarves anyway – but as a painkiller to sooth the aches from fighting all day. It almost would have been fun if the targets weren’t so gods-damned terrifying.

Ironically, our day of exciting fights started off with a lot of boring talks. Kane actually managed to get up before high noon for our little talk with the half-elf Tsuto. I was a bit late getting out today as I added an extra hour to my prayers this morning. For Torag be praised, I can feel his power surging through my veins like never before. As proof of my newfound blessing, I brushed my hand against my arm and found the scars from the first goblin fight to fade away! Truly I am fortunate to receive this gift.

Rhothomir responded to this news by not responding to this news, as we headed to the town jail. Unfortunately, his planning last night seems to have been for nothing: the half-elf’s resolve is hard as a rock, and even the use of a costly charm scroll didn’t open his lips. Rather grumpy at the failure, we returned to the Rusty Dragon to discuss what little we know of Tsuto’s scheming with Ameiko. Kane explained his concerns, noting that the sheriff could not identify the tribe marker from the last goblin raid. As it turns out, Kane may have been a bit too thorough for once.

According to Ameiko, Shalelu is abnormally obsessed with the activities of the goblins, and could probably identify every single goblin by name if asked. Ameiko would know: she ran with the ranger during her adventuring days, and the elf was particularly brutal toward the buggers. Meanwhile, the sheriff and the rest of the guard only kept tabs on general movements and raids not due to incompetence, but because of how fickle goblins are. The five “tribes” we’re following didn’t exist five years ago, and probably wouldn’t exist five years from now. So as it stands, the town is actually in a pretty tactically heathy condition as far as goblins is concerned.

Ameiko’s not worried about the goblins, then, but Nualia, the aasimar… demon… probably evil broad that might be living underneath her glassworks. We figured therefore that investigating that mysterious tunnel we found yesterday was probably a good idea. Kane and I gathered the other two – Talathel was just finishing breakfast, while Ty kind of just appeared when we needed him – and we set off to the glassworks once again.

We crawled into the basement and approached the tunnel. The air was damp, musty, and pitch dark. I addressed the party.

“Alright lads, we’ve got two options before we head in here. We can a’course light lanterns an’ torches, but that would give anyone… or anything… inside fair warnin’ of a flock of well-armed blokes comin’ down the hall. We have another route though: both I an’ the lad,” I said, nodding toward Ty, “have excellent vision in the dark. If you two keep close to us, we can catch any baddies off-guard. Sound like a plan?”

Talathel agreed while Kane stayed silent, which I can assume by this point means yes. Forming a close bunch, we made our way into the dark tunnel.

We were barely ten feet in when I thought I heard a shuffle. Ty must have seen something, as I heard him reach for his bow, but before he could tell the rest of us it jumped into my face. “IT” is the only way I can describe it, because it was a great bloody freak of nature the likes of which I’ve never seen. It was a great starved thing, with giant talons and long, mangled legs. The worst part was its face: it had the head of a hairless, noseless man, but the jaw – the bloody jaw! – was nearly a foot long and split in two at the chin, making two spider-like pincers with a great wagging tongue between. I still have no idea what the hell it is, so I’m just going to refer to it the same way we addressed it throughout the fight: OHGODSKILLIT.

The OHGODSKILLIT lunged at my face, but I managed to raise my shield before its claws could bite into me. Ty, having seen the beast before any of us, managed to fire an arrow toward it. However, not only did he miss, he missed so spectacularly that the arrow ricocheted off the tunnel wall and smacked him sideways in the face, judging from the screams of “OW FUCK MY EYE”.

Kane and Talathel figured out something was up at this point, and Kane managed to pull a… lit… torch from his pack so that he could fully appreciate the ugly sonofabitch. Kane responded with mild curiosity, while I think the druid’s exact reaction was, “OH MAN I’M FREAKING OUT MAN”. He frantically threw a bright ball of light into the monster’s face, which seemed to distract it.

The OHGODSKILLIT made yet another rapid flurry at my face, but this time I was ready and countered with a square hammer strike. Talathel stabbed at the beast with his spear, while Kane… Kane did something magical, I think. No clue what, and whatever it was didn’t seem to affect the monster at all. Ty fired blindly, clearly briefly disabled by his blunder.

The beast struck again, and this time managed to wrap its mangled jaws around my hammer arm. I immediately noticed that I was suddenly angry. VERY ANGRY. Angrier than that time at one of the taverns back at Highhelm when some bastard toppled over the ale still and destroyed all the tavern’s brew. I was incredibly, unnaturally mad, and the fact I had no idea why scared me. The next few seconds are a bit of an angry blur, but I do distinctly remember Kane muttering something… and then slapping me in the back of the head.

I attempted to yell “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT FOR?” but in my state of demon rabies I think it only came out as “WRAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!” I did notice, however, that the slap somehow made me feel… tougher. I may have to seriously ask Kane to slap me in the future, and that worries me, because that means I’m starting to accept our partnership as “normal”.

Talathel pulled out his quarterstaff to better accommodate the tight space, while Ty finally recovered from his temporary blindness and loosed some arrows at the OHGODSKILLIT.

Now, what happened next may have been a rabies-fueled hallucination, but looking at the corpse seemed to prove otherwise: the OHGODSKILLIT attempted to bite me again, but instead of hitting flesh, it bit into my armor. I have no idea how it managed this, but it must have intended to sever my arm with the bite, because it bit so hard that its two jaws broke free from its face. Blood sprayed wildly from its destroyed mouth as it screeched, collapsing onto the ground and quickly bleeding out from its massive face wounds.

Shit was fucked up mate.

I returned to lucidity soon after the OHGODSKILLIT’s ridiculous death, and we quickly agreed that being able to see trumped any element of surprise we may have. Kane returned the… still lit… torch to his pack, notably not causing a massive fire. I lit my hammer lantern and led us into the darkness of the tunnels.
The rough-hewn earthen passageway quickly changed into smoothly-carved masonry: we had clearly entered into some hidden tomb or dungeon below the glassworks. After some exploring, we came upon a statue of a woman, its face twisted in rage. In one hand it held a book carved in stone, but its other hand carried an apparently real ranseur of metal and ivory.

“Now,” I said, turning to the rest of the party, “I think we can all agree that the weapon is an obvious trap, aye? An’ that we shouldn’t activate the obvious trap by pickin’ it up?”

Talathel nodded in agreement.

Ty nodded in agreement.

Kane said nothing, grasped the ranseur with both hands, and pulled it from the statue’s grasp.

I quickly ducked beneath my shield, prepared for the worst. After a few moments, I peered over the edge of my shield to see Kane carefully inspecting the weapon, and the statue remaining perfectly still. I’ll be damned.

We decided to double back and explore a passage we had passed before delving too deep. We soon came upon a wider chamber. Against the wall was a raised platform, atop of which was a great stone plinth, with a divot carved into its center. The pit was filled with murky, stagnant water. I avoided touching it, for I recognized it from my religious studies.

“This is an altar to Lamashtu,” I told the party, “a demon lord and goddess of the crawlin’ evils of the earth. And this nasty brew,” I said as I pointed to the water, making sure to keep my hands far above it, “is the Waters of Lamashtu. A bit like unholy water, but more potent. Usually used in whatever nasty rituals her followers perform.”

“Unholy water?” the sorcerer asked.

“Aye, I’m surprised yer not familiar with it. It’s like holy water,” I said, pointing to the small vial on my chest strap, “except its polar opposite. This will heal the evil and burn the good… which is why I’m takin’ good care not ta touch it. Shouldn’t harm ye three at all I reckon, though I wouldn’t recommend drinkin’ it.”

The ranger-monk and the druid seemed uninterested, but Kane retrieved a set of vials and scooped as much liquid as he could. What he plans to use if for I have no idea, but I’ll have to remember not to bump into his pack too hard.

The very obvious large double doors at the end of the hall now caught our attention. Talathel and I each grabbed a door and pushed them open. Inside was a great pool of water surrounded by a circle of spiked skulls, a balcony with an altar upon it filled with mysterious glowing liquid, and a shocked and quite clearly pissed off Quasit demon hovering over the middle of the room.

“HOW DARE YOU INTRUDE UPON MOTHER’S SANCTUM??” the tiny demon screeched, and it sliced its wrist above the glowing altar. The pool dimmed slightly, which seemed to upset the quasit, but it seems to have succeeded anyway as another OHGODSKILLIT emerged from the pit.

I immediately charged up the stairs toward the altar, hammer in hand, as Talathel followed closely behind me. Kane and Ty decided to take advantage of their range and stayed at the door, chucking spells and arrows at the Quasit. The demoness apparently was a lot smarter than anything we’d fought so far: it waved its hand and created a shimmering cloud that crossed the room, engulfed the aasimar, and immediately knocked him out. He was not having a very good day.

The new OHGODSKILLIT immediately charged for me, and I beat it in the face. Talathel meanwhile threw a flare into the face of the Quasit. Kane continued to throw magic (notably without disappointing failure) at the Quasit, while Ty continued to be trapped in sleepytime land. The demon attempted to put Kane to sleep as well. She must have been locked down here for quite a while, because most people know that you can’t just knock out an elf.

At any rate, a second hammer strike brought the second OHGODSKILLIT down, and with his butt newly unthreatened Talathel summoned a rat the size of a cat. Which he now held in his arms like a cat. Which still disturbs me slightly. Before I could question his sanity, Kane had climbed up the stairs and apparently performed a rather… interesting spell.

The Quasit tried to speak, but with a cough a pile of golden coins flew out of her mouth instead, which Kane promptly scooped up into his wallet.

What.

Taking advantage of the Quasit’s surprise (and trying to suppress mine) I ran up to the demon and chucked my vial of holy water at it. The vial smacked it square in the head and spilled everywhere, causing blisters to sprout visibly all over her mottled skin.

Then, in an absolutely amazing display of shortsightedness, Talathel chucked his summoned rat at the demon. It went even worse than I expected. The rat cut itself on a jagged piece of altar ornamentation and toppled into the summoning pool, spawning yet another OHGODSKILLIT. And here I thought things were going rather well.

