Using My Monsters

Wednesday, 29 December 2010

Ormid et al - Session Report 21/12/2010

Sorry this is so late. I have been a little distracted and knackered with work lately (I didn't get time off over Christmas, the joys of doing what I do I guess), but today I finally got chance to write up the last game session. This entry bears a slightly modified (as in more ordered) version of what happened in the actual session as things were a little random and laid back thank to the "Christmas Cheer" (5.3%) and generally chilled mood we were all in - hardcore roleplaying was actually pretty tough that night.

Anyway, it's a short entry, which is good, as the Post War Natives are playing tonight! Enjoy...

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23/4/13268 K.C. (2nd Age)

10:33 - The air of the Time Dilation Chamber blazes with coruscating coils of warping reality, and the mage currently using it screams in abject terror, upsetting the carboys of components and braziers of ensorcelled incense he has set up as part of his arcane research. Sparks of blazing energy flame madly across the room, and a deafening thunderclap heralds the arrival of the group in a tangle of limbs and screaming.

10:35 - By the time the group have managed to stop the room spinning, four figures dressed in full length robes of shimmering colours, their faces hidden behind mirrored masks, are in the room, each bearing a sparking spear of raw magic. Behind them hulks a masked figure in white robes bearing the symbol of a pentacle within an upsidedown triangle – symbol of the Arcane Star - an ancient fraternity of loosely affiliated mages, spellcasters and priest magi, who lived in the mid to late Second Age.

A sparking sphere of force surrounds the party, which, when touched, delivers a powerfully painful but harmless jolt of energy, and as the party watch, the arcane star mage produces a small ziggurat of reddish clay and mumbles a spell, the air around him gleaming with briefly released magic. Then, in perfect Third Age Tradespeak he addresses the party.

“My name is Calsiphus Ardraenan, Arch-Mage of the Arcane Star and affiliate of the blessed Silver Guard. Your arrival has sparked quite the panic in these hallowed halls, and unless you agree to come in peace, I am afraid these fine men and women will possibly turn you inside out and then to ashes.”

But his words are lost on the group as the massive physical and psychic trauma of their journey through time hits home, and deep, crushing unconsciousness overwhelms them...

...8/5/13268 K.C. (Hot and hazy day, with rumbles of thunder in the humid evening)

08:45 – 09:00 – The tinny tintinnabulations of a small silvery bell are the first sound the group hear as sluggish consciousness thickly forces its way into their heads, and as they move towards wakefulness, the strong smell of sharp, antiseptic herbs stings their nostrils, and the gentle caress of a summer's breeze stirs their faces. Opening gummy eyes, the group feel their weariness fading, though the ringing of the bell continues, and the group find themselves in clean and well made beds within a large, open, airy stone hall, lined with beds and lit by misty beams of light which tumble through high, wide windows. Every surface within this place gleams with cleanliness, and several figures in full-length robes of pure white, their faces hidden behind white gauze masks move amongst the beds (many of which are occupied). Around their throats gleam the holy symbol of Oerdaine'Maelandra (or just, Oerdaine as she was called in the 2nd Age, before the world was re-joined with its lost half, Verdaniss); the healing hand, and the group quickly realise they are in a hospice.

The bell continues to madly ring...

The air at the foot of the group's beds begins to shimmer with power...

...And with a pop of displaced air, the same mage that spoke to them in the Time Dilation Chamber appears, a wide grin on his rotund face.

He makes a gesture and the bell stops ringing, and seeing the parties expressions merely shrugs and says (in a strangely accented voice) “The bell is part of a spell I wove, to let me know when you were awake. You've been here for a couple of weeks, and I wasn't sure, given the battering you took, if you would ever wake up.”

Met with only awkward silence, he continues a little self-consciously, his chubby hands waving around, a sweat beading on his brow.

“My name is Calsiphus. I am an arch-mage with the Arcane Star; a loose affiliation of mages, sorcerer's and other spell casters. I have agreed to be your sponsor in this place whilst you are with us, for there are some who...who... Well, let's just say that not everyone in this glorious city views such strange folks as yourselves as welcome when you arrive in such unusual circumstances.”

The group remain silent for a moment. Then; “My name is Ormid Thefler; Dragon Slayer and Time Traveller, and this is my band of heroic companions.”

Ormid introduces his band, and then asks, “When are we? I mean, we were in the present, but then we were in the future. I mean our present is your future, but where we were it was the past not the present, though at that time it was our present as well, you know, before we came to here, which is your present but our past.”

Calsiphus seems to be following the artificer's rambling, even though the others are bemused, and he merely smiles and nods as he listens. Then, with some gravity he informs the party that they are in the year 13268 according to the King's Calendar (which Ormid quickly calculates is roughly 300 years before the ancient dundorin king, Brundor Trull Slayer was born), and that there have been “presences detected at the edges of this reality” which seem to be showing more than a passing interest in the party. He states that it is felt that these things may be Quarut's; extradimensional beings who police the fundamental laws of the multiverse, and who specialise in disruption to the flow of time and the sanctity of the time lines. The group are naturally somewhat distressed at the idea of being hunted by such ageless, ancient things, but Calsiphus assures them that the “unique pressures of the cities multiple mythals hamper their ability to shift between worlds” and that they are “safer here than anywhere else”.

09:01 – 09:03 – At this point the entire party feel a crawling “sheet” of magic slither over them, accompanied by the sudden sense of being stripped naked and of being unpleasantly closely examined. All heads turn towards a small group of robed figures, each dressed in the kaleidoscopic gossamer robes and mirrored face masks of Merriel'Shaava's (or, as Ormid remembers with a jolt, just Merriel's in this time – something he realises the Veteran will know, but which he doubts the others will) clergy. All three are clearly female, and bear no inscriptions on their masks.

Calsiphus has gone quiet, though he quietly hisses out the corner of his mouth, “Ak! 'Tis Justina, high priestess of the House of Mysteries.”

It quickly transpires that Justina is the middle priestess, and from the arch tone of her voice and the colour Calsiphus turns as she speaks to him, it is clear that she is not entirely friendly. She and the mage exchange some curt words, which are not translated by Calsiphus' ritual, before she turns her hidden face towards the group, and in flawless Third Age Tradespeak informs them, “You are all being closely watched. Let not your actions cause any more chaos than they have already. We do not take kindly to those that out our universe at risk.”

She then nods towards Calsiphus, and with her two silent attendees flowing behind her, turns round and quickly leaves the hospital.

Clasiphus, his eyes darting unconsciously to the retreating figures of the priestesses, regards the group.

