Musings of the Grumpy GM

A Bit of Lore

2012-01-19T00:04:00.002Z

SOLUMITE REUNIFICATION, THE (Third Age – Post Sundering); The twenty eight year period between 1479 and 1507, where the “Seven Solar Orders” became one great order, and sought to unite the church of Solum'Tassadexes under a unifying theology akin to that held in earlier ages before the fracturing of the Sun Gods mind.

Lumor, the ancient (and at the time of the sundering, contested) holy city of Solum'Tassadexes, was strangely untouched by the dimensional catastrophe. This was seen by many as a sign that Solum'Tassadexes had some great plan for his children, a plan, many realised, that could not be realised as long as the church was so wildly divided. The Unification started on the 31/12/1479 (7 years, 7 months and 7 days after the sundering) with the legendary “Seven Brothers Moot”; a meeting of the seven most powerful orders swearing faith to Solum'Tassadexes in his aspect as a wrathful soldier of light and holy power. This meeting was called by the most powerful amongst these - the Order of the Silver Lion - at the behest of their Lord (soon to be High Overlord of the Unification Crusade) Lucentius Solan.

At this meeting, a pact of unity and shared brotherhood was sworn by the gathered orders, and each was given 1/7^th of the holy city to rebuild and protect (leading to the “Great Restoration” of the ancient site). This gave rise to a new, incredibly powerful Order, known as the Refulgent Order of the Solar Lord (usually just shortened to the Refulgent Knights, Refulgent Order, Solar Lords, Sun Lords, or Knights Refulgent). Their standard depicted a stylised sun, from which radiated seven fiery swords, blades pointed outwards.

Initially the main focus of the order was to bring unity to the faith as a whole; the plan being to accept into their brotherhood those that could be convinced to see their viewpoint, and to exterminate those that could not. This lead to the Unification Crusades – a bloody and vicious time of merciless warfare between the supporters of Solum'Tassadexes' various alternate scriptures, and to the emergence of Lumor and its war council as a major rallying point for the people of Fey in the dark years following the sundering.

(It should be noted that although the main push of the crusades ended in the autumn of 1507, there are always ongoing conflicts between the Knights Refulgent, and various other factions of Solum's church).

With the reunification “compete”, the Knights Refulgent worked to create a stable and peaceful realm around the holy city, safe from the predations of the horrors of the sundering, and within 250 years of the “end” of the unification crusades, seven citadels guarded the edge of Lumor's domain, each named after a Lord of the founding Orders.

Shnecke's Wolves - Session 12

2012-01-12T13:04:00.002Z

24/6/1472 – 14:20 – The party are far from the mountains and the disaster that unfolded there, having spent the last five days heading southwards, hoping to find one of the many port cities that once linked Kai'Yassan's exterior to the realms beyond the waters of Nawa'Sikei (Mother Ocean). They hope – given the continents strange new state of existence – that in such a place they can find some way to return to Irin, and re-establish communication with the Order.

* * *

As they have wandered, Varracuda has explained that in pre-sundering Kai'Yassan, the regions far removed from the Imperial City of Quei’Soi Leng, tended to be fairly autonomous, despite, in theory, being loyal to the Imperial Throne. Many of the cities that grew up along the shores of the Nawa'Sikei traded with Yissen merchants, and a chain of wealthy cities stretching from the Awa'Gao (World Cradle) Mountains to places as far removed as Ancient Iradesh and Sunken Aurym, could trace their wealth in part to these relationships. There were, he is quick to add, a number of Imperial ports, which were linked to the Imperial City by walled roads, that lead directly from the coast to the heart of the throne's rule, though he is unsure as to where, or how many, they were.

“So we head south, and when we hit the coast, wander along it until we come across something?” Asks Lia, her pale skin blotched by mosquito bites, her hair grimy with sweat.

“In a nutshell, yes.” Comes the equally harassed genasai's reply.

Whilst travelling the group have seen numerous wonders and horrors related to the Sundering. For example, as they left the cavern in which they slept following their escape from Gasharo' realm, a strange dark green rain had started to fall, spawning ever thickening growths of alien mosses, ferns and eventually trees where it touched the ground. By the time the group had been on the move for an hour, they were stalking amongst the boles of trees that, had they not known better, they would have said were hundreds of years old. And then, suddenly, they had come to the end of it, the usual terrain suddenly there before them across a clearly delineated line. Stranger still, as the group had crossed this line, so the entirety of the strange forest they had just passed through simply vanished; the normal terrain clearly laying behind them where it should be.

A Planar Transposition, Grigori had called it – a subtle layering of another reality over the realm of the physical, adding earnestly that “We were lucky not to get transported into the other plane.”, unaware that behind him the assassin quietly whispered “Yeah, cos we all know how hard he works to stop us ending up in alien universes don't we?”, grinning and nudging the barbarian – who entirely doesn't get his sarcasm at all...

* * *

The group are currently in a flat region of marshland that stretches from horizon to horizon. Visibility is seriously hampered by the ubiquitous cane grasses that grow thickly here, each individual stalk reaching some 6' height, and the terrain is murderous on their rate of progress, being either sucking ditches filled with mud, mosses and writhing water, or spongy hummocks. By day, the air becomes thick with mist and biting flies, and at night, a heavy fog, studded with the meandering lights of fireflies, prevents progress. On more than a few occasions a member of the group has become stuck fast in a sucking bog, or almost vanished into the throat of some hidden, water filled shaft, the risks only increasing with their gathering weariness.

14:20 – 15:15 – And so, the group are almost grateful when they notice that far away, possibly beyond the horizon, something strange is occurring; the sky in a distinct area shimmering as if affected by a heat haze. Sure it must be another manifestation of the sundering (an opinion backed up by the presence of low-key earth tremors and a curious throbbing of the air which makes teeth ache and sinuses feel painfully full), the group decide to check it out, the assassin agreeing to scout ahead, whilst the rest of the party follow at a distance.

Moving with grace and speed through the bog, Jaeger soon finds himself far away from the party, though he is sure he can find them again even in the tall reeds, thanks to the din they make as they splash and slog through the marsh. Hunkering low, and sticking to the raised hummocks, he has soon covered several miles, and is able to see more clearly the disturbance ahead, his keen ears picking up distant sounds of horror.

Sharp, rapidly repeated sounds that have a hard yet almost liquid quality to them. Human screams. Tinny, ripping sounds that carry oddly in the moist atmosphere.

Frowning, Jaeger finds a fallen tree stump on a hummock and stands upon it, giving himself a clearer view. Reaching into his backpack, he produces a telescope – a fine thing he purchased back in Irin for a small fortune, made by a Lower Malgorothian chronometerist – and peering through it, he gets his first view of what lies ahead.

It is, he realises, a great distance away, almost certainly beyond the worlds curve, but is of such height and size that it can be seen above the horizon; some kind of spire, greyish-blue through the heat haze that surrounds it. It seems to be oddly made, possibly a composite structure formed of vast bundles of spindle like objects set vertically together, though he is unable to say for certain. As he watches, Jaeger gets used to the view, and begins to make out finer details.

Firstly he realises that his guess about the size of the structure is spot on. It is something mountainous. He also realises that it is entirely alien. Definitely something that has entered this world from another. Finally he begins to see shoals of tiny glinting things flying around the structure; hundreds of speck like things that glitter as if reflecting light, and move in vast clouds.

As to what is causing the heat haze, and from where the strange sounds are coming, the assassin cannot say. It is – ignoring the fact that local dimensional effects could be influencing them – impossible that that sounds could be carrying over this great distance from the spire, and so, he concludes, something born of it is far nearer than the structure itself.

Having gathered all the information he feels the party needs, he starts to head back towards them.

15:16 – 15:20 – Jaeger meets up with his companions and relays all that he has discovered. “Something terrible has entered this world.” He begins grimly, “And I don't think we can do much about it. I think we need to head around it.”

Several members of the party agree, though Varracuda and Lia both raise their concerns about the source of the all too human screams, both still feeling very guilty about the catastrophe they helped to materialise upon the village days ago.

Eventually however, it is decided that the group shall try and skirt around the area of strangeness ahead, even though it will mean extra days of travel, and with that said, they continue on.

23:00 – 23:20 – Night has fallen with disturbing rapidity, and the party have made camp on a hummock, the assassin and barbarian working to create a dry and hidden shelter for them to rest in. Heavy fogs have risen from the stagnant waters, and the night is alive with the chirrup of insects and the songs of amphibians. To the southwest, the night seems brighter even through the cloaking fogs, through the sounds of death and devastation stopped some time ago.

Suddenly, out in the distance in the same direction, the group hear human-like cries of fear, and rapid, stumbling footfalls, awkward and desperate. Above those sounds is another; a high-pitched whining that is barely perceptible, and which causes everyone to wince at its touch. Instantly alert, the group decide to investigate, the assassin and genasai grabbing their gear, and vanishing out into the fog to try and intercept the sources of the racing footfalls.

They move through the dark like a pair of wolves, and soon manage to cut the unseen humans off, appearing before them like fiends. There are four of them; a man and woman in their mid twenties, a child of about four years age, and another child who seems a couple of years older than the first. All are clearly exhausted and near to collapse, and are filled with primal terror. At sight of the pair, they scream, slipping into the mud, the children too exhausted to cry, before scrabbling to their feet, weakly slapping at the two adventurers and tearing off in another direction into the marsh's embrace.

Jaeger winces, something about the four striking a chord within him. “head back to the others,” He whispers to Varracuda, “I'm going to find out what they are running from.”

Following the source of the painful whine, the assassin slips through the darkness, whilst the genasai, able to move over the waters of the bog without hindrance, goes to alert the rest of the party to his intentions. At first Jaeger - to whom the night is bright with a spectrum of shadowy hues, his alien eyes able to see clearly in the darkness, though the fog hampers him still – can see nothing but the damnable reeds, and the fog. Then, suddenly, he spots amorphous patches of colourless light in the skies ahead; at first it is a homogeneous blur of luminosity. However, within moments it resolves itself into six distinct forms.

Crouching down, the assassin despairs as he hears the fleeing humans cry out nearby, having clearly run in a great circle in their blind panic, and with this sound, the blurring lights begin to move with purpose, their strange forms becoming clear as they near his position.

All of them are composed of something that seems simultaneously have the properties of light and a solid. Each is quite beautiful, being a luminous, mathematically perfect polygon, which shines with the brittle, strange light, hovering without apparent means or effort. Most of them are about the size of a dundorin, whilst one, is three times the size of a man, and the assassin can suddenly taste burnt metal as they near his position. All of them are surrounded by orbiting structures, which whirr and flicker as they spin around; razor edged crescents, bundles of shimmering, needle like things, or hooked, blade like constructs, and as they gain on the fleeing humans, these objects begin to lock into place with a metallic snap, leaving the shade in no doubt as to their deadly purpose.

To the assassin's north, he can hear the group charging through the bog, and he spots the lead thing – the massive one – suddenly stop, its hooked blades snapping round to face the parties approach.

“This is stupid, but.”

Jaeger, unseen by the things, suddenly stands up, and shoots the massive entity with a well placed bolt, the shadowed quarrel scratching a fine silvery line in its strange surface. Apparently confused, the massive entity and its companions stop their advance, giving Jaeger a chance to unleash more attacks, his shade magic wreathing several of them in a scarring wave of shadow-duplicate bolts. He then snaps off another bolt at the larger being, scouring another line into its exterior.

Still far behind the lone assassin, the rest of the group pound their way through the sucking mire to catch up, and arrive just in time to see him dodge a violent spray of force projectiles, fired from the entities with the needle-like bundles.

“What the hell are they?” Wonders Varracuda out loud.

“Who cares!” Grunts Shnecke, hefting his axe, “Let's kill em all!”

The battle is not an easy one, as these strange entities are both resilient and evasive. Their attacks tend to favour invisible fields of force, which contuse and bind those they strike, hampering their movements, whilst brutally crushing them. The monsters also (save one that Grigori brings to ground with a powerful proclamation of logic), remain airborne, out of reach of many of the parties normal attacks. However, combining their efforts, and drawing upon their manifold talents, the party manage to bring all but one of the strange things down; the lone survivor hurtling high into the fogs above before any harm can be visited upon it, the fallen vanishing in a burst of teleportive magics – each one causing a local air tremor as the planar fabric responds to its manipulation.

Of especial note in this battle is the psychic bastion summoned by the ardent, which created a ghostly psionic tower around the group, hardening their will and their bodies against the attacks of the aliens, and saving them time after time from their attacks. Jaeger also draws some remarks, having shown something akin to a human side in his sudden defence of the fleeing mortals, and more than a few wonder what this can possibly mean.

23:21 – 23:30 - “We need to know what's going on.” Mutters the assassin, his form miraculously unharmed during the battle. “We need to catch up with those mortals.”

“But you don't speak the language?” Protests Lia.

“I do.”

Varracuda steps forth, limping, his wounds from the battle mostly restored thanks to Lia's psychic and Grigori's divine manipulations, though livid new scars are apparent across his upper body, his once fine armour badly torn and filthy.

“The people of this land are hugely fearful of the native spirits are they not?” wonders Jaeger aloud, “Could you Varracuda, not appear before them as a bog spirit, and cow them into compliance?”

The genasai shrugs.

“Well, it's worth a try. Lia, give us those spare rations you have, we don't need them, and Varracuda, get ready to run with me. Let's try and find out what they know.”

Soon the pair are once again tearing as fast as they dare through the reeds, fog and bogland, their keen senses reaching out, listening for the panicked humans. It does not take them long to find them, and less time to catch up to them, for by this point they are almost at the point of collapse. Varracuda scouts a little ahead, and waits for them to approach, whilst Jaeger lurks nearby, keeping watch over his ally.

The humans, sobbing and retching with exhaustion and terror, soon stumble towards the swordmage, their gasps and hard, ragged breathing deafening in the black stillness of the bog. When they are close enough to see through the stalks of the bog grasses, Varracuda cracks a sunrod, the bloodless, alchemical light from it throwing back the darkness in a shifting globe of golden-green light, the shadows of the reeds forming dancing spokes of darkness through the illuminated vapours.

(In Low Yassan) “Hold mortals! Who are you that wanders my realm uninvited and with no care? Show respect, and bow your head to me, the spirit who guards this place!”

Shocked and beyond rational thought, the four humans simply freeze, their eyes wide and bright with stark terror, their golden skin pale and ashen.

“Speak mortals, unless you would have me drown you in my bottomless bogs, or have my swarming hosts drain you of life!”

Still struggling to process what all this means, the adult male staggers a few steps forwards, falls to his knees, and bows before the genasai. When he speaks, it is in a raw, sobbing voice.

“Please mighty spirit, have mercy on me and my family, and accept our humblest apologies for trespassing in your realm without making the correct sacrifices! We flee a catastrophe that has befallen our town and many others. Have mercy powerful and mighty Lord!”

“A catastrophe? What manner of catastrophe could be so terrible that you would forget your sacred duties to the guardians, and trespass in my realm?”

“Please,” chokes the man, his hands held high in supplication, “The sky has brought forth daemons of strange and terrible power. A great citadel has appeared in the once fertile south lands, and from it have poured swarms of strange things that burn all in their path with magic, and...and...”

The man struggles, the last of his strength seeming to leave him. His family sink to the ground, their own horror finally catching up to them, shivering in the dark at the memories they hold.

“And what mortal? Speak up! I grow bored and angry!” (Jaeger notes that Varracuda is struggling to keep up the charade of an angry spirit, obviously moved by the fleeing villager's plight).

The man's jaw clenches, and he locks his gaze with Varracuda's, his eyes bright with tears.

“They...dismantled...everything alive that they came across. Cattle, men, women, trees, fish, all of them stripped from flesh to marrow, and carried away back to the tower. They took pinches of soil and leaf, and drained waters, and took it all back. For what purposes I know not. We fled. Our respected elders too...too...”

“Enough.” Says Varracuda softly, allowing all pretence of anger to fade, “Your actions here lack neither honour or hold any malice, and I welcome you to these realms. Here, take this food that you may survive, and rest here tonight, knowing that I shall watch over you and yours.”

The genasai gives the man the rations, and then picks up the sunrod. He smiles at the family, his own eyes stinging with tears, and then pockets the rod, stepping back into the sudden, heavy blackness that engulfs them all.

If it worked for Paizo...?

2012-01-09T14:46:00.000Z

Public Playtest for 5e on its way!

I've signed up to take part, but really, 4e suits me down to the ground. Then again, I seem to remember saying the same thing when 3.5 was ending and 4e had been announced...

Shnecke's Wolves - Session 11

2012-01-05T11:23:00.001Z

- (From the “Kitsune, Dragon and Yissen” by Nendenaki Takashaiwa)

Year 17,358 Imperial (Mortal calendar), 26 days since the Sky smote the Earth.

“And so, the huge dead human bore an axe of flame and struck the door with all his rage, bending its internal magics enough that it opened to them, and allowed us all into the monster's treasury.

And what a hoard we found. Coins of every type, mintage and metal lay strewn about in huge drifts, glinting beneath a veil of dusty ages, whilst rare metals and fine grained woods shone in the sides of coffers, chests and delicate vases – themselves stuffed with riches. Weapons, armours, and arcane devices that chuckled and fidgeted with magic were sprinkled throughout, and I must admit, that even I, a beast with little use for mortal treasures, could feel the lust for their possession stir within me.

With effort, the mortals closed the door to the chamber, and rudely, bade me begin again the ritual to open a door from this dimension to the mortal world. Hungry, dirty and eager to be gone, I managed – somehow – to swallow my indignation at their lack of gratitude and their simple lack of manners, and began the Opening Chant once more.

I shall not lie; mortals are idiots. As you, dear reader, almost certainly know, any ritual, especially one worked by oneself, requires a huge amount of concentration. Well, imagine trying to concentrate when the small chamber you are in is filled with battle!

Yes, even in here, the mortals found something to fight!

It seems that some of the coins, and one of the larger coffers, were in fact guardian creatures. They called them “Mimics”, though this word has no meaning to me. Whatever they were, they were able to perfectly imitate the items they were spoofing, and so were able to surprise everyone with their opening attacks.

I shall not wallow in the details of battle, except to say that it was a tough one. The monsters were quite resilient, and the larger one made life miserable for all by spewing blinding, stinging gas, and at one point, disturbed my ritual by giving out such a terrible shriek that I was quite unable to think of anything for a moment.

And of course, no sooner had they been dispatched, then the dragon himself appeared outside the chamber; roaring, coiling and railing against the Arjiin portal with his claws and spirit fire.

Well, we were as good as dead I thought, and though my instincts told me to try and flee, or to offer the mortals up as some kind of bargaining chip, I continued with the door making, hoping that the mortals might at least slow Gasharo down enough that I could escape.

At first they seemed to pin their hopes on the door holding the raging T'ien Lung back. However, they realised with horror that the monster would destroy it long before I could weave my portal, and so they began to panic.

“Is there a secret way out?” Screamed one idiot.

“Maybe there is a powerful item we can use against him!” Screams another.

“Maybe we can threaten to smash something he loves!” Bleated a third.

And then a frenzy of activity whilst they search for non-existent exits, non-existent super weapons and non-existent treasures.

A moment then, the door denting and warping in its frame, the air filled with the deafening rumble and bellow of the dragon's rage, where the mortals simply seemed dazed by their predicament; the realisation that they were going to die in that place finally settling into their minds.

And then something amazing happened.

All at once the mortals began to scream at the dragon, the water spirit translating the words of their woman, whilst the others chipped in with ideas for what to say. He spoke of mistakes and pacts – words that Gasharo spat down in his rage, reminding them that there had been no mistake when they had slain his three captains, freed his prisoners and murdered scores of his troops. They spoke of misunderstandings and apologies, but Gasharo merely railed against the door some more.

And then they threatened him!

Even lost, as I was, in the casting of my door, this seemed like suicide. However, I fancy their words had baffled the dragon; a creature used to seeing his enemies flee at his mere presence. So, to have the soft little mortals then seriously threaten him, seemed to give him pause – long enough, I am pleased to report, for me to masterfully weave my escape portal, and for the mortals to grab some treasures before they fled.

Gasharo did however, have his revenge.

He had actually begun, as a fine, golden mist, to flow into the chamber as we left, and sent a burst of spirit fire through that singed my tails. However, this was naught compared to the revenge he then took on the village the mortals had sworn to protect – already aflame from the vengeance of the dragon's Oni. It was too terrible to tell of, and the mortals - shameful, dishonourable things that they are - decided to leave the site of their failure alone, and to seek new lands far away from their disgrace.

I had planned to follow them a little while, to see what they would do in the face of adversity. However, so disgusted was I with their cowardice and lack of accountability, that I left them to fend for themselves. I believe they are heading south, to seek a port. I suspect they will sow even more ruin before something stops them.

May the ancient masters keep them far from my door."

Shnecke's Wolves - Session 10

2011-12-29T16:18:00.000Z

1:13 – 11:35 – The Kitsune's tails are rescued by the swordmage and Ulnyrr, and then, despite the parties arguments against, the pair try to rescue the wretched people sat, staring blankly in the other cages. In the end, they manage to rescue only five; the rest either refusing to move, or falling to their deaths, impaled and splattered on the stalagmites below.

“Why?” Snarls Grigori to the barbarian as he clambers down the chains, two shivering women thrown over his massive shoulders.

The Ulnyrr gives a cold grin, and simply licks his lips.

Understanding at once, his hunger suddenly returning in a flash of almost painful fire within him, the priest nods, and manages to hold his own pale features in a neutral expression, afraid that the good hearted genasai, or his other squeamish allies may object if they realise the source of the undead's sudden “compassion”.

Nendenaki, having attached his tails, is now wearing the form of a wizened old man of Kai'Yassanian appearance, his attire the simple garb of a peasant farmer. Even in human form his “fur” is silver, and his eyes brilliant green.

“So, what now? It wont take the Oni long to work out we are not dead, and we really do not want to be here when Gasharo returns. I can open a portal to the mortal plane if you wish, though it will take me a little time to do so.”

Everyone nods at this suggestion, eager to be away from this plane and more importantly, the wrath of the T'ien Lung.

“Or,” He continues, his face suddenly taking on a cunning look, his green eyes becoming slitted as a grin curls his wrinkled face, “We could locate the hidden entrance to the monster's treasury that must be here somewhere, and steal his stuff before leaving.”

Everyone looks dumbfounded. “You mean?” Begins Lia.

“Oh yes.” Replies the Kitsune. “Many times have I seen the T'ien Lung here, only to see him slip into some hidden place within the rock. It doesn't take a genius to see the sense in hiding ones treasure in a place as inaccessible as this does it?”

No one can argue with the spirit's reasoning, and it is decided that they are due a little reward for their efforts.

“Let's get searching then.”

11:45 – 11:50: A cunningly hidden doorway, 6' across is located, cut into the ground. Jaeger and Varracuda spend a few moments checking it over for any signs of warding spells, guardian mechanisms or other unpleasant surprises. They find nothing.

11:51 – 11:53: Lia, to the utter amazement of her colleagues, grabs hold of the massive chunk of solid stone, and with barely a grunt, hauls it from its resting place, revealing a tight coil of stone stairs which drop into the belly of the rock. The stairs are curious in that they do not appear to have been carved with chisels or hammers, but somehow shaped from it, much like a potter shapes clay – a sign of potent magic being used.

It is decided that Jaeger shall take the lead, his keen eyes able to spot any harmful wards placed on the way. There is some discussion on what to do with the prisoners liberated by the genasai and Ulnyrr, with Nendenaki suggesting they are sent down first to locate any “surprises” (an idea that not everyone disagrees with). However, it is decided to keep them at the back – though they continue to show little real awareness of their situation or concern about their fates.

11:54 – 12:05: The assassin moves ahead, his gaze scanning the stones, walls and floors for anything harmful. Progress is slow, and in the claustrophobic confines of the coiling steps, the group fight to keep their breathing steady.

“How can a massive monster like the dracani fit down such a narrow stairway?” Wonders Shnecke out loud, his voice a harsh hiss in the darkness, his eyes cold circles of bloody light.

“He can become mist.” Replies Nendenaki in a voice that suggests the answer should be painfully aparent, “Like all T'ien Lung.”