The quasit, finally remembering what elves are, improvised and instead threw a spark at the mage. His arms and legs immediately shot to his sides as he toppled onto the floor, stiff as a board. The new OHGODSKILLIT, meanwhile, saw a rather tasty and unarmored druid in front of him and lunged for him rather than me. He was clearly injured, but was undeterred as he stabbed at the monster. I attempted to patch his wounds with my newfound gift, but apparently I still need practice as only the smallest cuts sealed themselves.

Kane quickly managed to wriggle himself free of the spell, and the nearby whizzing of arrows let us know that Ty had awoken and was apparently quite annoyed at the demon. The quasit was quite visibly pissed and flew to the middle of the room before hitting Ty with a throwing knife… which immediately reappeared back in her hand.

I would like to submit for the record that this is not fucking fair.

The monster took another nasty looking bite at the druid, and so I decided to make myself a better target by smashing it. It certainly got its attention. The druid took advantage of the break to cast his own healing spell while the mage began to glow with electrical power. Ty continued chucking arrows downrange as the quasit noticed the now heavily injured druid and tossed a dagger at him, luckily missing.

The OHGODSKILLIT now rightly noted me as the biggest threat and attacked, to much less effect– actually having armor helps. Talathel began chanting in a manner similar to his last summoning spell, as Kane discharged his energy into the second OHGODSKILLIT, cooking it to a fine medium-well. Ty was beginning to get some pretty solid arrow hits on the demon, but the quasit’s second dagger cut into Talathel’s leg. He shouted in pain as his spell effect collapsed.

Since there was no hope of me ever reaching the quasit with my hammer, I once again laid my hands on Talathel’s wounds, this time patching up slightly more of the bite marks. Suddenly I heard a screech from the demon: Ty had scored a particularly solid hit and an arrow was now lodged deeply into her leg, gouting blood into the pool below. Kane also threw a missile at the demon to deepen the wound.

Suddenly the demon vanished. I feared that she had teleported away, but I could clearly see a fountain of blood hovering in the air.

“She’s turned invisible! Get that bloody door shut!” I shouted, and sprinted (inasmuch as a dwarf can sprint) down the stairs, slamming the double doors closed before the quasit could escape. Then, in a stroke of genius, Talathel illuminated the bloodspout with a burst of green light, and with a single arrow Ty brought the imp down into a heap on the floor.

We picked everything of use off the body – not much, since she was all of two feet tall from foot to wingtip – and climbed back up to the balcony to inspect the strange altar. The orange liquid was considerably dimmer than when we had entered, but a faint glow still emanated from the pool.

Rhothomir took me aside. “I’m sure you noticed the pool dimmed every time blood was sacrificed to it,” he whispered. “I suggest we bloodlet into it until nothing remains to come out of it.”

My eyes widened. “Are yeh bloody crazy? And let another one of those… things back in the world? Yer playin’ with fire, mate.”

“And would you rather leave this here and put the town in danger?” He glared, drawing a knife from his pouch.

Before I could make a response (in retrospect, he was probably right, as much as I hate the idea of voluntarily bringing evil beings into the world) Tyvelian silently pulled out an arrow, pricked his hand, and held it over the pool.

“YEH WHAT, MATE?”

With a bubbling surge, another OHGODSKILLIT began to emerge from the pool.

“I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS TRIPE” I yelled, and whacked the monster square on the head, immediately knocking it out. The monster dissipated and, with a gurgle, the pool’s light puttered out. I could have smacked Kane for the smug bloody look on his face.

The altar itself, however, was still standing, and Talathel was now quite badly hurt. We decided to make a temporary retreat back into Sandpoint to patch him up and research a permanent way to disable the shrine.

-----------------------------------------------

Rhothomir decided to return his filled vials to the Altar of Lamashtu before we left. Of course, he did not say why, but I suspect I shouldn’t have told him that the Waters of Lamashtu lose their potency after an hour. I suspect he’ll be coming to get it when he feels he needs it.

After a quick overnight rest at the inn, we returned to the catacombs and continued our investigation. Most of the rooms aren’t notable enough to warrant mentioning, save the occasional run-in with yet another OHGODSKILLIT that we’ve become quite efficient at murdering by now. What little is left of the place doesn’t exactly paint it in a good light. The halls were filled with cramped prison cells, and every other cell or so contained the horribly deformed skeleton of some unidentifiable monster. We also found some ancient torture devices, which I had to slap out of Kane’s hands. He’s got enough questionable ideas as it is.

Leaving the torture chamber, we descended a dark flight of stairs to the muffled sounds of scratching and pitiful moans coming from ahead. Upon entering the chamber, we were greeted by a giant spray of bile straight to the face.

I wiped my eyes to see the ugliest gods-damned goblin I’ve ever seen, which is saying something. The bugger was as tall as I was, made entirely of muscle and with three arms growing at uncomfortable-looking angles, each holding a different weapon. Hearing a frantic pattering up the stairs, I turned around to see Ty and Kane both rushing backwards, clutching their mouths.
“Aw, c’mon ye pansies!” I yelled back at them. “Ain’t ye never seen a solid upchuck at the tavern on half-priced drinks night before?”

I’d have loved to continue mocking them, but the goblin rudely interrupted me by smacking me with his axe. Seems the muscle wasn’t just for show, ‘cause that bastard hit hard. Talathel must be made of pretty strong stuff, because he stayed right beside me as we both wailed on the goblin, but he ducked around our blows.

The goblin nicked me again, but this time with his giant flaming sword. That one really bloody hurt. In fact, I think… yep, big old scar, right across the knee. Huh, I’m almost sad I can just make it disappear now. It’s kind of badass. Uh, where was I… right, right! This time I managed to give him a good solid whack right across the top of the head.

I was afraid that another hit like that from the goblin would strike me down, but at that moment the ranged duo made their way back down the stairs. Ty placed an arrow right on target, and with a magic missile from the mage the mutant was dead.

I faced the returned sorcerer to discover that, despite being covered in ichor all of thirty seconds ago, his clothes were completely dry and unstained. Also, they were completely different clothes altogether.

I decided not to mention it as I wiped the slime from my pauldrons and walked into the room proper. The chamber was filled with about a dozen small pits, each covered with a solid but aging plank wood door. I opened one of the doors to reveal a starved but very much “alive” zombie.

“HEY KANE! COME TAKE A LOOK AT THIS!”

The elf walked over and peeked into the moaning pit.

“Hm. Interesting. Shall I begin dispatching of them?”

“Only if I get ta help!”

One giant game of zombie whack-a-mole later, we made our way to the final hallway at the far end of the room. There was a staircase downwards adjacent to it, but it had been clogged with rubble for centuries by the looks of it: nothing short of a full mining crew would be able to clear it. Returning to the hall, we made our way to the end of the hall. I gently opened the door.

“… The bloody hell is this?”

The room was a perfect sphere. Not a hemisphere, but a sphere proper– the inverted ball was completely encased in a shimmering red wall. Illegible black runes sparked into and out of existence at random along its surface. What was most interesting though was the room’s contents, or rather the fact that they were gently hovering in midair. Talathel stepped into the room, only to find himself floating like a fish in water. We decided that having four heavy blokes flailing around and smashing into each other was a bad idea, so we simply had Talathel float around inside the room and throw items back at us. He seemed to have a damn good time doing so.

We recovered a few items of questionable use, among them a couple scrolls and an unfortunately newer vintage bottle of Varisian Red. I claimed the wine for myself but Kane insists on not drinking it for now. Worrywart.

The most interesting item was a clearly ancient book preserved with magic. None of us could make out the words, but from the illustrations alone I could tell it was an unholy book of Lamashtu, based on the regular depictions of men being rendered by hideous monsters. Kane held onto the book to see if we can translate anything of use from it later.

We had finally explored the entirety of the dungeon, so with our loot in tow we made our way back to the surface. Rhothomir pulled me aside on our way back into town, inviting me for dinner at one of the taverns we haven't frequented yet. I'm certain he has another agenda, but who am I to deny free drink and food? I'll save something for you, Torag. Cheers.



-BARUN

[Gielnor]

[SPOILER WARNING: The following information is only known to Barun and Rhothomir, and is OOC knowledge. Stop reading if you want to avoid any OOC info. Otherwise, read on!]

Barun heard a sharp rapping on his door as he finished penning his latest journal entry. Tightening his armor straps, he closed the leather-bound book and went for the door.

“I’m comin’ Kane, just keep yer britches on and I’ll be righ- Oh. “ Barun stopped as he opened the door. “Hello, Patsy.”

The mage’s butler was immaculately dressed, as always. He briefly looked over the dwarf with the same polite indifference he always exuded.

“Master Kane invites you to meet him at the local establishment known as “The Hagfish” at the top of the present hour. He has offered to compensate for any expenses incurred.”

Barun was unprepared for the sort of decorum Patsy seemed to expect. “Er… yeah, a’course. I’m on me way now.”

If the butler noticed Barun’s lack of etiquette, he didn’t show it. “Very good sir,” he said with a slight bow. “I shall inform Master Kane of your departure.” Without another word, he spun on the spot and disappeared down the stairs.

Barun snickered. A formal invitation to a place called The Hagfish, he thought. That’s a first.
-----------------------------------------------------

The Hagfish was at least as rough and rowdy as the Rusty Dragon, and at this time of night it was packed to the brim with rapidly drunkening villagers. Barun struggled to see the elf over the waving throng. Before he could locate Kane, a barmaid approached carrying two handfuls of mugs.

“Welcome to the Hagfish, hon!” she said with a wide grin. “You here for the Hagfish Challenge?”

Barun had to yell to be heard over the noise. “No thanks, I’m looking for a… Hagfish Challenge?”

“Yes, sir!” The barmaid gestured toward a fishtank in the back corner of the bar. Inside was a single fleshy-pink eel, squirming sporadically in water that looked just a touch too thick. “Pay a small bet toward the pool, and see if you can keep down a pint of the hagfish’s tank water. If you win, you win all the money in the pool and your name carved above the bar!” The maid beamed as she finished her spiel.