“grab your gear and prepare. I shall aport you to my home, and there we shall discuss what is to be done.”

10:30 – 17:00 - The group are settled within Calsiphus' magnificent tower, and are only just getting over the shock of seeing Laertraine for real as it was depicted in ancient tales of wonder and power, for it is the last vestige of the ancient might of the four guilds; a shimmering place of extravagant magic use unrivalled since the splendour of those ancient days of might. It is a small city when measured in normal terms, though it rivals some of the greater southern cities in size when its many extradimensional districts and pocket realms are taken into account, its physical and psychical boundaries guarded by layers upon layers of intertwined, living spells – mythals. These invisible but all encompassing magics are exemplified in the five huge rainbow arcs of brilliant energy that beam from the backs of the five titanic iron guardians who mark the five arcane cardinal directions at the cities physical limits, to meet in a blazing sphere of raw, scintillating power at the point of the highest spire of the High House of Mysteries; Merriel's grand temple - a towering, impossible structure of flashing crystal, solidified energy and alien materials that soars above the rest of the city like some deities crown. It is a place where the city guard consists of great golems, and where the meaner things (such as sewage management and the maintenance of city integrity) are taken care of by the layered mantles of magic woven within the mythals.

The group are shown to their chambers by invisible servants of force, and by mid morning are talking to Calsiphus about their adventures; the arrival of the Gennamene, the discovery of the ancient portal weapon, the journey through the extinct volcano, the time in the Fay dimensions, their adventures in the far future, and finally, their need, in this time, to locate a means of activating the portal weapon and returning to a time where they will get chance to use it effectively. Through all this the arch mage listens quietly, only interrupting to clarify any points he finds confusing, or to make notes on a small piece of vellum with a pale green quill.

Once they are done, he puts down his quill, summons a servant (who begins to bring in wine and food), before saying, “I feel that there is much we can do to help you, though we should be mindful of the mortal and immortal foes who would cause us great strife if allowed.
“Firstly, we need to locate a power source capable of working with a Ael'Shar weapon like the one you described. The continent you have described it resting upon does not exist in this time, so I must assume it is inaccessible at this time. However, such power sources have been found before, and I believe that I may be able to try and fathom where such an item is most likely to be found. I would warn you however, that such a place may not lie within the bounds of this universe – not that you seem entirely foreign to extradimensional travels.
“Then we have the problems of crafting a precisely aimed chronoportal. I have a friend who is fascinated by chronomancy, who would no doubt love to help us do such a thing, and I shall call upon his expertise to refine our efforts. However, off the bat, I would say that we need to look at obtaining some primal binding runes, in order to contain the ferocious energies of such a portal, and some resonant crystals of particularly excellent quality to amplify the powers without distorting them.
“I shall need some time to access the great libraries of this wondrous city, and shall need to contact my friend. In the mean time, I know where primal binding runes are kept, for they are guarded by the Star and its allies against those who would use them to usher evil into this world.”

Ormid holds up his hands and asks, “What are they exactly? I have seen them referred to in passing in some ancient treatise, but in no place are they described.”

Calsiphus smiles. “They are fragments of the primal language of magic forged in the Primal Wars. They hold almost impossible strength and can be used to bind Gods and daemon lords. Such runes are items of priceless value and potentially world sundering might, for should the likes of the Ebon Flame or the Draxian Empire get hold of them...well, it does not bear thinking about.
“Luckily, as an arch mage, I know where a set are held, watched over by an ally who owes me a serious favour. I shall send you to the Palace Lake on Calsor with a spell of introduction, and he shall give you access to them. You shall then use these,” he hands each adventurer a crystal carved with a smooth, curved rune, “to return here safely. Does that seem fair?”

The group agree it does.

Calsiphus smiles and nods, leaning back in his chair. Then, with business done, and an embryonic plan in place, the group allow themselves to simply enjoy their surroundings and their company; spending the rest of the evening swapping tales and drinking Calsiphus' fine wines.

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

Epic Christmas Cheer - Santanas Claws (Level 35 Solo Controller)

"You'd better watch out,
You'd better not cry,
He senses your fear, 
And then makes you die,
Satanas Claws is eating your town!"

For some reason the note got wiped. However, I can tell you that it says...

"Should you face this catastrophic being of pure malevolence and xmas cheer, you can only draw one conclusion - you didn't get your DM a nice present and / or forgot to wish them a happy christmas. You may have also defriended them recently from a popular social networking site and earned their insane wrath. Banished from many a table by the Gods of "come the f*ck on", this fell being may yet be out there, in the cosmic void, searching for universes to devour, civilizations to destroy and presents to give..."

Happy Christmas!

Sunday, 19 December 2010

Post War Natives - 14/12/2010

8/5/1472 (Misty morning giving way to a bright day and crisp, chilly night)

05:40 – The group receive word from their guild; the Draxian is staying at “The White Raven”; a nice place located on the southern edge of the High Hills district, run by Irinite native Khazen Mistenway; a vyrleen. Locally renowned for its fine vyrleen “home style” cooking and cosy atmosphere, it is a favourite place for both the nobles of the High Hills, and the working folks of the Smokestacks and Plaza district. It is also a place that a lot of artistes and bard hang out, smoking vyrleen pipe weeds, drinking too much, and giving impromptu performances. Of late it has become the haunt of one Deshayne Vallara; a female human bard from the North Republic who is gaining a lot of attention both through her physical beauty, and the sheer magic of her voice and the pieces she plays on her acoustic guitar.

It is reported that Uzruel spends a lot of time in his chambers, his door guarded by two hooded men. These guards allegedly emanate a silent aura of menace palpable enough that the rooms adjacent to the Draxian's are unavailable to hire at present due to the disturbed nights and foul experiences of those staying in them. The only time he comes down is each evening, when he joins the thronging crowds to listen to the bard as she weaves her enchanting songs, and takes his only meal of the day.

05:50 – 07:00 - The group discuss how they will approach the Draxian. They consider a direct, aggressive approach, but quickly realise the pointlessness of trying to intimidate an individual raised in the nightmarish chaos of the collapsing Draxian Empire. They then discuss the possibility of Emmiven, based on the illusory image of the renegade they have seen at the Order's HQ, taking on Balskus' form; hopefully confusing the Draxian enough that he may, in his surprise tell them something useful, or even better, think him to be the true renegade and give them a wealth of information. This plan hits a snag when they realise that Balskus has created a homunculus; a small, batwinged humanoid with purple skin, black teeth and eyes, and features disturbingly similar to Balskus' own, and that without it, the ruse would fail. Luckily, the faerie drake offers to take the diminutive monster's form.

