End of Elmban; Out of the Undercroft

April 9, 2009 at 12:09 am (Janech Vale, The Prophecy of the White She-Goat, Undercroft of Vecna)

…by Scalrag

I knew it.

I knew that coming here was a bad idea. I predicted that we’d gotten ourselves into trouble, and I was right. All I’ve ever wanted was limitless power, vast wealth, a palace and a gaggle of adoring concubines to look after my every need. Why, oh why do the Gods force such tribulations upon us?

I suppose I should be more specific: having defeated the Skeletal Warlord and his equally flesh-challenged minions, we returned to the heavy bronze doors and then proceeded down the left-hand path. Having claimed from the Warlord an obsidian eye that looked like it would fit one half of the locking mechanism, we presumed that the hand-shaped item that would fit the other half would not be far. After descending a set of stairs we came to a grated door, locked. Viggo briefly inspected it for traps and declared it safe, then raised one of his Goblin Stompers and delivered a hefty kick. He overdid it and staggered himself – which worked out because as it happened the door was trapped. As he stumbled back, Viggo narrowly avoided getting zapped by an arc of lightning that whipped from the still-unopened door. Clearly a more subtle approach would be required.

Arnold stepped up, produced his lockpicking tools and set to work. Almost immediately he yelped and ducked another bolt of lightning. The halfling gave us a reassuring smile. “Just wanted to see if maybe it was one of those one-time-only traps,” he explained, and tried again. This time he was able to get nearly ten seconds of work done before he tripped the trap again and had to dive for cover as lightning flashed from the door once more and slammed into the wall.

“Are you done warming up?” Dirock asked.

Before Arnold could answer, Viggo marched up to the door and brought his sword down on the lock with a howl. I shielded my eyes, expecting the ranger to get cooked like a brace of conies, but to my surprise his weapon smashed the mechanism and the door swung open. The ranger smiled knowingly and strode forward. The rest of us shrugged and followed, determined to enjoy our jar of sheep and not worry about how they got in there in the first place (note to self: spend less time talking to Arnold).

We entered a worship chamber. The floor in the center of the room was slightly raised, and there were two waist-high ziggurats to either side. At the far end of the room stood a black monolith, covered in ancient runes. Jutting out of the middle of the floor was a stone forearm. It was quite large – like that of an ogre or troll – but it looked to be the right size for our purposes. Viggo quickly searched for traps; satisfied that there were none, he grasped the stone hand. Remembering how good a job he’d done finding the trap on the door, I prepared for the worst.

I was right to do so: the stone hand immediately twitched and grabbed Viggo by his tunic, and the raised section of the floor began to grind, buckle and crack. I felt a rising panic, no doubt a side effect of my recently-developed landsharkophobia. At the same time there came the sound of grinding stone as hidden doors on either side of the room swung open and a pair of corpulent zombies shuffled into view. The bodies of these disgusting creatures seemed to be alive with necrotic energy, and they tore out great gory handfuls of their own flesh to heave at us! At the same time, a large glass jar floated out from behind the monolith at the back of the room. The cylinder was filled with a murky liquid and something was floating inside it. To my right, Thoradrin gave a cry and then suddenly turned on Dirock, who just barely managed to side-step Thor’s axe. Judging by the shocked looked on Thor’s face (only Dirock seemed more surprised), I surmised that the dwarf was under mental domination, and I began to wonder just what was floating in that jar …

The icing on this horrific cake came from the center of the room, where the floor finally split open and a brutish zombie hulk emerged, still grasping Viggo by the collar. His feet dangling two feet off the floor, my Kuzian companion drew his blades and began hacking at the huge monster. Arnold assisted by firing a magic sling bullet that set the hulk on fire. Nearby, Thoradrin managed to shake off the mind-control and furiously assaulted one of the lumbering corruption corpses. “Oh ye mighty gods!” he shouted as he got to grips with his foe, “ye smell almos’ as bad as the runoff room a’ the Redink Brewery!” As if all this wasn’t bad enough, a swarm of huge spiders emerged from the hole in the middle of the room. No, not spiders … but severed left hands – hundreds of them! I felt my gorge rise as they immediately set upon Viggo and Thor, scratching and clawing. Both warriors crushed many of the hands under their boots, but to little effect. I cast an atmospheric combustion that charred dozens of the limbs (and missed Thoradrin for a change), and Dirock called down Kord’s lightning to flash-fry many more. Finally, Thor swung his axe in a series of wide, sweeping blows that hacked chunks out of the corruption corpse in front of him and shattered another two score hands. At this point, the remaining hands began to flee back beneath the flagstones from whence they’d come. Having dealt with one threat, it was time to address the others.

