Plenty of Plots to Go Around

April 10, 2009 at 5:04 am (Nexus, Phirul, Treepo, Undercroft of Vecna)

skullscotOur battle had been a desperate one, although we had won in the end. By the valor of Skalrag (how often does one say that?), most of the prospectors had been rescued. However, as we sat a few minutes to gain our breath, my head hurt something terrible—and not just from the heavy axe blow it had taken from one of the orcs now dead on the temple floor. It hurt because this, like every other victory we had won since the Omen of the Goats, only made the whole evil-plot-threatening-to-destroy-all-good-things seem that much more complicated. It all felt rather like trying to unravel a basket of Kalonian water-eels.

Adding to both our information and the complexity of it all were a series of communications that we found on the bodies of our foes. The first was a letter from Nalric to Svernizug, the latter being the treacherous Dark One that we had first encountered in Treepo’s shop in Phirul and which I had now just slain. The second was a message from Grimbol Dune to Torg, the leader of the orcs we had just defeated. The third was from Beauchelain to Zaelis, Skalrag’s nemesis, the shadar-kai witch, together with a letter from Nalric to Zaelis.

In addition to these, we also had the pages from Treepo’s letter and diary, as well as our letter of instructions from Chancellor Invictad, and the weapon’s order placed at the goblin foundary at Bortho.

Aunt Petunia always used to say, “you’ll never keep yer ferrets tidy if you don’t write them down,” so I started a list of everyone we had met these recent weeks, and how they all seemed to tie into this dark plot…

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Escape from Phirul, and a Prophecy Fulfilled

September 9, 2008 at 3:43 pm (Phirul, Temple of Erathis, The Prophecy of the White She-Goat)

13th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde 

For the first time in two weeks, I have dined well, drunk ale, bathed, and slept in a warm and comfortable cot rather than on a roof or the rough floor of a stone cellar. My companions and I, at last, have escaped from the death-plagued streets of Phirul. What is more, we have managed to bring with us, safe and well, Geoffrey Alderman and all of the survivors from the Golden Gryphon, as well as the redoubtable Samantha Heward and her son Jason.

How we got from that nightmare to our present safe and secure accommodations at a Tamarian military encampment is as strange a tale as any that I’ve reported, involving Viggo, goats, mud, more Viggo, and a well-deserved punch-in-the-face. Like all such tales, it is best told in order, and heard around a roaring fire and with a fine pint or three of Harry Hephalump’s Honeydew Mead in hand. I well remember my father and Uncle Filbert telling such stirring tales at the Gibbering Githyanki on cold winter’s nights, as everyone gathered around. I hope one day they’ll tell this one too.

This, as they say, was how it was. Following our successful efforts to secure the Temple of Erathis and its surrounding walls, gates, and compound, Thor, Dirock, Viggo and I set out to return to the survivors and plan their relocation. On the way, we took a quick detour back into the kruthik tunnels, so as to make sure the beasties wouldn’t trouble us when we brought everyone to the Abbey. Our scouting confirmed that the creatures had reestablished their lair much deeper than before, and there was no sign that they had returned to their old haunts near the crypt and under the barn. Reassured—and not anxious to confront the hive-queen—we left them alone.

Back at the Golden Gryphon, the news we brought was greeted with much joy. Everyone was anxious to leave the roof upon which they had been so uncomfortably perched for the space, security, and supplies afforded by the church compound. Thor inspected the rope bridge that the survivors had been working on, made a few modifications, and pronounced it ready for use. We would attempt to ferry everyone from roof to roof across the several city blocks between us and Andy’s Armoury. From there, we would have safe access to the sewers below. To be doubly sure it would all work, we would fastened an additional safety rope around each person as they crossed—despite Viggo’s grinning assurances that he could easily hook them with the grapple andretrieve them from a fall, as he done to me so painfully a week earlier.

As might be expected, our first attempts to put all of this into practice ran into a few hitches. Once or twice the attachments slipped, never disastrously so but enough that we took extra care from then on.  Panros Gyrokopta froze part way across several times and eventually admitted to a fear of heights, but was successfully urged on by his wife and children. Glenys Strolls insisted at one point that we all return to the inn so that she could fetch the shopping that she had been carrying that fateful day when the zombies assaulted the city, but the glowering expressions of Thor and Dirock rapidly dissuaded her from her folly.

All told it took four days to ferry everyone to the armoury. Once there, it was a much simpler affair: down into the cellar, into the sewers, and then up through the kruthik tunnels to the safety of the abbey itself. The green fields, orchards, garden, and thick stone walls of the abbey complex were certainly a welcome change in everyone’s eyes. The following day, we also made our way to Heward’s General Store to retrieve Jennifer and her son Jason. They were surprised and happy to see us, for they had feared that we had succumbed the zombie onslaught. Both were transported from building to building by rope lines to the safer location of abbey, together what useful supplies we could carry from their shop.

With our new location secured, and guards and lookouts posted, we took the risk of ringing the mighty abbey bell in the hopes of attracting the attention of other pockets of survivors. A column of smoke (sadly, from the funeral pyre comprised of the dead bodies of the abbey brothers) also clearly marked our location. To our dismay, a full day passed with no response from anyone. Could we be the only ones alive in the city? In all Tamarin? In the world?

With the survivors now relocated the the Abbey of Erathis, we resolved to set off on a deeper exploration of the city. We were contemplating how best we might do this, when Viggo approached, scratching his head. “Is goats, I think. Is goats. Stinky notdead people not bother goats. Maybe if we tie goats to wagon…”

Several of my companions raised their eyes at Viggo’s odd idea. Thor spoke up first: “Achh, Yoo’re balmy frae tay much sun, ye stoatin lumberin’ tree-hugger! They’ll rip ye tae shreds.” Dirock agreed, “I think, Viggo, that they crave only human flesh, and not that of the beasts and fowls of the fields. You see, it is only by consuming that which has borne a soul that they satiate their dark lord’s bloody hunger.” Kiira surreptitiously twirled her finger in the air beside her head as she nodded in the ranger’s direction, while Noctuz suppressed a grin.

“No, is goats! Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, they show Viggo this. It is Raven Queen’s will that they be borned at gate, and Viggo save them from being crushed by ices and rocks of druuuuyd.”

Dirock either knew little of the Prophecy of the White Goat, or was annoyed at mention of the Raven Queen. In either case, he dismissed Viggo’s comments with the wave of his hand. “No, it is plain to those of us who have studied the ways of the divine and demonic that that neither goats nor that other god have anything to do with this. Nothing at all.”

It was apparent that further debate would get us nowhere, and so I contrived a simple experiment: Viggo would be rendered invisible to undead by The Abzurian’s enchantment, and then ride one of the horses we had nursed to health outside of the gate. If it attracted no attention, Dirock was right.

No sooner was the invisible ranger out of the gate, however, when a half dozen infected came rushing towards his mount. He galloped back in, and we slammed the gate shut behind him.

“Is goats, I say.. Arnold, is goats! I think maybe smelly not-dead people think goats is like big fat demon-of-dead.” Dirock nodded in reluctant agreement. “It seems I am wrong. And it is true that the goats do resemble Orcus himself, as well as the Exarch and Hierophants of his cursed cult…  it cannot hurt to try the ranger’s theory.”

As a next step, therefore, I slaughtered one of the poor creatures, and donned its bloody goatskin, before ascending atop the outer wall of the abbey compound. That didn’t work either, for my presence immediately set a nearby zombie clawing in my direction.

“No, Arnold, you need baa-goat not-dead for not-dead-smelly peoples,” Viggo added helpfully. “And Viggo thinks it best if they not see you, for you no look like big fat demon, just like little skinny felszerzet.” To prove his point, he fashioned himself a simple head-to-foot cloak out of a bedsheet from the abbey, and used a length of rope to fashion a rudimentary goat-leash. Despite our protests, he then strode out of the abbey gate and into the city square.

The zombies turned towards him. They then ignored him, and went about their aimless shambling. He whistled a sailor’s ballad, and tried to dance a jig beneath the sheet. Still nothing. It worked!

With this discovery, we now had a possible way of reaching the city walls and gates. We fashioned four bedsheets, plus a spare, and roped five goats for use as our escorts. Noctuz and Kiira offered to remain behind to watch over the survivors. With some trepidation, the ranger, dwarf, cleric, and I set forth early the next morning, hoping that this odd combination would work as well for the four of us over a longer period as it had during Viggo’s brief foray. 