However, this plan is abandoned in place of a more sensible one. The group decide that Emmiven will take on a random form, and spend the day in the inn; chatting with the staff, eating and drinking, and keeping an eye out for the Draxian or for anyone suspicious. The rest of the group (bar Grigori who wishes to scribe just one more ritual, and who has not slept in nearly 24 hours by this point) will stay in a nearby inn, waiting for word from the assassin, who will lurk near the White Raven through the day, keeping an overall eye on everything. With the word given, the group will enter the inn, and then, with any information gathered, come up with a better informed plan on what to do to get the information they need from the Draxian.

The group get a little more sleep, save Emmiven, who leaves the Staff of Wands and weaves his way through the misty streets of the city, heading eastwards and a little to the north, to the place where the High Hills blend into the northwestern edge of the Smokestacks.

07:45 – 16:00 - Emmiven arrives as the White Raven; which is closed at this time, and mills about the area wearing various guises until the doors open, and he can enter.

The Raven is everything the warlord – with his dislike of the shorter races – was dreading; a “twee” place with low beams, fitted stone walls, and rush covered flagstone floors. Despite the gentle late spring warmth, a fire burns brightly in a hearth, and various trinkets – swords, shields, decorated slings, polished windstones and the specialised bit and bridle used by vyrleen for their riding dogs – hang from the walls.

Apart from two human mercenaries that watch the doors, the entire staff of the inn are vyrleen, and Emmiven notices that The bar has two distinct zones. The eastern side is normal sized, the bar behind being fixed with small platforms in order to allow the tiny bar staff to stand eye to eye with their patrons, whilst the western side is (to the warlord's mind) comically low; built to cater for vyrleen, ghaerduun and other races of shorter stature.

Despite his feelings, Emmiven manages to be not only polite to the barman (who happens to be the inns owner, Khazen), but to be positively pleasant, and he is surprised to find that Khazen is both witty and extremely likeable. The warlord is persuaded to purchase some of the inns fine fare, and soon he is ploughing through all kinds of vyrleen sweet meats, through thorn bread, honey cakes, sugar biscuits and crisp cider. Emmiven also hires a room across the way from Uzruel's, and learns that the rooms adjacent to the Draxian's are out of order due to “problems with the pipes.”

The day passes quickly for the warlord, helped along by the pints of bitter mead and the glasses of sweet vyrleen wine. The ebb and flow of customers is pretty normal – a quiet morning, followed by a crowded dinner rush (mostly factory workers, smeared in sweat, soot and oils), and a mellow afternoon. As the afternoon (a misty and warm one, alive with the first butterflies of the year and the distant chirruping of birds) draws on, so Emmiven watches as a table next to his own is cordoned off, and a small sign placed in the middle of it, next to a silver goblet inscribed with slightly disturbing, thorny runes and set with mottled rubies. The sign reads simply “RESERVED FOR - UZRUEL, DRAXIAN ENVOY”.

A plan forming in his slightly tipsy mind, the warlord swims up to the bar and catches the attention of the young vyrleen lass now serving there. He grins, and asks “Young lady, I was wondering if I too could reserve my seat like that table there is reserved” he waves vaguely in the direction of Uzruel's table, “only I understand it will get quite busy in here later, and I would hate to loose my prime seat.”

The lass fetches her father, who quickly appears and agrees to save the space for a nominal fee. Emmiven then informs him that a friend or two may call for him, and he would appreciate being made aware when this happens. With Khazen agreeing to his, he then staggers (slightly) up the stairs to the inns third floor, and to his room.

16:05 – 18:00 – Emmiven is in his room for only a short while before a tapping at its window draws his attention to the cloaked figure of the assassin. He moves over to him, and notes the sunburn reddening his usually pale features, and the grimy sweat standing out on his brow – a legacy of a hot day on the rooftops, exposed to the rays of the suns without shade.

Emmiven waves at him.

“Open the pissing window you twat.” hisses Jaeger, thumping the frame with irritation.

Soon Jaeger is in the welcome cool of the bedroom. Emmiven tells him of what has transpired, including the sheer luck of having a table next to the Draxian's own. Jaeger tells him that he shall let the others know, and they will enter the tavern, but remain separate from him.

Meanwhile, Grigori has managed to get a little sleep, and feeling groggy and thick headed, he leaves the Staff and heads through towards the White Raven.

Back at the inn, a slight lull falls over the lively chatter of the crowds as a figure dressed from head to toe in voluminous robes of blood red, edged in gold and scribed with thorn like runes, descends the stairs, an aura of oppressive malevolence radiating from them. Rings of bloody Draxian gold and Bloodmarble glint with dark power on their long fingers, complementing the black polish painted on their exquisitely manicured nails, and a vague dimness seems to surround them; a pall of unnatural gloom that darkens both the physical being of those it nears and which shades their souls. The figures face is lost in the hood, a masking spell concealing it in darkness.

The crowd parts as the figure drifts towards his table. He stops by the ropes surrounding it, and waits until one of the vyrleen, spotting him over the crowds, leaps down and moves it for him. The figure whispers something to them then, and hands them a triangular coin of tarnished electrum, the vyrleen handing him a tall, fluted bottle of brown glass, covered in thorny, Draxian runes, which he takes to his seat.

By the time the priest has arrived, the inn has begun to fill with younger folks; students of art and poetry, drawn by the promise of hearing one of Deshayne's performances, as well as other townsfolk who have come to either join them in their appreciation of the bard or to enjoy the establishment's fine foods. He notes that the barbarian and drakven are by the western bar, the genasai skulking forlornly a little way from them, and ignoring them pushes through the crowd, shuddering as he makes contact with their sweating, hot bodies. He forces his way to the bar, and after a short while catches the barmaid's attention. With disgust clearly etched in his voice, he informs her that he is here to see Emmiven (using the false name they have concocted), and is directed to the cordoned off table in the corner. Without a word of thanks, or buying any beverages, he pushes his way to the corner...

...Only to find that the reserved area is taken.

From their fine clothing, made in the latest styles, they are young nobles, a man and a woman. They are entwined, kissing deeply, their hands drifting all over one another, and although they must know they are sitting in a reserved area, they seem to have not a single care in the world.

“You are in my seat.” snarls Grigori quietly.

The couple continue to kiss, either ignoring the cleric, or unaware of his words in the midsts of their lust.

“You. Are. In. My. SEAT!” Snaps Grigori, finally getting the couple's attention.

Clearly not used to being questioned, the man immediately takes umbrage. He scowls at the priest, and with an arrogant, sneering voice, tells him to make himself scarce as his seat has been taken. His woman sits next to him, smiling suggestively at Grigori, her painted eyes hooded and dilated.