12:06 – 12:20 - The group reach the end of the stairs after descending some 35', a gaping darkness looming beyond the last step. Grigori leans over, and calls for Jaeger, the assassin silently fading into view next to him, before, without a word, leaning over the final step, allowing his senses to reach out into the utter darkness below.

“It's a vast cavern.” He reports, his voice a hollow whisper, “The floor is at least sixty foot down, and the walls, at least a hundred foot removed. Lots of stalagmites and stalactites.”

“I have a rope that should reach.” Replies Grigori.

The group wait whilst a rope is tied around the bottom step, and dropped into the darkness. Grigori immediately moves to begin climbing down, whilst Shnecke activates his Feather Fall ring and steps into the void. At the back of the group, the dazed humans rescued from the cages are encouraged to sit on the steps, and to wait for the parties return.

Everyone else clambers around the top of the rope, watching the priest and the barbarian, clearly outlined by the glow of Grigori's enchanted lantern, as they drop into the darkness towards the caverns floor...

Zunde, an ancient being of elemental earth, bound to the service of the dread Gasharo, awakes, the stillness of the cavern disturbed the arrival of scurrying, soft, warm bloodied things. Thrumming power rumbles silently through his body, and the ground around him, alerting his lesser kin to the danger, and with a deep roar that booms like a shockwave he unfurls his massive bat-like wings, flexes his four muscular arms, and leaps into the air, swooping towards the robed mortal on the ground, who frantically searches for the source of the noises he can hear, a melted sword held high in puny defence.

...Gargoyles, hidden amongst the forest of stalactites and stalagmites swoop in to harry Shnecke and Grigori, and before they have even had chance to raise their weapons or to utter the words to a spell, both are bleeding heavily, attacked from above and besides by the fleeting, shredding aggressors. Five of the monsters are roughly the same size as a human; rocky, daemonic creatures with grotesque horned heads, bat-like wings and razor-sharp claws. One however is three times their size; a four-armed brute with luminous red eyes and fearsome, unnatural strength.

Seeing the critical state of their allies below, and the circling monsters that even now prepare for their next assault, the rest of the group scramble to get down the rope. In his haste, Varracuda slips, and tumbles to the floor. Fortune however smiles upon him, and he manages somehow to briefly snare upon the rope, slowing his tumble somewhat – though he is still seriously hurt when he smashes, standing, to the ground.

Jaeger opts to stay above and to fire at the monsters from the cover of the stairwell's exit, whilst Nendenaki and Lia begin a slow clamber down the rope to the battle below. Thatari hangs back, offering to keep an eye on the humans.

What unfolds is a desperate battle.

The ardent struggles to climb down the rope, and at one point is almost killed by Zunde when he turns his full attention to her; slashing her sides with his claws, trying to dislodge her and send her wailing to a painful, sudden stop far below. The rest of the group fight desperately against the gargoyle's hit and run tactics, struggling to land blows against their elusive enemies, though little by little, they begin to pick apart their foes. The battle is rough however, and within moments all of them are left bleeding and panting, weak and light headed from the gargoyle's relentless assaults.

Zunde proves a truly awesome enemy, and Lia fears that she will soon be slain by him, as she endures another ripping flurry of clawed slashes at her flanks, her blood falling like crimson rain to the stones below. Weakening, she begins to lose her grip, and fights desperately to move safely to the ground, so she can properly defend herself. However, Zunde gives her no chance to gather her wits, and it is only a twist of fate against him that stops his focused attacks on the ardent; his wings clipping the rope to which she clings, his flight suddenly upset.

With a bellow, the massive gargoyle crashes to the ground, his stony flesh cracking as he crunches into the stalagmites that cluster below, the air filling suddenly with both his roars of pain, and billowing clouds of gritty, choking dust. Seeing him downed, the Ulnyrr charges him, axe raised, his eyes feral in the flickering gloom. Reaching the horror he jumps up and hacks down at it whilst it struggles to rise. The axe chops in, but to his horror the stone where the blade touches turns liquid, forming tentacles which reach out, trying to rip it free from Shnecke's hands. With a roar, the barbarian shifts his blade aside, plunging it into a still solid area, scoring a solid hit. The blow is accompanied by a devastating roar, which sends a terrible blast of elemental thunder booming forth on the wings of the Ulnyrr's battle cry, weakening the stony hide of the beast. Berserk, the Ulnyrr is not yet done, and with a howl, he focuses his fury into another ferocious blow, hoping to end the fiend before him quickly. However, the massive gargoyle turns aside the worst of this blow with an arced, intercepting wing.

Varracuda also darts in towards the downed monster, his body wreathed in crackling sparks, the air around him sharp with ozone. A burst of lightning, focused through his blade, sizzles into Zunde, tearing through the minute fractures opened by the barbarian's attack, chipping a sheet of stone from his forehead. As this stone slides free, it reveals a pulsing, violet sigil on Zunde's forehead, rendered in tiny shards of crystal.

The party piles in, the lesser gargoyles desperately trying to distract them from their downed lord, raking at the adventurer's with their talons, shrieking deafeningly. However, the party ignore them as best they can, and focus on bringing the deadly brute down, raining blow after blow upon him, his weakened skin allowing them to sink deep into his living stone body.

In the end it is Grigori, wielding the snarling chainblade of Balskus Morvel, that ends Zunde, the powerful artifice weapon chewing through his stony hide as if it were paper. The massive elemental monster shrieks in pain, his life force finally spent, and crashes to the ground in cloud of dust and hot, peppery air. As he dies, so the rune on his forehead pulses with malevolent light, sending a wave of pins-and-needles through everyone in the chamber as its magic is unleashed – an alarm beacon, sent to Gasharo, that warns the T'ien Lung of his primary guardians death, and that his treasury is being invaded. In response, a thousand tiny bells, like delicate crystal wind chimes, begin to ring around the chamber, and everyone realises at once what the sound means.

“Change of plan!” Screams Grigori, “Nendenaki, get that portal open, everyone else kill these bloody gargoyles! Fuck the treasure, we need to get the hell out of here.”

Several members of the party agree with this, and the Kitsune (grey from blood loss, having been seriously wounded by Zunde, and rescued by Grigori and Lia's restorative powers), begins to inscribe a circle of runes on the bloody floor of the cavern.

“Wait!” Yells Varracuda, smashing one of the remaining gargoyles out the air (only two remain now, the others having been chopped down into piles of fuming rubble), “What if we can locate the entrance to whatever place holds the dracani's treasures? Could we not hide in there, or at least use its defences to slow the monster's approach?”

Jaeger fires his crossbow in the face of one of the remaining monsters, wincing as his own wounds grate against themselves, feeling a hot line of blood arcing down the small of his back. “Could be a good idea.”

Varracuda nods, breaking away from the whirling melee, and allowing his senses to slip into a different level of being; a level where the lines of magic are clearly visible. It takes him a while, but soon he can see the various energies as pulsing webs and lines of light; the rigid, edged lines within his allies weapons and armour, the flowing, liquid lines of spells being woven and focused. He can see the dazzling mists of innate power flooding through the gargoyles as they try to draw upon their own magics, and sees the lights go out entirely in one as it is brought down, and shattered by one of the Ulnyrr's deadly attacks.

Scanning the chamber, the air is thick with the magics of the triggered alarm; a confusing “static” of grey and violet energy that makes focusing on fine details difficult. Luckily, what he seeks is neither small or subtle, and he quickly locates a section of floor, 10' x 10' that is covered in a layered net of stable magics, that he immediately recognises as an illusion.

“Over there!” Yells the swordmage, pointing, “An illusion covers something.”

With a force of effort, he focuses a wave of disrupting energy towards the illusion's nets, breaking them like a strong breeze ripping cobwebs. At once, everyone looking at that area sees a heavy circular doorway of Gothniir appear, set into the floor, its front heavily armoured with scaled plates of the hard golden metal.

“Get it open!” Bellows Varracuda, allowing his senses to slip back to normal, a wave of dizziness briefly stealing his breath. “Get it open before the dracani arrives!”

The last gargoyle, almost cracked open, has furled its wings around itself protectively, and hardened its flesh, becoming all but invulnerable to the attacks of the group. Frustratingly, they can see the cracks in its body slowly mending as its innate regenerative powers begin to work, restoring it slowly to full health. Whilst Grigori hammers at the thing with the artifice weapon, hoping its sharp teeth will find some weakness and open the monster up, the rest of the group scramble over to the revealed portal.

12:21 - “It's a bi-metallic strip.” Mutters the assassin after a moments examination, “A powerful source of heat must be used on the door to activate its mechanisms. Without that, the door will need literally days of hammering to get open.”

“It makes sense,” Replies the Kitsune, his ritual abandoned now that a possibly more secure locate for it to be worked has been found, “A T'ien Lung can breathe fire hot enough to vaporise stone. Luckily, Arjiin, is harder to melt than almost any other metal or stone.”

“Arjiin?” Asks Jaeger quizzically.

The Kitsune taps the Gothniir.

“Ah.”

Ormid et al - Session Report - 12/12/2011

2011-12-22T22:00:00.000Z

00:24 – 00:40 – It takes the group some time to locate the tower of the Disciples of Change. Llewellyn and Shadevia both clamber up a nearby tower – the vyrleen almost coming to a nasty end when his clambering causes a large section of tower wall above him to slip and tumble down.

On the roof, the vyrleen finds that his eyes are barely able to penetrate the darkness and thick smoke that veils the inner districts of the city. However, with eyes born to see the subtle variations of shadow that make up her home plane, the shadeling is able to spot a wide, circular road that surrounds the central districts. At regular intervals along this road stand circular plaza's - filled with smoke, rubble and in some, bodies – about 10 in all. In the middle of one of these rises an impossible tower of smoke, glass and fire.

“Found it!”

“Where?” whispers Llewellyn, peering into the night.

“On the other side of the column of smoke rising from the south...err...hang on...”

As she watches, the tower begins to shimmer strangely, illuminated by a colourless light that seems to spring, vital and bright from the edge of the plaza. The air around the tower becomes agitated, and suddenly seems to blister, the tower becoming hazy and ill defined, as if seen suddenly through a smeared lens.

“What's happening?” Asks the vyrleeen, still unable to see anything through the smoke that billows across the city.

“It's changing it's.....hang on...”

In the middle of another plaza, at least a mile or more removed from the one in which the tower stood a moment before, the air begins to seethe and blister, and suddenly, another tower – a leaden thing of black stone, covered in glowing golden runes and pulsing with a blue aura of power – manifests. As this tower appears, so the first vanishes, becoming a formless blur surrounded with coruscating light, before simply vanishing.

Llewellyn sees the shadeling's mouth fall open, and begins to whine at her, begging to know what she has seen. Shaking her head, Shadevia explains that the Disciple's tower appears to teleport and to change form, apparently moving between any one of a number of pre-set locations.

“We can catch it up.” She grins.

00:46 – 01:10 (5/1/50) The group move through the shattered streets, now focused on a definite goal. Around them the horrors of the upheavals are plentiful; dismembered or burned bodies, bloated and flyblown, lie in piles or twist slowly from gummy ropes thrown over charred and exposed beams. Slogans written in Lower Malgorothian declare unknown hatred or rhetoric, whilst scattered remnants of normal life incongruously lie amongst the carnage, highlighting the stark contrast between life here a few months ago and today.

“So, we find one of these plazas,” States Ormid, his massive artifice arm whooshing as his forced march causes him to swing it, “and we wait until the tower manifests. Then then we rush up to it, and demand to be let in.”

“And if they refuse?” Asks Llwellyn.

“Den I have the key.” Replies Vladislav with a nasty chuckle.

01:11 – 01:13 – The group arrive at the wide street that encompasses the central districts, a sign declaring it Cercle Rue. It is wide and paved with rosy stone, though its beauty is marred by the ash, soot and blood cooked onto it, and buried beneath rubble and debris. Moving to the south, the group soon come across one of the wide circular plazas. No one is here, though a stray dog tugs at something buried under some rubble by one side, and a grotesque guillotine stands, stained dark with blood, at its northern edge.

01:13 – 01:26 – The group stand waiting, the night burning around them. They note the sounds of gunfire splattering from the inner districts, and see several large, shuddering bursts of light from something within the heart of the city, followed moments later by flat, ugly rumbles. At one point a ragged looking man, wearing dirty and bloodied military garb and carrying a musket, stumbles into the plaza. However, he flees almost at once upon spying the group, ducking back into the darkness of the shattered buildings that surround it.

Time seems to drag, and for a moment, the group are not sure the current plan is a good one. However, just as they are starting to draw up plans for tracking the shifting tower, the air in the middle of the plaza begins to boil with power, a previously unseen ring of carved runes flaring to brilliant, yellowish life around its perimeter.

The air buckles and writhes with energy, and those with eardrums feel them pop as dimensional pressures are exerted across the area. Gusts of hot wind burst from the central area, throwing up cloud of debris, and everyone is forced to turn away from the manifesting tower by its bite.

A booming rumble shakes the ground and air, and suddenly the winds die down.

The tower has arrived.

At this time, it appears as an unreal tree with a trunk of silvery-white metal. Its canopy is apparently woven from roaring emerald flames, the branches reaching into them clearly holding chambers and rooms. Hanging from the “canopy” are a number of curious structures, made from the same metal as the trunk and branches. Each is pendulous, and vary in size from a couple of feet, to several meters in length. The larger ones have windows and are clearly some kind of hanging chamber. The others however, seem to be something else.

Llewellyn blows a low whistle, and picks up a nearby piece of rubble. Then, before anyone can stop him, he throws it at one of the smaller hanging objects, closer to the trunk of the tower tree.

The stone flies lazily through the air, and comes within inches of the vyrleen's target. Then it strikes some invisible field, and in a burst of white smoky energy is transformed into a dove, which immediately flies away.

“Oh?” Gasps Ormid.

“Polymorph field. Potent.” Replies the Helldazzler.

“Well, it need to come down if we are going to get in.”

“And we need to do it before the tower decides to move on.” Answers the warforged.

Ormid nods, and peers at the trunk, noting a curiously waxy glimmer to its surface.

“They're using transientum I think, as the basis for a random clock to trigger the move.”

Everyone looks at the artificer like he is speaking another language. Tutting, he explains further.

“Transientum is a strange crystalline substance formed in the psychic plane by particularly potent dimensional pressures. Once formed, it enters into a curious cycle of decay, shifting gradually from the immaterium to the physical plane, and then, once fully manifested in this world, back, slowly to the other.

“You can, with effort, control this decay, and use it as the basis for a timer. It's not easy, but if it's done right, it can be very, very effective. I think they have used such a system to activate the gate engines within this structure, and would hazard...”

He trails off, casting his eyes over the structure, de-constructing it in his head, and analysing the systems needed to accomplish its feats.

“...That the engines can be delayed through the correct application of arcane pressure.”

“Vot about da polymorph field?” Asks Vladislav.

“The hangy thingies.” Replies Llewellyn, a gleam in his eye. “Seen something similar before. I reckon I can crack one open, and shut it down.”

Everyone looks doubtful, both because the field seems to cover them all, and because they are suspended at least 60' above the floor. Seeing this, the rogue only grins.

He then speaks a soft word of power, and everyone feels a prickling energy flicker through the air. At once, Llewellyn begins to float off the ground, a ring on his hand shimmering with pearly light.

“There are several that hang outside the field, probably to ensure it stays stable and doesn't go lashing about, turning anyone passing by into pigs or something. I think I can make a hole in the field – a thin one mind – by messing with one of them. Just give me a mo.”

01:27 – 01:30 – Alas, Ormid is unable to hold the tower in place, and before the vyrleen can open a safe way through the polymorph field, the gate engines rumble to life, and the vast structure once more melts into nothingness...

...Only to re-appear in the same place a moment later, now in the form of a great spire of glowing white crystal and gold rutile.

01:30 – 01:32 – Having had some practice, the artificer reaches out with his art and quickly locates the potent magics that drive the gate engines. Gritting his teeth, he mentally grasps them, and applies enough arcane pressure that they grind to a halt, the local planar fabric throbbing with the power this requires.

For now, the tower isn't going anywhere, though he knows his “grip” will begin to slip sooner rather than later.

Whilst he does this, the floating vyrleen locates another of the access devices (which now appear as large crystalline lanterns, hanging from complicated hooks of luminous runes), and plunges straight into trying to safely open and then to disable the mechanisms within. This is not as easy as he initially thought it would be, and he nearly trips an internal protection enchantment. However, his expertise wins out the day, and after several tense moments of jabbing, twisting and carefully cutting, everyone feels an icy tingle in the air, as a section of the unseen polymorph barrier collapses.

“Done it!” Yells Llewellyn, drifting back down, “Though we all need to be pretty careful. I reckon there is only about a three foot section that's safe.”

The Veteran and Vladislav – both clad in bulky armour – don't look too happy about this.

01:34 – 01:36 – The exact edges of the defences are located by throwing several pebbles at the supposedly cleared area, those contacting the still active area immediately becoming beetles or flies. With the safe zone more clearly defined, the group begin to move through, Ormid waiting until last, sweat pouring from his brow, as he holds the struggling gate engines in check.

The Veteran almost has an unpleasant experience when his bulky form strays into the danger zone, a violent ripple of transmutational magic coursing through him, trying to re-sculpt his form into something new, harmless and unintelligent. Luckily, his unnatural constitution serves as a barrier against its terrible, warping passage, and he emerges within the field unchanged.

With everyone through, Ormid, with a gasp, releases the magics enmeshing the tower's gate engines, and leaps through the breach. At once the air begins to seethe with dimension breaching magics, the artificer's teeth aching from its rush.

However, Llewellyn runs up to the great double doors that open into the tower before them, and with a yell, begins to hammer on them, his fists creating a surprising amount of noise in the building beyond. Almost at once, they swing wide, and the group are met by a rake thin, shaggy bearded old man, dressed in a truly archaic style; long dark purple robes of heavy velvet, covered in crescent moons, pentacles and other arcane symbols. Atop his balding pate rises a conical hat, marked with the same symbols as his robes, and around his neck hangs an ornate symbol depicting a crescent moon bisected by a multicoloured flame.

He has a wild look; staring, protuberant eyes, prominent, hollow cheeks, and when he speaks, it is clear he only has a few teeth remaining in his head. He speaks with a heavy, nasal Lower Malgorothian accent, though thankfully, in tradespeak.

“Oo de 'ell are you? Coming 'ere and bashing on ma' door?”

Llewellyn grins. “We are...”

He is shoved aside, and Ormid steps before him, giving the mage a somewhat forced smile. His hands held up in what he hopes is a placating gesture.

“My name is Ormid Thefler. Dragon slayer, time traveller and master artificer. We would like to ask...”

The mage seems to swell up with anger.

“Yeu are not welcome in zis place, and must leave at once! 'Ow dare you tamper wiz our defences!”

Ormid stops talking.

“Listen you,” Pipes up the rogue suddenly, “Why don't you go back to your sweeping, and let one of the real mages talk with us eh?”

Everyone flinches at the insult. The mage's grey face turns a strange shade of blotchy purple before...

...The door swings fully open, revealing a well built young mage, dressed in the same garb as the first. He gives the rangy mage a judgemental glare, shaking his head, and to the groups amusement, forcefully hands him a broom.

“Àelon, I believe zis is yours?”

The other mage looks like he may burst, but manages to choke out an apologetic confirmation in his native tongue, before retreating into the corridor beyond.

The young mage smile at the group, his pale blue eyes shining. “Bonjour. I am Anton Azvierre, arch-mage of the disciples of change. You must have quite ze reason for coming 'ere and risking not only ze dangeurs of ze city, but also ze wards of our tower. Given zat, I am willing to listen to your tale, zo” He pauses, a moment, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “I am not so impressed by ze company you are keeping.”

His last comments are clearly pointed at Vladislav, who manages, somehow, to keep his tongue in check, though the spikes on his gauntleted fists snap out in irritation.

06:40 – The group, having talked into the night with Anton, won the help of the disciples, and then slept, prepare to leave the tower to help Vladislav in his hunt for Siskeer. They know, thanks to the divinations of Rammanum, that their prey lairs within a desecrated temple once dedicated to the Goddess Daragnae'Jaedala – Goddess of motherhood, birth and nurturing – and is accompanied by more soldiers, and several “Cannon Golems”; walking siege engines. They also know that the deadly Count Vorgor Khebletzi is with him – a man who, according to the Helldazzler, could be more than a match for their entire band by himself.

Vladislav does give the group the option of leaving without him, but they chose to help him complete his duty, recognising that he has helped them many times already, and is deserving of their support.

Yirlantir's Ghost - Level 20 Controller

2011-12-17T23:44:00.000Z

Firstly, a game report is on its way! Finally got a game last week, and just not had the time to get the write up done.

Secondly, I tend to plan my adventures in a fairly sandboxy way, even when the setting would seem to be quite restrictive. This ensures that when my players predicatably do something I would never have forseen, I am at least 60% prepared. In the case of the Glorious Brick and its ghostly inhabitant, I was not sure if the group would realise that the ghost was of more use to them - ahem - "alive" than dead, and so prepared the stats for poor Yirlantir, just in case.

If you are a regular reader, you know what actually happened. However, just so you know what they may have faced, here are the dead ghaerduun's stats.

Enjoy (and remember to add +10 to the stat modifiers listed in the lower section)

Angel Minor of Azrael - Level 11 Elite Skirmisher

2011-12-09T11:44:00.001Z

With characters levelling up, illness, and RL tasks, there has not been a game for a couple of weeks - hense no updates. However, here is a monster that Grigori and the gang managed to avoid when they first returned to the Tortured World - An Angel Minor of the Weeping Angel, Azrael; The Silent Shepherd.

(Add +5 to the stat modifiers at the bottom for half the monsters' level)

"They are spectral things, surrounded always by ghostly funereal wrappings, and phantom pressures. In form they are like their Lord; humanoid skeletons dressed in flowing robes, bearing a great scythe and an hour glass. Though I am sure they do not need them to fly, each also bears a pair of raven like wings, which they flourish during battle, giving them a terrible, dread majesty. Few of a sane state of mind can stand to be near them long, and simply die of fright. I myself can hardly sleep now, knowing that one day, when my time comes, it shall be one of these terrible things that comes to take me away...

- From "Reflections on past Glories" , by Azfarael Nar'Hezz

Carnox - Level 12 Skirmisher

2011-12-02T12:45:00.000Z

Found this fellow - a giant fey cat used by the aelwyn as mounts and war beasts - lurking in my monster vaults, and thought I would share. Don't forget to add +6 to all the modifiers listed after the stats to get the correct overall bonus!

CARNOX (Aelwyn War Cat)

A Carnox is a sleek grey-blue furred felid native to certain fey dimensions. It is favoured for its deadly bite, great speed, intelligence, and ability to bear a rider into battle. Various strains of Carnox have been bred by the aelwyn, including the "Red Roar" and "Green Shadow" variants, and there are rumours of even more manipulated strains with breath weapons and teleportive powers.

An adult Carnox stands about the same size as a warhorse, and weighs about 1 ton.

Coming Fairly Soon - My Epic Diary

2011-11-30T07:38:00.001Z

It seems lately that everywhere you look online, there are conversations about how epic levels just plain don't work in 4e. Even the ever awesome Penny Arcade are moving over to Pathfinder to try and challenge their players (I'm going to be rather amused to see how this goes, if the "homework vs results" is the same as 3.5 - i.e. many hours DM's work undone by players in 2 rounds), and if I am honest I don't get it!

Ormid and the boys are 18th, nearly 19th level, and are well made, tough characters. I do not have any problems challenging them, and in truth, despite all the powers they will get as epic characters, simply do not envision any kind of issues with challenging them. In truth, I sometimes have to adjust things down in my games, as I realise that I may have gone a bit over the top - maybe it's the old school in me. However, as there seems to be so much talk of 4e being unbalanced and ungodly at epic levels, I think I shall document how things go with my groups when they are there....and possibly start with the upper paragon tier, as that too seems to be outside 4e's "sweet spot".

So, if you are one of those curious about higher level play, please, drop in and have a look see. Make comments, and share your own experiences.

And Gabe, Tycho, good luck guys. I loved 3.0 / 3.5, but I don't miss spending two days crafting an epic level bad guy, only to see them murdered in 2 rounds by a character wielding epic magic and a super optimised character with broken maths.