And work it did. We walked through the streets as if invisible, the zombies ignoring us or even moving aside to clear our path. After almost an hour, we finally reached the east gate. It was open, and the gatehouse abandoned. No guards—living or dead—were anywhere to be seen. Oddly, the area outside the gate, beyond the city, seemed to be knee deep in mud. There was no natural explanation for this. Rather, it seemed more likely an arcanely-created moat of sorts.

Our first order of business was to secure the gatehouse and lower the portcullis, so as to prevent any of the infected from escaping. I wanted to continue along the city walls, securing each tower and gate in turn, but Viggo’s sharp eyes had spotted something a few hundred paces distant in the morning mist–a stone wall, beyond the mud, encircling the city. We shouted out to its ramparts, and even waved our ever-burning torch to signal any that might be there. There was no response.

Viggo was growing increasingly frustrated by it all. “Viggo sick of this place of smelly not-dead people. Viggo sick of stupid Phirul guard, who no guard Phirul at all. Viggo sick of stupid Phirul wizards, who say ‘Oh look at me! Me mighty poof poof wizard of Spellstorm, but me afraid of not-dead stinky peoples!’ Viggo think Phirul have idiots for chief. Viggo bet stupid Phirul chiefs all hide behind stupid stone wall and stupid wet dirt with knees all shaky like baby pikkelyes kutya!”

Uttering a string of Kuzian oaths that even made my experienced halfling ears burned, he opened the sally-porte of the gatehouse and started to stride through the mud. There was no stopping him, only joining him, so we all followed, leaving the goats safely tethered behind us.

We had made it about half way to the wall (and the stream of curses from Viggo had hardly begin to subside) when the ground began to shake. Arising from the mud before us were three earth elementals, likely conjured or summoned as part of some defence against the zombies.

“Hello!” I shouted, “it is us, the heroes of Phirul… could you call off your pet  elementals, please?”

My entreaty was cut short by an stoney fist from one of the creatures that might have cracked my skull had I not defly leapt aside. Our skills honed by weeks of fighting the undead and other foes, we sprung into action against them as one, beating them down with sword, maul, hammer and sling while I continued to call out in increasingly exasperated tones.” “Hellllooooo… by Lilly Arlinfrum’s sweet twisted knickers would you call these damn things off? Is this any way to treat the prophet of the white goat and his hero companions.. you blathering idiots… stop this!”

My appeals had no effect. Our weapons did. Within less than a minute, we had disassembled the earth elementals.

“For frak’s sake you mangy pollocks, we’re friends!” I shouted even louder, my tone reverting to the earthy maritime patter of the Laughing Skua as my anger grew. With this, another, even larger elemental arose from the mud. It was a good 15 feet tall, and had a large ruby-coloured gem where its face might otherwise might be. It looked at us, and I thought I could hear the buzz of distant voices from within it. I wondered what it would take to pry that gem off.

“Who are you?” A single human voice emitted from the gem, by some arcane magiks.

“I’m Arnold Wurzel, and these be my fellow survivors from the zombie armageddon that is Phirul.. and who might you be?” I mustered as much politeness as I could, under the circumstances.

The buzz grew louder, and I thought I could make out several voices jabbering excitedly at once. Finally, the gem-faced elemental spoke, or was spoken through, once more.

“Follow me.”

It set off toward the wall, and so did we. As we approached, we could see knots of Tamarinian soldiers (recently-levied, by the looks of their young years and ill-fitting armour) pointing to us excitedly. We were met by a sergent and a dozen men-at-arms, who escorted us to a military encampment and what appeared to be the tent of a senior officer. As we trudged along, I told the young (and impressionable) soldiers all I could about Viggo, the Prophecy of the White Goat, and our general heroism and deservingness-of-rich-reward.

A man in a resplendant uniform met us. “I am Tanoes Paran, Captain of Quarantine Camp 2. I’m told you claim to be survivors from the incident? Do you have authorization to be in the quarantine zone?”

“Claim? In-see-dint? Uthory-zay-shun?” I could tell immediately from Viggo’s tone that it was all too much for him. With a bellow, he slugged the officer hard in the jaw, knocking him stumbling across a footlocker and then down hard onto the floor. Dirock looked outraged, although whether it was at the haughty officer or my rough ranger friend I could not tell. Thor chuckled. “Guid a body, viggo.. althoogh Ah woods hae bin tempted tae kick th’ wee pipsqueak in th’ gonads insteid!” Almost immediately, the guards drew their weapons, and we were surrounded by a ring of steel.

As I would later tell Viggo, it reminded me as nothing quite so much as the dramatic final confrontation scene with the tiefling tax-collector in Edgar Stoat and the Banal Cult of Faceless Bureaucratic Functionaries. Rather than share that thought out loud, however, I thought this rather more the time for diplomacy.

“I’m sorry for that, Captain Sir.. it is the traditional greeting of the Kuz Valley when one has spent two weeks in a city swarming with slavering flesh-consuming infected undead denizens of hell, especially when one has seen little sign of the city guard, the city wizards, help, assistance, or even signs of life. Or perhaps you missed the great giant bell we sounded, and the huge bonfire pyre burning these past days?”

Captain Paran silenced me with a wave of his hand. “Keep them under close guard, sergeant. I must consult before I determine the fate of these ruffians.” He then strode off angrily, rubbing his jaw as he did so. For my part, I plied the soldiers with us with yet more tales of the Prophecy of the White Goat, and Viggo’s historic role in saving the city. Several snuck furtive touches of his bearskin cloak in apparent awe.

A short while later, Paran returned, accompanied by an important looking mage, and another man dressed in browns and greens. The mage, I would later learn, was none other than Koraldo Dankin, Cela of First Dawn Fort and the ranking mage of the quarantine zone. The rather more affable fellow in the earth tones was a senior druid (Tasther, the senior Druid of the West I believe), judging from his long tangled beard, and the several squirrels cavorting around his sandaled feet. They asked us many questions at considerable length, but finally seemed convinced of our story. The guards were told to sheathe their weapons.

We were brought food and water, and asked what else we wanted while the news was sent back the the capital. We answered in unison: to be allowed to return to the abbey, and bring Kiira, Noctuz, and the survivors to safety. Upon my recommendation, Dankin and an expedition accompanied us (complete with their own complement of goats), and set up a teleportation circle on the abbey grounds. This allowed our group to teleport out safely, and for military reinforcements to teleport in. The cleansing of Phirul had begun.

And so this phase of our tale ended. We are, it seems, to be taken to the capital, to tell all of this to the King himself. I hope too that a fine reward awaits us. I’ve also had the satisfaction of having seen “The Prophecy” take root among the soldiers and commoners, assuring my friend Viggo of a justly-earned place in history. Before we left, one young recruit even pressed into my hand six simple bone carvings that he had made of Viggo and the goat (looking rather more jovial than I remember at the time), one for each of our group. Together with my enduring friendships with many of the survivors, that memento remains my most treasured possession from that dark time—marking, as it does, the bonds I had formed with my companions, and the birth of the Company of the Ivory Goat.

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New friends, unknown enemies

August 11, 2008 at 3:55 am (Edgar Stoat, Phirul, sewers, zombie infection)

7th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde  

Today would turn out to have most unexpected results. We set out fully intending to seek out the kruthik hive-queen in its lair beneath the Abbey of Erathis, and fight it to the death (its death, that is—I’m none to fond of my death, and hope to postpone that particular meeting for many a year). Instead, we would find new friends—and new foes—in the dark sewers beneath cursed Phirul.

Our day started out routinely enough. After resting overnight in the cellar of Andy’s Armory, we trudged back to the sewer junction that would take us towards the Abbey. No sooner than we had reached the junction, however, when we came upon two other apparent survivors: a sword-bearing dragonkin, and a cloaked tiefling.

Viggo muttered at the latter under his breath, and put his hands to his sword grips. Bitter memories of tiefling raids against his people were always with him.

Hoping to make a rather better impression than a scowling Kuzian ranger, I stepped forward to greet the strangers. The dim flame of The Abzurian’s flickering torch lit our encounter.

“Hello!” I said, with a smile and a low bow, “I be Arnold Wurzel, and these be my friends… who be you, if I might be so bold as to enquire?”  The tiefling stopped, and smiled.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have. If there is one thing that a trading life on the barges teaches you, it is how to read a smile. This one didn’t reassure me. It was what my blessed mother used to call a “Demarakian spoon-merchants’ smile” —the sort you’ll see on itinerant flatware peddlers who will try to  sell you spoons with fantastic tales of their being forged in the very volcanic fires of Mount Rys… only to find that they wilt the first time they’re used in in a bowl of Polly Pepper Stew. Under my own cloak I palmed a spinnyblade, just in case.