The noble turns back to his love, and is about to return to her embrace when Grigori grabs his shoulder and fixes him with an empty, terrible stare. Any furious or arrogant response the noble was about to give withers when he feels a wave of pure malice and alien dread sweep through him from the cleric's dead-eyed glare, and he instead soils himself. He gibbers and tries desperately to think of something, anything, he can say to get out of this situation with his soul, let alone his life, intact. He does not notice the mould darkening the pocket where the vial rests, or the slight expression of pain that lies beneath a terrible, pallid mask of Grigori's features, and openly weeping with unnameable dread, he grabs his suddenly wide-eyed partner, and leaves the inn, choking in fear.

Suddenly himself again, the cleric slumps forwards. He then senses eyes upon him, and looking up, he meets the dark gaze of the Draxian. For a moment he fears he has given the game away. However, Uzruel raises a glass to him and inclines his head; a gesture of apparent appreciation at what had just occurred – a sign that he recognises his own? Grigori smiles, and grimly whispers to him “They didn't have a sense of humour did they?”. He is surprised when the Draxian offers him a glass of his blue, spiced wine and strikes up a conversation; his voice thick with the accent of his homeland.

By the time the warlord has come downstairs, Grigori and Uzruel are engaged in a conversation about the weakness of the common folk, and the foibles of power. As he approaches the pair, he flashes his other allies a quick look, and meets their slightly worried, slightly confused gazes, before moving to his seat and waiting to be introduced. It takes the cleric a while to even acknowledge him, and the introduction is fleeting to say the least. Emmiven tries to join in their conversation but seems to irritate the dark mage – a fact that forces Grigori to carefully take over the conversation, increasingly blanking Emmiven's input with his own.

The Draxian has allowed the veil hiding his features to fade, revealing his dark features; tattooed and handsome in a subtly unnatural, disturbing manner. Despite the priest's attempts to keep then warlord quiet, Emmiven manages to raise Uzruel's hackles even more when he is caught in a lie regarding his business in the inn, and he realises that quite desperate measures are needed.

He interrupts Emmiven mid sentence and asks, sharply, “Sorry my friend, but would you mind very much FUCKING OFF?”

For a moment Emmiven is stunned into silence. Then he sees the subtle wink the priest gives him, and the penny drops. He forces his skin to darken as if in a blush, and with a mumbled apology, rises and leaves, still a little dazed at the anger he felt rising within him at being spoken to so rudely.

Uzruel, disturbingly enough is staring at Grigori intently, a knowing grin on his face. “I think,” he begins, “that we shall talk after the lady sings. I sense there is more to you, and to your friends” - he gestures towards the rest of the group where they try to blend in with the crowd - “than I first imagined. I sense there is business to be done, and that....ah!”

The last exclamation comes as an expectant hush falls across the crowd, and a delicate, young human woman, pale of skin and blonde of hair, stands up on a small stage raised behind the bar, an acoustic guitar of polished song oak in her hands. She smiles at the crowd, her pale blue eyes glittering, and then begins to sing...

18:01 – 19:30 - Songs of magic and of legend. Songs of joy and of sorrow. Songs that weave true magic and conjure forth images of the heroes and villains they describe. Songs that momentarily take the crowd out of their mundane lives, and let them see the world as only stories can paint it.

Her voice is a thing of power; the tool of a true bard, and the performance, carried on the wings of her clear, perfect song and flawless musical skill, seems to take only moments - though by the time she is done, the light has faded to deep twilight outside. A moments awed silence after her performance, and then deafening applause. Uzruel remains silent, but a dreamy, far-away look is etched on his face and a genuine smile lights his face. After a moment he blinks rapidly, as if waking from the dream, and with a cough he turns to regard Grigori.

“To my room”, He growls.

19:31 – 20:00 – The group, gathered with urgent glances through the crowd, follow Uzruel to his chambers on the third floor. As they near the door, they feel a malevolent horror emanating from the figures that stand outside. Grigori catches a whiff of resinous oils and bitter herbs coming from them and under the hoods sees filthy, glyph inscribed bandages. They're mummies he realises; embalmed cadavers animated by ancient, evil spirits.

As Uzruel approaches, they shuffle stiffly aside with a faint moan and the crackle of stiff wrappings. He then raises his hands, mutters an incantation (the more sensitive members of the group feel hidden and most likely lethal magics powering down), and the door swings open revealing a lushly appointed bedroom, lit by a sullen reddish glow. Various exotic and disturbing items decorate the chamber; the huge, thick-boned skull of some multi-horned pachyderm, painted with twisting runes of vile power, a thin bladed, straight sword, apparently worked from obsidian, a collection of shrunken heads, which bear no signs of dehydration or mummification, but are perfect, tiny, silently screaming versions of their original forms, frozen in their moment of final agony by dark necromantic arts. Scrolls are piled on a desk, and a petrified scorpion sits as a paperweight on some documents bearing the inverted pentacle and daemon skull standard of Pentas Daemonica – the dread and legendary City of Stained Stones; heart of the disintegrating Draxian Empire.

Once inside, they are joined by Jaeger, and the party get down to business.

Uzruel is clearly fully cognizant that this band of unique individuals are allied with the Unified Order, and from this, he quickly works out that they are seeking his occasional contact Balskus. He clearly enjoys the groups' surprise at his ability to deduce all of this, and a smug smile shapes the sounds of his words. He informs the party that he knows exactly where the renegade is, and that if they are willing to help him, he shall tell them exactly how to find him. He warns them that without his help they stand absolutely no chance of getting close to him as “he dwells in a place particular to him”, and adds the caveat that his price will not be cheap.

Cautiously, the party agree to listen to the Draxian's offer – although before he starts Jaeger tries something, saying “From what you have said, I reckon Balskus is in Clanktown.” - noting with pleasure the unconscious response from Uzruel, which as good as screams “YES HE IS!!!”, although he merely shakes his head and looks a little irritated.

Having given the game away (though still unaware of this fact) Uzruel begins to discuss the task he wants the group to complete for his cooperation.

“In Draxia a particular narcotic incense is commonly used in meditation, ritual, and for relaxation. Named Yangir by my people, it is also known as White Poppy Wax on Fey and by the Dwaer'Syth as Maesh'Tcheterti; 'Dream Biter'.

“It is a crumbly brownish white material which smoulders readily if lit, emitting a strongly musky smoke which lulls those breathing it into a stupefied state, during which one may gain insights into problems or travel into the shadow planes.