Good luck, and fair winds!

Shnecke's Wolves - Session 9

2011-11-28T16:46:00.002Z

11:05 – 11:10 – It is decided that Thatari will work on removing the warding glyph, whilst the rest of the group protect him from the next wave of monsters. The warlock nods wearily and turns his attention to the shifting, shimmering wards before him, and at once notes that they are worked in a way that causes them to re-align constantly. This, he realises, makes them potentially very difficult to erase safely.

“This could take some time.” He warns.

No one is listening however, for another wave of monsters have clambered through the ruined doors at the far end of the hall, intent on attack. There are eleven of them; eight more of the common oni with their huge two-handed clubs, and three brutes that tower over them; armoured monsters similar in form to their lesser kin, but wielding massive iron blades and a clear advanced grasp of combat.

“Watch the big ones.” Growls Lia, “They clearly know how to do more than just smash dumbly...”

“CHAAAAARGE!” Roars Shnecke, his huge axe held high.

One of the larger monsters – a Go-Zu Oni – sees the barbarian, and with its own thunderous bellow, charges. Jaeger seems to flicker like a dancing shadow, disappearing and reappearing instantly a few feet away, his crossbow clicking as he materialises, and the huge brute roars as a quarrel suddenly thuds into its chest.

The monster keeps coming.

This action seems to suddenly activate the entire hoard of fiends, and as one, they charge, leaping over the scattered arms and armours of their fallen comrades, making it halfway along the hall.

Back at the door, Varracuda helps Thatari with a particularly knotty configuration of the polymorphic glyphs, before moving to join Lia, Grigori and Shnecke in the “front line”.

Grigori enacts a potent spell, and launches a bolt of almost blinding energy at the lead Oni, denting its armoured breastplate and causing it to emit another pained roar. Lia holds, her shimmering, crystalline blade held high, waiting for an opening.

It arrives moments later.

Panting gustily with rising battle lust, the undead barbarian's eyes are wide and crimson. His waxen flesh becomes even paler than normal, and his eye-teeth have fully extended giving him an animalistic, nightmare appearance. As the hulking, 12' tall Oni comes closer, he suddenly gives a terrible howl, and throws himself, axe descending, towards the horror. The Oni responds with a deft, twisting, rising strike, that rides painfully along the inside of the Ulnyrr's arm, and sends his axe flying out of his two-handed grasp to clatter some 20' away. Growling, the barbarian draws his trusty thunderous axe, determined to kill the monster and get his best weapon back. His blade thunks into the Oni's chest, ripping apart the armour, and slashing a wide, fuming wound in its blue skin. With a scream, the barbarian's massive muscles flex, and he heaves the monster across the battlefield, hurling it towards the waiting ardent, who coldly and clinically decapitates it, its body immediately dissolving into black, oily smoke, its sword and armour clanging to the ground.

Moments later the main weight of the force smashes into the group's front line.

Chaos ensues, and another of Shnecke's axes sails gracefully overhead to land in the middle of the monster's ranks – deftly smashed free by another of the Go-Zu Oni. The monster's ranks are thinned significantly by a withering rain of shadow duplicate quarrels, spat forth from the assassin's weapon, whilst the barbarian manages – after landing several devastating blows – to lose his third and final axe to the twisting strikes of another of the larger monsters.

Lia, Varracuda and Grigori form a base in the maelstrom; the ardents sympathetic psychic powers shrouding her allies in protective energies, clearing their minds allowing them to strike harder, and accelerating their natural healing so that wounds that would weeks to heal normally close in moments. Grigori uses his prayers to confound, scatter, blast and control the enemy, all the while sending arcing beams of healing energy into his allies, whilst the swordmage jumps from foe to foe, slashing and burning them with fiery blades and jagged, snapping lightning.

Shnecke wades through the enemy, desperately trying to get to his axes, and were it not for his allies potent healing, would likely be cut down. He lobs several throwing axes at those that get too close, and manages to inflict some reasonable damage with them – though nothing compared to the harm he can inflict with one of his signature weapons.

Jaeger finds himself toe to toe with two of the common oni, and is seriously wounded as both land heavy blows on him; his ribs smashing under their power, his body sliding almost 20' across the corridor. Agonised and unable to breathe properly, he opens a dark portal beneath himself, and teleports to the top of the one of the shattered Foo Dog statues that flank the corridor. There, a tendril of healing power finds him from the cleric, and he winces as his bones snap back into place, and his lungs painfully re-inflate.

Able to function again, the shade rolls to his feet, and brings his crossbow up. Taking aim, he fires a precision shot at one of the Go-Zu Oni, the bolt sinking entirely into the clavicle, sending the monster reeling in agony.

“GOT YOU MY LOVELY!” Screams the Ulnyrr as he scoops up his beloved executioner's axe. To celebrate, he swings it up two handed and lodges it deep in the groin of one of the remaining common oni. The monster howls deafeningly, and promptly bursts apart in a shock of stinking, oily smoke.

Back at the door, and Thatari is getting worried. After a relatively easy time deciphering the peripheral glyphs, the whole thing shifted weirdly and formed a new overall glyph – though individual hexagramic components continue to alter and mutate before his weary eyes. His last few attempts to manipulate the magic within the symbol have backfired quite painfully, and the warlock knows that one more mistakenly placed application of arcane pressure could trigger the deadly ward.

Behind him, the battle has come down to the brutal five on one attack on the last Go-Zu Oni. Despite being seriously wounded, the massive monster is still a deadly threat, and manages several times to inflict almost fatal wounds on the group, its huge blade scything around it in a blur, leaving massive cuts wherever it makes contact. Each time someone tries to close with the beast, its superior reach comes into play, and it chops at them, striking more often than not. However, each time it strikes at Varracuda, the swordmage manages to flick a counter attack against it, and so, little by little, the battered adventurers take it apart, the final blow coming from Varracuda; his emerald flamed sword opening the monsters throat in a burst of black smoke and rippling fire.

As the final enemy falls, an eerie stillness comes across the hallway, the constant winds moaning and sighing through the piles of stained and dented armour and broken weapons that now litter the floor. At the inner door, there is a sudden burst of agitated magic, and everyone feels pins and needles creeping under their flesh. Turning round rapidly, half expecting to be blasted by whatever magic the glyphs hold, the party are relieved to see the massive warding symbol fading in a series of tiny, electrical bursts, its magic finally unravelled by the smiling warlock.

11:11 – 11:12 – The massive doors, now safe to open, are pulled back by Shnecke and Lia, whilst everyone else prepares to launch an immediate attack. As they open hot blue smoke pours out on the wings of a strong wind, smelling of seared wood and spent magic.

Beyond is a vast chamber, illuminated by several huge lanterns. It is built of red lacquered wood, its wooden floors covered with deep, crimson carpets. Eight massive red wooden pillars, decorated with golden serpentine dracani, support the vaulted, pagoda ceiling, and hanging from this are numerous cages within which sit bleached human skeletons.

However, no one really sees them, for in the middle of the chamber is a giant throne of gold and jade, carved to resemble two serpentine dracani coiled around each other, their faces meeting at its backrest's top. Before this stands a true monster; an ornately armoured Oni with white skin, brilliant electric blue hair and sparking, blazing eyes. Its face is hidden behind a hideous mempo, but all can see the long tusks that curve from its wide, black lipped mouth, and can hear its insane, booming voice as it draws a deadly spear of lightning faster and faster around its body.

Suddenly, before anyone can act, the Oni – almost certainly Gasharo – points the spear at the party, and the air ignites as lightning bursts forth; missing the assassin, but earthing through the Ulnyrr, setting fire to his hair and blasting him back.

He is about to charge, when Grigori suddenly gets a strange sense of something being amiss.

“Wait a minute!” He almost screams, “Just hold still!”

Shnecke seems like he will ignore the priest a moment, but manages to keep his anger in check. Reaching out with his mind, the priest begins to explore the chamber before him; the floor, the pillars, even the huge lightning spitting monster before him, searching for something that could be the source of his concern.

He finds it moments later.

With a jolt, Grigori sees through the powerful illusion shrouding the chamber. Everything vanishes in a moment, the power of the spell undone by his insight, and everyone suddenly reels with vertigo as they see how close they stand to a deadly drop.

Where there had been carpet, there is now only a void. The vaulted ceiling is gone, replaced by a badly burned and blasted mess of wood and stone, pierced by a massive hole that seems to bear hundreds of deep scrapes along its edge. A single mass of rock hangs in the middle of the chamber where the illusion of the Oni and his throne had been, upon which stand two white stone pylons carved with brilliantly illuminated runes, which flicker and dance with lightning. These it seems are the true source of the deadly magic that has blasted the poor Ulnyrr.

Holding this rock in place are four thick chains which stretch under massive tension from each corner of the room. Hanging down from these, five to each length, are vertically hung chains; taut with tension, which stretch down 100' to a large mass of rock studded with stalagmites - perfect spikes for anyone unlucky enough to fall through the non existent floor and onto the mass below. Built into these chains are cages, whose hinged bars are locked tight by the tension in their support. Inside most of these sit silent, skeletal people – unmoving and barely alive, their flesh papery and wind burned. However, in one, what appears to be a large tailless fox with silver and white fur paces back and forth.

It also appears to be swearing at the group in Low Yassanian, though only Varracuda knows that.

“Heeeeey! You up there! Yes you, the ugly one with the stupid face! How about getting my tail so I can get us all out of here? Heeeeeeeey! Yooooou! Are you deaf or something?”

“We need to rescue these people.” Gasps Grigori, looking at the half-dead people in the cages.

“What's that animal going on about?” Asks Lia, “And is it me or is it talking in the Yassanian tongue?”

The geansai nods. “His names Nendenaki, and he says he is a powerful Kitsune mage. Apparently he can get us out of here.”

The stones in the middle of the chamber begins to roar as more lightning prepares to leap from them.

“But first we need to climb over there and get his tails.”

He points to a mass of golden fur that flaps and dances in the winds from another chain hanging down at the other side of the chamber.

Lightning barks from the stones, but misses the group, scouring burning lines in the wood of the door behind them.

“Oh, and apparently Gasharo isn't an Oni at all.”

“He isn't?” Snarls Shnecke, disappointment rising within his chest.

“No. He's a T'ien Lung.”

Everyone glares at the suddenly quite downcast swordmage, wondering what the hell a T'ien Lung is. Varracuda raises his head, and tells them.

“A great dracani of incredible power.”

Interesting Epic Tier Discussion

2011-11-23T10:29:00.001Z

Personally, I am not finding it hard to challenge my near epic players, despite their massive brains and years and years of experience. However, these guys have apparently struggled, though I think I disagree with some of their points - A bit of imagination makes even epic minions "believable", and there are plenty of stories to be told with epic characters (you just have to think broader than "kill the God, save the universe" type quests!)

Anyway, I did really enjoy this. See what you think.

Critical Hits

Ormid et al - Session Report - 14/11/2011

2011-11-18T13:07:00.001Z

14:00 – 14:20 – With further progress to the back of the vessel impossible, the group decide to head towards the front.

They pick their way through the horror of the death haunted decks, though the wailing spectre remains worryingly silent.

“I wonder if it was shocked that I could see it, and has retreated as a result?” Muses the artificer out loud.

“Well, if I see the damn thing, it will find out what it feels like to die a second time.” Growls Vladislav in response.

The darkness weighs heavily upon the group as they duck their way along, their backs aching, their eyes fixed ahead as they try their best to ignore the nightmare detritus that hangs and glistens on almost every surface.

14:21 – 14:23 – More organic slime drips and effervesces obscenely in the corridor that leads to the helm room, and the group become aware of an increase in the psychic pressure; a steady gathering of the unholy, chilling energy associated with the haunting entity. In the dismal glow of their weapons, the party spy another heavy door up ahead; similar to the one that guarded the engine room. Unlike the previous door, this one appears to have a small crysteel viewing window – though with the vessel being upside down, it is low to the floor.

The atmosphere here is drenched with pent up horror. A leaden dullness seems to dampen sound and further dim the light, giving everything a deathlike, nightmarish quality; unreal and hard to clearly perceive. The horrible, soul-prickling presence is also here; breathing icily down each adventurer's neck, raising goosebumps and coiling unseen like some hovering, tenebrous serpent.

A thick pool of tarry, organic muck puddles by the door, and with a deep sense of horror the group identify that the numerous scratches dully torn into its surface are fingernail marks – the desperate scrabbles of dying ghaerduun as they tried to gain access to the chamber beyond.

Swallowing his gorge, the artificer kneels down to peer into the window, his knees sinking into the cold rotten slime. His breath fumes in the icy air, and he realises that he is shaking. The rest of the group stand still, their innate sense of looming danger screaming silently that something is truly amiss. Clenching his jaw against the shivers that now shudder through him uncontrolled, Ormid leans down, putting his face horribly close to the putrid remnants of the long dead ghaerduun, and peers into the window.

Nothing. Darkness.

Frowning, he leans closer, wiping away the spotty patina of oily muck that skins the pane. He jumps briefly as he sees his own reflection staring back at him – hollow eyed and slack faced – and silently chastising himself for being so silly, he moves his face close to the glass...

...And recoils in horror, a scream torn from him by the sudden surge of adrenaline that drenches his body...

Ormid leaps back, shaking, pale, sweating. He reaches out for the walls his whole body weak with involuntary tremors, a sob escaping his lips before he manages to get control of himself. Everyone reacts to this scene, the terror infectious, the air curdling with malevolent power.

“H-his face.” Mutters the artificer, “Peeled. Screaming...his face....”

At once the unnatural wailing engulfs the area – deafening and crushing. It resonates through the bulkhead of the vessel and turns the air to ice with its distorted, despairing screams. Suddenly, the door to the control room begins to blister wetly, and a foul, oily fluid begins to seep from its slick surface. The wailing impossibly gets louder and suddenly the vaporous form of the haunting entity makes itself seen. It is a floating mass of dimly luminous mist, constantly in motion. Shimmering and pulsing like a thousand torn bandages, the mist constantly shrouds and reveals the twisted thing within; a ghostly ghaerduun – peeled and broken, its belly opened, its lidless eyeballs boggling in its ravaged skull. It has no legs, and its arms are broken and locked into horrible shapes. Its mouth is open far too wide, the things entire face warped by the dislocation, and it is from its nighted throat that the soul-ripping sound emanates.

“ENOUGH!” Screams Vladislav suddenly, twinned balls of spitting, snarling power appearing in his spike gauntletted hands, “YOU'RE MISERABLE RIGHT? WELL, I'LL SEND YOU TO HELL SO YOU CAN SEE HOW BAD IT CAN REALLY GET!”

A fierce coruscating light tears at the looming darkness - the effulgent light of the Helldazzler's flaming and lightning infused aura. A high-pitched whine cuts through the screaming as he summons his most ferocious spell, and suddenly the wailing stops, the ghost regarding Valdislav with...

….Terror....!

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” It howls in an archaic language – an ancient dialect of Tradespeak, “PLEASE NOOOOOOOOOOOO! SPARE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

The horror that has almost crushed the party suddenly ends, the atmosphere immediately relaxing, leaving only the foetid dankness of the enclosed vessel and its bad air.

“We can work together maybe?” Whispers the ghost; no longer a horrifying apparition, but now a translucent ghaerduun, dressed in the leathers and pouches of an engineer, “I could get this vessel working for you if you like – though would need help of course?”

Panting, the group stare at each other, a sickly metallic tang heavy around the organics as their fear sweat oozes out.

“My name is Yrlantir, and I was chief engineer on this vessel. I believe that maybe we can help each other yes?”

Before the group can answer, the first wave of psychic power hits the vessel's side, spiking painfully through the minds of the group, and with a sick sense of despair, the group realise that the Ur'Leth, having sensed the change in the haunted vessels state, have renewed their attempts to kill them.

“Agreed.” Growls Shadevia

No one argues.

14:24 – 15:40 – With Yrlantir taking over the roles of the many crew members, the group are assigned to posts most befitting their skills. Ormid is initially placed with the reactor chamber – a place of wonder to him, with its dully glowing taintstone core and runic containment and dampening fields. However, he is quickly reassigned after his overly enthusiastic jabs at the consoles there see the Glorious Brick smashed hard against the jagged rocks of the tunnel, a number of warning runes lighting on several consoles to report significant damage, and of all people, Llewellyn is assigned to the enginarium,

The Veteran is put in charge of powering the weapon cells (experimental “Implosion Torpedoes” are the ammunition), whilst Ormid is in charge of managing various mechanical sub-systems. Shadevia is placed within the vessels observation chamber, her keen eyes well suited to seeing things out in the eternal gloom of the deep waters.

With everyone finally where they need to be, the huge vessel, its engines roaring to life, rights itself, and begins, slowly to edge its way out of the tunnel where it had lain for so long.

Outside, the waters are thick with the Ur'Leth, hundreds of their thralls, and formless, gelatinous things, rimed with ice, that pulse and slash in the dark. They bombard the vessel with their attacks, both physical and psychical, and warning runes begin to flash across a dozen control boards as they begin to damage essential systems, or breach hull sections.

“Get us moving!” Screams Shadevia, “Veteran, take out that massive Ur'Leth and blow us a way out!”

The engines roar become a productive whine as Llewellyn teases their settings, and everyone feels the vessel come fully to life. Ormid adjusts various systems, redirecting power and healing the wounds the Brick has sustained, whilst Shadevia works to guide Yrlantir and Veteran.

Out in the darkness twinned bursts of green-black energy erupt around a particularly massive Ur'Leth and the cloud of minions surrounding it. The monsters are immediately liquefied, their bodies caught in awful, primal energies. The spheres of power then collapse inwards with a hollow boom, tons of water flooding with a thunderous roar to fill the gap, the resulting shock waves stunning hundreds more monsters nearby. Everyone hoots with raw, savage joy, and the vessel roars through the messy cloud of dead.

Onwards into the gloom the vessel plunges, narrowly avoiding catastrophe on several occasions as it scrapes along unseen ridges, or barely avoids smashing into suddenly looming cliffs. Shadevia's sharp eyes and sharper commands however keep everyone on target, and the thump and boom of implosion torpedoes is soon replaced by the rumbling rattle of open waters pressing on the hull as they burst into a vast cavern with only one exit. With joy, the shadeling sees that far beyond that tunnel lie lighter waters, and almost certainly the surface. However, her joy curdles as something massive and tentacled suddenly rises from unseen depths and blocks the exit with a massive, circular maw, lined with rows upon rows of straight, gnashing teeth.

“Kraken!” Screams Ormid “The whoreson is still alive!”

“Ramming speed!” Screams Shadevia, her normally sibilant voice cracking and insane. “Veteran, prepare to fire torpedoes!”

“WHAT?” Yells Ormid and Yrlantir together.

Chuckling the warforged begins to prime the weapon systems again, and everyone feels the vessel pick up speed as the vyrleen opens up all the energy channels and gives the engines a brief, terrific blast of power. Ormid manages to snap out of his temporary shock and immediately begins to stab at controls on the panel as numerous warnings flare up, screaming about various systems get pushed beyond their prescribed bounds by Llewellyn's actions, and everyone braces as the monstrous mouth looms closer and closer.

“FIRE TORPEDOES!” Screams Shadevia, the Veteran responding at once, sending twinned flecks of darkness hurtling towards the looming horror. The seconds of their passage seem to last for days, and it is not until the Brick has passed into the mouth that they strike something deep within the beast, erupting and turning its guts to soup.

Alarms scream and wail and everyone is almost thrown to the ground as the shock wave hits the vessel, and as it powers through the entrails and bowels of the gargantuan sea dweller. Passing like a monstrous bullet along the entire length of the thing, the Brick emerges from its rear in a huge cloud of gore, trailing smoky columns of blood and faecal matter as it soars towards the luminous waters above.

Dead in seconds, the kraken twitches as it sinks into the darkness below, wreathed in ink, blood and it own liquefied guts...

15:41 – 23:00 – The Brick is brought within a few hundred feet of the surface. However, with the adrenaline gone from her system, Shadevia's pressure damaged body shuts down, and she passes out, bleeding.

It is decided that the group will rest, whilst Yrlantir uses “experimental” remedies to cure the shadeling's pressure sickness.

The group try to find some quarters that are comfortable to them, and rest as best they can in the death-stained vessel. Yrlantir expresses his gratitude for their part in “Snapping me out of my indulgent malaise”, and offers, once their mission in Virian is done, to help them with the remainder of their mission as best he can. “Assuming you need a submarine of course.”

The party agree.

23:10 – 23:25 – The Glorious Brick is brought slowly to the surface, and Shadevia, now recovered, is the first to get a glimpse of the Risen City.

It isn't pretty.

The harbour is choked with the half-sunken corpses of a number of large ships; merchant vessels by the looks of most of them, the waters greasy and frothy. Beyond, the rainy night is thick with smoke and darkness, the buildings along the waterfront being burned out shells. In the distance she can make out the hellish glow of large fires illuminating the lower surfaces of several vast columns of black smoke rising from the unseen blazes, whilst tatters of paper and other detritus swirl through the dark air.

The Brick rises fully to the surface in a rumbling wash of bubbles, noisily nosing aside the shattered wrecks in the harbour, and sending a number of figures scurrying away in fright.

23:40 – 00:05 (4/1/50) – The group emerge from the submarine into a wet, overly warm night. The air smells of burning and of fish, and a dismal roar can be heard coming from the heart of the city – the cumulative voice of countless fires and angry fighting. The sharp crack of discharging firearms also echoes from within the city, and everyone looks uneasy at the thought of entering the war zone.

“Do we know where the Disciples are based?” Asks Llewellyn quietly.

“Only that they are in Virian.”

Vladislav snorts. “So much for the 'Risen City'. This place is dying.”

“And we should be careful we don't follow suit.” Comes Veteran's grim reply. “Come on.”

The group move through the harbour, and into the darkness of the nearest street, hoping to find someone they can interrogate about the whereabouts of the Disciples of Change. By the dim glow of their weapons, the group can see that the streets are places of death now. Rubble – scorched and often smeared with cooked on blood – lies in drifts everywhere, and smoke swirls through the air. Rats feast on those that have not survived the riots, and the stench of death often reaches from some hidden place to tug at the group's throats.

Not all the dead are hidden however. As they wander, the group come across numerous inhuman acts carried out in the frenzy of violence that has consumed the city; corpses hanging from crudely tied nooses, bodies piled against bullet riddled, blood stained walls, severed heads spiked as grim warnings and even individuals nailed to building by heavy masonry spikes. Madness it seems has grown from the righteous rage of the populace, and what must have begun as an ordered social uprising, has rapidly turned to something far more malevolent.

00:06 – 00:16 - Soon the party are deep within the cities outer district, the darkness almost physical in its embrace. The biting smoke coils in the gloom, and the rattle of settling dirt and scurrying rats is omnipresent. Suddenly, from a shattered building on the parties left, there is a flash and a deafening bang. Shadevia, having spotted furtive movement a moment before, leaps forwards and shoves Ormid out of the way, a bullet spanking into a wall behind where his head was. Voices, roaring in Upper Malgorothian pazni, sound from the road ahead, and from within the shattered homes that line the street, and hulking armoured men, their skin, weapons and armour blackened deliberately with soot, emerge, bellowing battle cries. Up close, the group can see that each has a waxing crescent moon tattooed on their forehead and on each cheek. Several of these men also bear heavy steel shields, upon which is wrought a device - a rampant lion in black, above which hangs a triangle of three white waxing crescent moons - that Vladislav recognises.

At sight of this, he begins to swear loudly and brutally in a mix of pazni and trade, his body suddenly wreathed in a mantle of swirling flames and sparks.

“Vorgorian BASTARDS!! Where is your master? WHERE IS COUNT KHEBLETZI?”

“It seems our ally has some baggage.” Whispers the Veteran as he strides to meet one of the men.

“Indeed.” Whispers Shadevia as she raises her bow and launches a volley of arrows.

The battle is as brutal as any the group has fought, and last less than a minute. Llewellyn skilfully takes out the hidden sniper; scrambling to their position and then employing deadly hit and run attacks; shattering a shin here, crushing a knee there.

“Keep him alive!” Bellows Vladislav as he charges one of the men, an axe of lightning and acid writhing in his spiked grasp. “We need to find the Count!”