The teifling continued. “I am Bidithal, and this is Zeer. We are sheltering a group of survivors… do you have any? How many of you are there?”

It was then that he noticed The Abzurian, and his smile slipped. “Why, its you…” he said with a dismissive sneer. Moments later, his attitude changed. Raising his hands, he uttered a dark invocation. Almost immediately, hideous putrid corpses began to rise from the fetid sewer waters around our feet. Hands began to claw at us.

The dragonkin by his side hissed, and pulled a large silver sword from the sheath across his back. He leapt forward to join the attack against us.

We drew our weapons. Battle was joined. The zombies, fortunately, we not the infected we had encountered so often in the city, but more of the common-or-garden sort (that is, if it is ever common to have zombies in one’s garden). However, the tiefling and dragonkin were formidable foes, what with the warlock’s deadly magicks and the warrior’s flashing blade.

At this point, both help and danger arrived from unexpected sources.

First, the small access door beside the warlock opened, and a blonde eladrin head poked through. Although the situation must have appeared chaotic—a motley band of heroes (that’s us, the heroes) fighting against undead and two foes in a dimly lit sewer beneath a zombie-infested city—she seemed to have a history with this particular tiefling. Moreover, it was not (as we would later learn) a very happy history. With little hesitation, she called a scorching burst onto Bidithal. She missed, but her fey wizardries were certainly a welcome addition to the fray.

The second source of unexpected help was preceded by a cry of “ahhhhhhhhhhh”, and the splashing sound of footsteps approaching us. A few seconds later, a frightened-looking human warlock rushed into the junction area to join us. While his arrival was welcome enough, the two large zombified dogs pursing him (grave hounds, Dirock later told me) were were decidedly not.

Fearing the warlock might not last long in the face of their snarling undead jaws, I rather uncharacteristically stepped forward to hold them back with my dagger. The hounds leapt at me, snapping at me with a bite that seemed to suck at my very life force. To my left, the warlock fell, only to be revived by Dirock’s healing word and by the power and grace of Kord. 

Wounded, I eventually I had to step back, leaving Dirock to hold them at bay alone while I threw spinnyblade after spinnyblade in their direction. The warlock assisted with his own arcane powers. One finally fell from our combined blows.

The battle was a chaotic one. The zombies were slain quickly enough, but the remaining hound was a formidable foe. The Zeer and Thor circled in furious combat, a clash punctuated with draconic hisses and dwarven taunts. The eladrin blinked across the chamber in pursuit of the tiefling. Viggo helped us all with bow and sword.

The Abzurian, as was his habit, cowered in a corner.

We had begun to gain the upper hand, when Bidithal once more summon a dark ally. Rather than another zombie this time, it was instead a foul demon that arose from the muck to assault Thor. The dwarf seemed to shrug it off, however. Instead he focused on mocking the dragonborn, blocking his opponent’s blows with his shield and striking hard with his hammer whenever he saw an opening. I slipped in behind the summoned creature, and hit it hard with a dazing blow. Before I could follow up, however, I hear a groan and a soggy spash. Glancing to my left, I saw our new eladrin friend slump to the floor, badly injured. Viggo stepped towards her, attempting to hold her head above the water with his foot as he continued to loose arrows at our opponents.

Faster than a paladin fleeing a buxom barmaid, I dodged away from the demon, and ran to her aid. Taking the blue flask from my belt pouch, I administered the magical draught. A few long seconds later, her eyes begin to open. Aunt Petunia’s absent advice be praised—it indeed had been a good idea to pocket this potion!

She quickly leapt to her feet, and renewed her attacks against Bidithal. These, coupled with a few ranger arrows and a spinnyblade of my own, finally brought the warlock down.

Dirock and the human warlock, in the meantime, slew the second grave hound. Finally Thor finished off Zeer and the demon.

We had survived.

With the battle now over, our new acquaintances introduced themselves. The eladrin was named Kiira. She spoke little of her past, but did explain her hatred of Bidithal and Zeer. The two, it seems, and lured her into a trap, caged her, and used her life essence to power incantations of some sort. The Abzurian added more to the tale, noting (somewhat belatedly, as is another one of his habits) that he had been paid by Bithdal some weeks ago to teach him the ritual that hid one from the notice of the undead. It seems as if these two might have some part in the zombie infection that had afflicted the city.

The human was Noctuz, a warlock from southern Festung. Despite Viggo’s understandable interest at the mention of his homeland, he seemed even more secretive about his background. In his account, he had hidden in a warehouse of sorts when the plague struck. Unfortunately, the infected had eventually gained entrance, killing the other survivors that were sheltering with him. While the zombies eventually wandered back out of the building,  his refuge had later come under assault from grave hounds. Noctuz had taken flight into the sewers with the abominations close at his heels, and encountered us shortly thereafter.

As our two new companions told us of how they had come to be in this place, I searched the bodies. There was much of use: a magical cloak, and enchanted sword and javelin, two more healing potions, and a fine dagger. The latter was, by my appraisal, a magicked duelist’s dagger, and as we shared these items among ourselves I took it for my own. In honour of my aunt’s sage advice, I nicknamed it “Petunia.”

We also found a medallion of the City Watch, marked with the name of  one “Captain Vimes.” Clearly it belonged properly to neither of our dead foes, and it only increased our suspicions that they had been involved in some darker conspiracy.

Noctuz also mentioned two items that piqued our interest in the warehouse where he had been. First, he had found there a large cage, marked with the sigil of the Legion of Frontiersman. Second, he had also seen a strongbox marked with the royal seal of Phirul.

By this point, I couldn’t care less about the Legion, but the strongbox seemed a possibly profitable diversion. Moreover, the warehouse might contain additional supplies that the survivors could use. Since it was only a hundred or two paces further down that sewer branch, it seemed worth exploring.

We eventually came to the end of the passage, and found a small shaft in the ceiling leading upwards. Viggo climbed up first, then attached a rope for the rest of us to follow.

As Noctuz had earlier described, we found ourselves in large wooden building, filled with crates of all sizes and shapes. Light streamed in from windows set high in the walls. A metal cat-walk crisscrossed the room above our heads.

We soon found the cage with the Legion’s mark. It was now empty, with a faint trail of slime leading from its battered door to the shaft. Thor peered at it a moment, and pronounced it the trail of a carrion crawler—likely the one we had fought in the sewers a few days earlier. Perhaps it had been imported by the Legion as a trial of sorts for recruits to test themselves against? We did not know.

We had little chance to puzzle this out, or indeed to find the strongbox. Suddenly the light from the windows darkened, and a booming voiced called out from above, mocking us with its dark and sinister tone.

“Like flies into the waiting spider’s web, you have fallen into my trap! Now you will all die….” At this, several zombies rose up from among the boxes, as did a couple of evil-looking men and another of those fearsome grave hounds. Above us, a black-robed necromancer could be seen, cackling atop the catwalk as he commanded his evil hench-things below.

The scene brought to mind immediately the climatic final confrontation between Edgar Stoat and the Dark Lord Krzylzanthradorfar in Edgar Stoat and the Danger-filled Chamber of Many Levels. With this in mind, I sought to emulate Edgar’s famous leap, and darted up the crates before my companions or our foes could react. Reaching the catwalk, I drew my newfound magical weapon with a flourish. “Taste petunia, foul invoker of rotty dead things!” I shouted, thrusting the dagger at my startled foe.

“Rotty dead things,” was not, of course, my finest rhetorical moment. More to the point, I had clearly yet to acquire Edgar Stoat’s skill with a blade. I missed the necromancer entirely. As if to compound my folly, a large winged zombie chose this moment to descend from the rafters, and lay into me with its remarkably sharp claws. Looking at the blood seeping from my side, I elected to return to my usual pattern of behaviour. With an uncerimonious “erm… excuse me..” I flung myself sidewards off the catwalk, caught it with one hand as falling, and swung myself into a much safer position nestled beneath it amid  the cover provided by several large crates. In future, I would leave brazen confrontation with the enemy to Thoradrin.

Glancing down into the warehouse below, I saw my companions locked in combat. The grave hound had knocked Kiira down, but she quickly teleported to a safer location. Noctuz had climbed upon several boxes, where he was hurling curses and other incantations at the flying creature that had wounded me. Dirock was calling Kord’s wrath upon our foes. The redoubtable Viggo was rapidly ranging among the crates, slaying what foes he could find with bow and sword. From my relatively secure perch, I threw spinnyblades where I could best assist.