“I was a particularly enthusiastic user of this material in my homeland, and I brought a large supply with me six moons ago when I first came to Irin. However, this supply is now almost completely gone, and the only place I has been able to divine holds any is currently out of my reach; within a sealed Darkold'Sebbathorimite chapel about a day and a half to the west of Irin.

“This is a particular concern to me as should I be forced to go without for too long I shall sicken and weaken until I fade away”.

Asked why the supply in the chapel is “out of reach”, the Draxian looks genuinely disgusted.

“Because a bunch of Solum'Tassadexites calling themselves the 'Knights of the Blazing Oriflamme' stand vigil over it, and because there is said to be some kind of evil spirit within. Powerful though I am, I do not flatter myself to think that I could best the entire troupe, and even I am not insane enough to try and tangle with the wraiths of long dead clerics, dedicated in their foul lives to Darkold'Sebbathor.”

“So then,” begins Jaeger slowly, as if mulling over the envoy's words, “You want us to take on these knights and undead instead? Is that it?”

Uzruel's eyes glitter.

“Of course.”

An uneasy tension passes through the party (save Schnecke who after several days of relative peace is itching to hit something with his latest acquisition), and with faux sincerity, Seren makes Uzruel aware that the group will “see what they can do”.

Both parties know that actually going through with any kind of attempt to rescue the drugs from the sealed temple would be a last ditch effort to find the renegade.

20:01 – 09:00 - (9/5/1472 – Fog slow to clear, leaving a cool but sunny day. Chilly night with clear skies) The group leave Uzruel and his foul room, and leave the White Raven. Returning to the Staff of Wands they ask their rogues to look into the availability of Yangir from sources other than sealed temples raised to the glory of the most wicked and vile of deities, and (ironically) Jaeger makes contact with the shadowy priesthood of the House of Killers to ask the same. During this time, the group's contacts let them know a simple fact – contrary to what Uzruel told them, Yangir is fairly easily obtained, and more than a few traders with a taste for danger or the truly exotic have stocks of it. It seems that the Draxian may have actually been more interested in getting the vile site cleared of enemies than in the drugs supposedly contained within it.

Annoyed at the envoy's attempts to manipulate them, the party consider a number of scenarios ranging from stark, bloody revenge, to knowing cooperation. However, they decide that if they accomplish their goals without any input at all from the Draxian, so much the better.

09:00 – 00:00 – This day is spent utilising the parties various underworld contacts and the official repositories of knowledge with the Unified Order, in order to try and track down any relatively unique vices the renegade may have. Jaeger is utterly convinced that Balskus resides in Clanktown – or New Forge as it's inhabitants call it - a small settlement thrown up by the warforged that rises 2 ½ miles to the northeast of Irin, and he feels that if the group can identify a rare item that only a mortal would crave, and locate a supplier taking it to the town, they may find a lead they can exploit.

By late morning, Balskus' love of a certain type of cigar, imported from a small kingdom in the Central Meridian Isles comes to light; a rare imported item that only a few traders supply. More time is spent trying to find the names and associations of those merchants, and by nightfall, one particular group of merchants – a cabal of warforged native to New Forge – are identified as the most obvious and likely candidates.

A few fingers are put out of their sockets, and a few threats made, and more information is gleaned by the group. Apparently on every 10th, 20th and 30th day of the month, a warforged named “Dent” visits a certain steel works in the Smokestacks. Whilst there he negotiates legitimate deals for steel trade between the factory and New Forge, as well as moving on less legitimate items. From what the group can learn, one of these dodgy cargoes is, from time to time, the renegade's special cigars!

With something akin to glee the party set about planning an ambush for this unfortunate living construct, for if what they have learned is correct, he will be making his visit to the eastern district at first light the very next morning.

(10/5/1472; Misty start, then bright, sunny day. Very warm. Cool and clear at night)

00:01 – 05:00 – The group steal a few hours sleep, before slipping out of their Inn, and heading through the misty streets towards the distant gloom of the Smokestacks district. Few are about at this time, fewer still willing to tangle with a group packing the likes of Seren, Schnecke, Varracuda and Jaeger, and they make excellent time.

05:01 – 05:35 - The Smokestacks is a district of monotonous red brick walls, which frame the straight, narrow cobbled streets, used mainly for deliveries, and enclose the huge factoriums and fabricatories themselves. A constant pall of smoke hangs over it, belched from the towering chimneys that give the area its name, and a thin, slippery coating of soot covers everything, making everything grimy and filthy. The air is sharp with the chemical bite of fumes, and when there is any kind of water vapour in the air, it is choked by stinging smogs that can choke those caught within them. Few animals or plants thrive in this area, apart from the cooing filthwings, and indefatigable wiregrass, and only the dundorin tend to feel at home in this polluted, dingy place.

The group navigate the streets, their eyes and throats smarting in the smoky atmosphere, and eventually they find the one they are looking for – a street with no name, just a number that designates its start and finish location in comparison to the adjacent streets. Like all the others it is narrow, cobbled, and closed on both sides by 40' high walls of mortared red brick. Here and there along this length of road, huge gates of steel, bearing the name of the factory beyond them break the monotony of the wall.

Several groups of workers are offloading supplies through some of these gates, their voices carrying along the narrow streets weirdly, and the party realise that finding a secluded spot from which to launch their attack may prove difficult in these functional thoroughfares. However, they then spot a lone warforged in the distance, bearing a huge backpack, moving along the street towards them from the east, a walking stick in his hand, a deep dent clearly visible in his head, and so are forced to improvise. Moving as a loose circle, the party move towards him; half passing him by, the others remaining in front of him. Then, all at once, the last group rush him, catching him by surprise, and carry him towards the relative seclusion of the streets easternmost end. There he is slammed to the ground by Schnecke and held there by the blades and crackling energies held to his throat.

“What? What did I do? Why are you doing this?”

“Shut up machine.” snarls Jaeger, “You have something we need, and you are going to give it to us. If we are happy with it, you may even get to leave here alive and unscathed.”

The warforged, looking pathetically like a cowering human as he scrambles to placate the group, quickly reveals that Balskus is indeed one of his cabal's customers and that he resides at the very heart of New Forge, in a fortified smithy. He tells the party that the renegade has become utterly beloved by the 'forged - especially those of the Forging Flame – for he heals the wounded and helps those still in service to the Order to shrug off their binding rituals and to become free. The 'forged see him as an emissary of peace and are incredibly protective of him – save those who follow the Ebon Eye, who think him just another meat puppet manipulating their people for their own unguessable ends – and he warns the party that any move against him would bring the entire town down upon their heads. He advises them to simply let him be, and hints that Balskus has made reference to a “great evil” perpetrated by his former peers, which he seeks to protect all the 'forged from. The group wonder if this is a reference to “Project Scythe”; whatever that is.