Shadevia stands back and puts her skills to excellent use; sending volleys of arrows – many of which bear fiery enchantments – into the four men who battle Veteran, Ferrous and Vladislav down the street. Ormid stands between the archer and the front line, hurling healing at his allies, and awakening various arcane mechanisms he has woven into their equipment to enhance their attacks or directly harm the enemy.

The Veteran, his guardian and Vladislav battle toe to toe with four men amongst the heaped rubble and swirling smoke of the road ahead. Three of the enemy bear heavy broadswords, which they wield with the skill of experienced soldiers. The fourth man bears a massive two-handed axe, which he swings wildly. Many of his blows are massively telegraphed, and miss their targets. However, now and then they make devastating contact; splitting armour, cracking bones and sending gore flying.

Despite the enemies initial surprise, the group rapidly get a handle on the situation, and soon all but two men lie dead.

The sniper is hauled down to the street, whilst the group turn to interrogate the swordsman they knocked unconscious. Unfortunately for this man, Vladislav looses it. Spittle froths at the corners of the Helldazzler's mouth as he drops onto the soldier's chest, and roughly grabs him by the shoulders. He then begins to scream at him in Pazni, shaking him violently, the downed man's head smacking against the rubble with each savage shake. The Veteran tries to calm him and fails, and after that, no one dares to interrupt the furious mage, even when the sounds of impact become wet, and the first lumps of sopping pink begin to glisten on the stones. Absolutely no one is surprised when the soldier soils himself, begins to fit, and then dies.

Enraged, Vladislav leaps up, his eyes wild, and begins to stalk towards the sniper. However, the group close in, hands raised, and beg him to calm. For his part, the half-conscious sniper grins mockingly at the Helldazzler, and slurs something thickly at him in pazni. Vladislav looks like he may try to barge through for a moment, but then seems to get a grip and to calm down.

00:17 – 00:23 – The group turn to the man, and with Vladislav translating for them, begin to question him. Firstly Vladislav wants to know where “the traitor Siskeer is”. The sniper grins but says nothing. Ormid tires to reason with the mercenary, his pleasant offers of freedom and survival clashing with the open threats made by the warforged. Alas, their “good cop, bad cop” routine fails, and the hardened merc remains silent.

Realising that they are getting nowhere, they begin to question the mercenary about the situation in the city, and whether or not he knows where the Disciples of Change can be found.

He remains uncooperative.

His death follows moments later.

“My friends” begins Valdislav, still panting with adrenaline, “I must warn you. These men server Count Vorgor Khebletzi, a powerful warrior Lord from my homeland who was driven out by his three neighbours after years of his attempted invasions of their lands.

“Vorgor has a bastard brother named Siskeer Yenvanovich, and as a Helldazzler, I am duty bound to find the treacherous bastard and to kill him.”

“What happened?” Asks Llewellyn.

“Siskeer was a promising abecedarian, close to becoming an initiate. His command of invocatory magic was astonishing, though he showed a cruel edge that could make him foolish. However, when his brother decided to leave his lands, Siskeer murdered several of his fellow novices, and managed, somehow to slay one of the Order's initiates, stealing a potent tome of spells in the process.

“A warrant has been issued on his head and fingers, and I will not leave here until I have completed that contract.”

Shihezzu, Ken Sun (Elemental Mage) - Level 12 Elite Controller

2011-11-14T15:08:00.001Z

The Ken-Sun were a 3.5 monster from Monster Manual V, one of three "Elemental Mages" . All of them seemed to be heavily influenced by the Oni, and when I was looking for a mini boss for the Shnecke's Wolves game, the Ken-Sun (Air) version seemed a perfect fit.

Unfortunately, as is often the case, this awesome monster has never been officially updated to 4e, so I was forced to bring it over. This is what I came up with!

(As always, the modifiers shown after the stats do not include 1/2 the monsters level - so its Constitution modifier is actually +11 not +5)

(Click to summon the storm)

Shnecke's Wolves - Session 8

2011-11-08T14:22:00.001Z

11:00 – 11:03 – Shihezzu is a Ken-Sun; a 12' tall, blue skinned humanoid spirit, with bestial features and potent magical ability. His head is small and narrow compared to his massive body, and has unnatural, bestial features; glowing white eyes, a wide mouth of blunt teeth set in black gums and a huge blood-red horn growing up from his forehead. Heavily muscled, and surrounded by tearing winds, he exudes elemental power, the tang of ozone constantly pouring from him, carried on cold, powdery currents of air, whilst corposant constantly dances amongst the diamond dust that swirls endlessly around his monstrous form.

He wields a spear of grey stone, upon which are carved runes of storm magic. Like its bearer, this weapon snaps and snarls with curving arcs of lightning, and as the group turn to face him, he points this at the ground, and channels his baleful power through it. Lightning bursts from its tip, and the party, clench, expecting it to strike them. Instead it spears the ground, a glowing ball of energy flickering into existence where it touches, coalescing rapidly into three large, pearlescent scorpions, whose claws and stingers crackle with electrical discharges.

“Ah crap!” Growls Shnecke wearily, feeling the burn in his muscles from the last battle.

“AH CRAP!” Yells Jaeger as the great doors behind them suddenly boom with a staccato of heavy blows as the common oni outside try to force entry.

“Well, this isn't good.” Mutters Grigori, raising his melted blade, his eyes shining in the gloom of the place, “This isn't good at all.”

The place in which the group now stand is a wide corridor of ancient and decaying stone. 60' across and nearly three times as long, it is lined with huge alcoves that once held Foo-Dog statues, but which now hold only their rubble. At the far end, a vast metal and silk doorway bars further entry into the palace, and huge piles of rubble form zones of difficult terrain along the corridor's length. Shihezzu floats some 30' above the ground halfway along it, whilst the scorpions waste no time in scuttling towards the party; claws open, stingers twitching.

“Here they come!”

The first of the scorpions reaches the party, and closes its razor edged, lightning shrouded claws around the genasai. Varracuda winces as he feels the chitinous appendage crushing him, and can feel the hot burn as they wounds he received outside open further under the assault. He screams however when the arachnid hauls him bodily off his feet and begins to channel lightning into him, only his innate resistance to such attacks preventing him from soiling himself.

Another scorpion bounds over the nearest pile of rubble as it charges to attack, its stinger lashing out and embedding in the priest. At once, the wound begins to fester with its venom, and Grigori finds himself unable to move; his muscles twitching madly as if a current runs through them.

Shihezzu bellows in pain and surprise as Jaeger raises his crossbow, and desperately channels shadowy power through it, sending two bolts hurtling out towards him. The Ken-Sun is sure he can dodge the incoming missiles, and is even more sure that the powerful currents of frozen air surrounding him will snatch it away even if he would otherwise be too slow. And so, he is very surprised when both strike him – one in the neck, the other in the groin – a cloud of his vital essence erupting as each bites deeply.

“WHA...?”

It is only as he regards where his wounds are that he realises the mortal had shrouded the bolts in misdirective magics, warping his perceptions of them, leaving himself vulnerable.

“ARROGANT, SHORT-LIVED FOOLS!” He bellows, before disappearing in a burst of agitated corposant from his lofty position and appearing – in a withering, dazing burst of sparks that strikes Grigori, Shnecke and Lia, burning them and sending them reeling – directly in front of the group.

Towering above them, the Ken-Sun unleashes hell. Firstly, he causes the air behind the party (between them and the gate to the courtyard) to become agitated. Frost creeps over every surface, and the group feel their throats growing raw as the air becomes painfully cold, and infused with the metallic bite of lightning. A deafening, tinny shriek suddenly tears their ears as a wall, 30' long and 15' high, of agitated, shimmering air, heavy with supernatural cold and seeking, biting lightning, manifests, its proximity deadly to them.

Next, without losing a beat, Shihezzu works another spell; a terrible torus of raw elemental lightning erupting from him in a burst, whipping over the party. Their agonised screams are lost as this strikes; filling their bodies with numb shock as it arcs through them, heating metal, fracturing bones, burning hair and flesh, and causing muscles to contract with such violence that they are thrown off their feet and to the ground. Within seconds most of the party are groaning and smoking on the ground, the massive monster and his pets looming above them.

“Pathetic!”

The party scrabble to try and gather their wits. The third scorpion joins the fray, and blows are exchanged between it and the barbarian. Lia is knocked unconscious, her body twitching as residual power from the last spell arcs through her, and as the storm wall shocks her with searing, crackling lines of energy. Shnecke howls with fury as he swings his axe at the nearest scorpion from the ground, his blade bouncing without effect from its tough armoured exoskeleton, whilst Thatari calls again upon his foul magics to undo the deadly daemon before them.

This at least is partially effective. Shihezzu senses a connection between this plane and another darker realm being forged, and turns to glare a the warlock. When the portal opens, and a foul, cloudy mass of dark black and red smoke begins to pour through, its depths filled with chattering, fanged mouths, he is ready, and shunts his reality away from it, avoiding the main strike. However, Thatari is prepared for this, and with a grin, whispers something to the thing he has called. At once, it coils around the Ken-Sun, latching onto him, and several more wounds appear in his pale flesh as they bite hard. At the same time Grigori, his eyesight fading as his wounds begin to overwhelm him, calls upon his logic prayers to send a wave of power surging through his body. For a moment time seems to freeze. Then a shockwave of power erupts from him, blasting into the Ken-Sun and his scorpion, whilst surrounding his allies in a hardened sphere of protective logic. He then enacts another potent spell, and Lia, slipping closer and closer to death, is suddenly dragged back, her whole body wracked with agony as consciousness pounces upon her. Eyes crusted shut by blood snap open, and as awareness and pain flood her body, so another wave of power sweeps out – this time the prickling energy of Lia's mind as it gives a silent reflexive scream of psychic power – the burst of vital psi crystallising as deadly, unstable energy upon the weapons of her allies.

Shihezzu bellows with frustration, unable to understand how these fleshy mortal things have managed to stand against him for so long. Then, he takes a deep, terrible breath, the air growing colder still as it fumes and boils into his suddenly distended mouth. Everyone gasps as their lungs ache in the sudden cold, and the ice that has spread from the wall behind them thickens with audible crackle. Shihezzu gives an inward smile as he feels the air within him grow colder still, the water within freezing into a million razor-edged shards. Then, with a roar like a wounded Dracani, he blasts the air back out; now a deadly fuming burst of freezing vapour and slashing shards. It hits the party like a skyship; shredding and freezing flesh. Blood blasts outwards, freezing mid flight into hard red marbles. Wounds are torn open, only to smoke briefly and freeze solid a moment later. Eyes are blinded, lips rupture, and the force of the blast picks up several members of the party and dashes them to the floor, dazing them. Varracuda snarls in fury, having avoided the blast, and rips his blade, wreathed in emerald flame, deep into the elemental mage's side, opening another wound, filled with flickering, effulgent power, in his side. At the same time, Jaeger calls upon his most powerful shadow spell, and summons four shapeless masses of darkness around the elemental mage. Each is a siphon that reaches from this universe to a plane that hungers for life force, and a very different chill charges the air as they reach for the monsters vital essences.

Agonised and recognising the deadly conjurations for what they are, the elemental mage unleashes another withering blast of lightning, and teleports to the ceiling of the vault, 40' away from and above the group. The party are scattered and disorganised; Shnecke, Grigori and Lia all prone, dazed and close to death, the warlock relatively unhurt, the assassin and the swordmage both wounded but focused. Shihezzu is also seriously wounded, his body opened in several places, the ragged wounds flapping like torn flags in a gale, a flickering stormlight shining through them.

“Be....wary...” Gasps Grigori through frozen lips, “he is filled with....elemental power.....when slain he will...” the priest coughs, slushy droplets of blood spattering the ground before him, “....explode.”

Lia fights to remains conscious, and slashes out with her blade, pouring her fading mental power into the crystal. The sword chimes with resonant power, and becomes lighter than air, sweeping out in a blur, striking the nearest scorpion in its belly, crackling up through its exoskeleton and ripping into its entrails. As she does this, the ardent feels her psychic power being returned, and feels strength and peace flooding back with it. The strange bio-feedback jolts her natural healing processes into brief overdrive, and several of her more serious wounds immediately close. Breathing easier, Lia feels her well being being reflected from her like sunlight from a mirror, and feels joy as she sees all of her allies sharing her strength, their own wounds growing more shallow, their colour returning a little.

Bellowing, Shnecke and Varracuda focus on the scorpions whilst the rest seek to destroy the flying daemon. Shihezzu is attacked both physically and metaphysically, his mind and body assaulted by the group's insidious powers. He fights every inch of the way however, hurling howling bolts of slicing hail and lightning at them, sending them scattering and inflicting more wounds upon them, before, recognising the approach of his end, sweeping in close to his tormentors so that his death throes will also spell their ends. However, his final plan fails as the party use their skills to keep away from him, and as his life is torn from him by a wave of shadowy bolts launched by the assassin, his deadly, final attack – a burst of scything, icy energy that shatters rubble and shocks the group with its cold – strikes none of the group, only harming one of his scorpions (swept on dimensional currents to the monster's side by one of Varracuda's arcane powers).

With Shihezzu gone, the wall by the first gate crumbles, and at once it begins to heave inwards under the assault of the monsters outside. Grigori also hears another sound over the din of banging and roaring, that raises the hairs on his neck – somewhere outside the building, something huge and winged is flying about.

“They're breaking through!” Yells the Ulnyrr, hefting his axe.

The group quickly dispatch the remaining scorpions, though the resilient animals manage to land several more blows before going down, and riding only on their adrenaline and the giddy realisation that they have somehow survived a battle that should have killed them, they turn to face the latest threat as the door suddenly vanishes in a burst of sickly yellow-green flame – taken out by one of the cannons on the outer walls.

Oni charge in through the smoke, flames and heat haze; more of the tetsubo wielding common oni, accompanied by hulking two-headed, eye-studded horrors like those encountered back in the physical, the previous night. The monsters burst through the smoke and flames with a terrifying roar, and charge towards the group. Almost hysterical with battle lust and fatigue, the party give no consideration to tactics, and with a scream of pained rage, simply charge the fiends, both groups slamming together in a terrible, mauling impact.

It is a massacre.

All in all, the advancing monsters are sliced and torn apart in mere seconds, their weapons clanking to the ground, the air foul with their smoky essence, though they party suffer a number of wounds in the fierce, unreal battle. Stood at the threshold of the courtyard and the corridor, the party can see hundreds more of the fiends trying to organise some kind of assault outside, whilst on the outer walls the cannons begin to shine with growing power. At the far end of the corridor in which they stand, far behind them, the huge double-doors leading further into the palace ignite with power as a crackling rune of protection activates on their surface.

Outside and above the place, still unseen, something huge roars and flaps.

“So, do we take all of them on, or try to get into the inner palace”?” Asks Jaeger wearily.

Blood spots the ground beneath the party, as their wounds continue to bleed, their strength and resolve ebbing with each moment.

“We...we have a job to do.” Growls Varracuda, “And fighting all of them might be one battle too many.”

Lia laughs, a little too shrilly, and Shnecke, with a savage grin replies. “The way we are, I reckon any battle could be one too many for us now.”

A few of the adventurers look in shock at the panting, bleeding Ulnyrr, surprised to hear such pessimistic words from him. Seeing this, the grin only widens on Shnecke's face. “I didn't say we shouldn't fight! Fuck that! If I'm gonna' die anywhere it might as well be in the middle of an enemy fortress in another world, surrounded by my closest battle brothers and drenched in the blood of my foes!”

The savage grin spreads to the others, the pain in their wounds seeming to recede as battle lust once more begins to envelop them in its anaesthetising heat.

“Let's do this!”

Shnecke's Wolves - Session 7

2011-10-30T16:12:00.000Z

01:51 – 10:30 – The group comfort the women as best they can, and after giving them some food and water, everyone settles back down to rest. The night passes with no more problems, through the terrified women sob and whisper through the long dark hours. When the group awaken, Grigori enacts his ritual about them after sending a magical message to Shi, letting her know that they are here (the warrior says she and some of her men will leave at once to collect them and bring them back home safely).

Breakfast is eaten, and with their minds made up to open the portal and hunt down the leader of the Jokiro Shukai, the group turn their attention to the Maho Gate.

“How much blood will it need?” Asks Lia, frowning.

Everyone shrugs. “Thatari, unless my mind is playing tricks on me, you collected the samurai's weapon after he fell. With your permission I would...”

“Hope's Famine”, States the warlock flatly. “It's called Hopes Famine.”

Grigori does not answer immediately, recognising the name as belonging to a truly ancient “anything” item (a device that can shift its form and function to be any kind of implement or weapon its wielder needs), attached to some of the most ill-fated endeavours in history. He knows it was the name of the greatsword wielded by High-Lord Khar'Thoran; the Solumite Paladin that lead the Third Crusade against Draxia in the 2nd Age – the most catastrophic of the seven “Doomed Crusades”. He also remembers it being referred to in association with a long dead warlord, who's troops seemed to fall to a deadly disease on another lost cause of a campaign, leaving him to fight an overpowering opponent alone – and to die in the effort.

“Ahem, well, I would very much appreciate being allowed to work a divination on the item, in order to gain some insight into how much blood the portal requires to open, as well as to what lies beyond it.”

Thatari seems to look at Hopes Famine – now an ornate rod of dark black and gold, surrounded by formless runes of black energy, and bristling with vertebrae like protrusions and unpleasant, insect like antennae. For a second, Grigori gets the creeping impression that the warlock is speaking with the implement; his lips moving slightly, his head nodding as if reaching some kind of agreement. He then fixes his strange, ghostly eyes upon the priest, and hands the item over.

Grigori likes not the way the rod feels warm like flesh to his touch, and likes less the way it seems to shift in his grasp, as if fidgeting. Placing it down on the floor with his fingertips, he then draws a circle of arcane symbols around it, and begins a ritual that will enable him to read its psychometric aura. Power floods through him as he intones the words to the spell, and at once, the runes around the rod flare with pale, bloodless light. All the group stand breathless as Grigori begins to twitch and shudder in the throes of his casting, his eyes, part open, flickering beneath his thin eyelids, their glow wavering in intensity. Power sullenly throbs through the air around him, and the Famine shimmers as if in a heat haze. Moments pass, and then Grigori arches his back and emits a strangled gasp, the runes on the floor flaring, before slumping forwards and with a gasp, erasing the circle, allowing the magic within it to drain away.

“The portal was last opened using all the blood a villager had. Beyond is a maelstrom plane; a place of endless storms, and little else. I saw, hurtling through this void, a great palace, with a path of human skeletons trailing from it. I believe it to be the lair of the monster we seek. The headquarters of the Jokiro Shukai.”

Everyone spends a moment absorbing this news.

“So, are we ready to pass through the portal?” Asks Grigori suddenly, climbing up and holding his forearm out over the bowl, “I have also seen that we should be able to open the portal from the other side, and so feel we do not need copious amounts of blood at this stage fed into it.”

With a quick flick of his other wrist, the priest flashes the warped blade of his melted mace-sword across his forearm, a dark line of necrotic blood immediately welling out and spilling into the bowl beneath. As soon as the blood touches the bowl, a filthy warmth enters the chamber, and the entire portal begins to hum with a dark power. The blood boils as if being cooked, spitting and bubbling, and thin tendrils of black steam begin to rise from it, filling in the perverted runes carved into the “horns” of the portal bowl. Everyone stares with shock, and then moves to prepare to enter the gate. Grigori brings his arm back, and staunches the flow of blood, whilst the women scream and wail in fear of the black sorcery being practised in their presence.

Bloody light wells from the runes as the blood mist fills them, and suddenly the air snaps taut with planar energy. A slight tremor shakes the chamber as the damaged fabric of reality flinches as this latest injury, and all the group watch as a doorways suddenly blinks open between the physical and the realm of the Jokiro Shukai.

At once terrific, howling wind rips into the chamber, throwing several members of the party off their feet. Lightning flickers beyond the gate's frame, throwing twisted shadows around the room, and the boom of the unnatural thunder is almost deafening. Peering through, the group can see a place of ragged, swirling, endless clouds, constantly ripped apart by impossibly powerful and long lasting bolts of lightning. There is little solid matter; only storm tossed chunks of hurtling stone, each gritty and black from repeated lightning strikes. The plane smells of ozone and ice, and appears to the group to be entirely hostile.

“Do we really need to go through there?” Asks Lia.

“The evil must be destroyed”. Comes Varracuda's grim reply.

“And I like the idea of smashing something powerful in its home world.” Snarls Shnecke with a grin.

“Right then, everyone together.” Mutters Jaeger, his shadowy crossbow materialising in his grasp.

10:31 – 10:33 - On the count of three, the party leap through the sizzling portal, the wind striking them like a physical blow the second they enter the other world. They find themselves on a huge chunk of lightning blasted stone, upon which stands a demon gate of bone and charcoal. Vile symbols are burned into its surface, and Grigori, his voice stolen almost completely by the shrieking tempests of this plane, yells that they are the key to opening the portal home from this side.

The winds are so powerful that everyone struggles to breathe, and the crash and rumble of the thunder and shriek of the tempests enough to all but drown out anything other than shouted communications. Each adventurer fights not to be captured and swept away by the howling gusts, and they all realise that unless they can find some way to safely move from this island of tumbling stone, they will be forced to head back to their own universe.

“Where is it?” Screams Jaeger, his voice a pale echo amongst the winds.

Grigori, his eyes tearing as the winds dry them, glares into the spectacular throat of the cyclonic storm that seems to comprise this realities everything, and through a ragged swathe of grey, flitting cloud, briefly spots a flash of white – the bleached bones of thousand or more interwoven human skeletons; the path to the daemon castle.

“There!” He screams, pointing, fighting as the winds try to lift him into the void. “Far, far over there!”

Everyone looks at each other, their faces clearly asking and how the hell do we get there? Fly?

“Suggestions?” Bellows Varracuda, gripping the glassy stone with whitening fingertips.

“A kite?” Screams Lia.

Most of the party look at her as if she is insane. However, Grigori says nothing, instead running through some plans I his mind. “You know,” he says, too quiet for most to hear, “that idea isn't quite as insane as it sounds.”

“Right everyone that has either a cloak, or a tent, hand them over. Poles and other solid things that can be used as a frame too.”

“Are you absolutely insane?” Screams Jaeger, his eyes red from the drying blasts.

“The Azraelite has a good idea. I calculate we should be able to make a serviceable 'wing' that together we can fly in the direction of the palace. It might fail, but at this moment, what other plan do we have?”

A bolt of lightning strikes nearby, the air shuddering with overpressure, filaments of liquid electricity snaking spectacularly across the glassy stone's surface.

“Besides, sooner or later, we are going to attract one of those, and I doubt any of us are tough enough to survive such unwanted attention.”

“Good point!” Nods the assassin.

10:34 – 10:44 – The portal snaps shut, leaving the group crouched against the stone and wind, holding the curious thing they have thrown together from the items outlined by the priest; a great, crude, curved wing of cloth, oiled leather and straining poles – useless in the comparatively feeble winds of their own world, but potentially, a vehicle in this one. Keeping hold of it in the furious, constant winds is a draining task, and everyone realises that unless they give it a go straight away, they are going to have it torn from them.

“Are you sure about this?” Bellows Shnecke, regarding the wing with clear suspicion.

“No.” Replies the cleric plainly before screaming something indecipherable and running towards the edge of the stone with it, dragging the rest of the party along.

There is a lot of screaming at this point.

10:45 – 10:47 – The flight through the tempest plane is one of the least enjoyable experiences that many of the group have had up to this point – as much falling as flying. It takes them a few moments to form any kind of cohesive plan; their minds torn between trying not to be ripped free of the device and tossed into the void, and trying to make it do something they want. However, with Grigori shouting instructions, they – sort of – manage to get the thing flying in the direction they need.

Vertigo assaults everyone, as there is nothing but shredded clouds and arcing lightning beneath their feet. The wing spins and tumbles on its way, and any sense of “up” or “down” is completely lost within moments. Muscles ache as the group try to keep hold and to force the vehicle to catch the right winds to carry them to their destination, and nausea rises within them as they spin and dive through the storm.

“There” Shrieks Grigori through a clenched jaw, “The daemon's palace. I just saw it. We are headed in the right direction, though Shnecke and Lia, you need to pull the cloth in towards you to turn us in that direction!”