One by one, our foes fell, until only the necromancer survived. Viggo ran to one set of stairs, and raced up them. I leapt from box to box again, until I too was at the catwalk. Thor rushed to the other end of the warehouse, planning to cut off his escape. It proved an unnecessary precaution, for our opponent was soon felled by blasts of arcane energy from our spellcasters, tumbling with a scream into a pile of boxes below.

Paying little heed to the blood dripping from my side, I quickly ran to loot the fallen body. After all, there was a reputation to be maintained, wound or no wound!

On the necromancer we found a few more items of value–and yet another of the medallions of the City Watch. This one bore the name of a “Sergeant Knobbs.” Clearly this evildoer was also linked to the dark conspiracy we had stumbled across. But how, and to what purpose? Had they infiltrated the Watch, or simply slain some of its members? And, most important of all, had they caused the zombie plague, or merely benefited from it? As formidable as our foes had been, they didn’t seem powerful enough to have afflicted a city and destroyed Spellstorm College. This last thought sent a chill down my spine: we were likely to find even more dangerous opponents as we continued our explorations above and below.

There was little more we could do to solve that mystery now, however. Instead, we secured the warehouse and searched it. The lockbox was quickly found, but defied my picks a good quarter hour before I finally opened it. Two dozen and three silver bars lay within–quite a prize, although its value was diminished by the relative absence of any surviving shopkeepers or tavern-owners to spend it with. Nevertheless, we took a bar each, for good luck. (I took several others for my young nieces and nephews, since a fondness for “good luck” is a Wurzel family trait.) 

We gathered up some grain and tools for the survivors, and descended once more into the sewers below. After dropping off these supplies at the Golden Gryphon, we took the remainder of the silver bars to Andy’s Armoury for safe keeping. There we would rest our battered bodies, postponing the expedition to the Abbey for another day.

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A very important day

August 5, 2008 at 9:44 pm (Andy's Armoury, Edgar Stoat)

7th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde  

Waking from my sleep in our safe room in the cellar of Andy’s Armoury, I suddenly had a realization. A revelation.

Today was it. The day. 

In all the chaos of the zombie apocalypse around us, I had forgotten what today meant.

Today was the day that the long awaited Edgar Stoat and the Heroic Halfling was to be published, along with its bigger (but large-type, easy-reading) companion volume, Edgar Stoat and the Redoubtable Ranger of Really Rapid Ranged Ranging.

With so few actual readers left uneaten in the city, I might even find a first edition!

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Would you like eggs with that?

July 21, 2008 at 7:28 pm (Phirul, Temple of Erathis)

6th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde  

We had considered many possible locations to which we might relocate our group of survivors: the zoo, a nearby guards’ barracks, the distant city walls and towers, even the sewers below. In the end, the city fortifications might well prove the safest place. For now, however, we’ve set our sights on a much nearer location: a temple complex of Erathis, located several hundred paces from our present location. It is, by the accounts of the locals, an excellent location: surrounded by stout stone walls and a closed with an iron gate, it contains the main temple, several outbuildings, grounds, and its own well and gardens.

As they say, however, you can’t be sure that a be sure its a ferret up your leg until you take the time to look. That’s certainly not true of Little Viggo, whose claws are quite distinctive. Still, I think the general principle is sound—before we risked moving any of our group there, we had to scout the location for ourselves.

We elected to make our way there, or at least as close as we could manage, via the sewers again. If we were lucky, they reached into the complex itself. If not, we could at least get near enough to dash inside under the dragonkin’s protective enchantment.

And so we descended below, and headed off in the opposite direction than the one we had followed the days before. Once again, the tunnel ran on for a while, and then was barred by a metal grate, the murky water passing through and beyond it before tumbling into some unseen space below.

We discovered no trap door in the ceiling this time (although we did find a riveted iron plate, which we chose not to remove for fear we could not replace it). There was, however, one section of the sewer wall where the brickwork had crumbled and started to give way. I clambered up to the small gap, and peered in. There seemed to be a passage beyond.

Thor and I carefully loosened a few more of the bricks, until the gap was large enough for us each to squeeze through. Holding the torch up, we could see that we had uncovered a short tunnel, opening into some sort of ancient crypt. It was a relic of the long-forgotten undercity perhaps, maybe even an old part of the Temple of Erathis itself. Judging from the dust, the area hadn’t been disturbed in many, many years. A single stone sarcophagus stood near to one wall.

Dirock asked that the light be held closer so that he might read the inscriptions on the tomb. “These here are definitely symbols of Erathis… the coffin contains an ancient knight, although I can’t make out the name. It says he fought in many battles… before dying of… old age, I think.”

Thor leaned forward to take hold of the lid. “Aye, I wonder what’s inside.. gold, perhaps? A magical weapon?” The priest of Kord glared at the dwarf, and pushed aside his hand. “Desecrate not this sanctified burial! By Kord’s iron maul we will not rob the dead!”

“Bow,” said Viggo, “bow and two swords. Maybe one a bastard sword. Maybe scimitars. Not maul, though.”

Dirock turned to the ranger in confusion.

“Yes, I am much sure Kord have a bow and two swords, for in the Kuz Valley this is sign of great manliness, and Kord manly like big cave bear. Except like bear with bow and two swords.” Viggo replied. “Also, Viggo think dwarf is right. Dead is dead, and dead have no need of things they have when not-dead. So let us open stone box and see.”

Dirock raised his voice in anger. “Blashpemy! Do not the dwarves bury their dead with sacred relics to accompany their passage to the afterlife? Would you steal those too?”

“Yer aff yer head, cleric! We dunnae do that. We pass them sorts ay things on tae the clan, so that they too micht use them,” replied Thor. “The dead join Moradin in the great Hall of Thunder, where they bevvy the Mead of Heroes, feast upon the Roast Pig of Bravery, and partake of the Valorous Spiced Haggis of….” 

“Yes, ” Viggo interrupted, “but there is no way out.”

At this, both Dirock and Thor turned to the ranger.

“What are you on about?” snapped the cleric. “Of course there is no way out of the afterlife! What faithful warrior would want to forgo the divine rewards of a lifetime of devotion and courage?”

“…there is no way out of here, Viggo means,” the ranger replied, pointing to the cavern around them. Sure enough, it had no apparent exits, other than the passage through which we had just entered. In some places, however, the walls seemed different, as if excreted by the living rock. None of us knew quite what it might mean, although Dirock noted that the followers of Melora were known to seal crypts in a  similar fashion. Odd indeed.

During the conversation, I had remained unusually quiet. This was not so much because the issue of the coffin was of no concern (theologically, I agree with my ranger friend: dead is dead), but rather because of a faint noise I thought I could hear. I held my ear to the wall, and finally waved to Viggo to listen as well. There it was again, and getting louder. Some sort of scratching… a digging perhaps?

“Virtuous Arnold!” Viggo pushed me back from the cavern wall, as he stepped back too. His warning almost came too late. With a crash, the wall collapsed, and two hideous creatures sprang at us. Both were the size of large badger, but unlike any badger I had ever seen: six-legged, with reptilian features and the armoured carapace of an insect. They hissed and quickly advanced on us with a whir of sharp claws and biting teeth. I felt a cut to my leg almost immediately. Two larger versions of the creature could be seen lurking deeper in the tunnel. Little Viggo squeaked in panic, and burrowed deeply into my pack.

“Prepare to taste dwarven hammer!” shouted Thor, as he stepped forward to block the breach in the cavern wall. Encouraged by his resolute courage, I retreated, stabbing one creature and sidestepping the other, slowly making my back to where we had entered the crypt. Viggo fired into the melee, as Dirock too joined the fray. From the shadows, I slung rocks at the creatures now attacking the dwarf.

Suddenly Thor grabbed his side, a spike protuding through his armour. One of the larger beasts had launched something at him, and judging from his reaction, it was poisoned too. Nonetheless, he continued to fight, muttering the mantra of dwarven defenders: “Always be ready! Always be waiting!”

As if to highlight the importance of that particular saying, none of us were ready in the slightest for what happened next. Even as the desperate melee continued between Thor and the not-badger-maybe-lizard-bug creatures (more properly known as kruthik, I would later learn), the stone lid of the tomb behind us slowly began to lift. It seems that someone’s long slumber had been awoken by the thunderous booms of Dirock’s divine invocations.

A skeletal figure arose from the sarcophagus. “Grave robbers!” it screeched, “grave robbers!” 

The long-dead-knight drew an ancient bow, and fired at Viggo. It missed. Viggo ignored it, and instead focused on the kruthiks to his front. “Grave robbers!” it screeched once more, and fired again. It missed again too. Clearly, whatever heroic figure he had been in an earlier life, this particular knight had not been an archer. It moved to draw its rusty sword in its bony hands.