Barun did his best to return the grin while supressing a grimace. “Er… no thank ye, lass. I think I’ll find more traditional ways o’ makin’ coin, if ye don’t mind.” Looking for an out, Barun spotted a familiar shock of white hair poking above the crowd. “Ah, there’s me party! Can’t chat, sorry, bye!”

Barun nearly jogged over to the corner table. Rhothomir smirked slightly as the dwarf took his seat. “Hagfish too much for you?” he said.

“Bah, can it. I’ve spent enough nights vomiting into a stein as it is… Oy! Yeah, double pint for me! Cheers!”

The rest of the meal was uneventful, Rhothomir staying mostly silent while occasionally making idle chit-chat. As the last rays of sunset passed through the dusty tavern windows, the elf pulled out a delicate golden pocket watch.

“I think we should pay our friend in the town jail a little visit,” he announced, returning the watch to his robes.The dwarf put down his mug. “At this hour?”

Rhothomir stood up and placed a handful of silver coins on the table. “Yes. We have enough to do during the daylight hours. Come.” Making his way toward the door, Barun had to scramble to follow the elf into the darkening street.

“So what makes ye thing we’ll get anything of use this time around?” said the dwarf, hustling to keep up with the elf. “He seems a pretty tough nut to me.” The elf stayed silent as they approached the town jail. “Fine, be the silent mysterious type.”

Entering the jail, the elf turned toward the guard on duty. “Don’t let anyone else in behind us,” he said. The guard replied with a nod, and locked the door as the dwarf followed the elf in. Once the door was securely barred, the elf finally acknowledged the dwarf’s presence. “Still have the wine?”

“Aye.” Barun retrieved the dusty bottle of wine from his pack, as well as a pair of cheap but serviceable tin mugs. Nodding, Rhothomir lead the way towards the cells and stopped before the half elf. Tsuto was still heavily brused, with a large badage wrapped around his arrow wound and his arms tighly bound in iron shackles, but he shot the elf with a look of pure fire. His face bent into a defiant grin.

“Back again, are you? Did you bring another scroll with you, or have you finally smartened up a bit?”

Rhothomir remained collected as he pulled up a chair from the wall and set it directly across from the cell bars. Barun set his hammer square on the ground and stood directly behind the sorcerer, leaning into the handle and keeping two eyes on the criminal before him.

Kane gestured for the wine. “We found this lying about the catacombs beneath your father’s glassworks” he remarked, uncorking the bottle and pouring the wine into the pair of cups, handing one off to the dwarf. “Rather interesting, since it seems to be the only new thing in the place.” The elf took a sip, then coughed lightly. “It’s a bit cheaper than I’m used to… need a top off, Barun?”

The dwarf had already downed half of his mug in a single gulp. “Don’t mind if I do,” he replied, taking the bottle from the elf. “’05, eh? Not the best vintage, but not bad.” He recorked the bottle and took another gulp of the wine. “I prefer the ’01 vintage meself.”

The half-elf’s grin had faded into rage as the two drank before him. “So, you took care of Erylium I see,” he hissed, shooting daggers toward the mage. “It won’t make any difference. My love will still burn this wretched hive to the ground.” He finished by spitting at the elf’s feet, looking up with another defiant grin.

Rhothomir set down his cup and calmly looked at the prisoner. “Yes, about that. I was thinking we could… speed things along. We go to our inevitable doom, et cetera, et cetera, and you just tell me where she is.”

Barun risked a quick questionary glance at the elf. They already knew where the aasimar was, roughly: the journal gave them enough information to get to the right goblin camp, at least. He suspected the elf was planning something else, however, so he shifted back into his overwatch position.

The half-elf laughed. “Nice try, elf. You get to burn with the rest of them.” His grin widened to maniacal proportions “Maybe my love will even allow me to slit your throat myself.”

Unfazed, Rhothomir glanced back at Barun. “Bundle of cheer, this one, isn’t he?”

The dwarf smirked. “I was expectin’ a line about us bathin’ in our own blood, meself.”

The elf turned back toward Tsuto. “Right, let’s change tact. Guard, would you come here for a moment?” As the guard came up to the cell, Rhothomir produced a small brass key from his robes. Unlocking the cell, he let himself and the guard inside before relocking it from the other side. Barun hadn’t expected this; he dropped his cool façade and called to the elf. “Erm… ye need any help in there?”

Rhothomir briefly turned back to the dwarf. “Not necessary. Just keep watch outside” he called back before returning his attention to the kneeling half-elf before him.

“Funny thing we found in the dungeon,” he said, producing a slim silver dagger from his pack. “Giant mutant brute of a goblin: all muscle, arm growing out of his neck, real horror show. He wasn’t the only one, though.” Rhothomir leaned in closer to Tsuto as he spoke. “There were other skeletons, similarly deformed. So I decided to do some research.” He paused and produced a single vial from his robes, holding it in front of Tsuto’s face. The vial swirled with a dark, murky liquid.

“I’m sure you recognize this. Unholy Waters of Lamashtu. Nasty stuff. Apparently it turns you into a gibbering, mutated moron. Adorable function.” Rhothomir paused and poured the liquid into one of the wine mugs. “Now my friend here,” he continued, gesturing toward the paladin outside the cell, “tells me you’re an evil sort. So this brew should be right up your alley.”

Tsuto’s maniacal grin had long since fallen. He glanced nervously at the mug. “That goblin had been drinking that stuff for months though…”

“I’m fine with taking a chance,” the elf replied. “It’s not my life. Besides, that pool takes months to refill by my calculations.” Rhothomir produced the other three vials from his robes. ”So here’s the plan. The guard here will help me force feed you some of this delicious cocktail,” Rhothomir said as he took a whiff of the mug and visibly recoiled, “after which you might be able to… how did you put it… slit our throats later, but I doubt you’ll get any enjoyment out of it in your new state. Or, you play nice for once and I’ll be nice back.”

Barun began fidgeting on the spot. He was sure the elf was merely bluffing long enough to get the answers he needed, but the longer the charade went on the more uncomfortable Barun got. The half-elf was even more distraught; fear was creeping over his face as the weight of the situation fell upon him.

“You… You wouldn’t!” he stuttered, slowly edging himself into the wall. “You know what that stuff does to people!”

Rhothomir looked Tsuto straight in the eye, unfaltering. “Yes I do, and I’m certain you do as well. Really, your fate is in your own hands… but I’m rescinding my offer of mercy in about thirty seconds.”

Suddenly, Barun stepped forward toward the cage. “Wait wait wait wait wait,” he said, waving toward Rhothomir. The elf looked at him with minor annoyance. “Yer suggestin’ we turn this man into a bloody monster? Against his will?”

Rhothomir stared back at Barun. “No. I’m suggesting he makes a decision on his imminent future.”

Tsuto was emboldened by the dwarf’s resistance. “Ha! I knew it. You don’t have the guts to do it, just like the rest of this sorry town.”

Rhothomir glanced back at the prisoner, clearly disappointed. “You’ve made your choice then.” He nodded toward the guard as he raised the poisoned cup in his hands.

There was a smash of a hammer clanging against iron bars. “HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!” Barun shouted, now glaring at Rhothomir and his dire helper. “Sorry lad, but I can’t abide ye takin’ away someone’s humanity against their will. Evil should not beget evil, lad. Step aside.” Barun grasped tightly onto his hammer.

Rhothomir looked over toward the source of the noise. “Well see, Barun – There is a reason you are out there, I am in here, and there is a locked door between us.”

Barun’s eyes widened as he glanced downward at the most assuredly locked cell door.

“Oh bloody hell.”

Satisfied, Rhothomir returned his attention to the guard. “Hold his head back, please,” he commanded. Tsuto squirmed in protest as the guard gripped tighly onto his head, his shouts degrading to unintelligible yelps as his jaw was forced open. Barun could only look on in shock as his new partner poured the corrupting poison down the half-elf’s throat, disregarding his struggled choking. With the cup drained, Rhothomir nodded to the guard, and his grasp released. Tsuto gasped for breath as he collapsed onto the rough stone floor, his face covered in unholy water and tears.

“You… you actually did it… you rotten son-of-a-bitch,” the half-elf quietly gasped out. “Fine… go on to your death. There’s ruin’s under Thistletop… something that Nualia is researching…” He looked up at Rhothomir with seething hatred. “…And something that is gonna rip your bloody heart out.” Tsuto finally lowered his head and sank into muffled sobs.

Seemingly satisfied, Rhothomir returned to the cell door and unlocked it, directly facing Barun. The dwarf’s face was twisted in rage, his arms wrapped tightly around his hammer as his veins visibly pulsed on his forehead. But the dwarf remained still.

“Yer a bloody monster…”

Rhothomir remained unfazed as he locked the door behind him. “We’ll just wait for that to take effect. We’ve gotten what we needed. Besides...” the mage paused and playfully placed a Lamashtu-moistened finger on Barun’s nose.

The paladin very nearly lashed out in fury… until he realized the water on his nose didn’t burn, or tingle, or feel anything like corruption at all. The dwarf realized with a start that whatever they had poured down the prisoner’s throat was not the Waters of Lamashtu.

Rhothomir grinned. “…you really need to work on your trust issues.” Without another word, he turned and strode back onto the street.

Barun merely stood in place for a few long moments, his grip relaxed on the hammer hilt. “You cheeky gods-damned son of a bitch,” he finally managed to mumble under his breath. Glancing back at the broken half-elf, the dwarf straightened up and marched out into the night.
-----------------------------------------------------

Rhothomir had just finished whispering something to Patsy when Barun barged into the room, his anger faded into a blend of annoyance and embarrassment. The elf gestured toward the entrance. “Close the door please.”

Barun complied before marching into the center of the room. “Ye got a lot of bloody nerve, ya cheeky git,” he spit out, dropping his hammer to the floor. “Ye nearly had me pissin’ meself back there.” With a sigh, he slowly let his shoulders relax and his face unwind. “Seems ye don’t trust me actin’ chops, aye?”