The kite banks sharply, and everyone screams as they feel themselves falling. However, just as the priest says, they all suddenly see a massive chunk of rock, at least a mile across, hanging in the midst of the chaos, apparently unmoving. They can see its crumbling pagoda style roofs piled high on top of each other, as well as extensive battlements (manned by tiny, armoured forms and studded by wind bent flagpoles, topped by fluttering banners). High outer walls surround the place, and a great courtyard stretches between them and the palace proper.

“There's millions of them down there!” Screams Varracuda.

“Good!” Replies Shnecke.

“We should try to aim for one of the flags.” Yells Grigori, “Snag this thing on them and drop down to safety.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?”

There is no reply.

10:48 – 10:50 – To the oni that man the walls of the fortress, the kite seems at first to be some kind of broken bird; screeching and flapping wretchedly towards them. However, as it nears, their glowing yellow eyes spot the shrieking mortals hanging and flailing from its lower side, and they realise that they are about to be invaded.

Ugasho Zor'Ugano, an ancient Oni Mage sworn to his master, the Zanki-No Oni Gasharo, watches the curious device as it swoops in towards one of the flagpoles that stud the high outer walls, apparently doomed to snag on it. However, as the first alarm horns begin to sound, the thing is caught by a sudden updraught, and climbs high above the central courtyard, the mortals upon it screaming with horror. Ugasho grins, his wide, fanged mouth dripping with saliva, and he turns to speak to one of the common oni nearby, looking down to regard the pathetic brute.

“Warn Shihezzu of the breach, and tell the others to prepare for battle. It seems the slayers of Hiyazaki have come to seek his master too.”

He then closes his eyes and allows the potent energy of this world flow through him, using it to fuel a summoning. As the wing drops suddenly towards the courtyard, he enacts his spell, and at once two spheres of dazzling, snarling lightning energy appear besides him – each a Xap-Yaup Energon; a living manifestation of raw, elemental electricity. Over the far side of the courtyard, several of the common oni have begun to charge the outsiders as they plunge -wailing – towards the shattered courtyards cobbles, whilst the rest of the troops fight to turn the daemon cannons on the walls round, to unleash their fury upon them.

“This should be fun.” Growls the oni mage. “What a shame poor Shihezzu won't get chance to play with them all.”

10:51 – 10:53 – The impact is agonising, and no one is spared it. Bones fracture, and the wind is smashed from each adventurer as they crash into the decrepit courtyard. Prone, they find themselves looking up at the looming daemon palace, as well as at the piles of rubble that litter the yard, clustered around great yawning pits that lead to open air. Oni charge from the walls, or roar as they try to turn deadly looking cannons mounted on the battlements to face them. From the great, battered steps leading to the palace's wide double doors strides a truly monstrous foe; a 10' tall oni with blue skin and dark green hair, dressed in nightmarishly decorated o-yoroi armour. It has three white eyes, and bears a gigantic katana. Either side of it hover spheres of lightning, from which issue constantly vanishing and re-appearing tentacles of fluid electricity. It regards the group with utter scorn, and before they can right themselves, shouts a harsh spell.

Three shuriken of brilliant red and green flame appear in its hands, and it sends them streaking towards Grigori, Shnecke and Thatari. Each one finds its mark, exploding in a burst of flame and leaving a cloud of stinging, toxic smoke in their wake, blinding each adventurer. Ugasho does not lose a second working his next spell, and the groaning, dazed adventurer's know they are going to be unable to avoid it.

Ice begins to creep across the ground around them, and a million tiny, glittering shards of it begins to form around the oni mage's hand, swirling with sorcerous animation. Suddenly the summoned frost is sent out towards the group on the wings of a spell, and everyone is simultaneously frozen and blasted by it, their limbs growing heavy and leaden with the cold, their flesh waxen and frostbitten.

Lightning jags down from one of the Xap-Yaup, the energon moving with the speed and freedom of a spark. This rips into Lia, jarring her, and she tastes blood as her jaw contracts and she bites her tongue.

“Weak.” Grunts Ugasho with a chuckle, “Barely worth my time and effort.”

Unfortunately for Ugasho, the group are far from beaten, and despite his glorious opening assault, he and his allies are doomed.

10:59 – Shihezzu, Ken-Sun, Elemental Mage of the Scouring Tempest can feel as the warding prayers on the palace doors are skilfully stripped away. He has listened to the bufoon Ugasho and the footsoldiers fighting in the courtyard, and has listened as his chief rival died at the invader's hands. There is no fear in him as the great doors heave inwards, pushed by almost inhuman strength, and a sense of supreme confidence swells within his frozen heart as he takes in the weakened and battered state of the invaders – all of them ragged, bleeding and weary, having had no time to catch their breath between their crash and this moment.

They pile in, and draw the great gates shut behind them, shutting out the common guards who roar and bellow outside.

“Just you and me then.” Whispers the monstrous spirit. “And unlike Ugasho, I shall not be defeated”.

Jiki-Ketsu Gaki and Bakemono

2011-10-27T13:27:00.001+01:00

Hoping to get the last session write up done in the next couple of days. In the mean time, here are two of my conversions of earlier edition Oriental Adventures monsters, which I used in the Shnecke's Wolves game - the ghoul-like Jiki-Ketsu Gaki and the ubiquitous Bakemono.

(As always, add 1/2 the monsters level to get the correct modifier for the statistics in the bottom section; i.e the Bakemono's Strength mod is actually +7 not +2).

BAKEMONO - LEVEL 10 BASE MINION

A soliatry Bakemono is a deadly foe to the average Kai'Yassanian, though no real risk to a hardened adventurer. A pack of Bakemono however, is a whirlwind of shredding claws and chomping, merciless teeth, quite capable of bringing the unprepared or the unlucky hero to a horrific, bloody end.

JIKI-KETSU GAKI - LEVEL 11 CONTROLLER

This wretched being rises when a priest of a goodly God falls into dark ways and dies, or when their grave is desecrated. Dressed in its stained and tattered vestments, it is a gaunt, ghoulish beings with large glowing eyes and a wide mouth. Physically weak, it will try to use guile, stealth and lesser beings to enable it to target an individual with little fear of massed reprisals. Often, when directly challenged, they flee, to plot their revenge.

Ormid et al - 2 Sessions Report

2011-10-21T10:53:00.002+01:00

07:23 – 12:30 – The group spend a little time plucking up the courage to slip into the rancid broth that laps gelatinously against the decayed masonry on which they stand. They then spend another ten minutes or so (those that need to breathe) forcing themselves to inhale the foul stuff; their innate, hardwired fear of drowning overwhelming their knowledge that the artificer's potion is enabling them to breathe fluid.

In the end, Veteran has to hold them underwater whilst they panic and struggle until they have taken a desperate, horrified breath, inhaled the filthy water, and survived.

A few more minutes taken getting used to the alien environment, and they are ready to go – though they realise that they have no idea where they are going.

Pulling themselves out of the waters again, vomiting up slick threads of mucus and water, they try to form a plan. Most just want to head down and try to locate a passage up to the surface, though Ormid is sure that things will not be that simple. They pool their knowledge of the local area – which is next to zero – and what little they know of the Ur'Leth. And it is during this conversation that the artificer suddenly recalls a distant fact that changes everything.

“I have a plan!” He grins, “I think, if my history and geography is right, that there may be an ancient, experimental warship down here – the “Glorious Brick”.”

Everyone fixes the artificer with a level stare.

“Seriously. It's a legend amongst artificers! It was an experimental transoceanic vessel designed to allow for infiltration and stealth assaults. It was supposedly driven by a highly experimental engine system that used taintstone radiations to drive some kind of reactor, and carried highly innovative...”

“Read deadly, unstable and untested.” Interrupts Llewellyn with a sneer.

“Highly. Innovative.” Snarls Ormid, “Weapons. I can enact a ritual to see if I can sense it, though in truth, there is no guarantee that it is anywhere near here.”

“Why would it be?” Enquires the shadeling, her whispered voice clearly expressing her concerns about the answer.

“Ah, well!” Answers Ormid, warming to the subject, “According to historical accounts held in the library's at Lorehaven, the vessel was attacked by a kraken and to quote the report 'pull'd into thee deepe and lost reaches 'neath thee citee of thee High Theocrats throne.'

“Virian is built on the shattered foundations of ancient Crownsport, and if we are truly beneath it, then it is very likely that the Brick – assuming the tale is true and that the vessel was not destroyed or rendered inoperable...”

“Pretty bigs 'ifs' then.” Growls Vladislav.

Ormid glares daggers at the Helldazzler. “You know, if you have any better ideas Vladislav, or any of your for that matter, I would love to hear them.”

No one answers. Mollified, Ormid continues. “Assuming it is still in one piece, we may be able to find it and use it somehow to get to the surface.”

No one speaks, the only sound being the horrible lapping of the water, the bubbling breath of the adventurers, and the edge of consciousness wailing of the local psychic pressures.

“Well, it may be long shot, but it's the only plan we have other than wandering and waiting to drown.” Says Llewellyn slowly, his face showing his doubt of the whole idea.

“Good, then I shall begin”.

Ormid enacts his ritual, and at once realises that the Ur'Leth have seriously warped the local planar fabric. From the moment the spell is complete, he finds himself struggling to orientate his awareness within it, and fights to keep it working. However, after a few moments, a curiously familiar tingle rushes down his spine – a sign that the thing he seeks is definitely nearby. However, Ormid is confused, for if the ritual is right, it exists way beyond its ability to sense – at least 700' below their current location.

Groaning as the ritual's magic is released and allowed to drain away, Ormid realises that one of two scenarios just played out. One is that the spell was accurate, and that it was the localised distortion of the Physical Plane's fabric that allowed his location ritual to pick up on the distant vehicle. The other is that the spell failed, and that Ormid unconsciously injected the reading into his casting.

He decides to believe the first explanation.

“I've got it!” he crows, “Told you it was a good plan!”

With a rough location in mind, the group slip into the clammy waters once more, and begin to swim downward. Almost at once they begin to feel the mounting pressure, and struggle to see beyond the opaque sphere of muted yellowish light that shines from their weapons; muffled and smoky in the soupy water.

Down and down they go, each increase in depth making breathing and thinking that much harder. All begin to taste blood, and Shadevia in particular suffers as the increasing pressure, cold and exertion take their toll on her. All but the two constructs begin to struggle to draw in enough water to breathe, and all begin to experience a horrible, crushing claustrophobia.

Deeper and deeper, and suddenly, out of the gloom, the bottom of the chamber appears; a lowering wall of stone covered in pale funnel worms, odd anemones and translucent shrimps. Black tunnels yawn in this, and with a growing feeling of horror and trapped resignation, the heroes force themselves to swim down them, their limbs aching and shuddering with the effort.

They push through crushing, choking darkness for an eternity, and at one point are forced to hide as a group of eight humanoid creatures - piscine, wiry things, with wide mouths filled with sharp teeth and the black eyes of sharks – swim by in a patrol. Ormid shudders, recognising them as Shar'Hau'Guin; a predatory race of fish men who hunt for warm-blooded prey in the colder reaches of the ocean.

Shadevia is weakening with each passing moment, her smoky, shadowy blood streaming from her ears and eyes, her movement becoming increasingly weak and uncoordinated. Communication is almost impossible between the group, each hero having to resort to hand gestures in the gloom to get any points across, and all secretly dread any encounter involving combat.

Still deeper they push, the tunnel heading straight down. All (save Ferrous and the warforged) are suffering blinding headaches, and can feel their bones aching in the cold and crushing black, and all think they must be hallucinating when ahead they see a cold, blue-white light; blinking agonised eyes to try and clear them. However, the light is real, and is coming from a chamber beneath them, the tunnels they are in opening into its ceiling.

Slower now, their suffering minds struggling to stay sharp, the adventurer's swim cautiously to the edge of the tunnel and peer into the vast vault beyond. A dull crack announces that one of the Veteran's body plated has finally dented under the crushing embrace of the water, and all wonder how they are going to survive this endeavour.

Then they have other concerns.

Beneath them is a huge cavern, lit by the pale phosphorescence of twenty gargantuan anemone like creatures that form watch towers around its upper perimeter. It must be several miles across, though the group can only see so far through the rich, cloudy waters, and all can feel the unnatural pressures of powerful magic and psychic energies thrumming from the crowded, alien structures that fill it.

Ormid says something, but no one can understand him, his pressured vocal cords managing only a squelching moan. However, all turn to regard him, and he gestures down into the heart of the twisted place – clearly the lair of the Ur'Leth – We must go down through it.

There is no point in arguing, as there are no alternatives. In their current state they are vulnerable to attack, and Ormid would now be unable to enact any kind of ritual to bring them back to safety. Ormid has also realised that moving instantly from the depths they are in, to a normal atmosphere would leave them exposed to a deadly condition that brings about madness, weakness and then death. Compared to this, swimming clumsily through a fortified city of utterly alien telepaths and slavers is the better option.

And so they move, swimming in the open, hoping to pass for another gang of slaves. As they drop, so they get a better view of the horrific city below them; a place of organic, tentacled structures, cyclopean monoliths, and blasphemous temples raised in supplication to monstrous and utterly alien deities. Everything shines with a polluted, rotting radiance, and as the group get closer, they can see the coiling, sickening runes that cover almost every surface of the place; panting and pulsing with dire psychic power. Slaves are everywhere. Many are Shar'Hau'Guin, though there are also thousands of humans, dundorin, aelwyn, gorgoth, and other surface races; each covered in a protective bubble of mucus. The Ur'Leth are also here, though only a few – apparently keeping the slaves focused on their tasks (repairing the sickening structures, cleaning them, or carrying supplies to and fro).

Even in their pained and slightly dissociated states, the group are revolted by the Ur'Leth. Each is the size of a wagon and carthorse, and is a putrid blending of shark, fluke-worm and squid. Their overall shape is very fish like, as they have long powerful tails like sharks, and membranous wing like fins. However, long tentacles cluster around their mouths, and trail from around where their fins join their iridescent grey and green bodies. They have wide, bar-like eyes that bulge grotesquely from their bony, flat faces, and each radiates a constant bubble of the toxic, stinking mucus that covers their slaves. They shine with swirling, fox-fire lights, and a filthy psychic pressure oozes from them, leaving the group feeling tainted at its slimy, moist touch. Although to the foolish they might appear to be mere animals, they exude the controlled and calculated aura of highly intelligent, and perceptive beings.

Fortunately for the group however, the monsters are utterly off guard this deep in their own territory, and the party are able to move through the slimy towers and oozing streets below without being detected. On several occasions they are forced to quickly swim into cover as a patrol of thralls swims or trudges past, and on one occasion a potent psychic probe is deflected by a quickly summoned wall of arcane power by Ormid. However, they soon locate several blocked off shafts that seem to lead to places deeper even that this place – though by now, everyone is distracted and slowed by pain, the water's pressure enough to restrict their breathing, weakening them, and making them dizzy. Shadevia still suffers the most, and seems barely able to stand without drifting to the side in a slow, almost balletic swoon.

The Veteran tears away the stone plug covering one of the deep shafts after Llewellyn and Ormid manage, through their thumping headaches, aching chests and restricted, choked lungs, to erase the stomach turning glyph burned into it with vile aberrant sorcery, and the group slide in, wincing as the pressure seems at once to increase again. These shafts are not so long, though ominous, thrumming darkness lies beneath them, and the group pray to whatever Gods are listening that the Glorious Brick lies nearby. The waters, already cold enough to be harmful, grow colder still, and beneath their feet, and the frail sphere of light that surrounds them, the group make out pale strands of glowing slime, 10' wide and 60' high at least, rising from the depths of another vast cavern, each emitting a pale light that outlines the horrific, alien bulks of the things swimming up from below to greet them.

Everyone groans. It seems they have not escaped attention after all, and despite their seriously weakened state, they realise that they must now face and battle the Ur'Leth themselves in this, their native environment...

12:31 – 12:45 – Time and again, Ormid, Veteran, Llewellyn, Shadevia, Ferrous and Vladislav have found themselves in situations where death seemed a foregone conclusion, only to somehow, against all sanity and odds, pull through (save that one time when the vyrleen was slain by the fey giants of course). This apparently hopeless situation is one of them.

There are six Ur'Leth; four like the ones they saw in the city above, one that appears to command polluted arcane power, and one three times the size of its allies, who's smothering, choking aura of mucus reaches some 25' from it, turning the water to slime and making movement for the surface dwellers all but impossible. They fight with unholy tenacity and strength; blasting the party with direct psychic assaults, projectiles of burning, suffocating slime, and their whipping, hard-fleshed tentacles. Blood smokes the water, and the group are taken to the brink time and again as they absorb the physical, magical and psychical assaults thrown at them. However, veterans of hundreds of battles, the group enter that strange place where all experienced warriors go during battle; a place where every mistake their enemies make and every opportunity they make to harm them is magnified to their perceptions. A place where pain and strength flow into and from each other, and where the normal limits of their mortal bodies are pushed aside, and something akin to deadly, terrible art born.

The battle is surprisingly swift, the party concentrating on the massive monster, their spells and attacks – in many cases hampered by the unnatural environment, the sickening thickening of the waters by the mucus, and the toll the depths have taken on their bodies – slowly but surely opening increasingly critical wounds in its tough, resilient hide. Soon its psychic screams of agony ripple through waters now clouded with oily blood, ink and other organic detritus, and the party, though themselves severely hurt, manage to open the monster's belly wide, and to rip its huge, quivering heart free. With a final, fading psychic scream, the huge monster goes into a paroxysm of flailing tentacles and spurting, ripping contortions, all the while sinking, trailing huge clouds of gore and ink, into the depths.

The death of the behemoth seems to have an immediate effect on the other aberrations, their arrogant minds unable to process the sheer scale of the damage wrought to their most potent ally, and at once the water booms with hollow shockwaves as they summon fields of teleportive magic and flee to the city above, leaving brief spaces where they once floated.

Victory - though each member of the party knows that the fleeing Ur'Leth will soon return with reinforcements. A few moments are spent whilst Ormid does his best to heal the worst wounds; struggling as his alchemical components and restorative powders become soaked or denatured by the filthy, snot-like waters. Then, with adrenaline born of desperation surging through their tired, pressure fracturing limbs, the group fight to sink still further, towards something Shadevia just spotted within a tunnel that yawns below – a strange formation of rocks that could, possibly be something else!

12:46 – 13:00 – It is something else; the rear propeller array of a huge, cigar-shaped vessel, stuck, upside down, within a tunnel-like cavern at the bottom of the chamber. As the group swim towards it, hope daring to flare within their hearts, they see an ominous ring of writhing glyphs etched in pale flame into the stone at the mouth of the tunnel. Drifting closer, one eye always on the dark waters above, the artificer and rogue set about trying to fathom what the runes do, and quickly come to the conclusion (clumsily explained with weary hand-gestures and feeble charade) that they are designed to keep something in rather than out. Weakening by the second, the group realise that they must still risk trying to board the ancient experimental vessel, and hope that it has a breathable atmosphere within, for if not, this place will become their tomb – and soon.

To this end Llewellyn and Ormid work to disable the glyphs, struggling as their hands, numb with the cold and stiff with pain, are clumsy and quite unsuited to the task. Despite this, they help each other, and with a burst of bubbles and a noticeable, instant relaxing of the local aether, the glyphs vanish....

...And at once a terrible, bone chilling keening echoes through the water; a desperate, hollow, soul drenching ululation that seems to draw what little heat remains within each adventurer's bodies.

13:01 – 13:08 – As the ghastly screams begin to fade, the group float there, oozing clouds of blood, their flesh discoloured by bruising, and seriously consider turning back. The horrific wailing, so agonised and filled with endless despair, rises again, turning their blood to ice and their bowels to water. However, with an angry army of Ur'Leth and their thralls almost certainly heading their way, the group realise that they have no choice, and must find a way into this clearly haunted vessel.

They move along the side of the huge thing, marvelling at the resilient metal from which it is forged (a metal they recognise from their time amongst the warriors of the Faerie as Fae Bronze), and soon find a stubby tower, on top of which is set a large domed door of metal, sealed with a heavy valve lock. Pale anemone, funnel worms, crabs and shrimp luxuriate on the surface, making it slick beneath the Veteran's feet as he moves to turn the ancient valve, and for a moment he struggles, the metal having corroded somewhat. Another peal of harrowing wailing resonates from within the submarine, and waves of darkness hover about the edge of each adventurer's vision as it almost overwhelms them. Veteran strains, steam bubbling and crackling from his joints, and suddenly, with a sharp snap, the valve begins to turn, bubbles of ancient air, bursting from within.

Clearly aware of the violation of its lair, the source of the wailing steps up its aural assault, its cries increasing in volume, the sheer psychic weight of them withering the sponges and other invertebrates growing on the hull, sending them floating away in a black, lifeless cloud. Despite every sense in their bodies telling them to run and hide, the exhausted adventurer's pile in through the pressure door, and Veteran struggles to close it again, his own strength finally leaving him.

13:09 – 13:10 – A few panicked moments as Ormid and Llewellyn fumble to fathom out the ghaerduun controls set on a corroded panel in the tiny – and now very cramped – chamber. The only illumination comes from two dark red light gems, and this is diminished significantly when Llewellyn, seeing how shiny they are, pries one loose – the crystal immediately crumbling to ash as its magics devour it. However, despite their desperation and the poor light, they quickly locate a lever they believe will drain the water from the room, and pull it. To their relief, they are right, and within moments the party are vomiting up the fluid within their lungs, their retching and bubbling breaths filling the stale air of this place with the stink of sick. Out of the water, they also begin to feel the cold, their teeth chattering as they shiver and steam in this place.

13:11 – 13:12 – Suddenly the temperature drops even more, the air becoming metallic with an unnatural energy. Ice begins to creep like crystalline lichens over the metal walls, and the group feel a terrible, empty pressure fill the room. Suddenly the howling is all around them; so loud and near that it is like a physical presence in the chamber. Maddening fear coils within their minds and hearts as they become suddenly aware of another horrific din coming from the other side of the pressure door that leads deeper into the submarine; screams of panic and desperation. Suddenly a multitude of tiny blows ring out against the other side of the interior door, and what appear to be small bloody hand prints appear across its rust blistered surface, each spattering into existence as if made by a violent, blood-soaked blow.

The air resonates deafeningly with the ghostly screams and blows, and panic begins to claw at the six trapped adventurer's. Shadevia and Ormid scream. Llewellyn drops to the ground with his hands over his ears and the Veteran stands there stunned. Yelling in horror, it is Vladislav who defiantly grabs the blood slicked valve on the interior door, and with a yell, begins to turn it. The door suddenly bursts open and for a moment a nightmarish wave of melted, screaming, blood covered flesh – clearly a multitude of individuals somehow melded together – pours in; fleshless hands and twitching tentacles reaching into the chamber to engulf all within. As the psychic horror surges into the claustrophobic chamber, the wailing and screaming increases in volume until is almost obliterates all thought with its sheer weight. Then it flows over the group; its clammy, frothing, filthy energy engulfing them in its icy, screaming embrace before vanishing.

For Llewelyn, Ferrous and Shadevia, this assault is too much. It floods their minds with horror, and they find themselves momentarily overwhelmed by visions of such despair and nightmarish suffering that they are damaged both physically and psychically by it. It only takes them seconds to shrug it off in reality, but to them, they are trapped in a place of suffering absolute for a small eternity.

13:13 – 13:20 – With the water drained, the group spend some time catching their breaths and trying to fathom where to go. The Glorious Brick is upside down, and made for creatures much smaller than most of the group. This alone presents some rather unique challenges for them. Then there is the issue of whatever ghostly presence haunts the ship, its menace clearly evident from the trauma that last psychic assault has caused the entire party, even those not directly struck by it.

With the inner hatch opened, a putrid flood of unidentified organic soup pours through; a greasy, black, tar like material that stinks of ancient decay. Beyond rusting corridors of Fae Bronze, slick with the stuff stretch away towards the front and back of the vessel.

13:21 – 13:43 – With the ghostly howling once again shivering through the dank, pressing corridors of the vessel, the group climb up through the hatch and into the inverted corridor above. They discuss which direction to head in, and Ormid insists they move towards the aft of the vessel, and the engine room. There is some disagreement, but eventually, the party decide to do as he wishes.