This was too much for Viggo, who turned his attention to the skeleton and attacked. Immediately upon hitting it, his target collapsed in a pile of bones and dust. It was very, very old, after all.

With this, I dashed across the room, and leapt into the now empty sarcophagus. It provided an ideal sniping position against our opponents. If I found an item of two of value inside it while doing so, so much the better.

Thor, in the meantime, had slain the two smaller kruthik, but had been gravely wounded in the process. He fell to the ground. Only by Dirock’s quick action was he saved, as he channeled the power of Kord to send a wave of powerful healing energy through the badly-battered, bearded, bald body. Once again, we were profoundly grateful to have a cleric in our ranks.

The dwarf regained his feet, and lay into the one surviving kruthik with his hammer. Soon he had felled it too.

“Mmmmmmm,” said the Abzurian, “we must be wary…” Thor snorted. He still looked rather worse for wear, and clearly needed a rest. He would have none of it, however. “Lads, there’s a tunnel back here, that these creatures made. Its a bit short fer the rest of you, but it will give Arnold and I nae trouble at all.” 

“First we must rebury this fallen hero,” declared the ever-pious Dirock. We placed the bones back in the tomb—minus a rather nice golden ring that fell into my pocket. After all, dead is dead.

With this grim (but profitable) task completed,  we all entered the narrow tunnel. Thor and I went first, while Viggo and Dirock stooped low behind to avoid the low ceiling. The Abzurian tapped his fingers, but this time refrained from murmuring. I doubt he wanted to attract any more of the creatures either.

Clearly, this had all been dug by the kruthik. From time to time, smaller tunnels branched off–a veritable maze. Or, I began to worry, a lair. Here and there, discarded kruthik skins, or the husks of blackened shrivelled eggs, could be seen. This didn’t seem natural, however—it was if some dark power had drawn the life from them. Viggo shook his head. He too was uneasy.

After a short while, we came entered into another chamber—a natural cavern, even larger than the crypt that we had just left. Almost immediately, my concerns were vindicated: there in the light of our torch stood three kruthik young, one of the larger adults—and a huge creature, much larger than all the rest. Shriveled blackened eggs dotted the cavern floor. It was a lair, and the hive queen (or lord–its seemed difficult to tell its sex given the circumstances) appeared very unhappy at our presence.

“Uh oh, lads.. there’s lots of them jaggy creatures here, and a miffed big’un too,” warned the dwarf. “I think maybe we best be getting back now.” With this, Thor readied his hammer, and slowly started stepping back into the narrow tunnel, hoping to use the bottleneck to tactical advantage.

With a hiss and a clatter, the smaller kruthik hurled themselves against us. While Thor bludgeoned the smaller ones as they rushed him down the passage, Viggo and I focused our efforts on the adult, bringing the beast down before it could close and fire its toxic spikes at us. The queen, however, hung back a while, apparently gathering the eggs and moving them to a safer location.

“Perhaps one of ye could fight fer spell.. I could do with a wee rest,” gasped the bloodied Thor, as he stepped into a side tunnel. Viggo readied his swords and stepped forward, whispering a greeting to the Raven Queen beneath his breath as he did so. Like the rest of us, he too thought this might be the end.

The hive queen returned, chittered menacingly, and skittered across the cavern towards us. Rather than press into the narrow passage, however, it leapt up and out of sight. A scratching sound could be heard. It seemed likely that it was burrowing through the ground above us, hoping to take us all by surprise.

“Let’s not wait for it for it… I vote we retreat to the crypt!” I suggested, as my mind turned (as it so often does) to escaping with my life.

“How fast can it burrow?” asked Dirock.

Viggo turned, and replied. “Little Arnold right. I don’t know how fast creature dig, but Viggo can run like baa-baa mountain goat when big monster close!” He then started to run back the way we had come. We all followed suit.

Arriving at the crypt, we quickly assumed defensive positions. Weapons in hand, we waited.

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

Nothing. It seemed that the hive queen had stopped its pursuit.

“Perhaps it no like the stink of its dead..” commented Viggo, as he kicked one of the kruthik carcasses on the floor with his heavy boot. “Or perhaps it afraid of dwarf-bottom!” He laughed, slapping Thoradrin on the back. “Dwarf bottom very scary from behind!” Indeed, it wasn’t often we had seen the dwarf run from a fight.

“A dead defender is just a dead defender, lad,” Thor replied in a grim tone. “And if I were dead.. Arnold would be prying me cloak and hammer out of me gauntlets afore I hit the floor!” Beneath the beard, he grinned and winked in my direction. 

“Perhaps it is best that we rest,” suggested Dirock, “before we attempt to slay this beast.” We all nodded in agreement. Our safe refuge in the cellar of the armoury was but a few minutes away, along the sewer. There we would find water, and somewhere safe to treat our wounds—as safe as anywhere could be in the nightmare that was now the once-proud city of Phirul.

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Death from above

July 21, 2008 at 2:36 am (Phirul)

6th of Sage’s Rest, Year of the Horde  

I had been happily dreaming of Aunt Daisy’s Thrudcurrent Jam-on-toast when I heard a child screaming. Given the ambrosia-like character of all of Aunt Daisy’s jams and jellies, the cry seemed oddly out of place. I awoke with a start. We were under attack!

Our assailants were not zombies this time, although several turned their heads in the street below and shambled towards the noise and commotion. Rather, in the first early light of dawn, several small dragon-like creatures had swooped down on the survivors, clawing and biting at them. Dirock had been on watch, but had been too deep in thought as to how to reconcile Kord’s divine nature with the intrinsic mysteries of a spiraled snail-shell to hear them approach. So too had Jennifer Thimble, the seamstress who had volunteered as lookout that morn. I did not blame them: theology is a gripping topping for early morning conversation, and these winged reptiles were all but silent in flight.

They were, Viggo, would later tell me, Spiretop Drakes—much like the Snowy Pinnacle Drakes of his native Kuz Valley. Phirul had always had several colonies, perched atop inaccessible towers. Rarely, however, did they attack people. Either they were unusually hungry, or something else had disturbed them.

At the time, however, we had more immediate concerns. Adolphus Mott, an elderly barber, had already fallen to the ground in a bloody heap, his throat slashed by one of the beasts. Wee Timmy Thrungal, the young serving boy from the Golden Gryphon, was attempting to flee from another that had latched onto his arm with its talons. Several more circled above.

I leapt to my feet, as did Thor beside me. At the northwest corner of the roof, Dirock had forgotten all about snails, and was invoking the fury of Kord against the drakes. Brave Jennifer fired off a crossbow bolt, but with her unpracticed aim missed her target by a considerable margin. Little Viggo scampered into my pack. Big Viggo was nowhere to be seen.

As Thor began to lay into the drakes with his hammer, I stepped behind a tent and let lose with my sling. With a satisfying crunch, the stone flew true, hitting its target heavily. I heard a thwock, then another, as arrows began to fly from an open tent-flap. Ahh, there was Viggo! A few moments later, he stepped out, and started to fire at the drake clutching Timmy.

As Thor lay into the white beasts closest to him, I saw my chance: I darted around the rear of the tent Viggo had just vacated, dashed through it, and appeared at the other end in time to plunge my dagger into Thor’s opponent. It fell to the ground. A second, then a third, were slain by my friends. Finally, only a fourth—the largest of a group, with long curved claws and angry red eyes—remained. It took to the wing once more, and then swooped down on Viggo.

There was no time for the ranger to draw his sword. Instead, he dropped his bow, and smashed the vicious reptile full on in the face with his fist as it lunged for him, much as he had punched that large albino sailor in Yasa that evening we had first met. The drake lurched, recovered, and climbed into the air. It then swooped in a tight curve, preparing to attack once more.

Viggo grabbed drew his sword, and readied himself: ranger against reptile, man against beast, Kuzian exile against ravenous scaled monster. The drake let out a raucous call, as it flew closer, and closer. It was almost upon him.

Thud! My sling-bullet hit it square between the eyes even as Viggo prepared to swing. The beast gave one last squawk, and plummeted towards the ground. The surprised (but ever-alert) ranger caught it in his arms.

The battle was over.

Poor Mr. Mott was dead. We buried him in the way we had once honoured dead shipmates on the Laughing Skua: by throwing him over the side. Several survivors looked aghast at this, but none volunteered to climb down into the zombie-infested streets to give him a more proper burial.