“I avoid taking unneeded chances.” Rhothomir replied, gesturing to the chair in front of him. The dwarf gladly accepted, sinking deep into the seat while reaching for his personal gallon of dwarven ale. Rhothomir stayed silent as he leaned an elbow on the table and rested his face into his hand.

Without warning, a grey cat jumped from seemingly nowhere and leaped into the sorcerer’s lap. Barun, not expecting the new visitor, jumped in his seat. “BLOODY HELL!” he shouted, losing his balance and toppling onto the floor, beer in hand.

“Hush,” Rhothomir whispered, keeping his eyes obscured as he stroked the cat with his free hand. “I’m trying to gather my thoughts.” The cat purred in contentment as Barun scooped himself back into the chair, his drink still in hand and completely unspilt. After a few moments, the sorcerer peeked out from between his fingers.

“So,” he began, one hand still stroking the cat, “there’s a few aspects in today’s events that I am sure have gone completely over the heads of you and the others.”

Barun grumbled. “Again, I’m not sure I appreciate the implication… but go on.”

Rhothomir continued, “Just to be sure, though… what was the function of the catacombs we were just in?”

Barun thought for a moment. “Well, let’s see. Hideous monsters, shrines to Lamashtu, lots’a torture devices hidden around… I'd reckon it's some ancient ruin the Lamashtu cultists moved into ta build a monster army o'sorts.”

“Seems a bit weak.”

“How so?”

“I mean, it wasn’t that much of a hassle to dispatch of them. And as for the zombies… fish in a barrel, as they say.”

“Mayhaps we simply caught ‘em before they really got their operation goin'?”

Rhothomir raised an eyebrow. “Who is ‘they’? A demoness, a half-elf and a demented goblin?”

“And whatever lackeys they’ve got drummed up, aye.” Barun replied, taking a gulp of ale.

“Seems a bit fancy for two sentients. I imagine you’re not fully off the mark. However, a history lesson is in order.”

Rhothomir pulled a piece of paper towards him, and began drawing a series of pointed shards and strange runes upon it. Barun soon recognized it as the symbol inscribed on the book held by the statue back in the catacombs.

“This is old,” the sorcerer announced, putting the finishing touches on the drawing. “Ancient old. Ten thousand years old.”

Barun gaped as the implication hit him. “Ten thousand… ye tellin’ me that dungeon predates the Earthfall?”

“It’s likely.” Rhothomir pointed to the symbol. “This star figure is called the sihedron rune. The glyphs around it are in Thassilon, but they appear to be simply letters of no individual significance.”

“Thassilon?”

“An ancient empire. Incidentally it was wrecked during the Earthfall. Ruins still pop up from time to time, including the one we just explored.”

Barun studied the icon for a moment. “So what makes ye think this… Thassilon dungeon is of any particular import, eh? Isn’t it just as likely that this ruin was just the most convenient when our half-elf and company needed it?”

“Perhaps. But there’s more. There’s always more; this time it’s politics.”

“It’s always bloody politics, innit?” the dwarf grumbled.

“You could learn something from it, you know.” The elf paused and sipped from a steaming mug.

“Wha’?”

“Before the Earthfall, there were seven wizards that were basically the political power of the empire. Each represented one of the seven virtues. It turns out, however, that absolute power corrupts…”

“Absolutely.” Barun finished his sentence for him.

“Mm. So basically, they ended up more or less the personification of venial sin itself.”

“Let me guess. Seven virtues turned to seven sins.”

“For seven points on a glyph.” Rhothomir paused. “That statue we found this on felt… off. It took me a bit to muster up the reason; didn’t figure it out until we uncovered that sphere room. There were glyphs appearing and disappearing, as you might recall.”

“Aye.”

“Also Thassilon. This time in actual words, though. Words that mean things like "rage" and "revenge" and "wrath" and "torture". You get the idea.

“Wrath… wait a second.” The dwarf’s eyes widened as he connected the dots. “Those bloody monsters! They poisoned me with rage! So if I'm followin' yer logic here... seven deadly sins... wrath a'course bein’ one of ‘em-“

Rhothomir’s face suddenly turned sour as he glanced to his left. He held a finger upward and tilted his head toward the window. Barun glanced over to see a tell-tale pair of red eyes peering through the second story window.

“Ah bloody hell.”

“Persistent little bugger.”

“How long has he been there?”

“He just got there.”

“Shush, hold on one second.”

Barun stayed completely silent for a few long moments, ignoring the intruder at the window. Suddenly, the dwarf slammed his fists into the table and shouted in a single sharp note, turning toward the uninvited guest.



The glowing eyes disappeared from the glass with a toppling noise. Barun chuckled as he turned back to the elf.

“That’ll teach ‘im to pry on private conversation.”

The elf smirked. “How rude.”

Rhothomir returned to his previous train of thought. “Anyway, these wizards were called the Runelords. This one was called Alaznist, and was of course the Runelord of Wrath.” He paused to take another sip from his mug.

“And I presume we stumbled right into one of her lairs... and our aasimar friend was usin’ her artifacts to summon monsters o'pure anger.”

“Just the artifacts, of course. I don’t suspect Alaznist herself to be involved. The Runelords were wizards of mythic power: this town wouldn’t be standing if she were around here. I wouldn’t expect any of the Runelords to be alive, mind… but their trinkets are certainly a source of problems.”

“So wait a second… does that mean there’s six more of these places we’ve got ta look for?”

“That’s assuming there was only one of these… probably, though. What is more likely however is that we won’t have to look far at all.”

Barun groaned as he buried his head into his palms. “And here I was thinkin' I'd just be crumpin' more goblins”

“Oh, sure, that will happen. You know, with the rest. But someone is pulling the strings. I suspect that someone already knows the location of a few, if not all the other places of note. It seems a plan is in motion. Our friend did let that much slip in his seemingly-doomed rage.”

“And ye want to stop it before it begins I assume?”

“Sure,” The elf looked back at the Thassilon runes. “I'm more interested in whatever ancient knowledge could be recovered. Magic, history, untold wonders…”

“Monsters, horrors, eldrich nightmares...” Barun muttered under his breath.

“…thankfully, someone has probably been collecting them for me.” Another sip. “So, we need to determine our next steps. The likelihood is that some of the goblins will provide a clue on where to go next, and I still have this.” He retrieved the map of goblin encampments from his pack. Barun beamed in excitement.

“Payin' a visit to some goblins then?”

“Tomorrow. Three more things need to be done tonight yet.”

Rhothomir returned the map to his pack, replacing it with the unpleasant book from the dungeon. Barun grimaced slightly as the gruesome illustrations came back into view.

“This is written in Abyssal. Again, the demonic tongue. I just wanted you to know that it's not particularly useful.”

Barun sighed in relief. “Good. Didn’t want ta have to use it anyway. Damned tongue still gives me chills.”

It’s a book of worship,” Rhothomir noted, absently leafing through the pages, “but also a bestiary of aberrations, rather embellished. Fancifully even.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Barun remarked, recoiling slightly at a particularly gory etching of a gnoll disemboweling an unfortunate adventurer.

“Thus, I intend to sell it to clerics that seek to destroy these sorts of things. I assume you have no objection?”

“That I can agree with.”

Rhothomir stuffed the book roughly back into the pouch. Standing up, he arrayed a series of weapons on the table: the weapons taken from the deformed goblin. Barun winced as he saw the jagged sword again.

“That bugger hurt.”

“Well it’s enchanted, so that’s not surprising,” Rhothomir noted, lifting up the blade. Barun could clearly see a faint red glow along its edges in the dim light of the room. “Remember our ranger friend, though? She told me that there was a goblin hero that was presently missing. The sword seems suspect.” He returned the blade to the table. “I want to hold this until we talk to her again, but if you can make use of it, it’s yours. Otherwise I'll be selling it and splitting the proceeds.”

Barun glanced down at his hammer. “I think Fury still serves me just fine, thanks.”

“Fair enough. I think I’ll keep this dagger, though. Seems nicer than my current one.” Rhothomir said as he turned the shimmering blade over the candlelight.

“One last thing.” He added, and pointed to the hammer sitting on the floor.

“I need that for tonight.”

Barun defensively grasped at the handle like a baby. “Why?... Actually, silly question. I know better than ta ask ye why at this point.”

Rhothomir shot an annoyed look at the dwarf. “I meant along with you. No funny business this time. I wasn't bluffing when I said I looked up the unholy water. We can dispense of the altar by pounding it into dust.” The elf smirked as Barun’s face widened in glee. “Mind taking one more trip to the catacombs with me?”

Barun had already begun repacking his belongings and tightening his armor straps. “Now that’s a solution I can get behind!”

The elf actually managed a smile as he wrapped his robes around his waistcoat. He looked at the dwarf as he made his way toward the door.

“Things always get better, even if they start a bit crazy, eh, dwarf?”

“Honestly?” Barun grinned as he hoisted Torag’s Fury onto his shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They both marched toward the door.Just before leaving, Rhothomir looked over his shoulder.

“Still need to work on those trust issues.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Barun grumbled in dwarven as he blew out the lantern and shut the door behind him.

[Gielnor]

FROM THE JOURNAL OF BARUN BURADUM
DAY 7

I pen this entry not from the comfort of my room at the Rusty Dragon, but from the cold, rocky floor of a dungeon basement beneath a hodunk mess of a goblin fortress. After all the crazy shit that’s happened today, I’m just happy to be relaxing for a bit instead of dead or… oh shit, I gotta stop snickering before Kane notices me.

Let’s start with last night. When Kane and I got back from pulverizing the altar in the catacombs, we found Shalelu waiting for us at the inn. Long story short, she didn’t want to wait for Sheriff Hemlock’s return any longer. The town was at too much risk, and the best defense is a good offense: she proposed a direct preemptive strike on Thistletop, the goblin camp where Nualia has been hiding. The latest news Kane extracted from Tsuto only sweetened the deal, and we determined to set off for the base the next morning.