As they go, squeezing and ducking along the dripping, rotting passages, the only light coming from more of the blood-red lightstones, the howling continues; sometimes a low, sobbing moan, sometimes a full blown scream that chills the blood and makes the air contort with its horror. The effects are cumulative and by the time the group come to the end of the corridor, their nerves are truly shot. To add to their discomfort many side chambers and corridors lead from this main walkway; empty pools of darkness seeming to coil within them. There are also fragments of the former crew scattered about; small bits of bone, rusted equipment, or ghastly “shadows” where the decomposition of a body has discoloured the metal. As well as the wailing, other impossible sounds echo through the abandoned vessel; distant conversations, laughter, the running of feet, screams and even a female voice singing at one point.

“S-s-so many lost souls.” Laments Shadevia.

“What's that ahead?” Asks the Veteran suddenly.

13:43 – 13:55 – It's a door of reinforced Fae Bronze, that has no apparent handles or other opening devices affixed to it. Above it, in what is actually the floor, is a pressure hatch. Two signs, written in the base ghaerduun language label each door, and although he cannot speak or properly read the language, Llewellyn claims that the one on the hatch warns of “harm” - though he is unsure as to whether it is a warning that what lies beyond can cause harm, or could be harmed.

Ormid decides to use his arcane sight to see if he can fathom a way to open the reinforced door, and with practised ease allows his consciousness to slip into that rarefied realm where the energies of magic become visible. At once, the howling begins again with fury, the walls shaking with its volume, and Vladislav is suddenly struck by a spanner that comes hurtling from the darkness behind them, the tool clanging loudly and painfully off his armour.

“You stupid spirit! Show yourself and I will show you that there are things worse than Hell in this world!”

Detached from the “real” Ormid sees the world wrought in strands of light and textured colour. He sees four potent points of magic in the ceiling of the chamber beyond, as well as a smouldering tangle of complex, almost certainly animating, magics in a mass a little beyond the door. A potent web of magic shivers within the door itself, connect to, yet separate from the points of energy, and he realises that there are spells on the door, which can, if handled badly, trigger an automated defence system. Peering deeper, the artificer sees something he has never seen before; a black, pulsing tangle of liquid strands, writhing and coiling around a core of their own compressed form. Around this strange mass, rigid lines of abjuration magic hang like a cage, and he realises that he is looking at the vessel's engine, and that the stories were true – it really does use some kind of tainted energy source.

Suddenly, Ormid's vision clouds, as a shifting array of static like energies impress upon his view, and the howling once again rises to a terrible fever pitch. Spinning round, the artificer finds himself looking at the source of the noise; a floating, vaporous being resembling a twisted and ghostly ghaerduun.

“I see you, you little shit!” Shouts Ormid pointing, “Vladislav, he's right there!”

At once the screaming stops, and the curious pressure that the spirit had been exerting vanishes, leaving all the group dizzy for a moment.

“Hopefully, we shan't have any more problems from him now.” Mutters Ormid.

13:56 – 13:57 – The artificer explains what he has seen, and the group begin to discuss ways to open the door. However, bored, Llewellyn suddenly leaps up onto the warforged's knee, and with a whoop, opens the hatch above. At once a burst of cold, wet air, stinking of rotten eggs and organic corruption washes out, accompanied by an icy deluge of treacle like rusty gunk. The rest of the party scream at the rogue, half expecting the vessel to instantly explode, but he leaps through the suddenly hanging hatch and into the chamber beyond...

13:58 – 13:59 – Foxfire shimmers off the corroded walls of the chamber above, though the rogue realises it was once several separate chambers. Below, the group wonder why the inside of the hatch is layered with stone. Llewellyn knows exactly why.

Rust Monsters.

Once kept as part of an experimental weapon system (a pod with a rust monster wired in, that could, in theory, dissolve a hole in your enemies' hull), long escaped, and slowly eating their way through the walls and hull of the ship (the vessel's crash broke away some of the stone lining keeping them away from it), there are currently four of them; three much like the ones the group faced before in the rotting heart of the Clouded Hills, one a hulking thing covered in black and grey mottled chitin, its eyes flickering with colourless psionic distortion. The empty shells of older generations lie in glowing piles around the room, and a cluster of pale spheres at the other end suggest these creatures have been breeding.

Llewellyn makes a curious mewling sound, and tells the others what he can see. All the Ruster's have stopped what they were doing (wandering around a massive pile of their droppings and rust fragments, trying to reach an interior wall that is currently just beyond their oxidising tentacles), and turn to face him, feathery antennae twitching as they smell the adamantine in his mace.

“Get DOWN!!!” Screams Ormid.

“Move it idiot!” Yells Vladislav.

“For fuck's sake Llewellyn!” Growls the Veteran.

Shadevia says nothing, simply glaring daggers at the vyrleen.

13:59 – The larger Ruster begins to move towards Llewellyn, and the rogue can suddenly feel a tension gathering in the air between him and it. Realising that it is about to unleash some kind of mental assault on him, he leaps back down through the hatch, which is immediately slammed shut by the warforged, and locked tight.

Llewellyn grins sheepishly. Vladislav cuffs him across the back of his head with a tut.

Common Oni - Level 11 Brute

2011-10-19T11:36:00.000+01:00

As it might take me a few days to get the last Ormid et al game written up, I thought I would share with you the stats I came up with for the Common Oni in the Shnecke's Wolves game. As always, you need to add 1/2 the monsters level to the modifiers displayed after the statistics, though all other modifiers are correct!

(Click to enrage)

Shnecke's Wolves - Session 6

2011-10-13T21:33:00.001+01:00

00:23 – 00:29 – Three ugly, hulking shapes materialise through the Maho Portal, resolving themselves into the forms of common oni, identical to the ones the group battled back on the path. These monsters bellow with fury as they are summoned to the physical, and the group get a brief glimpse of a churning, storm-riddled maelstrom beyond the door through which they arrive; a twisting, boiling place of crackling black lightning and writhing, bone coloured clouds.

The oni immediately throw themselves at the party, two of them unleashing agonising clouds of boiling copper, the metal immediately burning and hardening on the flesh of Varracuda, Lia, Shnecke and Grigori. Hiyazaki also swoops in, his eyes drizzling smoky, silvery power.

“I have something special for you. The very height of my power.”

He raises his katana, a filmy sparkling white energy suddenly swirling around his feet in a circle.

“It's a very rare technique that I ripped from the mind of a dying old man, ravaged by certain tongue loosening poisons. I hope you like it.”

The energy becomes heavy and agitated, swirling around him in a spiral, and the group realise a split second before it is unleashed that it has become a physical thing; sand-like but sparkling with millions of sharp edges.

“GLASS GHOST BANKAI!”

The writhing stuff erupts in a powdery tidal wave and rips into the party. Screams and agonised coughing fills the air as it blast them – a million shards of sharpened glass – shredding armour and warding spells, splitting flesh and gouging into muscle, bone and organs. All are struck by the horrifying attack, most of them immediately seriously wounded. Jaeger manages to warp his shadowy form enough that he receives only a single deep laceration, whilst Thatari and Grigori manage to deflect the worst of the blast with their power. Those hit by the full force of the blast are almost skinned by it, their blood oozing in thick clots through the dusting of glass that covers them. Worse, the gritty stuff is in their wounds, and every move causes them to dig deeper, worsening their already serious injuries.

Screaming with daemonic glee, Hiyazaki lashes out twice with his dark blade, opening a sucking wound across the Ulnyrr's chest. The third of the oni rumbles forth, and smashes Thatari across the head with his massive tetusbo. Grunting, the warlock is flung almost 20' across the chamber to land in a broken pile at the daemon-samurai's feet. Hiyazaki howls with more insane laughter as he sees the apparently critically wounded man before him, and is just about to begin a mocking diatribe when he is struck by a bolt of shadowy energy – a quarrel from the assassin's weapon. Hiyazaki seems about to give a disdainful retort to the small missiles apparently feeble effect. However, his words die in his throat as he feels a terrible, tenebrous venom sweep through his body, filling him with a sickening sense of disorientation. His day only gets worse when from his supine position, Thatari unleashes a fuming wave of chaotic power; the warlock arcing his back and screaming as he opens some inner portal and allows raw cosmic energy to erupt from him – a coruscating, pulsing wave of dimensional disruption, hellfire and raw psychic hate. The blast, which seems almost to be both wetly liquid and like smoke at once, hits Hiyazaki from below. It crawls over his body, dissolving flesh and armour, and strikes with such force that he is thrown 30' , where he lands hard, gasping and shivering, black vapour surging from the many wounds now torn in his flesh. Still prone, Thatari, blood streaming from his mouth thanks to the twisted syllables of his last casting, reaches towards him with a focused bolt of his purest hate. Hiyazaki screams as the mental assault explodes into his mind, shredding his thoughts and rupturing his brain, and the battle, thought a moment before to be impossible to win, suddenly has hope injected into it.

However, this is quickly stolen when Lia falls, twitching to the floor, overcome by the agony and fluid loss from her significant burns, and the heavy blood loss caused by the Bankai. Convulsing, she hits the ground hard, her eyes rolling back to expose the whites. Grigori is also knocked unconscious; the tetsubo of one of the oni leaving a dent in his skull as he flies, rag doll like, across the chamber, to smash with splintering force into the floor.

Thatari, Shnecke and the assassin all move to keep the enemy from their downed companions. The barbarian hews his axe deep into one of the oni, tearing its chahar'aina from its thick torso, and leaving a ragged, billowing wound across its guts. The assassin summons his dark power to confound another, his blows finding the weakest spots in the brute's armour, his shadowy blade sinking deep into its body before he teleports out of harms way. Thatari stalks the downed daemon-samurai, his eyes bleeding (both literally and with power). His handsome face is twisted by otherwordly malevolence, as if his body is unable to remain untainted by the dark power he focuses, and with a series of inarticulate, absolutely foul words, he summons a creeping toothed presence, which floats around Hiyazaki like a personal daemon; biting and agonising him constantly, the air in which it floats polluted with a pulsing, tainted radiance.

Varracuda, still woozy and weak from the battle in the graveyard realises that unless he can bring one or both of the healers round, the battle is lost. Swiping at one of the oni, he scurries over to the unconscious priest and begins to fumble through his belongings. After a short search he finds what he is looking for – a healing potion. He rips the cork out with his teeth, and brings Girgori's head up, jamming the neck of the bottle into his slack mouth. Snarling in frustration, he upends the bottle, and watches with relief as the potion does its work – colour returning to the priest's face, his flattened skull popping back into shape with a crackling snap. Grigori's eyes flicker open, and he immediately sits up, swaying as the pain from his burns and other wounds hits him.

Across the chamber, and Hiyazaki is clawing a the ground, nausea sweeping through him as he fights to make his brain understand which way is up and which down. Growling with fury, he considers using an attack from his position, but is unable to, the poison clouding his mind and keeping him down.

Grigori scrambles over to the unconscious ardent and winces. She is burned over most of her body, her face disfigured by the cooling metal, her clothing and hair charred and wet with exudate. Blood and clear fluids pool around her, and a thick foam bubbles, pale pink, from her mouth. Gritting his teeth against his own wound's pain, he closes his eyes and begins an incantation, calling upon his potent healing prayers in this desperate battle. Seeing this, three adventurer's battling the oni fall back, eager to be close when the spell is cast, sure that it will benefit them as well as Lia.

Smoky threads of silvery light spill from his fingers as he summons healing power into himself, and soon he is luminous with its energy. Then, with a wordless phrase, he unleashes a beautiful burst of radiance which immediately restores the ardent's ravaged body, pushing out the glass shards whilst simultaneously closing many of the wounds the others have suffered. Jerking awake, Lia almost reactively releases a shimmering burst of psychic power which invigorates all her allies close by, not only accelerating their natural healing to the point where the few remaining wounds close themselves, but surrounding everyone with a tangible field of protective psionic force.

Restored, Shnecke and Varracuda move to harass one of the Oni, and the brute, despite its deadly swings, is soon chopped down. Thatari keeps attacking the daemon-samurai without mercy; unleashing more cosmic malevolence into him, snarling with unearthly hared. For his part, Hiyazaki tries desperately to regain any kind of advantage, struggling to his feet and preparing a devastating attack. However, Grigori, seeing this, unleashes a powerful command - “HOLD!” - his word charged with potent magical energy, and despite his blazing fury and his potent power, Hiyazaki finds himself transfixed, barely able to move, his thoughts once again scattered like leaves before the wind.

In truth, the battle barely lasts another minute.

Thatari takes advantage of this latest opening, and blasts Hiyazaki again, whilst the rest of the group, invigorated by Lia and Grigori's might, throw themselves at the oni. The third brute tries to exhale a cloud of copper vapour, but howls as he burps at an unfortunate moment, his flaming breath erupting within him, causing him blinding, momentary pain. Rendered vulnerable in his agony, he is quickly ended by the assassin and the swordmage. Shnecke and Lia charge Hiyazaki, but both miss badly, the barbarian almost falling over, the ardent almost throwing her sword, and it seems as if whatever dark Gods Hiyazaki worships are protecting him as Thatari tries to blast him again, and fires wide. However, this theory is quickly disproved when Grigori, his eyes pits of molten bloody light, his pale flesh seeming to pulse with unnatural power, charges him, and slashes a deep, spurting wound into the front of his head with his warped blade; ripping the life from him, sending him sprawling to the floor, blood pumping from the horrific gash.

Lightning erupts across the chamber as Varracuda, alive with corposant, unleashes a deadly arc of energy at one of the oni killing it, leaving only one alive This doomed fiend, covered in smoking wounds and heavily outnumbered, bellows in fear and anger, and is quickly overwhelmed by the combined might of the party...

...In the heat of the final moments of battle, no one has noticed that Hiyazaki's blade has changed into a focus rod – or for that matter, that Thatari has gathered it up into his robes...

00:30 – 01:40 – The group discuss what to do next; whether to push on through the portal (which they are convinced will require blood to operate, the more they pour in, the longer the portal will remain open), or whether to destroy it and call the job done. In the end they decide to take a long rest, and then, to open the portal and to destroy whatever lies beyond. They eat a small meal, and a fire is built to give the stinking, bloody chamber some warmth. Then, they settle down to talk a little before deciding watches and sleeping...

01:41 – 01:50 – However...

Sounds of muffled female screams, and gruff, deep voices, accompanied by heavy shuffling footsteps and the distinctive snapping voices of Bakemono echo down the stairs from the graveyard, and within seconds the party are waiting in ambush, their fire kicked out with practised ease. The unseen enemy are heard thumping down the steps, the muffled screams and weeping echoing ahead, and Jaeger strains to see through the sudden darkness, his shadow-forged eyes able to clearly see what approaches.

As thought, there are Bakemono – about a half dozen. They jabber and snap around the ankles of three massive hunched humanoids; two-headed, boggle eyed, mop haired things with wide mouths filled with blunt teeth and bright blue skin. They wear rough vests of sackcloth, and the adventurer's notice that their entire bodies seem to be studded with wide, unblinking eyes. There are three, and one of them carries a squirming bundle of rags. It is from this that the desperate cries emanate.

Realising that these are raiders of some sort, returned to the lair with their latest find, the group show the monsters no mercy. With the element of surprise on their side, the fiends are quickly cut down; the larger brutes clearly oni of some kind, their ragged wounds spurting oily smoke as they scream and die, the bakemono's gore painting everything with black as it sprays from their fatal wounds. The assassin is responsible for the most kills, pouring shadowy power into his crossbow, and firing a veritable cone of duplicate bolts, shattering throats, puncturing hearts and piercing monstrous brains.

One bakemono, stood at the rear of the group, survives the battle, fleeing screaming into the night. Every other monster is slain in less than half a minute, only Shnecke receiving any kind of wound – and a superficial one at that.

With the monsters slain, the group undo the struggling, weeping bundle of rags, and find three young women from the village. Each is half out of their mind with terror at what they have endured, and what they have been imagining will happen, and they spend the first few moments simply crying and shaking. Upon seeing the party through their tears, they are initially relieved – recognising them as the Yissen who have come to destroy the Jokiro Shukai. However, as they take in their bloodstained and battered presentation, and the suddenly aroused and barely restrained hunger of the Ulnyrr and priest (both of whom pant with desire at the smell and sound of the women's thumping, fear-driven blood), they grow unsure and cowed.

“So, what now?” Asks Lia, swiping her blade through the air to get the blood of it. “We can't take the girls with us through the portal.”

“We need blood,” Begins Thatari, “they could be a useful asset.”

Varracuda stands up in shock, making the girls flinch. “No way! Over my dead body!”

Thatari shrugs.

“I know a ritual.” Says Grigori suddenly, “That could help keep them safe.” His eyes are huge and swollen with bloody light. He is unaware that his eye teeth are showing, and that his neck has almost extended, lending his angular head a particularly unnatural, ghoulish appearance. Shnecke sat just behind him grins, his own eyes coppery and luminescent.

“You have got to be kidding!” Snaps Varracuda, “And does this ritual involve blood letting by any chance?”

Grigori nods, shrugging as if this is not important.

“Bollocks.” Growl Lia and Thatari together.

“Certainly sounds like cow crap to me.” Adds Jaeger, his own eyes swimming with darkness.

“It is crap, you just want to drink their blood!” Yells Varracuda, his voice almost a shriek, a shower of sparks sizzling over his body.

The women, not understanding a word, but recognising the tone of the conversation, begin to curl up into a ball, sobbing and shaking with fear, hugging each other tightly in their dread.

Grigori, realising that he has failed to fool his companions calmly moves away from them, before deciding to voice a genuine plan.

“I could weave a protective circle around them, a ritual you all know I have. That would keep them safe here whilst we enter the world beyond the portal. The only problem is of course that if we die, or if we find ourselves leaving the world beyond in some distant realm, they will be left here, unable to escape until they die of dehydration or starvation.”

“So no then.” Growls Varracuda, his eyes crackling with lightning.

“And the alternatives?” Asks the priest mildly.

No one has an answer.

More Minion Maximisation

2011-10-06T11:22:00.003+01:00

There has been some interest in the minion rules I use (Hi @DnDHelper), and as my groups have been using them for some time, I can safely say that they work, though they do make minion far more lethal. So, I thought I would share some more of the creation crunch with you. Let me know what you think!

DAMAGE PER LEVEL

As I described before, one of the major changes was giving minions more punch. Here is a table showing the base damage my minions deal, with some notes below about special considerations.

Level	Damage	Level	Damage
1	9	16	16
2	9	17	17
3	10	18	17
4	10	19	18
5	11	20	18
6	11	21	19
7	12	22	19
8	12	23	20
9	13	24	20
10	13	25	21
11	14	26	21
12	14	27	22
13	15	28	22
14	15	29	23
15	16	30	23

Artillery: Artillery are glass cannons; deadly at range, squishy up close. Ranged attacks should always be deadly. I increase their ranged damage (not just minions) by +25% - +50%, though I reduce their melee attack by a similar amount . Like the Brutes, bear in mind that they will be doing double damage on a critical hit. Use with care unless you really hate your players.

Brutes: Increase the damage by 25% if they also inflict some kind of condition or effect on a hit, or anywhere from 50% - 75% if they are just damage machines. Bear in mind, on a critical hit, they are going to be doing double that damage. When maximising your minions this way, Brutes can be deadly. Use with care!

Controllers: I tend to reduce the damage by between -10% - -25% but slap on some nice effects. Minion controllers, because of their numbers can be a major pain in the backside, and really force the players to ask “Who do I kill first, minions or BBEG?”

Lurkers: Like Artillery and Brutes, Lurkers should deal significant (+50% - +75%) damage with their special “now you see me” type attacks, regardless of whether or not they inflict additional conditions or effects. This is because they then – if designed well – should phase out for a bit, leaving the party panicking about where they are or when they will strike next.

Skirmishers: Work out the box. Just give them lots of speed, and abilities to prevent being bogged down.

Soldiers: Work out the box. Just remember to give them good defences and to make sure they mark and get their opportunity attacks. Nothing breaks up a heroic charge like a wall of good soldier minions.

OTHER CONSIDERATIONS

Auras: You know what else minions are good for? Auras. Give some of your horrors a nice aura that either boosts allies, grants other minions additional damage or abilities, or which just harms the party somehow. Favourites of mine include slow auras, auras that remove resistances or immunities, or auras that prevent spending healing surges. Used right, these can seriously affect the difficulty of an “easy” battle.

Death Effect: Minions that explode inflicting damage in a burst, or create zones of dangerous terrain simply rule! Clouds of poisonous fumes, zones of magma or portals that allow instant movement between them are all interesting ways for the battlefield to change during a combat.

They may Have 1 Hit Point, But They Aren't (Always) Stupid: So some minions may rush suicidally towards a glorious death, and that is cool (especially if they explode in a burst 1 when slain and inflicting ongoing damage muwhuahahahahaha!). However, most want to live, they really do, and so will try to use their terrain and their abilities to the best of their advantage. Think of them less as fodder, and more as proper monsters, and use them appropriately. Trust me, even upper paragon and epic characters are going to struggle when the minions use their brains.

Use Some Software: I know I tout it a lot, but the DnD4eCM is an excellent bit of free software, that helps you to track all the ongoing effects your new, shiny, deadly minions inflict. I tend to create a single minion token for the initiative order, and move all my minions of one type together (speeds up play), but the software still tracks the effects, which is ace. Just remember to note down the actual encounter XP total, not the total with only one minion, or your players will, literally, murder you.

Have fun, give these rules a try and see what happens. My group prefer these minions, though they now also fear minions, and actually groan when they see the multitudes of tokens going on the battlemat. And that's how it should be in my opinion. 50 Gorgoth Reavers should be scary, not a speed bump / XP fest, and trust me, when the smoke has cleared, and the dead are counted, your players (or at least those who's characters survived) are going to be grinning like idiots, high fiving, and generally gushing about how awesome the battle was.

Honest!

Shnecke's Wolves - Session Five

2011-10-03T15:16:00.001+01:00

14:47 – 23:15 – The group bind their wounds, and allow Lia and Grigori to weave healing energies about them, before they head off once again along the sodden path. The path gets steeper and more slippery with the slurry like mud, but they make excellent progress.

Night falls suddenly in this place, and a dank mist creeps out from the seething undergrowth to mask the path, quivering with the deafening song of the night birds, hunting bats and cicadas. For a while, the party stagger on in near total darkness, the priest growing fearful as the after effects of this ritual he worked continue to gong through his psyche. However, all of a sudden the path take a sharp turn to the north; rising steeply for roughly half a mile. At the end of this path (which can now be seen to bear overgrown stone steps along its last few hundred feet), can be seen a shifting mass of ghostly mists and unnatural, flickering lights. A chill runs down the backs of all seeing this, for they can almost taste the supernatural disturbances creating them.

“That'll be the graveyard then.” Rumbles Shnecke, his eyes glowing with a cold, amber light.

“Indeed.” Breathes Lia, her stomach turning a little at sight of it.

The group stand a moment simply staring, feeling suddenly very tired.

“Come on then.” Growls the Ulnyrr stomping ahead, “They aint' gonna' come to us, so we'd better take ourselves to them!”

He senses them before he sees them; a collection of powerful minds bent on a single task. He moves as quietly as he can and peers down the steep road leading to these accursed burial grounds, hoping to catch a glimpse of who it is that approaches. It takes time, but in the eerie glow of the Shinen-Gaki, he can make out a weary band of Yissen moving with average stealth towards the shattered death gate entrance. None of them seem to bear the taint that he knows Hiyazaki Katazuko must bear, and so, he is content to watch them, and maybe, if they seem worthy, to help.

23:16 – 23:21 – With the graveyard in sight now – a ramshackle place of shattered or shifted markers, wildly flourishing thorn creepers and overly lush ferns, lit by floating ghostly balls of pale light – the group stop their advance, and decide to let Jaeger go ahead.