Timmy was wounded, but not beyond the healing skills of Dirock and Aliss Chandar, the acolyte of Erathis among our group. As she had in the past, Aliss threw many an admiring glance in Dirock’s direction as they worked together. As he had been in the past, Dirock was entirely impervious to her interest. 

The attack has served to heighten fears among the survivors, a feeling that was not eased by the meal of roast drake we were able to serve for breakfast. Perhaps, however, it will motivate them to take the risky journey to a safer place, when we can find one. Already Viggo has started them making rope bridges from the supplies we retrieved yesterday, with the aim of using these to traverse the rooftops when the time comes for us all to move from here.

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Weapons a-plenty

July 20, 2008 at 7:59 pm (Andy's Armoury, Heward's General Store, Phirul, sewers)

4th-5th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde  

Having slain the carrion-crawler and found the magic cloak, our small band set off deeper into the sewer tunnels. Our hope was to find a safe passage into a building above, wherein we could scavenge for supplies. The survivors left behind at the Golden Gryphon were by now in desperate need of all manner of things, food and weapons chief among them.

Above us, it started to rain–we could not see it deep below the city, of course, but the increased flow of water from the drains and gutters into the sewer was a clear enough indication. We also heard a distant rumbling, of unknown origin.

Little Viggo leapt from my pocket and scurried along beside us for a while, hunting. As inhospitable as these dank sewers were to us, they were clearly a weasel’s delight, chock full of crunchy cockroaches, worms, and small rats. He hadn’t been so well fed in days.

Eventually, we found our way blocked by a large iron grate. The murky water flowed on beyond it a few feet, then appeared to empty into a deeper, lower chamber. Perhaps it flowed into the River-Beneath-the-City, which Viggo and I had tried to reach by the water-well the day before? Or perhaps not, for it seemed odd to empty a city’s effluent into its water supply? Perhaps there was a large run-off tunnel? Or perhaps—as in the story of Edgar Stoat and the Enchanted Pixies of Cleanliness—there was a whimsical fairy cave of fey sewer-cleaners down below, who spent their time singing, baking strawberry muffins, and disposing of the sludge of those who toiled above.

No matter–the grate was too sturdy for us to force. Moreover, neither singing nor the aroma of freshly-baked muffins could be sensed. We could go no further in that particular direction. 

We could, however, go up—for, peering at the damp ceiling of the tunnel, I spied a small trap-door set in the roof. Viggo quickly hoisted me onto his shoulders for a closer look. It was locked.

Ah well, there was little in the way of simple locks that could resist a good pair of Aunt Tulip’s sturdy iron hairpins, which I always kept handy in my boot for just such a purpose. With a few quick turns, an audible click could be heard. I carefully lifted the door.

Nothing–no light could be seen, nor could anything be heard. I waited a moment, then took the sunrod from Dirock’s hand and shone it inside. The trapdoor seemed to open into a stone cellar of sorts, containing several barrels and a rickety set of stairs headed up to a closed wooden door. It seemed safe enough, so I pulled myself in, threw down a rope, and gestured for my companions to join me.

Once inside the storeroom, we quietly checked the barrels. Most contained water, a few were empty, and one contained lantern oil. That might prove useful later.

Viggo and I warily crept up the stairs, and carefully opened the door. It creaked a little, much to my dismay, but attracted no attention. We found ourselves looking into to a ground floor room, lit from a few open windows, filled with racks of weapons and barrels of arrows. Clearly this was Andy’s Armoury, which several of the survivors had pointed out to us from the roof in the days before.

As Viggo covered me with his bow, I moved carefully from window to window, slowly shuttering each to hide us from the undead hordes who doubtless shambled the streets outside. The door showed signs of damage, as if it had been unsuccessfully barred against assault. I did my best to bar it once more. Most ominously of all, a staircase leading up to the second floor was stained red-brown with blood, and severed body parts lay strewn about. Sure as a sleepy badger in a well-worn sleepy-badger-hole, the weaponsmith had been beset by a murderous pack zombies, and had fought a desperate retreat up these very same stairs.

Viggo and I picked our way quietly through the carnage, until we could survey second floor from between the railings of the staircase. This floor was also furnished with racks of weapons. It was also furnished with a pair of zombies, hswaying slowly as they faced away from us. One was clad in bloodied chainmail—Andy, I suspected. Ahhh well, in that case he wouldn’t really miss any of the stock that were were about to help ourselves to.

Viggo gestured for Thor to join us, so that we might launch a surprise assault against the abominations. Alas, the Dwarf’s idea of a stealthy approach was to mutter loudly, hammer in hand, and start stomping his way up the stairs with enough noise to wake a school of deaf blue-finned dozeyfish. Almost immediately, the two zombies turned towards, joined by two others that we had not seen earlier lurking among the wares.

Dirock was the first to the top of the stairs to meet them, swinging his maul and bringing Kord’s damnation down upon them. I unleashed a barrage of missiles upon the undead, blinding one with a well-placed sling-shot and wounding two others. Thor rushed to the center of the floor, blocking the zombies’ way and drawing them to him with warlike dwarven cries of “Come here, zombie!”. Viggo strode up the stairs and into the room, firing arrow after arrow into these our most hated enemy. 

It was a fiercely fought battle, as the creatures clawed at us with their unbridled hatred of all living things. Dirock once more invoked the name of his stern and powerful god, this time driving the undead back amid as his holy symbol blazed with the wrath of Kord. Viggo fired still more arrows, impaling one bloodied and mangled  lady-sword-shopper-turned-creature-of-death against the wall. Eventually, all four foes lay dismembered at our feet.

“Mmmmmmmmm,” murmured The Abzurian, who had sheltered on the stairs throughout the battle. “I see blood.. there has been a battle here.. zombies, I think. Mmmmmmmm…” At this, my ranger friend uttered a stream of Kuzian curses under his breath, casting a colourful array of  aspersions as the dragonkin’s parentage, sexual habits, and culinary preferences. The dragonkin, who clearly hadn’t understood Viggo’s thick northern accent much past his first mention of a “gangrenous runt of a mangy mushroom-addicted she-boar,” merely smiled and tapped his claws together. 

In one corner of the room a small set of iron rungs led up to the roof. We climbed up, and tried to signal the survivors at the Golden Gryphon that we were still alive. We also surveyed the area around the armoury. It was then that Viggo noticed something amiss: the silvery spires of Phirul’s famed Spellstorm College could no longer be seen to the north of us. Later we would learn that it had collapsed from view when we had been below, producing the distant rumbling that we had heard in the sewers. What could have brought down such a redoubtable fortress of magic? Unimaginably powerful dark magicks by an ancient evil skeleton-lich? Some defensive spell of sort, safely retreating the college into the bossom of the earth? Undermining from below by foul-tempered demonic insects, bent on revenge for some imagined slight or implementing some diabolical scheme? Shoddy construction by a poorly-trained stonesmith? I wasn’t at all sure that  I want to find out.

Eventually, we settled on a plan. We would each stock up on ammunition, and load our packs with a few weapons for the survivors. Other useful items would be placed in the storeroom, where we might access them at a later date from the sewer. In the cellar too we would spend the night, recovering our strength for the next day. Tomorrow, we would try to make our way to nearby Heward’s General Store, where we hoped find some rations and other needed items. To facilitate this, the dragonkin seer would once more perform his ritual incantations, granting us a few minutes each of invisibility from undead.

And so that’s what we did. The night passed uneventfully, with the cellar providing a sense of security that I hadn’t felt in a week. In the morning we ate, and then the ritual was cast. Once protected, we jumped out of a second-floor window to the street below, and ran to the store. With expert aim, Viggo threw a grappling hook up to the roof, and we all clambered up. We then set about checking for survivors, with Viggo banging a loud rhythm on the rooftop with his sword-pommel (the celebratory drumming of annual Kuz Valley Bear Milking contest, if I’m not mistaken)  to alert anyone inside.

At first there was no response. After a few minutes, however, a woman stuck her blonde head out of an upper floor window, and urgently beseeched us to be silent. “Don’t do that, you’ll attract those foul creatures! Quickly, climb in here afore they see you!”

We clambered in, and introduced ourselves. The woman—one Samantha Heward, and her son Jason—seemed relieved to know there were other survivors in the city, although the relief was mixed with a little alarm at Viggo’s usual efforts to be charming, especially we he tried to explain bear milking by way of gestures. Since the first attacks, this pair had blocked the doors and windows to their shop, and sought shelter in the basement. Other than us, they had seen no one else alive since then.

Given that their hiding place seemed secure enough for now, we thought it unwise to risk relocating them until we had identified a more permanent refuge for the group of survivors in our care. Samantha was kind enough to allow us to take rations and equipment from her stores. In exchange, we left her with a crossbow and some gold coin—although the value of the latter seemed much diminished in this zombie-infested world. 