We needed to trek through the dense woods outside of Sandpoint to reach the camp, and so Talathel insisted on a quick stop by his old haunt to retrieve something he had been meditating on. Yeah, “meditating”. We came to rest in a grove just outside of town. Talathel stepped before a thick, stumpy tree and began gently speaking to it. I assumed he was probably high again and we were wasting time… until the tree nodded in response. With a shake and a mighty groan, the tree’s limbs began to move as it lifted its roots free from the soil, revealing a pair of foot-like roots. Now I could see the tree’s uncannily human resemblance was not a coincidence. Pleased with his work, Talathel gave a big hug to his treant, then turned to the rest of us.

“Everyone, meet my bro, Marin.”

I didn’t question any of this for the protection of my own sanity, and at any rate he looks like a strong brute, so with our new tree friend in tow we ventured deep into the woods, Shalelu and Talathel scouting ahead of us as we pushed through the dense undergrowth. By noon we arrived at a thick bramble of briars, stretching for hundreds of feet between the trees. The soft crash of waves against the shore could be heard just beyond the forest.

“This is the entrance to Thistletop,” Shalelu announced, approaching a thick patch of briars in a gap between the trees. “The briar patch might as well be solid walls through most of the forest, but the goblins have carved a few tunnels through it. Keep pace and I’ll lead you through.” She grabbed a particularly thick section of briar and pulled, revealing a rough door opening to a mangled mess of a passageway. I made sure to keep my arms close to my sides as we entered the thick mass of thorns.

The trek through the briars was mostly uneventful: we did find a cavern entrance that emitted the wails of something Talathel identified as a bunyip, which from his description I am not at all inclined to try and meet. Walking around a bundle of trees, however, we stumbled upon a group of goblin dogs, crudely tied to a post. I asked Shalelu her opinion on how to sneak past them. She replied, “Kill them.”

Not seeing any fault in her plan, the goblin dogs were quickly dispatched by arrow and spear before the goblin dogs even knew we were there. The alarm silenced, we continued down the tunnels and before log we emerged back into the sunlight. Before us was a rickety and waving rope-plank bridge soaring nearly a hundred feet between the jagged cliffs above the surf, leading to an island with an even more ramshackle fortress perched atop it. The fort was a jumbled mess of what appeared to be the salvage of wrecked ships. Shattered masts, tattered sails, and warped keel plates were vertically stacked in what could almost be called a building. Looking back to the swinging rope bridge before us, I carefully examined its construction.

“Well, believe it or not lads, this bridge should hold all of our weight just fine, as long as no one tries jumpin’ about on it.” Talathel tapped my shoulder and pointed to the opposite end of the bridge.

“Yeah, the bridge might, but that knot over there sure won’t.”

He was right: the far end of the span had been knotted in such a way that if more than about three people crossed, the span would give and send us all plunging into the cold waters below. Erring on the side of caution, we decided to cross in pairs and eventually we all made it across safe and sound. Shalelu held the end of the bridge up while I retied it into a safer knot, just in case we should need to make a hasty escape later. Shalelu decided to stay behind at the bridge, since it made an excellent choke point to pick off unlucky stragglers.

Our exit strategy secure, we carefully creeped up to the fortress walls. The scattered pattering of goblins could be heard running about inside. We wasted a good few moments trying to find alternate entry routes before I became impatient.

“Oy, let’s just barge in and get this over with already!”

The rest of the party glared at me. I covered my mouth as soon as I realized how loudly I had been speaking. Luckily, no one inside seemed to hear me. Not seeing any other means of entry, Talathel spoke to his treant. “Hey man, can you open this door for us?” The tree nodded, and grabbed the door handle while the rest of the party prepped our weapons. Unfortunatley, the door stayed shut fast – it was barred from the other side.

“Well shoot,” Talathel said, scratching his neck. “Guess we’ll have to find another way i-“

He was interrupted with a deafening smash as the tree reared back and smashed into the door, utterly destroying it. Apparently he took “open the door” to mean “open it no matter what.” Talathel gave the rest of us a sheepish grin as he shrugged. “Sorry, he’s new.” We all winced as we realized our cover was completely blown. Sure enough, two pairs of goblins leaped from the brambles adjacent to us (they must have been sleeping in them as we walked past). They were all taken care of pretty quickly, but any hope of subtlety was gone now: the alarm was sounded.

“Well lads,” I said, gripping my Warhammer, “No sneakin’ around anymore! INTO THA BREACH!”

We charged inside, only to find the room completely empty. The now frantic shuffles echoing around us, however, let us know that time was of the essence. Despite the urgency, Kane insisted on perusing every single room he could for valuables, and after the entrance hall was cleared of a collection of daggers we made our way to a locked door in the adjacent hall. Talathel again commanded his treant to open the door.

Marin interpreted this order by grabbing the door by both sides and ripping it free from the frame, hinges and all. Talathel patted his companion on the back. “We’re gonna need to teach you how to open doors, but… good job.”

The closet turned out to be filled with nothing but pickles. Just hundreds of jars of pickles. Kane still insisted on searching the room thoroughly, uncovering further pickles. Just pickles.

“Well, maybe we can carry off these pickles…”
“Kane, no one is gonna want ta buy two hundred jars of shitty goblin pickles…”
“I’m sure we can find a buyer-“
“I AM NOT CARRYIN’ GOBLIN PICKLES IN BULK TA MAGNIMAR AND BACK, KANE!”

Our debate was interrupted with a sharp shout from outside: “INCOMING!”

We scrambled back to the entrance of the “lobby” as half a dozen goblins began careening from the opposite hall. In a matter of seconds, a pair of them were dead, one struck down by Shalelu’s crossfire, and the other pinned to the wall by Ty’s arrow. A third one was nicked by Talathel’s spear, but managed to keep careening forward as blood gouted from its side. I attempted to whack a goblin, but missed, and used the follow-through to glance back at the mage.

Apparently he had hung behind to keep inspecting the pickle room, and now that he was in the back of the group he had no line of sight. He decided to take advantage of his personal lull by cracking open a book.

Prick.

Another few seconds saw another half of the goblins taken down by hammer and arrow, as Kane continued his adventures in reading. Ty seemed to have enough of his bullshit: without a word he pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and threw them hard at the sorcerer. They smacked him directly into his face and toppled into the spine of the book. Kane merely blinked, then calmly collected the coins and continued reading. A few moments later a final volley from Shalelu took the last goblin down. Kane noticed the silence and closed his book.

Thanking Shalelu, we soon navigated our way into an inner courtyard. A quarto of unleashed goblin dogs suddenly tackled us, but we took care of the pests quickly (Kane found himself out of Line of Sight again and took the chance to straighten his hair. What.)With the distraction gone, we noticed a pair of goblin corpses collapsed by an outbuilding. A frantic shuffling could be heard inside. Talaltel kneeled down and did some quick forensics – the goblins had been trampled to death by a large horse.

“Well, seems we know what’s inside here, then.” I said, grabbing the shed door. “Everyone prep fer a very angry beast.”

Inside the shed was a beautiful back horse, but one starved, obviously abused, and very angry. However, it seemed to take pause at the fact that we were not goblins. Kane used the hesitation to pull a handful of trail rations from his pack and throw it before the horse. The horse cautiously accepted the gift, and before long Kane was gently brushing its mane with his vanity kit. He glanced at me.

“So, Barun. Are you in the market for a warhorse?”

[OOC INTERLUDE: Twi mentioned at this point that he didn’t have a picture of the horse because by default it had an awful generic name: Shadowmist. This led to a masochistic Google image search for and . Oh god it hurts.]

Five minutes later we had lead the horse back outside to have Shalelu watch it (I still need to think of a name for it) and continued our venture back into the fortress, with Talathel’s tree friend continuing to rip doors from their frames for shits and giggles and Kane obsessively scanning every room for valuables. Talathel must have noticed Kane was on-edge an offered him a joint, which Kane accepted but stuffed into his pack with the rest of his valuables. Most of the rooms were unremarkable, but as I looked into an otherwise rancid refuse room I noticed that it was significantly shorter than it should have been. Sure enough, a light push on the far wall revealed a chest, a human-crafted one by the looks of it, of the type usually found on ships. We weren’t going to brute-force it open, so we decided to hunt for the keykeeper.

Doubling back, we found a vile butchery littered with, among other things, human remains. Kane grabbed a fat haunch of some strange animal, wielding it like a club, and cautiously opened the door to the next room.

The hall was much wider and “grander” than any previous room. Four thick columns menacing with spikes of iron pierced the center of the hall, and the walls were adorned with hides of dogs and other beasts. Of immediate concern, though, was the “well-dressed” goblin at the far corner of the hall. He was adorned in a rather thick breast plate, and by his side was a monstrous green lizard. He didn’t jump for us like I would expect, but simply stared at us, studying us… if goblins are capable of studying. Kane cocked his arm and chucked the haunch at the goblin, causing it to land at his feet.

The chieftain grinned and stroked his lizard HIS PET LIZARD I MEAN OH GODS. “You show me that you enjoy chaos. Good! Approach me, elf, and Ripnugget will grant you audie-“ he stopped as he was struck by a spell. Then shit got crazy.

You see, I’ve been around Kane long enough, and have gotten sensitive enough to magic, that I can tell when a spell goes wrong. And the spell Kane tossed at the chieftain went wrong. As the bolt struck the goblin, his muscles began to grow, and within seconds he had become a bulging pile of flesh. The bewildered goblin glanced at his new pecs, and grinned maniacally.

Mother. Fucker.

[OOC Note: Luna’s spell crit failed and boosted Ripnugget’s STR by +8. Jesus christ.]

Ty immediately began firing a flurry of arrows downrange as I charged up to his throne, blessing my weapon to smite evil as I plowed into Ripnugget. The goblin’s newfound strength combined with his small stature combined into a counterattack straight into my ribs like a ton of bricks. Fucker hurt. Luckily Talathel immediately ran behind me and surged healing energy through the wound.

