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Archive for November, 2008

Our adventuring band stood but mere yards from mortal danger.  Monsters!  What could order about Gnolls?  Giants perhaps, or even Ettins might command lesser minions like orcs.  But Gnolls?  Those familiar with the gutteral violence of that alien tongue did report a fierce debate unfolding behind that oaken hatch.  To eat the humans, or remain hungry?  The answer came in strange, shocking hoots, grunts and mastications impetuously uttered.

How to counter this unknown threat?  Yes, oil, to soak the tinder scattered about the room in broken bricabrac.  Yes a torch at ready to light it.  Oh but this should ensure a fiery apertif for their sharp toothed neighbors’ hunger!  Indeed!  Yes!  So fortified the band took up positions; Lord Farthammer, Toungley and Celaphora to the rear for the volley, Luther, Orrin and Rufus for the melee.  Ready, they waited, and waited, and waited some more.  Time passed.

Things got really boring.

Bored, our adventurers listened again to the portal to danger, but heard nothing.  Hm.  Better wait some more, damned what Rufus thinks!  But what to do in the meantime.  Hm.  Bo-ring.  Was it Orrin or Rufus who first wandered back to the locked doors?  Regardless the portals soon fell to Orrin’s determined hammer.  Therein were strange troves revealed: cloaks, shields, bolts, barrels, hauberks and halberds.  Larder, arsenal and armory and besides did they cart out and up to the moat house proper, as fresh in stitch seam and stamp as the Godsday past.  What strange bolt hole this?  Only the sigil, proudly emblazoned across tunic, cloak and shield would tell; a single eye, burning in flames.  The rune crudely etched by the dead villagers digit.  The same! The caravan; its disappearance, its demise, its mystery revealed!

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What treasure this? As Luther uncovered truths best buried his colleagues brought mystery to light! Beneath mounds of debris did the sweating crew find two doors, locked. Selaphora availed them of her dexterous cipher, but they would not yield. What mechanisms these..

Monsters! Alert! From darkness and silent door hinges did casually stroll hulking, growling gnolls, and hungry. Worn and rough their weapons, plain their anger, their hunger, the fell beasts immediately launched at Rufus rear guard. Lord Farthammer, always alert, fingers married to bowstring, let his betrothed snap to marry shaft to dogman’s throat! Others retreated before Rufus’ brawl, though not before launching their own raw hewn shafts to the runner’s pain. Growling, whining in the darkness were they. Enough mockery this! Rufus tossed a torch to light their bivouac; a storage room. Growling, shafts loosed in response did they retreat through a farther door, to the waiting arms of.. ? Not growling, but deep the strange reply to their crooning escape. The farther door shut, barred perhaps? That voice, like the bolt securing a slaughterhouse for giants; menacing deep and large. Cold fear did seep from the dark storage to infect the runner and crew. What manner of beast gave Gnolls succor?

Xp: 48

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Upon reaching the dungeon the party did first espy one massive heap of debris stacked against the wall.  Busy mapping, exploring, then turning, destroying those dead left walking they let be the pile.  Now more alert, cautious, some returned to clear it.  Luther followed, his feet dragging.  Alive yes, but guilty, guilty weighed his conscience.  What fell sorcery might rouse the dead from their rest?  And a face, eyes, a happy memory all did encircle the farmers thoughts.  Turning away from the excavation he retraced his steps, back to the corpses, Rufus in cautious second.  Gone.  One corpse, the last felled by the farmer, gone!  From a darkened cell a scraping, faint calling.  Torchlight, quickly!  Indeed did one damned corpse etch strange runes to the wall, determination peeling away its nails and skin to the very bone.  What sigil..?  Luther cannot make the pattern, but the face did wear once a name known in his environs.  Selaphora confirms the damnable fact; the poor soul did grow to manhood in Hommlet.  Enticed to adventure, he did recently leave with the ill fated caravan, only to find his remains still crawling, and croaking: “I.. I..”  ‘Twas Thomas, missing cousin to Moonleaf, aspirant of the Grove.

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