With this, the dragonkin once more cast the ritual, we once more leapt out of an upper-floor window, and we all ran two blocks further down the street until we were back at the Golden Gryphon. Once there, we unloaded the goods we had scavenged into the tarpaulin-hoist we had fashioned earlier, and clambered up the knotted rope to the rooftop. Our return was greeted by a cheer—even more so when the survivors saw the food and weapons that we had brought. They were damp, with little shelter from the rain that had fallen while we had been away. They had also eaten rather more of our food supplies than we hoped, despite efforts by Jeffrey the innkeeper to hold each person to their share. Still, they were all alive.

Our foray had been a success. It had, however, only bought us time—not resolved our fundamental predicament. It was clear that we couldn’t stay on this roof forever, with scant shelter, and thirty-two mouths to feed. We needed to find somewhere safer, more sheltered, and with easier access to both food and water.

As my mother used to say, however, “worries are best worried on a full stomach and after a comfy sleep.” I curled up against the edge of the roof, and closed my eyes. Little Viggo curled in an even tighter ball beside me. After the exertions of the past two days, sleep came quickly to us both. I dreamed of home, and the quiet days of my youth upon the rivers and canals. Little Viggo, I suspect, dreamed of endless tunnels of crunchy cockroaches.

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The beasties below

July 7, 2008 at 9:24 pm (Phirul, sewers)

 

4th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde

Ordinarily, it would be with some trepidation that I would set foot into dank and dark tunnels beneath an ancient city such as Phirul. On this occasion, however, I was glad to be setting forth into the city sewers with my companions. Not only were they all brave and stalwart folk (Abzurian the dragonkin seer excepted), but—and far more important, given the circumstances—almost anything seemed preferable to spending time above ground in a doomed city infested with tens of thousands of ravenous undead zombies. As Aunt Petunia used to say, “better to skulk in the dark among rivers of effluent than be torn apart by the foul, zombified spawn of hell” (remarkably prescient woman, my Aunt Petunia).

And so it was that we found ourselves deep beneath Phirul, with the light of my last sunrod to guide our way. The dark, odiferous passage continues for many paces, until it opened up into a larger junction, where a small landing and a door could be seen.

Viggo and I had only just begun to examine this door when a greenish tentacle whipped at us from the roof. Never before had I seen such a beast: with its gnashy teeth, chitinous armour and many legs, it looks rather like nightmarish caterpillar or wizard’s centipede-experiment-gone-wrong. Thor, however, had spent long hours in places beneath the earth, and immediately shouted out a warning: “Watch out, lads! Its a carrion crawler!“

I didn’t much care, of course, if it was the Plum Fairy Queen of Emmerdale Meadows. With teeth like that, I hadn’t been intending on striking up a pleasant conversation. Instead, I immediately jumped back, and slung a stone at it. Thor positioned himself to draw it down from the ceiling and into a location where we might better attack it. Dirock unleashed a blast of lightning at the creature.

Viggo stepped back too, drew his bow, and cocked an ear for a sound that only he could hear. “Virtuous Arnold! Viggo hear something flying this way–stirges, perhaps.”

Ugh, stirges–I’ve never liked the hideous flying beasties, not since I saw them exsanguinate poor Farmer Brown’s prize cow Betsy that terrible night in Boldre-on-Pebble. Sure enough, two of the horrors came upon us, attracted by the noises of battle. While the first dove at Viggo, the other attacked me–latching on with its claws, and stabbing its probiscus into my shoulder. I felt the blood drain from me, as if a giant leathery bat-like creature was sucking the very life from me (which was, in fact, precisely what was happening).

I stabbed at the thing a few times with the dagger, while Viggo slew the one flapping around his head. Finally I slipped free of its sucking grasp, and stepped back. No sooner had it taken to wing than the ranger’s arrow impaled it. 

Meanwhile, Thor was still battling the crawler, slowed by its toxins but aided (as we all were) by Dirock’s skilled invocations of Kord’s wrath and invigorating powers. Finally, with the crawler very much weakened by my companions’ blows, I found a soft spot in its armour and slew it with a well-aimed throwblade.

Once again, we turned our attention to the door. Behind it we found a small room, with a ladder headed to a grate and the surface. 

More useful still, we found an arcane cloak of sorts, as well as a healing potion. While our brave dwarven warrior donned the former, I thought of another of Aunt Petunia’s sayings: “better a potion in your pocket than torn apart by unknown beasties in the sewers.” Making a mental note to thank her when and if I ever returned to Peithris, I slipped the small blue flask quietly into my jacket before we continued on our way.

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Bring out yer dead…

July 6, 2008 at 9:46 pm (Phirul, zombie infection)

31st Sunrise – 3rd Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde

Having now spend a little over a week in the legendary city of Phirul, I can now definitively report: the place is highly overrated. The guards are lax, its drovers rude, the supposedly mighty wizards of Spellstorm College unremarkable, and its streets are literally crawling with hordes of slavering, infected zombie denizens of the doom—the latter point being one that is rarely, if ever, mentioned at in any of the guidebooks. Indeed, it says something of my disappointment in this, the city of my boyhood dreams, that the high-point of my trip so far has been crawling around the sewers.

It all started off normally enough. Once Viggo and I had resolved the issue of the goats, we took a table in the Golden Gryphon to await contact from the Legion of Frontiersmen. There were a half dozen would-be adventurers there, but few seemed the sort one would really want guarding your back in a fight. Two did, however, stand out: Thoradrin “Thor” Mightstone, a Dwarven fighter resplendent in his fierce red beard, shining armour, and tatooed head; and Dirock Thunderson, a stern-looking human cleric of Kord. Most of the rest seemed the very same sort one used to see around the Dancing Trollope in Wigglesthwiate on a Saturday night—full of bluster, with their bravery boasted of in direct proportion to ale consumed, and inverse to the nearness of any actual danger.

Sadly, my theory was soon confirmed when an ill-kept man with wild eyes and pallid flesh burst in, and attacked one of the patrons–not with weapons or fist, but by ripping her throat out with her teeth. “Welcome to Phirul” indeed! Most of our table companions fled, screaming like a troupe of elderly eladrin swan-dancers beset by a mushroom-crazed band of kobold cultist feather-pluckers (if you’ve ever seen that, as I have, you’ll know just what I mean).

Not so Thor and Dirock, however. They immediately drew their weapons and advanced to confront the assailant. As I heard Big Viggo drawing his bow behind me, I swept Little Viggo into my pocket, leapt over several tables, and cut at the crazed man with my dagger, dazing him. Seconds later, two arrows flew across the room, embedding themselves in his rather putrid torso.

It appeared as if everything was under control.

Had I remembered the bloody opera scene in Edgar Stoat and the Infected Slavering Zombies from Hell, of course, I would have been far more prepared for what came next. The creature’s victim—whom we had all presumed dead—rose herself as an animated corpse, and attacked Thor. Screaming could be heard in the kitchen, and in the streets. Dark shapes began hammering on the windows of the Golden Gryphon, attempting to smash their way inside.

With the streets of the city now clearly overrun by zombies, the proprietor of the inn shouted to his panicked patrons to flee for the relative safety of the upper rooms. As they did so, we four held off the ever-growing waves of attackers, with no fewer than four falling to my blade or bullet. Finally, Viggo made a last dash to retrieve his bow (dropped earlier when he took up his swords), and we retreated up the stairs.

On the second floor we found thirty or so survivors, including one unfortunate woman who had become bitten and infected in the fight. She, sadly, succumbed to the mysterious plague, and was precipitously dispatched by Thor with his hammer. With both Thor and Dirock having themselves been bitten in the fray downstairs, this seemed an ominous portent indeed.

We had little time to consider it, however, for despite blockages of furniture placed in the stairs and against the doors, the undead continued to batter and claw their way towards us. Viggo, bless his Kuzian soul, found a trapdoor leading the the tavern’s roof–and, with only a few moments to spare, we relocated ourselves and the surviving patrons to that new, safer, location.

Around us, the city was in tumult: screams, groans, and crashes could be heard echoing everywhere. In the cobbled streets below we could see mobs of the foul creatures lurching, hunting, and killing. Fires could be seen burning in  various districts, apparently out of control. By night, the sounds had began to die down, but for no reason that might be seen as positive. Rather, the city itself was dying, succumbing to the plague—with very few of its citizens now still alive.

Of the famed wizards of Phirul, or its mighty garrisons and military forces we saw no evidence at all. Our efforts to signal others by torch brought not a single response. 