The assassin at once steps into the darkness, emerging a little further ahead in the dense jungle that borders the wide, overgrown steps leading to the graveyard's entrance. Another jump, and he is close enough to take in more details. He can see that most of the graves have been violated, their contents scattered around the place, their stones defaced, and can see that in the middle of the graveyard rise two bulky quadruped statues – possibly depicting massive lions or mastiffs of some kind – who's heads have been removed at some point. At the north-most end of the graveyard rises a once impressive mausoleum. Made from stone, it once bore a curved pagoda like roof of red clay, though this has been smashed and daubed with filth. The guardian statues that once watched over its impressive stone entrance are now rubble, and the doors themselves are marred by huge claw marks and more foul daubings.

The air of the graveyard pulses with sickly corruption, and as he stares, his sensitive ears pick up a sound coming from behind the shattered statue on the left – the unmistakable sound of sharp teeth gnawing bone, and greedy gobbling.

The assassin, almost a part of the darkness that hangs around the edges of the yards ghastly glow, is about to move even closer when a roar from back along the path brings him round. It's Shnecke, loping forwards like a terrible, lupine monster; eyes wide and luminous with bloody light. Jaeger hears the gnawing suddenly stop, and feels his stomach tighten as a foul wave of magic whispers through the corrupted ground, raising two bakemono corpses – bloated with decomposition and swarming with carrion bugs – to their feet. Axe raised, the barbarian only pauses long enough at the border of the yard to decide on his target before running, howling, at one of the zombies.

”Who are you?” Says an unfamiliar voice in the assassin's mind, “And why are you here?”

Jaeger is suddenly unsure what to do. He watches helplessly as the barbarian swings at the shambling thing, his foot slipping on a puddle of rancid flesh, his arms flailing as he fights desperately not to fall over.

“Why are you here?” Asks the psychic voice again.

“To destroy the evil that lurks here.” Growls the assassin in reply.

“Then we are allies.” Replies the voice.

Grigori and Lia run up the path towards the graveyard and join the fray, the spheres of ghostly light sweeping in to simultaneously burn and rot them with their filthy radiance. Varracuda also charges, his flesh shedding lightning, his blades wreathed in green flame. He dances into range of one of the spheres, his sword bursting it like a glowing bubble, and is about to charge another when he suddenly stops, his eyes distant and unfocused. At the same time, the keening voice of a biwa rings over the chorus of battle, and it quickly becomes apparent that it is this sound that has caught the genasai's attention. With a strange smile on his face, the swordmage begins to stumble towards the unseen source of the music, stopping only to swipe at one of the ghostly lamps that whispers in towards him, his blade missing it.

A sudden burst of pristine, glassy light erupts from the eastern side of the graveyard as Grigori, logic symbol held high, unleashes a wave of radiant planar energy. At its touch several of the ghostly lights are erased (though one cluster – which differ from the rest, being paler and slightly elongated) are untouched by its caress. Those monsters not slain by the light, are sent reeling, and spend a moment unmoving, as if suddenly unsure as to what they were doing. The assassin steps through the dimensional shadow cast by the physical plane and briefly appears next to the flailing Ulnyrr and the ardent, his tenebrous blade flicking out to open a stinking wound in the zombie. Unwilling to risk a bite from the filthy things' shark-like teeth, he steps back into the safety of the shadows, and teleports back to his original position by the gates.

Lia sets about the undead with a grim, dutiful expression. Although she is no longer a scythe of Azrael, her hatred of the undead remains undimmed, and as such, her crystalline blade is veritably shimmering with her psychic power by the time it strikes; blazing a hideous wound into the monsters clavicle which ends just above its belly.

Torn stomach deflating, swollen, pussy entrails spilling like wet sacks from within, the zombie barely notices.

From the southern side of the graveyard, where the thick jungle trees hang over the rotten boundaries, a feeling of eerie pressure suddenly rises. A ball of chaotic, churning energy, somehow sluggish and heavy, but moving with lethal swiftness, erupts from the canopy to blast the second zombie. The energy gnaws at the flesh, seeming to strip it away, layer by stinking layer, leaving the thing glistening with oozing corruption. At the same time, the psychic voice rings out in the minds of all the group.

“I am Thatari. We have a shared goal it seems. I shall give you the benefit of my aid.”

Varracuda is struggling. The discordant caterwaul of the biwa is clearly some kind of psychical attack, meant to draw him in. Yet despite that understanding he simply cannot shake the overwhelming curiosity it evokes in him, and paying only scant attention to the hungry souls swooping in at him, he stumbles further into the graveyard, finally reaching the area behind the eastern most guardians' sundered base; the place the song was coming from.

...The biwa stops...

…...There is nothing there....

….The paler, elongated lights - now behind him - flare, throwing his shadow onto a stained and rotting stone next to the mausoleum....

….A terrible sense of crushing agony smashes into his soul, and with horror he watches as his ichor begins to float in a fine mist from his body, and into the hungry stone, his shadow acting as a conduit for the deadly transference.

“Help.” He groans, as a terrible weakness spreads through him...

All in all, the battle takes several minutes to conclude. The group cut down the zombies (though they take some serious chunks out of several party members), and the ghostly lights are shattered. The paler ones are simply lures used by the stones – for there are two – to trap shadows. Jaeger recognises that the rotten stones house hungry ghosts, that can use a persons shadow to drain their life force. Thatari (a strange “human”, with pale skin and an alien symmetry that reminds some of the hated aelwyn), emerges from the jungle, and uses his eldritch powers to blast the unquiet spirits to shadows. He also helps to uproot and to bury the ghost stones, ending their threat, and causing their floating lures to fade.

As for the biwa player, it makes a suicidal attack once all the other undead are slain; appearing in mid air as it leaps towards Varracuda's throat.

“Jiki-Ketsu Gaki!” Screams Thatari, his hands suddenly wreathed in smoky energy.

It is a withered, hunched thing dressed in soiled and tattered vestments. Its features are shrunken and ghoulish; slit-like eyes that burn with orange light, a narrow mouth filled with sharp, misshapen teeth, and an almost prehensile tongue that hangs, swollen and black from beyond them. Its hands end in viciously curved talons, and it emits a terrible screaming howl as it swoops in, its invisibility ended, towards the unsuspecting genasai. However, revealed, it is no match for the party, and it is quickly surrounded, hacked, burned, frozen, flensed and finally, smashed to the floor.

23:22 – 23:37 – Thatari it seems is little interested in talking, and at once turns his attention to the mausoleum. However, Grigori has been scowling, his mind wrestling with the problem of the corruption in the graveyard. He had expected it to end when the undead were slain, but can still feel the negative energy of their “life” coiling through the rotten, grey soil of the place. He realises that there must be something else that needs doing to lay the unquiet spirits to rest.

Suddenly he comes up with an idea, thinking of the hungry spirits trapped within the rotting stones. “We need to find the heads off the statues! We need to replace them, so their resident spirits can watch over the graveyard.”

Thatari nods, seeing the sense in this (and apparently possessing a good knowledge of how things work in this foreign land), and the group, limping with their wounds, begin to scour the place for the missing heads.

Both are quickly located – one buried in a grave, the other just outside the yard in the scrambling growth of the jungle – and Shnecke hefts them into place, grunting with the effort. As the assassin has assumed, they are the heads of great dog-like beings; wide mouthed, frog-eyed, and almost human. Despite their bestial appearance, there is something friendly, and welcoming about them, and Jaeger is convinced that the priest is correct in his assumptions.

The first head is slowly hauled into place, and as soon as it is aligned, a bright light blazes through the join, leaving unbroken stone in its place.

“Foo Dogs.” Mumbles Thatari, “Guardian spirits. Powerful agents of order and light.”

“Well,” Grunts Shnecke, squatting as he grabs the second lithic, “We'll find out in a minute won't we.”

The head is brought up, and as it nears its final place, a low buzzing hum begins to fill the air. Shnecke is trembling, even his unnatural strength struggling with the burden, but grits his teeth and shoves as hard as he can. The ragged edges of the stone do not marry up straight away, but with the rest of the group easing it in, they suddenly slot together...

...A deafening roar fills the air, and a blaze of glorious, crystalline light erupts from the paired statues, filling the entire graveyard with its radiance. At its touch, the air seems to grow calmer, a subtle susurrus of hateful whispers growing silent at last. The light takes a few moments to fade, but when it does, it is clear that the graveyard is now mostly purified; the stones cleared of their defilements, the soil dark and rich once more. Any traces of the undead have been burned away, and the stench of death is replaced with the smell of damp, fertile ground. No longer do unnatural lights dance in the air, and at last the spirits of those buried here can rest in peace.

23:38 – 23:48 – The party take a little time to bind wounds, take a bite to eat, and to chat with their new ally. Thatari remains quite tight lipped, only telling them that he seeks a samurai named Hiyazaki Katazuko, who has been corrupted by a Zanki-No Oni. He believes that the fallen warrior is somewhere in this area, and has come to end him.

When asked about what a Zanki-No Oni is, the newcomer tells them, his “voice” speaking directly into their minds.

“A storm daemon. A being of incredible power and evil, able to bend the tempest's fury to its will, and to ride the invisible winds that blow through the spirit world. If I am to truly end the evil here, it too must die.”

“Then it seems we truly do have a shared goal.” Replies Lia, her face grim. “For the Oni we seeks is likely the same fiend that binds this warrior's soul.”

All agree. Thatari, Warlock, joins the band.

23:49 – 00:20 (19/6/1472) – The outer doors to the mausoleum, the only structure in the graveyard not purified by the statues repair, are smashed open by the barbarian, and the group move carefully down the bloodstained steps beyond. Upturned human skulls serve as lamps either side of the steps, and the walls, once depicting the Gods of light driving back hordes of Oni and other evil spirits, have been torn and desecrated with foul symbols.

At the bottom of the stairs stand two huge hardwood doors. They too have had their once splendid designs – a pair of grinning Foo Dogs – defiled, each one covered in vile Yassan symbols which pulse with dark magic. Jaeger, Grigori and Varracuda volunteer to safely remove the dangerous things, whilst the rest of the group stand guard further back along the stairs.

It takes the combined efforts of the three men to do, but soon the unholy wards are erased, their deadly magics safely drained away without incident.

00:21 – 00:22 – With the runes removed, Shnecke is able to do his thing once more; smashing the doors open with a shoulder barge that sounds like an airship crash. The ancient doors heave in their frames, and then burst wide, allowing the stench of blood from beyond to wash over the horrified adventurers.

00:22 – The chamber beyond once housed a grand sarcophagus. Now it houses horror. Dried blood – some ancient and brown, some fairly fresh; clotted and separated – covers almost every surface. In the middle of the chamber, where its rightful occupant should lie, is a device forged of blasphemy.

It is a huge bowl of bone, 6' across, and set on the ground. From either side of it curve tapering horn like pylons, covered in dried gore and carved with runes that several of the band recognise at once as being related to dimensional travel.

“A maho portal.” Snarls Thatari, “A blood gate.”

“Quite. Right.” answers the chambers only occupant – a slight man sat against the bowl, dressed in the clothes of a common peasant, his face hidden by the brim of the wide, conical hat he wears. “The portal leads to my masters' realm.”

The head moves back, and everyone drops into a ready stance, for the man revealed bears a fine looking sword – a katana – and has the scarred visage of seasoned warrior. He is Kai'Yassanian, and even sat down, has a noble, powerful bearing about him.

“You!” Yells Thatari, his power coalescing in a sphere of oily light around his hands, “ Hiyazaki Katazuko!”

The man smiles and stands in one fluid motion.

“I am Hiyazaki Katazuko, and you are just powerful enough that you could possibly inconvenience my master. Therefore, as the guardian of this gate, I must kill you all.”

Hiyazaki draws his katana, and at once a terrible transformation sweeps through him; his flesh becoming black like obsidian, his mass increasing tenfold. Daemonic O'Yoroi armour appears around him, its mempo apparently made from human flesh. The sword itself is a vile thing; its blade stained and surrounded by pulsing High Yassan symbols (Varracuda can read these, and shudders at their messages; “The Cowards Path” “Consume the Honour” “Lost”).

Cackling with daemonic glee, black lightning crawling over his Oni form, the fallen Samurai raises his blade, and prepares to attack...

Hmmm...

2011-09-29T10:22:00.000+01:00

Not sure what happened to the last entry. Half of it got eaten somewhere. Anyway, the full entry is now live. Sorry about that!

Emmiven and Seren - Session Three

2011-09-28T10:17:00.002+01:00

21:00 – 23:20 – The two vampires and undead sorceress leave the rookery accompanied by two of the ju-jus, and begin to pick their way through the sewers. Their plan is to find someone for Razniir to feed on, and then to try and find someone worthy of a sacrifice to Jantherak, in order to curry some favour with the truculent necromancer.

23:21 – 23:30 – Torchlight glimmers off the fungus slimed walls, and the undead withdraw into the shadows as they hear human voices echoing from ahead. They wait to see who is coming, keeping as still and quiet as they can (though Razniir struggles with his hunger; twitching and growling to himself), and after a few more moments, the humans come into view. It appears to be a band of Irinite guards, apparently searching for a lost comrade.

Unable to resist, the group ambush them, gaining surprise. However, what they took to be an easy battle almost sees Emmiven slain, after one of the guards – a gunner with a musket and a deadly aim – shoots him in his heart, knocking him down and impairing his ability to regenerate. Fortunately for the warlord, the Ju-Ju's reach the troublesome mortal, and he eventually flees, only to be torn apart by the undead.

23:31 – 01:40 (12/6/1472) – The group leave the sewers and emerge into a thunderstorm, the sounds of battle from the northeast swallowed by its voice. Seren and Emmiven discuss their options, and decide to see if they can make contact with the vampires at the “Kicked Dog”; the slum pub where they got into a huge fight two months ago to the day (in this worlds' calendar). As they move northwards, the sheer scale of the fungal bridge linking this world with its own begins to settle in, and they realise it must be at least two miles across, and miles high. It is lit from below by fearsome fires, which belch great black clouds into the stormy night, though it also shines with its own putrid, greenish light; a rotting glow that most of the city now emanates. It is, they realise, a composite of millions of smaller ropey rhizomorphs of pallid fungal tissue, riddled with bracket like shelves and massive domed clusters of weird, otherworldly toadstools. As they watch, they see a reinforcing mass of reaching strands slide like worms down the main bridge, further adding to its bulk.

The pair realise that the fungus must have landed directly onto the High Hills district, and has spilled (or more likely grown) down into the northern Plaza District. Chances are it has also crushed a lot of the Northwood district too, and for a moment Seren finds herself thinking of Fren, and feels – momentarily – a pang of sadness for the dazed, lost artificer. They also realise that the bank where they deposited their money is almost certainly under the thing somewhere, and that for now, their wealth is lost to them.

The roughs are even more overgrown with the otherworldly rot than they were before, many buildings simply collapsing under its weight, or being completely consumed by it. Nothing, not even vermin, move in the ghastly, glowing streets, the grimy air thick with smoke, spores and dust.

“Irin is dying.” Muses Seren.

“Fuck Irin.” Comes the warlord's harsh response, “Let's just get the hell out of here, and find somewhere less doomed. Forget the inn. Forget the other cold ones, we don't need them.”

“So where would we go, oh great master?” Snarls Razniir (Razniir has clearly demonstrated utter hatred for his creator, and it seems that Emmiven delights in the fact that he hates him, but cannot harm him).

Emmiven shrugs. “The southern gate would be a ball ache to try and get through, and the walls there are heavily guarded. We could head north, see how well guarded that is?”

The group agree on the plan.

01:41 – 07:40 – The group stumble through the corpse of Irin, marvelling in horrified wonder at the massive mycological intrusion that has pierced the sky and smashed the guts of the ancient city. They pass within a mile or so of the battlefront at its base, and from a hill covered in empty and fungus riddled homes, watch as rows of Dundorin Thundersong and Unified Order Hellchanter Cannons unleash an apocalypse at the fungal trunk – apparently with little lasting effect, the fungus simply regrowing almost at once. They see massed troop formations charging; swords drawn, guns blazing, magic screaming overhead, into serried ranks of malformed fungous horrors, whilst in the distance, elephantine fungal brutes lumber towards the tiny soldiers, lashing out with sticky strands that draw the screaming men and women into a horrible, rotting death.

They see all this, and their minds are truly made up.

“We're getting out of here.”

The group make their way through the dark streets, until they come to the northwestern most districts. Here they begin to encounter large groups of soldiers, as well as hastily erected field hospitals (mostly overseen by the clergy of Oerdaine'Maelandra). At one point they spy a familiar face – though Gorthias appears much changed; even more grim and dour than before. They consider speaking to him, but decide to let sleeping dogs lie and instead, wishing to avoid any kind of contact, find a storm drain, rip the heavy cover open, and slide into the dripping dark.

These drains are clearly of dundorin construction; beautifully crafted from solid stone, and ornamented with stylized grimacing dundorin visages worked in fine-grained granite – holders for torches, though they are empty at present. Storm water roars through them in a white torrent, and all save Emmiven are heartened to see good honest vermin – rats and cockroaches – swarming in its depths. There are still signs of fungal infestation in this place – cobweb like patches of luminous mycelium, discoloured stonework where spores are starting to take root – but it is mild compared to the places deeper within the city.

Following the flow of the water, which the undead assume must be heading out towards the walls, they make good progress. A short while after entering the tunnels, the group spy misty light up ahead, and realise that it is a drain in the cities northern wall; 10' across and barred with steel. At first they are baffled as to why there are no guards watching over such an obvious weakness in the walls defences. However, as they get nearer, they see that the bars are wrought from Dunthane, and that the drain exits the walls some 30' above the ground.

Peering through the bars, the group can see the northern Argent Wood. It too is sickly with rusts and mildews, its summer greens replaced by autumnal oranges and browns, which, given it is mostly evergreen, is a seriously bad thing. More than a few gigantic alien mushrooms have sprouted there, and the soil is grey with oily mycelial strands. As they saw at the southern side of the city, there are people camped there – refugees hoping to find sanctuary with the ancient cities walls – though these seem more animate and less sickly. There are also a lot fewer of them, and the group assume that this may mean fewer guards watching the walls.

Emmiven spies that one of them is a merchant, and that they have a fine armoured wagon pulled by strong looking horses. He gives a sharp-toothed grin, and with a whisper begins to try and bend the Dunthane, his waxen flesh shifting as his supernatural strength flows through him. Razniir moves to help adding his own might, and Seren, towering above the pair, also joins in.

A mortal would have struggled to even dent the dundorin steel, but the three undead, their strength no longer tied to muscles that can rip and cause pain, or to weak, living systems, manage, after a minute or two, to cause one of the bars to bend a little. Keeping up the incredible pressure, they work the weakness until, with a deep groan, the bar bends aside, creating a gap wide enough for even the massive drakven to slide through.

“So then,” Asks Razniir, “does anyone have a rope?”

Fortune Cards - House Rules

2011-09-26T12:08:00.001+01:00

When Wizards first announced Fortune Cards, I got really angry, seeing it as the beginning of the end. I love CCG's , and Magic the Gathering is my fave, but damn it, I didn't want cards getting messed up with my D&D.

Of course, being a hopeless drone, I bought some cards, and at once began to think of how we could use them in our games. I hated (and still hate) the official rules, which favour those able to buy cards over those who cannot, and wanted to come up with a way in which they could get used, but which would benefit every player. I also didn't want them to create a new breed of super-PC, which, given some of the more potent card's benefits, could easily occur.

So, we experimented, and after some trials and tribulations have come up with some alternate rules for using the cards which we find both balanced, and at times, very useful. These are our house rules for Fortune Cards.

The cards are sorted out into three separate decks; Attack cards, Defence cards and Tactics cards.
At the start of each encounter, the group draw one card for each character (including intelligent NPC's) taking part.
The group decide how many of each type of card to draw for their “party deck”. They can choose all cards of one type, or a mix.
The cards are a pooled resource that any character can dip into when needed. They follow the usual rules for use.
At the end of the encounter, all cards are put back in the decks and shuffled ready for the next battle.
Some magical items or boons may allow for additional cards to be drawn for the party deck (see below).

And that's it. Works really well too. There is a nice pool of tricks for use if and when they are needed, but no single character gets all the power or gets stiffed. This has not caused any issues for me as GM either, so everyone wins - the players get a nice bit of extra umph, and I get to throw meaner things at them sometimes just to see what happens.

BATTLESOUL SHARD

(Level 11 Uncommon Wondrous Item)

Eye of the Deep - Level 19 Controller

2011-09-25T14:51:00.001+01:00

I was a bit gutted that this classic horror was never converted to 4e, and simply took it upon myself to do the job! As always, the modifiers for the statistics do not include the +9 bonus that comes from adding half the monsters level (so its strength mod is actually +13 not +4).

Stat block made using THIS!

(Click for Bigness)

Ormid et al - Session Report 21/9/2011

2011-09-25T14:45:00.000+01:00

11:27 – 13:30 – The group are tended to by the mages of the Circle, all of whom appear more than a little amazed at their abilities. The Synd whom they first met, now introduced as Aerrynai Ssaerhaan, remains aloof; speaking about them as if it must be some kind of fluke or mistake that they survived. However, true to his word he sends a request to their governing order, and within the hour is informed that the group may speak with Master Vujan Rothian – a creature that Ormid was warned by Rammanum, must not be trusted.

13:50 – 17:00 – The group are teleported by Aerrynai to a huge hall of impressive and unnatural architecture. It is vast; its vaulted ceiling arcing easily 200' overhead, its far end too far away to be seen immediately. The ceiling is forged from some kind of glassy crystal that allows the alien vistas beyond to be clearly seen – a universe of flames; some dense and dull, others energetic and agitated, roiling and writhing away into infinity. Great pillars of black marble, swirled with gold and red line a central walkway, and beyond them rise curious “aquariums”, suspended spheres of water alive with otherworldly fish and crustaceans, “aeroriums” orbs of swirling air, filled with song birds, and “terrariums” dense geodes of earth alive with glittering elemental bugs.

Between the rows of pillars, like a faint blue cloud, hangs a dense line of slightly bitter smoke, which leads along and away from the group further into the chamber.

Aerrynai gestures towards the far end of the huge chamber, a vague look of horror on his fabulous face. “Don't think for a second I'm coming with you. Vujan gives me the cree- err, a headache.”

He makes a “go away” gesture, and withdraws back through the luminous pearl doors that lead into this place, the beautiful portal swinging silently shut behind him, leaving the group alone.

They spend a moment looking at each other, still a little giddy from the trials they have been through. Then, with a shrug, Veteran begins to walk forwards between the pillars and elemental spheres, following the smoke towards the end of the chamber.

It takes them a good while to reach their destination, and no one really needs Ormid to point out that the entire chamber must exists within a pocket dimension, though he tells them anyway. As they move along the smoke thickens, and soon they spy a group of strangely coloured palms up ahead; planted between the pillars in a wide circle around a sunken area from which comes the smoke.

Moving closer, they suddenly sense an altogether too familiar pressure - the unmistakable aura of a daemonic entity – and at once they Slow their pace, preparing for trouble. Edging closer to the palms, the artificer suddenly becomes distracted, for to his delight he realises that they are apparently machines of some kind, though he can see no obvious signs of manufacture. The same goes for the delicate whirring dragonfly like things that flit amongst their arcing coppery leaves – tiny, perfect and apparently living machines.

“Oh my!” he breathes, “Could these be...”

“Creatures from a machine reality, yes.” Comes a sneering voice from beyond the artifice plants, “Please don't stand there for much longer, you are making the place look untidy.”

The group jump a little, and carefully pick their way past the softly whirring palms, to stand at the edge of the area beyond – a circular, wide stepped recess filled with plush cushions. At its centre an ornate ivory table, carved with lurid depictions of daemons performing carnal acts, serves as the resting place for a huge and fabulously ornate hookah – the source of the smoke.

Using the hookah is a figure straight out of the ancient daemonomicons – a being that wears the form of a humanoid tiger, dressed in a luxurious smoking jacket and fez, who's hands appear to have been attached backwards, palm facing upwards, thumbs on the outside. His long, muscular tail twitches slightly, and as the group approaches he takes the pipe from between his white, sharp teeth, and places it on the table before him.

“A Rakshasa!” Breathes Ormid, his eyes wide, “A shapeshifting daemon renowned for their cunning and trickery.”

The Veteran gives a low growl, which is echoed by Ferrous. Vladislav takes a step back, twinned lines of arcane plasma suddenly crawling over his spiked gauntlets. Shadevia remains perfectly still, though the air around her grows dimmer as if agitated.