07:00 – By this time Dent has been arrested by the Order, and taken to await trial and almost certainly, execution. The group however are trying to work out how to extract a powerful mage from a fortified position, in the middle of an enemy stronghold, without getting themselves or him killed, or triggering a war between the clanks and the city of Irin.

Monday, 13 December 2010

Firearms and other Equipment

Anyone that has read more than a couple of entries will have noticed that my games include firearms of various types, as well as a few non-standard weapons. As they have been pretty well play tested now, and have not proved to be imbalanced in any way, I thought I would share a few of the more common ones with you. I will get round to detailing the Dundorin Shotgun and Upper Malgorothian "Duet" Shotgun at some point too, as well as some more exotic forms of ammunition. 

Also included are the stats for the dreaded Gorgoth War Cleaver - my shameless copy of the Warhammer world's Orc's Choppa'. Each card can be clicked on to get a full sized version, which you can download and print off for use in your own games should you wish. All the cards were made using the Magic Set Editor, and Ander's D&D Template

Anyway, I hope you like them. Enjoy!

Wednesday, 8 December 2010

Ormid et al - Session Report, 5/12/2010

11:21 – 11:35 – Trying not to dwell on the task of battling a monster the literal size of a tower, capable of working an epic ritual all by itself, the group desperately look for a way to bring the energy barrier surrounding it down. Seeing them, the Aethran makes a gesture, and in response the air becomes wracked by powerful blasts of focused wind, which smash into the party, sending each individual hurtling across the vast area of the ritual chamber's ruin. The strong winds also punch some holes in the billowing clouds surrounding the area, revealing that there is a drop of many thousands of feet beyond the unbound edges, and the group realise that being pushed over would lead to a horrible death after a long, fear-filled plummet to the ruins far, far below.

Trying to keep their feet in the screaming, unnatural tempest, Ormid, Llewellyn and Shadevia spy three areas of the maddening carvings which they believe are tied to maintaining the barrier. Cursing as they are thrown about by the gusting winds, Ormid tromps over to one of the areas, whilst Llewellyn cartwheels and leaps towards another accompanied by the shadowy form of the darkling. Ormid applies his magical knowledge to the problem, and silently marvels at the intricate work done to subvert the inlaid magics to a new, secondary purpose.
Llewellyn on the other hand looks at the “hack job” and sneers. Shaking his head, his long plaits whipping in the screaming winds, he mutters something about “amateurs” and sets to work reversing the alterations made, the seeker's sensitive eyes and magically attuned senses aiding him in his work.

Within a few seconds, two of the three areas have been undone, the glowing lines between them and the barrier dimming, the energy surrounding the massive humanoid weakening enough that the strongest winds push through it. Veteran, Ferrous and Ardwaine – still fighting the powerful gusts – take up ready positions along its boundary, ready to smash apart the first enemy which comes within reach once the barrier is down, and seeing this, the massive great cat begins to pace up and down between the warriors and its master, growling deep in its armoured chest.

Llewellyn and Shadevia are much nearer the final area, and they reach it long before Ormid, huffing and puffing, does. Llewellyn sets to work at once, his tiny fingers a blur as he ties small pieces of wire and drops misaligned shards of crystal over the carvings to scatter their magics and re-direct them. However, with a shriek he is picked up by a brutal gust of wind and carried some 20' towards the edge of the area, his face turning white as he feels death looming. Ignoring his plight, the darkling kneels down, and with a gesture, bathes the carvings outlined by the rogues work in pulsing darkness. Coils of almost angled smoky darkness rise from the carvings, and at once both the barrier and the tempest goes down, the vyrleen crashing to the floor a few feet from oblivion.

Veteran's axe strikes the great cat, Ferrous sinks his adamantine fangs into the beasts legs, and Ardwaine fires a bolt from her fine dundorin crossbow, all three attacks hitting with brutal force. A shadowy arrow arcs from Shadevia, missing its mark and vanishing into the agitated clouds beyond the areas' edge, and Llewellyn skips and jumps in, hurling an enchanted wedge of steel towards the massive Aethran.

The great cat is quickly put down, despite it raising a shield of flickering blue light about itself, which for a time prevents the weapons and spells of the party hitting it, each attack instead sending out a colourful burst of sparks and warping light. The Aethran however proves to be every bit the deadly, intelligent opponent the group feared it would be.

In their favour, the monster is already wounded from its battles with the Unified Order mages before, and it has used some of its powers against them, and sunk even more of its energy into powering the chrono-portal ritual. However, it still commands a deadly arsenal of spells; blasting the group with acidic shards of ice, psionically induced lightning, and summoning fields of death infused frost which hold onto those within, weakening and rotting them as long as they are unable to break free. With stark ease he swings his tree sized crystalline staff out at his enemies, each hit sowing carnage, each miss filling the air with a deafening crack and sending shockwaves through the ground.

The party though are far from defenceless. Ormid enchants the warforged's axe so that it weeps powerful acid, and Shadevia calls upon her dark hosts of spirits to aid her. Llewellyn quickly singles himself out as a target of the monster's ire, by repeatedly leaping within his arc of attack and concentrating unrelenting attcks on his left knee; climbing like a manic gazelle up the monsters cliff like calf and striking with horrific force at the tendons and softer tissues at the knees' back. The monster tries to smash him down, but the slow swings of the gigorim's attacks are unable to hit the nimble rogue, who bounces and tumbles about them like a flea avoiding the agitated picking of a huge tramp. Shadevia fires a few arrows at the monster, scoring a few hits, but then charges in, the air around her seething with a nimbus of shadows. Getting up close, she unleashes a burst of darkness, which whips out at the monsters legs, sending it sprawling towards the edge with a thunderous bellow. It manages to stop itself from falling to its death, but crashes down heavily, hanging over the edge of the platform, its face a mask of raw terror.