As Ty and Kane continue chucking missiles downrange, I take my revenge. With a mighty swing, I wind up and slam the hammer straight into the side of his head, denting his crown. By some dark miracle he was still standing, but he clearly didn’t like standing next to me. With a strange cackled order, he climbed onto the back of his gecko as it carried him straight up the wall and onto the ceiling, where he chugged a potion.

Again, for the record, not fucking fair.

Luckily Ty was on top of things, and fired directly at the gecko. With a screech it lost its grip and collapsed to the ground, dead. As Ripnugget stood up I calmly walked over and knocked him out. His unnatural muscles began to fade, but before he could stand up again I grasped my hammer with two hands and brought it straight down on his skull.

Kane politely clapped as I stepped away from the splash of gore. I wiped Fury on a nearby dog fur and took a bow. “Thank ye, thank ye. I’ll be here all night.”

Among Ripnugget’s belongings was a small brass key that looked suspiciously like the one we were searching for. Returning to the hidden closet, Kane carefully inserted the key into the lock, and with a clank the chest opened, revealing both a giant pile of valuables and a rusty blade that would have cut off Kane’s hand if he had turned the key the wrong way. He didn’t seem to mind, and he turned to me as he sifted through the pile of coins.

“It would probably be easier to carry they entire chest rather than try and cart everything individually. Do you mind, Barun?”
“Eh… I may be strong, lad, but even I can only carry so much.”
“Fine. Hold out your hands for a moment.”

I did so, and Kane pulled some strange cords from his sleeves and wrapped them around my shoulders.. “There,” he said, tying the cords into knots, “Now try lifting the chest.” I braced against the wall and started to lift, only to nearly stumble as the chest soared to my head: it felt like it weighed only a couple of pounds. Kane smirked. “Good. Now throw that on your back and we can continue downstairs.”

We made our way into the basement, coming upon a rickety table in the entrance chamber. By the looks of it, this is where the goblin raids were planned. There was a map on the table, but it didn’t tell us anything Tsuto’s journal had already revealed, except that we now had a name to pair to those OHGODSKILLITS – Sinspawn. Makes sense considering the context. Kane gestured to a closet in the corner of the room, asking me to open it. As I did so, I was greeted by a gout of fire to the face.

Turns out there was a wizard behind the door; a dark-skinned girl with a white cat and an evil aura. Great, even closets want us dead now.

Seeing the burst of fire, Ty dashed across the room and fired a volley into the closet. The arrows struck true, but disappeared with a burst: an illusion! I leaped into the room and took a swing, missing but evaporating another figment. Both Talathel and Kane tossed spells into the room, but to no effect. Suddenly, I notice my hammer begin to vibrate, and before I know what’s happening the head pops free of the handle with a crack. DAMN BITCH BROKE MY HAMMER FUCK ASS SHIT OIRJBKGSS.

Sorry. Lost composure. At any rate, I had enough sense to realize fighting a wizard without a weapon is a bad idea, and thus I retreated back into the hall. I had to leap on the way out of the door as Kane summoned what looked like a miniature sun and rolled it into the room. Despite the obvious chaos the wizard did not emerge from the closet. Ty took an overwatch position as I begrudgingly pulled an (admittedly rather nice) scimitar from our earlier spoils and carefully approached the closet door.

The room was empty.

We frantically searched the room for a minute, but it was no use; she was long gone. Kane quickly dashed back upstairs, and within a minute was back with us.

“The stair we didn’t use was opened. Looks like she’s retreated to another part of the dungeon.”

Our quarry escaped, we continued our exploration. We stepped into the closet. Kane was disappointed to see his fire ball had burnt nearly everything of use to a crisp, but not everything was destroyed: my dwarven senses detected a slight crease in the wall. Pushing against it, I found a staircase that led even further down. We decided not to investigate further until the rest of the floor was cleared.

Trekking further into the basement, we soon came to a crudely drawn mural. It was a roughly accurate section of the fort, but drawn in the bowels of the island, below us, was a giant bugbear. If the drawing was to scale, it was probably nearly thirty feet tall.

“But,” I said, writing it off, “Goblins aren’t known for their masterful realistic paintings. I doubt this drawin’ be to scale.”

The mural artistically analyzed, we opened the next door, and came face-to-face with a giant of a man, wielding a massive two-handed sword with one hand and a face-shaped shield in the other. But he did not advance. I did not sense an evil aura about him, and so I decided to be diplomatic.

“Hail! I implore ya to yield fer us.”
“I’ll yield, if you pay me more than Nualia does.”
“What’s yer rate?”
“10 gold a day.”

I quickly conferred with the rest of the party, then turned back to the fighter. “We’ll double it.”

The man sheathed his blade and extended his hand. “In that case, you have yourself a blade. Orik Vankaskerkin, at your service.”

We took advantage of a new friend with experience inside the fort, and questioned him extensively on the inner workings of Thistletop. We learned that the wizard we had just lost was Lyrie, an expelled Pathfinder who was only interested in this post for the archaeology. He also noted that there really was a monster underneath us, but it sure as hell wasn’t a bugbear. The goblins worshipped it as a god, but if any had actually seen the thing, they hadn’t survived to tell the others. There was also a pack of terrifying dog-like creatures somewhere in the dungeon, and the bugbear – the one Shalelu had been hunting -had his “harem” (Talathel visibly shuddered) on this floor. Kane asked him about where the wizard might have gone.

“She’s probably in her room, packing up. Lyrie’s got a temper, but she knows when to get out of a messy situation. Hell, even I was about to collect my last coin from Nualia before you showed up. But… if you want to try and catch her, please don’t hurt her too much. She’s just as caught up in this as I was, and it’s not her fault.”

Kane promised that he only wanted to interrogate the wizard, and so the fighter led us to her quarters, taking care to be quiet as we passed the bugbear’s quarters. Before long Orik indicated Lyrie’s quarters before us; I prepped to tackle her as I gently opened the door. As Orik expected, she was frantically packing her belongings, and didn’t notice the intrusion. She did notice, however, when I attempted to tackle her from behind. Lyrie dodged out the way, but raised her head just in time to meet Orik’s sword pommel. As she reeled back in pain, I tackled her and pinned her to the ground. Kane tossed Orik his special rope, and before long the wizard (and her cat as well – never underestimate a familiar) were restrained.

Kane, of course, sifted through all of her valuables (finding a pouch filled with, among other things, Tsuto’s hair. Ugh.). Her danger cleared, Kane followed me upstairs as I hauled Lyrie back to the entrance for Shalelu to keep an eye on. She agreed to… until we mentioned the bugbear was downstairs. Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m coming with you.”

A few minutes later, we had sent Tyvelian to take Shalelu’s post, and the assembled party was gathered around the door to the bugbear’s haven. The ranger nocked a shimmering arrow to her bow, then nodded to me. “Open the door.”

The door swung open, revealing the bugbear… you know what, posterity doesn’t need to know what a goblin harem looks like. The important part was that his back was turned: Shalelu’s first arrow clattered against the wall before him, but he only had time to turn his head when the second arrow dug deep into his back. The goblinoid roared in pain, and turned about to face his aggressors.

Kane tapped the ranger, asked her to step aside, stepped into the doorway, and cast a spell.

Remember when I mentioned that I can sense when a spell goes wrong now? Well, if the calamity upstairs was a disaster, what Kane just attempted was an absolute Armageddon. Before I could even react, the most astounding magical blunder ever happened.

As the spray of fire left his hand, the room began to echo with an that seemed to come from everywhere at once, its chords resonating throughout the room. At the same time, both the sorcerer and the bugbear started to become noticeably… shorter. The bugbear opened his mouth, probably to say “oh shit,” but instead a pile of coins tumbled from his mouth. By the time the flame slammed into him, both Kane and the bugbear were about three feet tall. The spell exploded in a blaze of light, killing the miniature bugbear and his entire harem instantly.

Kane raised his hands in triumph, and moonwalked away from the door. As the music was still playing.

Talathel and Orik looked amazed, while Shalelu… I think her brain was just completely broken. From what I had gathered from our conversations with her, she was planning on dramatically ripping the bugbear's necklace from its neck with one hand and ripping out its heart with the other. Instead, bewildered and speechless, she walked into the charred room, retrieved the shrunken necklace, and walked straight toward the door. Talathel handed her a joint on her way out, which it looks like she gladly took.

I, meanwhile, lasted about five seconds before collapsing to the floor in hysterical laughter. Gods Kane, when you fuck up, you fuck up in the best possible way.

I had almost recovered when I noticed Tyvelian coming down the hallway. He looked into the room as a three foot tall Kane was scooping gold from the mouth of a three-foot-tall bugbear while music played in the background… and then he walked straight back out. Cue me not being able to stand up again for another couple minutes.

[OOC DISCLAIMER: ALL OF THIS SHIT ACTUALLY HAPPENED AND WAS ROLLED FOR. FOR REALS. INCLUDING THE DRAGONFORCE. IT WAS THE MOST AMAZING THING TO EVER HAPPEN. LUNA IS NOW PERMANENTLY GNOME SIZED UNTIL HE CAN GET UNCURSED. I WAS THERE. IT WAS REAL.]

Once I had finally gathered myself from the floor, we decided to explore the rest of the floor. We found a jail of no particular note, but upon entering a workshop to the side we uncovered a residual effect of Kane’s mishap. While searching the room he happened to brush his hand against a worktable… and the entire workbench instantly turned to pure, solid gold. Kane was pissed more than anything, because it was gonna be difficult to sell it, let alone move it. We decided to discuss logistics later as we prepared to enter the final unexplored room.

The chamber was a great chapel-like hall, but dedicated to gods of darkness rather than light. In a quick glance I was able to surmise it was a chapel to Lamashtu (big surprise), but before I could study the ornament further two monstrous abominations – yeth hounds – leaped from the darkness and loosed their terrifying howl.

And yet I stood firm. For in that moment I felt the will of fearless Torag flow through me and around me in a great aura. I no longer know fear.

Wow, that sounds really cheesy in retrospect. Oh well, it’s true, deal with it.