The Rakshasa Vujan simply sits there and answers the artificer's statement, in no way apparently intimidated by the formidable party.

“Indeed. You should be honoured that I am allowing you to see the splendidness that is my true form. Now then, did you want to discuss access to my esteemed Lords, or are you going to just stand there looking like you just caught your parents in the act of copulation?”

“I....errrm....I....”

The group do eventually sit down, and all except for Vladislav (who grumpily refuses) are soon sharing in the hookah (all handle this well, save Shadevia, who finds the psychoactive smoke too much to bear, and spends the time feeling uncomfortably like she is falling backwards through her own body. In truth, the drug has no effect on the Veteran).

A little addled, the group arrange with Vujan to approach the mysterious ruling circle of the order, in order to petition their cause. Despite his caustic, superior nature, the rakshasa is actually quite helpful, and after leaving them alone to enjoy the drugs, he returns after a couple of hours with good news.

“The council will send a mage to help you aim this Settari weapon. We shall dispatch them as soon as you send word.”

Three down, two to go.

1/1/50 – LOREHAVEN (Unnaturally wintry weather continues).

The group spend the first day of the new year (for the second time) resting in Ormid's home. They decide that the next morning they shall visit the Disciples of Change - transmuters who dwell in a stronghold of shifting stone within the risen city of Virian; capital of the Western Isles.

2/1/50

07:00 – 07:40 – The group awaken, eat and prepare for another stressful day of trying to get the mages on board.

07:41 – 08:00 – Gathering in Ormid's subterranean lab, the party wait for the artificer to open the portal. By now the once wondrous ritual has become a rather mundane thing, so it is almost a pleasant surprise when it fails utterly. There is a low hum, a sudden papery crackling in the air, and the portal simply fails to open.

Ormid scratches his head, frowning.

“I swear that never normally happens.”

08:00 – 08:05 – A presence enters the chamber, and Ormid recognises it as a psychic sending from Rammanum. With an effort of will he lowers the wards preventing it from fully manifesting, and allows her in; the air shimmering as her thoughts boom into the chamber.

“My apologies master artificer, but it seems that the Disciple's have deactivated the portal who's coordinates I gave you, we sense, in reaction to the riots happening in the capital.”

“Riots!” Exclaims Llewellyn.

“Indeed. The people have risen up again the Conseil Gardien, a council ostensibly created to protect them, which has become corrupt and greedy. This has lead to widespread rioting and civil unrest, and we suspect that the mages have closed their doors whilst the trouble rages.”

“Scared leetle girls.” Growls Vladislav with a sniff.

“Or clever political animals.” Muses Shadevia, “Seeing who is coming out on top, waiting to offer them support when it is clear, and earning a place of authority by their side.”

“Whatever,” snaps Ormid, ”we need a rune sequence if we are going to get there before summer. Can you help Rammanum?”

Rammanum's response is purely psychic, and all feel her trepidation as she answers.

“I do. It is an ancient rune circle that once stood within sunken Crowns Port. However, it now lies beneath the waters under the land, and is surrounded by... alien presences... though even my spells have been unable to tell more.

“In the very least, I would ensure that those of you that need air to breathe have some means of surviving under water, for I sense you will be forced to spend a lot of time in the crushing black below Virian.”

Everyone save the Veteran and Ferrous looks uneasy.

“My thanks Rammanum.” Mumbles Ormid as the psychic connection ends.

08:06 – Rest of Day – The group stand down, save Ormid, who sets to work in creating some elixirs that will allow himself, Shadevia, Llewellyn and Vladislav to breathe under water.

3/1/50 – 07:00 – Prickly with anxiety and the thoughts of what they must do, the group drink the salty sparkling blue fluid Ormid has made, gagging as they feel its magic coursing through their lungs, making them feel unpleasantly greasy inside their chest; wet and frothy.

07:01 – 07:11 – Ormid enacts the ritual needed to open the portal, and all watch as the gate is coaxed into existence; a misty hole in the air that suddenly snaps wide, allowing the stink of rotten fish, seaweed, and decaying stone to pour into the labs.

The Veteran is handed another potion (a blood coloured brew that Ormid tells him will boost his incredible strength still further), and then they party step through...

07:12 – 07:17 – SOMEWHERE BENEATH VIRIAN (hopefully) – The group find themselves on a crumbling island of ancient, waterlogged masonry, within a dank cavern, dripping with luminous fungi and hanging strands of thick, clear mucus. Dirty, frothy water laps thickly at its edges, and the stench in this place is almost overwhelming – not that the party get much chance to take note of it.

The instant they enter the chamber, a silent thrill of alarm resonates like a dog whistles song through the aether, and those who fought Oozulg back on the slaver's ship recognise it as a psionic alert being issued. At the same time, the thick waters boil with activity, and to the parties shock they are suddenly faced by a number of opponents normally quite unsuited to such aquatic environments, who rise with eerie, piscine grace from below.

Six of them are emaciated, pallid humans – four men and two women – naked save for the thick “skin” of wobbling, clear mucus that engulfs them. Each bears a jagged dagger of stone, and gives a drowned snarl of anger as they spy the group. Towering above these, their fur mostly gone, their muscled flesh beneath withered and ghastly pale, stand two Taurag, their horns trailing long strands of the vile slime that also engulfs them. Rusting axes are their weapons, though in truth their horns and sharp teeth are probably more effective, and they roar – a muffled sound that invokes a feeling of choked suffocation in those that listen too long – as battle lust sweeps through their torpid nervous systems, the psychic restraints that normally hold their rage in check, temporarily removed.

Something else also stirs beneath the frothy waters, something that bears cold lights like deep sea fish, and which moves with grim purpose towards the group, but at first it is too deep below the slick water to see clearly.

“They stink!” Yells Vladislav, sheathing himself in a crackling mantle of lightning and fire.

“How can they breathe in that gunk?” Asks Llewellyn, mace in hand.

“I have a horrible feeling that they may be slaves of the so called 'Nameless Race'.” Replies Ormid, his face pale, “The Ab'ur'Leth to give them their Settari name.”

“And?” Snarls the Veteran, his axe igniting with fiery energy, the shadeling moving to stand by him quivering bow in hand.

“Psychic giants like the mind flayers. Slavers like the neogi. Not good. Not good at...”

And then the battle begins.

Gifted with the ability to breathe and swim through water like natives, the humanoids still present little problem to the seasoned adventurer's. Veteran in particular shows himself to be a true juggernaut; decapitating one of the taurag with two almost instantaneous blows, before striding over to the second, and doing the same again. The humans are in poor condition, and although they leave vicious wounds when they manage to land a blow, they are taken down easily and present little real threat.

The other entity however, when it arrives, is something else completely. Each adventurer spends a moment staring in shock when they see it – a crab armoured sphere, with glowing central eye, two eye-stalks, a wide segmented mouth, and massive armoured pincers – and Shadevia recognises it as an “Eye of the Deep”; a degenerate relative of the fearsome Xareth'Chelde, or Eye Tyrants. However, they are forced to move quickly to kill it when its eyes begin to fire sullen rays of light – their touch filling lungs with choking fluids that can drown even those under the effects of Ormid's elixir (this attack almost kills the vyrleen), or holding an individual rigid; muscles locked in place, mind racing to fight free.

The Eye attacks without mercy, and manages to impair the parties fighting prowess quite significantly. As well as almost drowning the rogue, it also manages at once point to blind him and the seeker by unleashing an incredibly bright cone of radiance from its staring central orb. However, it is outnumbered, and soon, with the 'Ur'Leth thralls slain, the entire might of the party is brought against it.

The Veteran unleashes Dracusvir's deadly acid at it, whilst Shadevia tries to pierce its shell with her arrows. Llewellyn hurls daggers from his bracers, as many being turned aside as strike true, whilst Ferrous belches corrosive oils and bites chunks from any appendage that comes within reach. Ormid, as always, takes on the role of healer, lobbing the odd enchantment towards his allies, enhancing their attacks.

Vladislav hauls it from the waters at once point with a crushing hand-like construct of pure force, and is the one who lands the killing blow against it a little later; the waters around it boiling to plasma as he unleashes a coruscating sphere of clashing, shrieking energy straight into its ragged-toothed maw, evaporating its entire back half, and sending it bubbling and blasted, into the crushing deeps.

By the time the short battle is over, the chamber's air is close with steam and the waters resemble a sickening stew of fish and raw meat, the slimy scum a putrid mantle that floats like vomit on top of the greasy, cold waters. The aether now veritably seethes with psionic energy, and the party know that every enemy within the immediate area will be aware that they are here, and will be ready to try and stop them escaping.

Emmiven and Seren - Session Two

2011-09-19T01:16:00.004+01:00

17:18 – 17:40 – The pair move through the stinking, fungus infested tunnels of the sewers. They are disturbed by the lack of vermin present, and the omnipresent alien growths. After some time they enter the vast chamber where they and their former allies previously fought Groth'Ergulg – though the chamber is now choked by large mats of bright yellow mould, and huge, deformed fungi.

17:41 – 17:47 – As the pair move around the edge of the filth and fungus choked sediment pond, heading towards the tunnel out, a leprous tentacle erupts from below it, and slashes a deep wound into the sorceress. It is a Groth'Ergulg, though one that has been infested by the alien fungus; its internal organs replaced by wheezing tumours of fungal flesh, its external flesh a corky mass of chitinous slime.

The undead both turn their full wrath upon the horror, and manage to take it down quickly. However, before it is slain, it wounds both of them seriously – though Emmiven is able to steal much of the thing's life force, using it to heal his injuries. It also inadvertently disturbs the yellow mould, which unleashes a deadly cloud of toxic spores, not only searing the adventurer's, but also blasting and weakening itself, hastening its demise.

17:48 – 18:50 – Arrive at the tunnels that lead to the bridge into the Rookery headquarters. They are disturbed to see that the fungus has invaded this deeply underground, and are even more disturbed to hear the sounds of battle – piping whistles, squishy roars and battle cries uttered in tradespeak – echoing from the direction of the Rookery's back door.

18:51 – 19:00 – As they move towards the bridge chamber, they spot two wretched, fungus infested humanoids ahead. One was clearly once a well built man – now bloated and lousy with tumorous fungi and swishing tendrils, its “fingers” elongated chitinous spines well designed to shred flesh and armour like paper. The other is a Gutter King – caught halfway between human and rat form, its ribcage burst open, a festoon of pallid, quivering mushrooms and smoking clubs nestling where its guts should be.

Both of the fungus monsters turn to face the pair, and without any preamble move to attack. They are put down with little trouble, though Emmiven is given a nasty wound by the first beast, the flesh puckering as if infected almost at once. Another thing – a shell of a person, staggering without apparent sentience, its body an uncoordinated mess of animate fungi and badly decayed bones – also joins the fray, but is immediately hacked down by the warlord's blade.

With the immediate foes destroyed, Seren and Emmiven move forwards, seeing at once that the trick bridge has been overgrown with greasy masses of fungi. Beyond they can see the fortified door into the guild halls is wide open, and that a furious battle is raging in the corridors beyond.

Emmiven, blessed with vampiric grace and unholy dexterity, almost dances across the fungal bridge. Seren is more cautious, for her feet slip alarmingly on the oily fungus, and the drop beyond is as deadly as it was the first time she was here. To ensure her safety she works a potent spell after a few steps, and summons an unnatural wind to carry her to the far side.

Closer now, the pair can see that about twelve more of the fungal horrors are trying to force their way into the guild halls. Stopping them are four desperate Rookery. Three lurk behind a well made barricade firing crossbows into the throng, whilst the fourth – who the pair recognise as Eldric, the enforcer they breached Corvus' treasure vault with – stands up front, taking the brunt of the monster's attacks, chopping down more than a couple with swift, jabbing thrusts of his short sword. He is clearly weakening however, his attacks and parries slowing noticeably with each second, more than a little of his blood spattering the ground around him.

Several of the monsters turn to face Emmiven who is charging down the corridor towards them, but these are evaporated by a blast of lightning spat by the drakven. Emmiven piles into another chopping it down, and receives a vicious bite from a shambling wererat who springs at him from the darkness of a side chamber. At sight of their new leaders, the rogues give a cheer, and renew their efforts to repel the shambling horrors, though poor Eldric, bleeding now from several more deep wounds, and barely able to lift his arms, is forced to stagger back away from the front line.

With the bolts of the rogues finding their marks, the sorceress unleashing sudden destructive bursts of chaotic magic and Emmiven's unholy strength and speed, the remaining infected are quickly dealt with, their twitching, oozing forms forming a slick path along the corridor.

19:01 – 20:00 – Eldric and the other Rookery warmly welcome the pair (Emmiven has shifted his form to appear like his mortal self, and Seren is careful to wear her hood up – her full transformation into a true drakven enough to unnerve the men of the guild, let alone her clearly undead nature), and ask where the others are. Emmiven tells them that they are “unlikely to return”.

Some time is spent giving Seren and Emmiven an update as to what has gone on whilst they have been away. They are told that the Gutter Kings were massing for an orchestrated assault on the Rookery, and that in order to try and stop this they were getting ready to make a pre-emptive strike – though this never happened thanks to the Sundering occurring. They are told that fully one third of the guild has been confirmed as dead in the last few weeks – most succumbing to one of the vile infections that seem to have come with the invading fungi. Amongst these is Vuldir, the dundorin artificer. Another third of the guild are currently missing in action. This includes Bob, and the human artificer Tranker. The rest of the guild are either in the halls, or seeking supplies in the city above.

The two undead also tell the rogues of their own travels, and apart from their treachery in the belly of the titan, leave no details out. The rogues are awestruck at their story, and reiterate again and again how glad they are to have them back.

With regards to the small matter of who opened the heavily enchanted door to the guild halls, the rogues surmise that one of their number, almost certainly under the commands of a burgeoning fungal infestation, may have done so – though none know who it could be.

“Likely one of those we slew out there.” Is Eldric's opinion.

Emmiven tells the rogues to gather all the men, as he wishes to organise for the guild to move to safer quarters – perhaps a house that can be easily fortified and held by their small force in the city above. There are some mixed responses to this, with Eldric voicing his concerns that the plan is “short sighted”. However, the pair manage to convince enough of those gathered (which now includes an overjoyed McCloose), that there is little room for argument. They also ask to be shown where the guild's supply of poisons is, putting it to the rogues that they have exhausted their own supplies during their adventures, and wish to restock.

20:01 – 20:35 – Emmiven declares to the gathered rogues that as they will be leaving the halls on the 'morrow, they should spend their last night here in celebration – in honour of their new venture, for luck, and to remember those that are no longer with them. This proves quite a tough sell, for many of the rogues know that the beer they have is their only guaranteed untainted supply of fluid, and are reluctant to waste it, whilst many more are unhappy about fogging their minds with alcohol in such dangerous times. However, with a little help from the vampire's dominating mind, and Seren's silver tongue, they are talked round to the idea, and soon the drinks – now tainted with several vials of sleeping poison, slipped stealthily in by Emmiven whilst Seren put forth her arguments for the celebration – are flowing.

20:36 – 20:50 – The first men begin to show signs of poisoning, and panic quickly envelops the room as they fear that the fungal taint has got into the beer. However, several quickly recognise their symptoms for what they are, and with horror, they realise who must have spiked their drinks. Eldric tries to attack Emmiven, who is no longer hiding his true form, but is too badly inebriated to be a threat. As he drops, vomiting to the floor, his last vision is of Emmiven, eyes blazing like burning blood, eye-teeth extended, standing over him whispering “You shall soon join me my friend, and see the world as I do.”

21:10 – 02:30 (10/6/1472 – Unnaturally humid and warm weather over Irin, sweeping in through planar breach above it).

The last of the rogues, passes out. Several have almost choked on vomit, and at least one had a huge fit before succumbing. All live for now.

“I ssshalll neeed your body Emmmiveeeenn...” Whispers Jantherak, “And you, sorcccceresss....I shall need your help with the ritual.”

Emmiven is disgusted and thrilled at once by the thought of allowing the shadow of Jantherak to possess him. Seren is happy to help the dread necromancer, though she wonders if she will still be sane once the ritual – intended to turn the rogues into undead servants, and in the case of Eldric and the trapsmith Razniir Thade, into vampires – is completed.

The unconscious rogues are aligned as needed by the ritual, and whilst Seren prepares the hall for the ritual (daubing mind-rotting sigils of blasphemous purpose and dire magic on the walls and floor in blood and faeces), Emmiven hunts down and feeds upon the half dozen rogues chosen to stand guard whilst the rest partied.

With the chamber readied, the vampire allows the essence of the vial to flow into him, his mind reeling in revolted horror at the diabolical strength and cold hate that this brings. Seren notes that the blood red glow of the warlord's eyes is replaced with a cold, blue light, and that although he speaks with Emmiven's voice (his breath fogging with air with smoky shadows), and parrots his mannerisms, it is clearly another vile and terrible entity that now controls his form.

With everything in place, the pair (trio?) begin the Ritual of Animation.

It is horrific beyond the sorceresses' ability to accept, and it is only due to her strict mental discipline that she is not driven insane by it. The nightmarish power that is summoned to the hall rots the very stones, infusing the entire area with crawling, filthy magic. With dawning horror Seren realises two things; that she is no longer able to voluntarily stop her part in the terrible spell she is helping to cast, and that all this power is being harnessed and shaped by a mere echo of Jantherak's true power.

In the city above, the tortured dimensions fabric howls in response to the terrible might being brought to bear deep underground, and eerie lights and terrifying pressures sweep across the ruined blocks of the Roughs, freezing the blood and weakening the sanity of all unlucky enough to be around.

In the chamber, suffocating waves of shadow roar like a tornado around the edges of the ritual circle, and the stones shine with a brittle negative radiance, resonating with terrible, shrieking power. The unconscious rogues (save the two saved for vampirism, who are shielded with glowing red spheres of protection) are ravaged by the dark spiritual energies; their souls rotting within their withering corpses, their flesh mummifying and hardening, their hair becoming thin like cobwebs. Their minds, broken by the corruption pouring into their dying selves, become warped and feral, their trapped souls being bound at the same time to their magically altered bodies; married to them in the vile union of undeath. Eyes, long lost to accelerated decay have left black sockets, within which cold points of steady orange light begin to shine.

The sickening ritual nears its conclusion, the air in the chamber filthy with necrotic power, and with a word, the two spell casters bid their new servants to rise – fourteen grey zombies, imbued with a cunning intelligence, coiled-spring dexterity and unholy resilience.

Ju-Ju Zombies.

02:31 – 03:01 – With the first ritual complete, the stunned drakven and possessed warlord spend a little time resting. Seren is sick and dizzy with weariness, and is amazed to still be sane given the entirely corrupting and loathsome power she has helped to channel. With a small amount of quickly suppressed regret, she realises she has crossed a boundary that can never be returned from; that she is truly a “vile” creature in every sense of the word now.

Jatherak assures her, apparently aware of her thoughts, that the power she will gain will soon make the “sacrifices” she has made more than worth it.

03:10 – 03:40 – The ritual to vampirise Eldric and Razniir is surprisingly quick in comparison to the animating ritual, and only needs Emmiven/Jantherak's input. Each is drained of blood and life force unto the point of death, and then force fed Emmiven's corrupted blood.

Both men fit ferociously as the undead blood works its terrible magic on their mortal forms. For Eldric it is too much, and instead of attaining true vampiric power, he awakens almost at once as a debased and near mindless thing, consumed by his unholy hunger and the need to kill. Realising this, Emmiven/Jantherak grabs him by the throat with terrible speed and strength, and with a jerk, snaps his neck, ending him.

Razniir however “survives” the process.

Seren watches in numb horror, her mind edged by tittering and gibbering voices, as his flesh grows pale, and his rounded, chubby features become sculpted and feral. She watches as a sullen red glow begins to emanate from behind the veined lids of his closed eyes, and as the tips of his eye teeth begin to jut out a little over his lower lip.

She then watches as the warlord, with a sigh collapses. As he goes, Jantherak's voice hisses into her mind with something like panic “Be warned. Unfriendly eyes have seen the power we have brought to bear here! We must be away, and sooooooooon.....”

At that time, she is too shaken and tired to worry about his warnings.

03:41 – 19:00 – (11/6/1472) – Emmiven and Razniir sleep for over 24-hours. During this time Seren works with the newly created Ju-Ju's, gaining some understanding of their limits and power. All in all she is impressed, though their stink, deathly appearance and unnatural presence would never allow them to pass as living men.

When Razniir awakens, he is horrified at what he has become – though his obedience is quickly assured when Jantherak sends a lance of psychic horror into his mind. Ravenous with the hunger for blood, though sickened at the thought of eating it, the trapsmith is both relived and revolted when told that he shall be taken to feed soon. Before that is done however, Emmiven uses the vial to sense the location of the next one...

...And is clumsy in his efforts, his probing thoughts being detected by the filthy thing that possesses it; a Dwaer'Syth Lich, almost certainly residing within ancient Mrith'Arnth; the dark city of the Dwaer, located almost 1000 miles to the north.

Virian (49 N.C.) - City of Turmoil

2011-09-12T15:41:00.002+01:00

This is a piece I wrote as some background to the next mission Ormid and the gang will be doing, and I thought I would share it with you all.

* * *

VIRIAN – CITY OF TURMOIL

Virian was supposed to be a phoenix rising from the ashes of the Belief Wars, and the fall of the High Theocracy. Built from the stones of ancient Crowns Port, Virian will one day become a centre of a great Meritocracy, home to the Parliament of Artisans. However, at this time, it is home to terrible political upheaval.

The High Theocracy were finally overthrown in the year 27 N.C. to huge joy and celebration. By this time, the ancient Basillica was burned to the ground, and the city – already ravaged when the landmass shifted during the Age of Loss – was all but destroyed, much of it plunging into the seas. Destitute and alone in the world, the city needed support, and indeed, it seemed to find it. Several of the most powerful noble houses in the region asked for permission from the people to establish a Conseil Guardian, a group that would invest money into the peoples and places of the Western Isles, and bring around a new golden age of prosperity. They would also help to elect a new government, and when they were ready, hand over power to them. For the first time since the mid 2^nd Age, the people of this land would have a government they voted for!

For a time this worked.

The people were given loans to re-establish their businesses and endeavours, and the city of Virian (meaning “Risen”) was founded, its main structures using the salvaged dusky pink stones of Crowns Port. Trade began anew, and mercenaries were hired to clear the horrors from the surrounding lands that had crept forth during the age of loss. However, by 35 N.C. it was clear that the Conseil Gardien were no longer interested in handing over power to any new governing body, and were more interested in charging extortionate charges to those who had borrowed money from them, and to ensuring that every business' trade directly added to their own power and fortunes – often to the eventual detriment of the owner. People who could no longer afford the rates on their loans from the Conseil had their assets seized, and slowly, the “Guardian Council” eroded the will and hard won fortunes of the Isles peoples.

Then, in the spring of 49 N.C. the people finally had enough. Rebellion began – bloody and savage. The Conseil responded with their massed army of mercenaries and war machines, and so the Great Revolution (Revolution Grande), began.

And finally...

2011-09-09T14:18:00.000+01:00

I couldn't find a miniature for the Zovvut, so ended up buying a Balor mini. Here are a couple of photos from the game that night...

Ha! Puny mortals, your souls are MINE!!!!

Gu-buh wha? B-but, I'm.....Guuurgh...ugh

Zovvut Render - Level 21 Solo Brute

2011-09-09T14:15:00.002+01:00

This is what the group faced during the Conjurer's Challenge. Bear in mind they were 17th (now 18th level), and did not have all their powers intact.

Zovvut Render

Like all daemons, there are those who manage to climb higher in the chaotic ecology of the pit than their mundane ilk. This monster is a normal Zovvut who's terrible cruelty and blasphemous strength has elevated it above the rank and file of its kind.

It is a hateful engine of endless destruction, and only the very powerful or foolish would attempt to conjure it and risk it escaping their control.

(Click to enlarge with rage)

Zovvuts are official D&D demons, found in 3.5 and 4e. Naturally, that means they are copyrite Wizards of the Coast (though this variant is my own creation). As always, you need to add half the monsters level to the modifiers by the statistics to make them accurate, and this stat block was created with THIS.