Sensing the possibility of a quick victory, the group try their best to weaken the gigorim's grip on the platform; charging at it full pelt, striking it with numbing blows and seething spells. Arrows infused with elemental spirits and prayers of divine strength also pepper it, but the monster manages, somehow, to keep hold. Several times the monster manages to pull itself up, and with a huge grunt of joy, it squashes Llewellyn flat, smashing him unconscious and sending his limp body, trailing steaming crimson, spinning across the battlefield. Shifting along the edge of the platform he finds himself marked by the warforged as a target, and he responds by sending a curse at the living construct, which ties their fates together – the Veteran suffering a half measure of all harm visited on the Aethran. A moment later and the gigorim is hanging over the edge again, courtesy of Ormid's thunderous artifice, and Llewellyn is up again, spitting teeth and wiping blood from his eyes, his mangled body partly restored by the artificer's healing infusions and the dundorin's restorative benedictions. He charges, slightly giddily, in towards the struggling behemoth, and launches himself high into air in a whirring forwards flip, using the momentum of his acrobatics to drive his seething adamantium mace into the brute's thick skull. Despite the vyrleen's diminutive size the blow is sickeningly powerful; a perfect storm of momentum, skill, luck and weighty enchantments. With a dull crack, the mace hits home. The monsters' skull is breached, a thick gob of brain matter and cerebrospinal fluids erupting in a smoking spume from the monster's head, and it shrieks in pain. Across the way, Veteran also screams, the curse relaying a measure of the harm to him, a crack suddenly appearing in his armoured head. Ormid bellows a warning, but the Veteran, incensed by the Aethran's temerity, and determined to punish it, strides in, his axe a mass of billowing flames and fuming acids, and leaping up, sinks his blazing, corrosive weapon into the creatures exposed brain.

The Aethran screams in panic and shock as the blow strikes a vital blood vessel. There is an explosive eruption of red mist and steam, and it spasms, managing somehow to pull itself up onto the platform in he process. Acid sizzles in the critical wound, further punishing the huge spell caster, but all is not well, for as his axe landed, so the Veteran fell victim to his own skill. Relayed to him through the Aethran's hex, the force of his own blow causes the back of his head to burst open in a shower of metal and stone shards, magical sparks and frothing oils. He jerks as if pulled by an invisible string, and staggers backwards, collapsing into a convulsing pile on the floor. Shadevia runs over to him, and at once begins to administer first aid as best she can, granting the doughty construct the support he needs to initiate his internal healing mechanisms, and then, as consciousness returns, to activate his potent healing cloak. Within a few seconds, the Veteran, now bearing a new scar, sits up, shaking the cobwebs away, whilst the downed gigorim struggles to get to his feet.

The party lay into the monster once more, determined to send it to its death.

Impossibly, the Aethran, bleeding heavily and clearly dizzy from his terrible head wounds, limping noticeably as he favours the less mangled leg, and bearing scores of other wounds from the parties efforts, his body pin-cushioned with blazing arrows, burns, sheets of thawing arcane frost and other signs of signficant abuse, stands up. His red-irised eyes glare insanely at the party, and the air around him seethes with agitation as he draws on yet more power. Ghostly fire erupts from his outstretched hands, blanketing almost all the party. It burns both physically and psychically, and all struck by it are disoriented and dizzied. Another burst of roaring sonic energy from the artificer, and the gigorim once more hangs over the edge. Its grip is weakened even more as Ferrous exhales a cloud of corrosive oil over it (and the group realise that the monster's hex must have failed, for the Veteran is not harmed by these attacks), and it begins to look desperate, its eyes widening, a look of panic clearly etched on its tattooed and bearded face.

For a moment Ormid considers trying to negotiate a peaceful end to the battle. However, he becomes aware suddenly of the chrono-portal, which, without guidance from the gigorim, is starting to become critically unstable; a billowing, flickering tear of black and green darkness, edged in negative light and limned in black corposant, dancing wildly like a flame in a strong breeze. He realises that there is no time, and so is relieved when the warforged, cold with the need to destroy his foe, leaps up and sinks his axe into the same wound that has born so many attacks, carving out a mass of brain tissue and fully ripping open the blood vessel within.

The Aethran gives a long, howling scream as his life flees him, and a massive burst of gore whips out from the head wound, pushing the group back, soaking them in blood and brain fluids. The air around the massive monster begins to writhe strangely, and as the Aethran's life slips away, and it begins to slide over the edge of the edifice, it becomes insubstantial, and then, with a blur of distortion, collapses inwards, leaving, briefly, a window into another universe.

It is a place of infinite stars and strange, impossible angles. A place of ethereal mists and echoing energies. Strange snatches of psychic conversations and chiming resonances flit through the star edged portal, and Ormid realises that the universe beyond is the so called Psychic Plane – the medium in which other dimensions float, which is simultaneously separate from them, and a part of them, suffused somehow into their fabric.

The portal snaps shut. The chrono-portal, utterly uncontrolled now, gives a scream.

Realising that unless they somehow take control of the rituals wildly unravelling magics they will all be killed, the party move to the touchstone and set about working together to channel the wildly bucking magics into something they can use. It takes every single ounce of control, ability and understanding, but with the rogue manning the physical side of the portal, and the artificer and seeker working on the magical side, they manage, impossibly, to stabilise the portal for just a second, and with Ormid sending a single thought into it...

...Before Brundor. In the time of Laertraine's golden age...

...The portal opens and draws the group in.

Side Note: 11:36; 24/5/1472 - A Reality Storm rages over the ruins of Laertraine, destroying the Unified Order base there and causing catastrophic planar breaches across the physical plane. The “Day of Sundered Worlds” is a world / dimension wide catastrophe that will have long term ramifications on the universe and all those that dwell within it. It will later be discovered that the source of the storm was the collapse of a Chrono-Portal within the ruins; the result of a treacherous Aethran'Gigorim's dark magics and an unknown factor.

Tuesday, 7 December 2010

Before I get the next writeup done...

Here are the stats for the monster the group faced in that final battle. 

Post War Natives - 23/11/2010

19:00 РThe group retire to their rooms after sewing chaos in the foyer of the Staff of Wands amongst the client̬le. However, outside of their room is a beautifully wrapped package, complete with a slightly soiled bow ribbon. Jaeger immediately cautions the group against getting excited, and moves to cast his eyes over it, checking for any tell tale signs that could indicate the presence of deadly spells or other deadly traps. He spies nothing and gives the nod for the others to open the package, quietly shifting away from it.

Inside the box are two strangled cats, the twine used to kill them still tightly wound around their scrawny necks. Beneath them is a curious thing; about twenty dead rats, who's tales are hopeless tangled in a smelly, mummified mass – a rat king.

Immediately everyone understands that this is a warning from the Gutter Kings. However, Grigori senses a deeper warning, for the Rat King is the symbol of a little known aspect of Sarrax'Thag'Nestra named Skeertesh; a verminous aspect associated with swarms, vermin and animal carried plagues.

Shnecke rumbles deep in his chest.