With a mighty yell I led the charge into the room, and inspired by my courage the assembled party (including Tyvelian – he had decided he could deal with our madness at this point) charged into the room and engaged the monsters. The fight was hard and brutal, for every weapon blow seemed to bounce off the monster’s mottled flesh. Through a critical mass of effort we were able to slay one of the beasts, but as it collapsed the second hound released its howl.

This time my aura of courage was not strong enough for all the party. Both Talathel’s treant and Orik shrieked in terror. The treant bounded for the door and, rather than trying to open it, simply smashed straight through it, leaving a perfectly tree-shaped hole in the door. Orik sprinted straight through the same hole after him.

In the final moments of the battle Talathel was injured badly as the remaining hound bit deep into his arm, but with a final flurry of arrows from the lad the second monster fell. Once we had gathered our senses, we followed the trail of shed leaves out the front door, and eventually found both Orik and the tree huddled in the corner, grasping each other like frightened children. We eventually managed to get them into a sensible state, and with Orik’s knowledge we gathered that as long as we kept watch on this room, nothing could get out of the lower chambers.

And so I’m here, watching over the secret door as the rest of the party is taking the chance to rest up. All in all, despite the absolute bloody chaos earlier, we have done pretty well today… but my poor hammer. Damn it. I hope I’ll be able to fix it again. I hate to face an evil like Nualia without it.

Thanks for your help today, Torag. Cheers.

-BARUN

[Gielnor]

[SPOILER WARNING: The following information is only known to Barun and Rhothomir, and is OOC knowledge. Stop reading if you want to avoid any OOC info. Otherwise, read on!]

Barun sighed as he looked down at the beheaded hammer before him, spread out in two pieces on the floor. The wizard clearly knew what she was doing; the head had cleanly severed from the handle right at the joint. He turned the head’s base toward him and frowned. It could be repaired, but not without a full set of blacksmithing equipment. Barun leaned back into the wall behind him and groaned, holding his hands to his face.

“Buradum.”

Barun jumped at the intruder’s entrance, but quickly relaxed when he realized its identity: Rhothomir, now all of a yard tall, returned from some far-flung corner of the dungeon.

“Oh, Kane. Sorry, I’m still not used to yer, eh… new stature,” Barun said, grinning sheepishly. Kane neither rebuffed nor forgave him, but looked down at the broken hammer at his feet.

“What’s the diagnosis?”

Barun frowned. “She can be fixed, aye. Lyrie did me the service on not shatterin’ ‘er inta a hundred bits when she sundered it. But I cannae mend it here. I need a forge an’ anvil to properly rebind the handle, if I don’t have to reforge the handle entirely. And unless you uncovered something we missed, I didn’t see a blacksmith shop down here.” He sighed and turned the head of the hammer again.

Rhothomir gestured to Barun’s side. “You’ve still got the scimitar, don’t you?”

Barun pulled the weapon from its sheath. “Aye, that I do. And it be a fine blade. Masterful even. But…” he paused, turning the curved sword in his grip, “Yeh ever been to a temple o’ Torag, lad? Unlike any house o’god ye ever seen. Walls be lined not with pews or shrines, but a dozen great anvils, with a bloody brilliant glowin' forge right at the core. All open fer anydwarf ta use. Ya know why?” He sheathed the blade and grabbed the handle of his sundered weapon.

“’Cause every work o’ the anvil is a prayer ta Torag himself. And this hammer? This is me ultimate offerin’ ta me patron so far. It was the last thing I forged in me father’s shop before leaving Highhelm, and in it is every drop o’ blood, sweat an’ tears I gave for the Creator.

“So aye, I could easily take down the broad downstairs with this blade. But… I wouldn’t feel justice in it. Fury is as much a part of me as me own arm, an’ without it my purpose be… incomplete.”

Barun suddenly straightened up and tried to shake off his frown. “Ah… but I’m waxin’ poetic at yeh. Don’t worry about me. Even without Fury, we’ll take down Nualia just fine. The hammer can wait.”

Rhothomir stayed silent for a moment, then held out his hand. “Let me see that for a second.”

“Heh. No offense lad, but even if you were full sized again I doubt ye’d be able to lift it. Half the reason the clerics took me in was that me crafts are eh… supernaturally massive.”

“Fine, just hold the pieces together for a moment.”

Barun complied, holding the head and handle together at the joint. Suddenly there was a bright flash of light, forcing Barun to shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he could hardly believe them: the hammer was intact, with only a thin seam showing any sign of previous damage. Barun laughed in joy as he lifted the weapon.

“That’s bloody brilliant, mate!” he said, vigorously shaking the mage’s hand. “Yeh’ve done this dwarf a grand service. Thank ye!”

Rhothomir nodded. Without a word, he left to retire to his bedroll, leaving the dwarf to celebrate for just a while longer.

[Spike]

Tyvelian Rysland’s Log:
Entry 1

I've decided to write down my thoughts. It doesn't appear to favor me in any way but I feel as if I can make use of this to determine future actions. The stout paladin dwarf that will be henceforth referred to as Fat Hammer seems to do this with alarming frequency. I have contemplating breaking into his room to see what he writes, but I will save that for another day. I have heard the names of the others in the hodgepodge that I travel with, however I did not take the time to commit them to memory. Excess thoughts will interfere with my training. For the sake of identification, I have decided to call the other two Tall Mage and Absent Naturephile in honor of their distinguishing traits. I feel these names are simple enough to convey identification without the unnecessary fluff that Fat Hammer likely puts in his writings. The trained mind does not have room for such things, as proven by Absent Naturephile’s demeanor. I shudder to think what would happen if I let myself go to that degree.

I was enjoying my idle training time until I was quickly swept away by the hodgepodge for what they called “adventure”. I do not understand the allure of this term. We quickly found ourselves in a forest where I did not wish to be. However I’m positive I did not wish to be anywhere at this particular moment. By the time we were there, I noticed Absent Naturephile had brought along a Tree which he gave a name that I did not care to notice. Tree was a large rumbling creature. This was the first time that I believe Absent Naturephile has been useful to the hodgepodge’s composition, however I’m not sure the others in the hodgepodge felt the same way. Their faces were somewhere between confused and afraid. While unlikely, I direly hoped the tree would be a modicum more intelligent than its master.

At the front of our group was an elven woman we had picked up somewhere along the way. I gather we were doing this for her and I assume she was paying us well, otherwise I don’t know why we would be helping her. She was smart enough to have picked a ranged weapon that could kill enemies from a distance although she appeared to also be able to hold her own at close range. Fat Hammer has not shown any ranged prowess, I assume he is a brute who does not understand the effective nature of ranged weapons. As we went further into the giant mess that was referred to as a forest, we came across a few goblin dogs. The elven woman advised that we kill them. Absent Naturephile was not sure this was the best course of action, but giving him any sort of tactical decision making weight would be foolish. When I had readied arrows, Elven Woman fired and I quickly followed suit. The others, deeming our plan of action to be wise, followed with their own attacks. The dogs were soon dead. I had decided by this point that Elven Woman was likely the person who would be of greatest use to me.

We eventually came to a bridge and I requested that we stop. This bridge reminded me of a pile of garbage and I did not feel the need to forfeit my life crossing such an inadequate structure. In a surprising turn of events, Absent Naturephile generated a useful thought by pointing out that the bridge would not, in fact, hold all of us. Upon further inspection we came to the conclusion that it would hold two at a time. We crossed in pairs. I decided to go with Tall Mage as I had confidence that he would not accidentally cast a spell as we crossed the bridge. I did not trust Fat Hammer and Absent Naturephile to not destroy the bridge in a fit of incompetence. As we crossed Tall Mage leaned in and whispered to me.

“You can just knock next time.”

I stared at him for a moment, then returned my focus to the vastly more important stronghold in front of us. I’m not exactly sure what he meant by that, but I assume that he was referring to my failed attempt to understand his evening actions. As I am clearly not Fat Hammer, I am not sure why I would knock on his door. This also assumes that I may have use of him, which I do not.

After we had all crossed, Elven Woman decided to guard the bridge. It seems I have misjudged Elven Woman, as she will now be completely useless to me sitting next to this bridge. We began “strategizing.” I use quotation marks, as I've learned this represents something that is not actually true. We did not actually strategize, we talked about nothing until Fat Hammer spoke too loudly and almost made our attempts to strategize worthless. Noticing that there was an imminent need of useless actions, Absent Naturephile instructed his tree to open the door. To my displeasure, the tree was actually incredibly unintelligent and ripped the door open, immediately causing alarm among the goblins. In that moment, I questioned whether this group benefits my lifespan. I immediately readied an arrow. I was not to be taken by surprise by creatures dumber than the tree that ripped the door open. Within seconds the space was flooded with goblins which were soon dispatched by the party. The amount of effort taken was close to none, I sense these creatures are worse combatants than I suspected.

We swept through the stronghold, clearing each room. Tall Mage seemed intent on cleaning every room from top to bottom. Tall Mage seems to be carnally infatuated with coin. I wonder if he experiences normal emotions like the others in the hodgepodge. I write this down as it may be important information for the future. Eventually we reached a room filled with pickles. In a wild lust, Tall Mage insisted that we sell the pickles to make even more gold. Fat Hammer was not pleased. This conversation was quickly dismissed when Tall Mage realized he would be crushed by the pickled vegetables if he attempted to carry them himself.

Out of the corner of the room, goblins began flooding in again. The “keen warriors” used the “technique” of rushing straight at us without regard for cover or safety. I have once again used quotation marks to mark that which is not true. Goblins are actually incredibly low and stupid creatures that are prone to outputting waste on to themselves. I believe I am using quotation marks correctly. Elven Woman was able to shoot one, which went down very quickly. I followed up with an arrow of my own. The creature I shot apparently could not handle the force of an arrow, was lifted up off his feet, and driven into the wall on the opposite side of the room. Despite my training, I had a difficult time containing the small amount of joy that I felt from this action. I chuckled under my breath so the hodgepodge would not see.