Our new location seemed safe enough, in a physical sense, but there were now one-score-and-ten terrified for survivors in our care, in need of reassurance and provision—one speck of civilization marooned in a hostile sea of those who would destroy the world.

I slept only fitfully that first night, until I was awoken in the morning by Viggo shouting excitedly from the edge of the roof. I drew my sling, and rushed to see. There, trotting down the road were Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr. While apparently unmolested by the zombies, they had drawn the attention of a hungry, ragged-looking dog. Viggo shouted at them to move faster, and loosed a couple of arrows at the dog to dissuade it from its hunt. As they turned a corner, we lost sight of them–although hopefully the absence of any bleating meant that the two young kids remained unharmed.

Over the next several days, Viggo scouted the area, and gathered supplies for our small band of survivors. We were aided in doing so by an elderly (and, I must say, annoyingly vague) dragonkin seer, who had mastered a ritual that could render a subject invisible to the undead for a few brief minutes.

These minutes proved all to brief when Viggo and I decided to scout out a nearby city well, in the hopes that it led to the fabled underground river said to flow beneath Phirul. Getting there was easy enough, with the aid of the ritual enchantment. So too was clambering down to the bottom (where, unfortunately, we found an iron grate blocking any hope of escape). Getting back to the Golden Gryphon would prove rather more of a challenge, however. At first, I tried emulating the shambling gait of the zombies as Viggo looked on, concealed, from the well. I had hoped that our foes would not notice me. While my performance seemed convincing enough to me, however, it seems I was as obvious to them as a river troll in red frilly dress in the beauty pageant at the Gurtvale County Fair. Within moment, a half dozen of the foul creatures had started towards me.

I immediately ran to a nearby timber-framed building, where I clambered up to a second story window, entered, and threw myself under a bed. There I huddled for a while, until I was able to signal my ranger friend that I was alright. He ran to the same building, and quickly climbed to the roof, where—after we slew the zombie in our way—I joined him.

It was at this point, I had a flash of brilliance. Given my limited climbing skills, I proposed that Vigo descend, climb to the next roof, and throw me a line and grapple. I would then hand-over-hand along the rope to join him, a skill that I had honed in clear weather and foul atop the rigging of the Laughing Skua.

I remember Uncle Burford once saying, as he blew smoke rings aboard his barge The Pelican’s Wisdom, “what’s easy is not when when what’s not isn’t easy.” If ever there was a situation to which that applied, it was now: I was scarcely six feet across the alley—a horde of hungry, gesticulating abominations beneath me—when I grew over confident, missed my hand-hold, and plummeted towards the ground. My efforts to grasp at the rope as I fell were stymied by the wetness and slipperiness it had acquired in the well. With a thump, I fell to the ground, face to face with three groaning harbingers of doom.

My rescue came unexpectedly, and was apparently owes much to the many happy seasons Viggo spent hooking fat speckled Snorgoldingen salmon at Skopjar Fall in his native Kuz Valley. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the rope-line, and impaled the grappling hook into my shoulder. He then started to pull me up, as the zombies sought to claw me back down.

Happily for me, they missed—although the pain from the iron hook in my shoulder was excruciating. Reunited on the rooftop, we continued our journey–this time, me much mindful of Uncle Burford’s sage advice, and paying far more attention to the tasks at hand. Finally we arrived safely once more at the Golden Gryphon.

There we found that while Dirock’s condition had improved—indeed, with the strength of Kord he had fought off the zombie infection—our companion Thoridrin was faring less well. He indeed looked most unlike himself: pallid, frothing, his proud beard matted with dirt and sweat, muttering something fevered and  incomprehensible about a woman called Hilda and her mighty twin mattocks. I think we all feared that Thor might go the way of that young woman a few days earlier.

Aided by some medicinal mushrooms Viggo discovered growing by the chimney, Dirock used his healing skills on the poor dwarven fighter. It was, he later admitted, a very close-run thing. In the end, however, Thoridrin pulled through—and our impromptu band was once more whole.

Our failure to find an exit from the city through the water supply led us to try instead the sewer system. Viggo scouted this, and reported that it was indeed passable (although small in places for the big-folk), deep (and hence unlikely to attract attention from the streets above), and, best of all, seemingly free of the undead.

And so it was resolved that the four of us, together with the seer, would explore the tunnels to see where they might lead. The survivors were clearly fearful that we might never return, but we did our best to reassure them on this score—leaving Jeffrey, the innkeeper, in charge during our absence.

And so it was that we descended beneath the city, uncertain of what we might find…

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The Golden Gryphon (part III)

July 5, 2008 at 4:28 am (Phirul, The Prophecy of the White She-Goat)

30th Sunrise, Year of the Horde

[continued from http://talesfromthegoldengryphon.wordpress.com/2008/07/04/the-golden-gryphon-part-ii/]

I must admit that—despite the tussle in the road, the grumbling crowd, and the sight of many more guards mustering at the city gate—I could not help but laugh at the sight of my friend knocked prone. Rare is the time that I’ve seen Viggo knocked down by fist, axe, or ogre—that it should happen by a length of “Butcher Kruggo’s Very Special Hot Spiced Goblin Bloodwurst” (or so it said on the side of his sausage cart) seemed beyond all reason.

My mirth was rapidly contained, however, by the sight of that very same hulking great butcher drawing an equally formidable cleaver, with the fairly clear intention of using it on Viggo. As quick as a vole in a plowman’s sock-drawer, I grabbed a small rock and lobbed it at the the oaf in the hopes of distracting him.

It had little effect. In desperation, I threw an elf at him.

Well, I didn’t really throw an elf at him–it was much more a sharp shove, applied to the back of the haughty-looking purple-robed elf standing nearest me. The elf stumbled directly into the path of the butcher, and the two collided with a loud thump. I stepped back into the crowd as quickly as I could–it is one thing to shove an elf, it is quite another to be turned into a one-legged blackbird or have one’s head explode in a angry display of arcane powers. My caution proved wise, for when the butcher uttered a few choice curses and waved his cleaver at the elf, he suddenly found himself sinking into a pool of grey-green ooze.

“Hello hello… what’s all this then?” The sergeant of the Phirul East Gate Midday Guard had all the confidence of one of his exalted rank, as he and several of the guardsmen pushed through the throng to survey the odd scene in the road. Almost immediately, accusations started to fly, as everone in the crowd offered their own view of what had just transpired. As Viggo stood up and kicked the last sausage links from around his ankles, several—rather unfairly—blamed him for the commotion.

“Its a shame about the prophecy…” I muttered the the farmer now standing beside me.

The sergeant strode up to Viggo, jabbing him several times in the chest with an accusatory finger. “Who are you, and what do you think you are up to?” Viggo took this all rather literally, and started to explain the conditions of his birth, by way of preamble to his life’s story.

“I mean, it does say that if the white goat gives birth before entering the city, the county will suffer a plague of voracious earwigs…” The matronly women on my other side gave a shriek at this news, one that grew even louder as I made the sign of imaginary earwigs crawling in their hair.

Viggo had reached the part about having his umbilical cord cut with the traditional sharpened bison hoof when the sergeant ordered him to be quiet.

“And that poor druid.. all this way from the Valley of Kuz to deliver the sacred prophetic she-goat, only to see his mission fail and the Demon Earwig Lord Skornag unleashed from the blood-pits of the Eleventh Plane of Hell.” This, of course, was quite over the top, but played well to the small group of scullery maids with whom I was now speaking. One screamed in terror at this apparently impending doom, and fainted as a murmur started to arise from the crowd. “The goat, the goat!” shouted one man. “The prophecy!” muttered another, as he made wiggly gestures and pointed to his ears. The sergeant looked alarmed… clearly none of this was headed in a direction he understood.

I leapt atop a hay wagon, and added my voice to the din. “Let the virtuous Druid go! The sacred she-goat must bless the city, or all is lost!” 

By this point, Viggo was looking thoroughly confused, a state no doubt aggravated by the striking similarity between the term “virtuous druid” and the Kuzian warning “virt u-us druuuuyd!” (“danger, avalanche!”). Nonetheless, he scooped up the poor bleating creature from the road, and was being hustled forward by the crowd. (I’ve never thought the depiction of this now-famous moment, later carved upon the portico at Phirul’s East gate to mark the city’s “blessing and deliverance,”  depicts him well—he looks rather more like a skinny disoriented scribe than a hardy northern ranger.)

[continued at http://talesfromthegoldengryphon.wordpress.com/2008/07/05/the-golden-gryphon-part-iv/]

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