6/5/1472 (Bright and warm. light breeze which fades towards the evening leaving thick fog)

09:00 – 23:00 - The party groggily awaken, the cumulative wounds from the last couple of days serenading them with a silent song of pain and leaden stiffness. They thump their way downstairs and take a good breakfast (their aroma, bruises and wounds drawing arch glares from the other guests and attending staff) before preparing for the day of questioning ahead as they turn their attention towards locating the renegade mage Balskus Morvell.

The only member of the party that seems alert, upbeat and spry is Grigori, who seems possessed of a rare energy. Between mouthfuls of bacon, scrambled eggs and sopping spiced beans he gulps down copious quantities of black, tarry coffee, and announces that he intends to spend the next day or two translating and transcribing the rituals he found in the bloodstained pages of the tome he wrested from the vampires so long ago in the aelwyn ruins near Greenford. Realising that this new “happy” Grigori might actually be a bit of a pain when dealing with some of the folks they will have to interview, the group readily agree to allow him some time to himself.

After finishing their meal, allowing Grigori to remove the last of their lingering wounds with his prayers, the party enter Irin and spend a rather irritating day speaking with various petty low-level officials, record keepers and minor enforcers of the Order, seeking any information they can get about the missing mage. The day bears little fruit other than to confirm many details that the party already knew.

7/5/1472 (Bright and warm. light breeze which fades towards the evening leaving thick fog)

09:00 – 12:30 - After some careful consideration the party (sans Grigori who has returned to his studies) head towards Northwood, and the mazy home of Fren, hoping that she, as an artificer, may have some thoughts on where someone like Balskus could be, or may have some insight into Balskus himself.

The group arrive at Frens' home mid morning, and are granted entry by the muttering artificer. She seems to remember the party, and after a short while is happily telling them what little she knows of the missing mage, though she is unable to shed light on where he could be, other than to check out “the kind of places artificers hang out”.

According to her, Balskus was a member of “Section 5”; a team of artificers, anatomists and mages who were charged with spotting possible flaws in the newly created warforged's biology, psyches and behavioural patterns. They were also responsible for hunting down and “neutralising” “rogue” units. Their symbol was a warforged “skull” (a blank face plate), and they were closely tied, towards the end of the war – and possibly still – with “Section 1” - a secret section that Fren only knows of because of her previous work. She is unsure what became of him, though she seems to recall him leaving the section under a cloud. She also murmurs something about a “Project Scythe”...though she is unable (or unwilling) to say any more on this subject.

Fren seems to go into her memories at this point, staring at the floor and smiling as if engaged in a pleasant conversation, and the group let themselves out of her home, leaving her to her madness.

12:31 – 16:00 – The group head towards some of the busiest markets scattered around the southeastern edges of the plaza and “smokestacks” district; markets traditionally filled with all kinds of components, artifice gewgaws and other bits and pieces used in magical construction. It is a busy place of forges, bellowing salesmen and muttering artificers, and the group find themselves moving along the oily streets closely pressed with the many other shoppers, the stench of their bodies and perfumes mixing foully with the biting aroma of oil smoke, hot metal and burned magic.

Within a few minutes of arriving, Jaeger has realised that beneath the obvious surface trade going on is a deeper, hidden layer of silent communication and illicit sales. Furtive gestures, words spoken with double meanings and tones of voice that subtly convey an alternative meaning to that superficially implied all combine to help him realise that a thriving black market is operating here, “out in the open”, under the noses of the city officials. He relays this information to the rest of the group, who decide to let him do some snooping, whilst they make more general enquiries. It is hard work, for many of the vendors are suspicious of snooping strangers, but slowly and surely, they begin to gain more information about Balskus.

Much of the information is the same as they already know. However, it becomes apparent that he had, prior to dropping off the underworld's radar, ties to a Draxian diplomat named Uzruel. Apparently, incredibly, Uzruel is staying at the Staff of Wands – information met with a mixture of joy (at getting a solid lead) and horror (at having to have anything to do with a Draxian). Further questioning reveals that as well as being an ambassador, Uzruel has a side line going in the illicit sales of certain substances manufactured in the vats and labs of his dark homeland – substances that guarantee customer dependence and command a high price. Balskus' particular interest lay in soporific's apparently, and he was introduced to Uzruel by a drug dealer in the Roughs who was unable to help him out, but was willing to introduce him to the Draxian for a hefty “finders fee”.

17:50 – 18:20 – Back at their base of operations, the group do some snooping about; gaining access to the list of guests through stealth and misdirection, and finding out that Uzruel is staying in a suite but one floor removed from their own chambers. Those who are not familiar with the works and nature of the foul daemon worshipping empire of Draxia are given a potted history by Grigori – everything from the fall of ancient Pentasia and the founding of Pentas Daemonica (the City of Stained Stones), to the height of the dark empire, its wars with the Soum'Tassadexite church, and its recent decline and current state of explosive, war-filled death. They are warned that even a diplomat is going to be a servant of foul powers, and that in truth there will be little difference between them, and the filthy cultists they have battled in the past.

Then they go to meet with him.

However, after disabling the warding runes on his door and forcing entry, they find that the chamber is empty, and that it has apparently not been slept in for even a single night.

18:25 – The group instruct their guild to put word out that the whereabouts of the Draxian Uzruel are desired, and to do some investigating for them.

8/5/1472 (Misty morning giving way to a bright day and crisp, chilly night)

05:40 – The group receive word from their guild; the Draxian is staying at “The White Raven”; a nice place located on the southern edge of the High Hills district, run by Irinite native Khazen Mistenway; a vyrleen. Locally renowned for its fine vyrleen “home style” cooking and cosy atmosphere, it is a favourite place for both the nobles of the High Hills, and the working folks of the Smokestacks and Plaza district. It is also a place that a lot of artistes and bard hang out, smoking vyrleen pipe weeds, drinking too much, and giving impromptu performances. Of late it has become the haunt of one Deshayne Vallara; a female human bard from the North Republic who is gaining a lot of attention both through her physical beauty, and the sheer magic of her voice and the pieces she plays on her acoustic guitar.

Saturday, 4 December 2010

More Experiments....

My quest for apps to help me write up my games without depending on the increasingly useless official software / web apps from Wizards, I have been tinkering with Asmor's Monster Maker. This is an output file...

Oh, and feel free to use this nasty little bugger in your games if you so wish - a classic spell throwing skeleton. Enjoy!

(And it should read "Recharge when first bloodied" for the Entropic Singularity attack...

Wednesday, 1 December 2010

Some Lovely News

A very talented member of the ENworld boards has come up with a fabulous template for the MSE which allows for monster cards to be made. I am very very happy about this!

Here are two I made earlier (and yes, one of them may end up being used in an upcoming game)