I turned around as the goblins continued rushing in towards us to see Tall Mage reading a book. I am not sure if I have vastly overestimated his usefulness. Perhaps he is not combat ready and needs more time to prepare. Hopefully this can be addressed in the future. As a few more went down I turned back towards Tall Mage to see he was still reading the book. I attempted to recall my knowledge of Tall Mage in order to determine if reading would help his combat effectiveness. It soon occurred to me that the mage enjoys coin. To motivate the mage, I pulled five coins from my pouch and projected them in his direction. The Mage did not appear to notice the coins and when he did his dismal reflexes led to the projected coins hitting him in the face. I assume the coins were not enough to sate his desire for money. I contemplated giving him more coins but deemed that a waste of time.

We found a horse, which I did not particularly care for. Animals are mostly wastes of space. Tall Mage is apparently skilled at making animals bend to his will. Tall Mage threw things at the animal and it listened to him. Perhaps he cast a spell, because when I threw coins at him it did not seem to work. Fat Hammer seemed overjoyed and decided to call it by a name and declare it his holy mount or something to that effect. Once again, Fat Hammer proves to be very efficient at wasting time. A few minutes later Tall Mage is back to his biological need for prowling. In every room we enter, he desperately turns over everything he can find looking for more money and more valuables. We eventually found a locked chest, which made Tall Mage even more aroused by the looks of it. I still fail to understand why this gets him so excited. Perhaps it is a quality that his race innately has? Hopefully I will gain insight into this to further understand his kind in the future.

Eventually, we landed in a large hall with columns separating the room. In the corner of the room was a goblin on a throne with a pet gecko. He appeared to think highly of himself judging by the chair he sat in, but looking at him I determined that he was of no use to me and thus should be killed. Before I had readied my bow, Tall Mage limply chucked a piece of meat at the goblin in question.

“Approach me elf!” The goblin boomed at Tall Mage.

Tall Mage had apparently also been watching the goblin and come to a similar conclusion as I had. He immediately cast a spell that hit the goblin. The goblin then grew several sizes bigger.

Note: I have considered changing Tall Mage’s identifier into Stupid Mage, but I would like to maintain consistency as these logs will be used for planning in the future and thus I will continue to refer to him as Tall Mage for the time being.

I pulled out my bow and immediately began firing arrows at the goblin, some of which deflected off of his skin. Fat Hammer decided that taking on the goblin one on one was the best course of action. This was not the best course of action. Fat Hammer was hit in the ribs several times, although he did manage to get a few hits in of his own. The goblin attempted to ride is pet gecko on to the ceiling as he downed a potion. To this point I had not paid the gecko any mind as it was not important, but when it was used to reposition the goblin, I had decided it needed to die and promptly ended its life. The goblin came down from the ceiling with a crash and Fat Hammer knocked it out. Fat Hammer then walked over to the goblin and splattered its brains all over the walls. For the third time in recent memory, Fat Hammer wastes time by not killing it immediately. Perhaps Fat Hammer is not confident in his hammer swings and wanted to make sure he could try again if he missed by knocking it out. I’m not sure if I will ever know.

Returning to the locked chest from earlier, Tall Mage continued his quest for arousal by opening and plundering the chest of its valuables. After Tall Mage utilized Fat Hammer’s most useful ability of carrying lots of items, we proceeded downstairs. The hodgepodge doddled around for several minutes talking about goblin raids until Tall Mage directed Fat Hammer to open the closet door. Fat Hammer was promptly hit with a fireball directly in the face. Again, I find I have misjudged Tall Mage and it seems he knows that Fat Hammer can be used to disarm traps with his person. However, this was apparently not a trap, but a mage who seemed quite annoyed that we had interrupted her silent closet dwelling session.

I ran across the room and fired several arrows at her, but the mage had been clever enough to create illusions of herself for me to hit. I backed up several steps so I would not be hit by spells, and Fat Hammer entered the room alone. A few seconds later there was a loud crash and Fat Hammer was heard yelling.

“DAMMIT, BITCH BROKE MY HAMMER” Fat Hammer bellowed from inside the room

Apparently the mage had decided that fighting against a man with a hammer was ill advised and had broken it. I believe the proper phrase for this situation is: how unfortunate for Fat Hammer. Tall Mage summoned a ball of fire in the room and I backed up into a wall to wait for the mage to leave. Several silent seconds passed and nothing occurred. I decided to attune to the room and see if I could sense her presence, but there was none. We had been tricked. I am somewhat impressed but I am not amused. Fat Hammer managed to find a secret door, but insisted that we return to this later. Tall Mage was unhappy with this sentiment. The hodgepodge found a crude drawing on the walls of a large goblin, and conversed about it for several minutes. As I was not here for art lessons, this seemed a colossal waste.

Several rooms later, we ran into a large man who was carrying a sword that was clearly too big for him in one hand. He was most likely better in combat than any of us individually, however there was four of us. I noticed the bow on his back, it was quite lovely. It would benefit me greatly if we killed this man so I could obtain this weapon. While I was busy thinking of the appropriate way to shoot him, a few members of the hodgepodge approached the man and offered him gold. Personally, I find this odd. Why offer this man gold when the items on his person are worth more than the gold you are offering him? It would be far simpler to eliminate him and sell his apparel. The hodgepodge asked me to contribute 5 gold, which I did despite my grievances. I shall keep a close watch on this one. If he dies, I will be taking his bow.

This man, now referred to as Large Sword for his most identifying feature, led us to the mage we stumbled into earlier and requested that we did not hurt her. Once again, I will question why this was the case, as we have no need for either of them and dispatching them would be vastly more efficient. I decided I might as well follow them down the hall to see what they did. The resulting battle was mostly Fat Hammer and Large Sword hitting the mage in the head until she could no longer fight back. I suppose this is as good of a way as any to win a fight. However, I am not impressed. Tall Mage and Fat Hammer briefly went upstairs and several minutes later returned with Elven Woman in tow.

Elven Woman stormed down the stairs. She was apparently very angry at this large goblin we were looking for. Frankly, I’m not sure why she had all this pent up rage. I would imagine everyone is able to meditate, but I guess some people just aren't terribly clever. I’m not quite sure why. I attempted to comprehend why someone would wait so long to dispel of their anger and then I spent a few minutes lost deep in thought. Probably for the best, as I don’t believe the hodgepodge had anything of dire importance to say. I believe Fat Hammer was speaking to me, but his face didn't show urgency, so I continued my train of thought. I tuned out for another minute until I found everyone staring at me.

“You’re the only one of us with long enough range to guard the bridge,” Tall Mage said.

I assume this meant that I needed to go to the bridge. I walked upstairs, stepping over corpses. As I walked by the Goblin I had pinned to the wall earlier, I took a minute to admire my work and chuckled to myself. It was indeed something to gaze at. The best part was the utter look of disbelief stuck on the goblin’s face that was still there. Then I noticed the smell. Typical of such a stupid creature. It made waste long before it hit the wall. Continuing outside I looked across the empty bridge. I’m still not quite sure why these people are of use to me. Perhaps I should think on this more.

I pulled out my small jar of black paint and finished painting kill tallies on my arm. It’s quite tough to pray for the dead if you don’t recall how many you’ve killed. They may be stupid, evil, smelly, incompetent fools but they fought and I feel the need to respect this in the very least. As I meditated next to the bridge, I thought about Tall Mage. I think I shall continue to watch him until I find out what he’s doing. I don’t particularly need to know but I feel that he may be ultimately more useful to me than the others. The others just appear to be parading around in their metaphorical undergarments like so many paid fools.

I heard what appeared to be an explosion and some sort of mishmash of noises. I decided to ignore it. Whatever was going on down there was so far from being my problem. I continued to meditate until I had adequately provided a small moment of prayer for each goblin I had punctured. When I was finished, I decided that the bridge no longer needed guarding and began making my way back towards the hodgepodge. As I approached the door to the stairwell, Elven Woman passed by smoking what appeared to be aromatic herbs. These ones have simple minds.

As I made my way down the stairwell it was apparent that something had occurred, but I didn't notice until I began to approach the hodgepodge. Music blared out of the room, but that wasn't exactly the highlight. Within the room was what appeared to be several flaming corpses, one very small goblin, a large pile of coins, and a lot of blood and guts. The closer I got to the room the louder the blaring music seemed to be. When I reached the room, I noticed that the taller one was no longer taller. I’m not exactly sure what to call him now that he had lost his only distinguishing trait. I think I will refer to him from this point forward as Incompetent Mage. A battle had clearly taken place but it hadn't lasted long. I feel this was likely the work of Incompetent Mage. Seeing as this room was only going to add stupidity to my mind, I turned around without speaking to the hodgepodge and went back upstairs.

I wasn't able to get fully up the stairs before they began to yell at me using the odd shortened version of my name that I’m positive I've never used before. I’m not sure why I am called “Ty”. Perhaps Tyvelian is too complex for their simplistic nature. I will ignore it knowing full well that the name is incorrect. Perhaps in time they will figure it out for themselves, although that may be giving the hodgepodge too much credit for something they have yet to show.

I waltzed down the hallway and noticed a workbench made out of pure gold. This was something that confounded me as using such a precious metal on something that you will be hitting with a hammer does not seem like an effective use of materials. However, this was also in a goblin fortress, so I continued moving. Perhaps I should mention this to Incompetent Mage and see if I can observe his infatuation first hand. I will think on this.

I arrived to see a battle between the party and several yeth hounds in progress. Everyone in the room, myself included, did not have great success hitting the hounds. However, I am a scholar of battle and I am aware that if you shoot something enough times it will eventually fall down and die. Angry Sword and Tree apparently did not think this was the case. Tree sprinted into the door, making a hole in the shape of its physical frame, and Angry Sword followed soon after in a panic. I was not concerned about why this happened as it simple furthered my belief that these two were of little use while alive. Eventually, as I had predicted, I sunk enough arrows into one to kill it and the others fell quickly after that.

We decided to settle down for the night and make camp. While it does not please me to sleep in a dungeon, it will do for tonight while I contemplate my course of action. I will write more when I find something important.

[Entry ends here]