While Arnold worked his sling against the hulk, I summoned my Glacial Gripper, and a man-sized hand of black ice rose up next to one of the corruption corpses, smacked it and then put it in an icy bear hug. A moment later the monster’s head exploded under Dirock’s divine powers, so I directed the Gripper to attack the floating jar. Viggo finally freed himself of the zombie hulk’s grip by slashing out its throat, causing it to collapse in a stinking heap. Any celebration was cut short, however, as a moment later the beast arose again, shedding most of its skin and battering the erstwhile triumphant Viggo with crushing fists. The ranger staggered under the assault, but held his ground. As I prepared to lend a hand, my mind suddenly reeled; I felt as though I was both falling down and being pulled up. I couldn’t concentrate or even hear anything. It was as if a great weight were crushing my skull. I suddenly realized that I was moving … how? Then the awful, dawning realization: I was not in control of my actions! Whatever had dominated Thoradrin was now forcing me to dance to their depraved tune! I watched in horror as I fired a ray of frost that struck Thoradrin in the back – as if I didn’t “accidentally” hit him often enough!

“Scalrag, ye daft bastard! Wot’ are ye doin’?” Thor demanded, not unreasonably.

“It’s not my fault!” I thought.

“DIE, MORTAL!” I said.

“Oh, very cute,” I thought.

“I’M A WEAK-MINDED FOOL!” I said.

Right – enough of that. I tried to drive the invader from my mind, but it was no use. I lamented that a dwarven warrior with a fondness for some of the foulest brews known to man had quickly succeeded where I, with all my intellect, was now failing.

Fortunately, my friends saved me from any further humiliation. Arnold dodged between the zombie hulk’s legs and slashed its tendons. As the monster stumbled forward, the halfling leapt onto its back and buried his dagger in the back of its skull, putting it down for good. Viggo jumped over the carcass and lunged at the floating jar, his swords flashing. The jar shattered under the ranger’s attack, and a foul-smelling liquid spilled on to the floor. I felt a twinge of fear, but realized that it was not my own – whatever had gotten into my head was retreating in terror – but too late. As the jar crashed to the ground, a brain flopped out of the wreckage and began to slowly crawl away. Viggo spat a curse and kicked the brain against the wall, where it instantly calcified on impact (good thing, too – Viggo was going to stomp it, which would have made an awful mess). Meanwhile, Thoradrin chopped the head off the last corruption corpse, and when that didn’t have the desired result, he buried his axe in the base of its spine. Spurting filth, the cadavre teetered over and lay still – the fight was over.

We quickly claimed the stone arm from the fallen hulk, and as we prepared to leave, I noticed that the hardened brain was radiating magic. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that I could use it to focus my spells as I would a magic orb. Though slightly grossed out, I decided to keep the macabre prize – at least for now.

We returned to the great bronze doors and Viggo and Arnold set the obsidian eye and stone hand into their respective slots. My companions reported that the “keys” seemed drawn to their places and snapped into position easily. After a long moment of silence, the massive doors ground open with a metallic rumbling that resonaterd throughout the Undercroft. We clearly weren’t going to be surprising anyone, and so after waiting for Viggo to finish a prayer to the Raven Queen (my companion had become a most fervent disciple of late), we passed beyond the doors with Thoradrin in the lead.

We advanced through a huge hallway and then descended some stairs to a much smaller corridor. After a few minutes, Thoradrin signaled us to halt. In the dimmed light of our torches and cantrips we saw that we were on a platform at one end of large cavern. Walkways and staircases connected to other, smaller platforms and we reasoned that they must lead to a way out on the other side. Glancing over the edge of the platform, Thor warned us to watch our step – it was a thirty foot drop to the uneven floor below. As we tried to decide which way to go, Viggo suddenly raised his voice and shouted into the darkness:

“Followers of Vecna! Show yourselves that I might mete out the judgement of the Raven Queen upon you!”

I was about to point out that no one could possibly be foolish enough to fall for that … but then an unfamiliar voice shouted back:

“Defilers! Drop your weapons and surrender, or face the wrath of the Lord of Rotted Tower!”

At that moment a dim light arose all around us, enabling us to see to the other side of the cavern. Standing on a large platform across from us was a human in ornate robes, clutching a staff. A group of snarling orcs and a pair of skeletons were at his side. I noticed that the skeletons were holding bows, and an instant later an arrow rattled off Thor’s helm, and another grazed Viggo.

“They’re shooting at us!” I observed. The battle was on!

I headed towards a staircase on our right and sent an atmospheric combustion at a pair of Orcs who were running towards us; the detonation incinerated one orc, but the other continued forward despite the scorching. Thor charged straight up the middle, vaulting the space between two platforms to get to grips with our foes. On our left, a frightening apparation appeared and approached: fluttering over the ground and wrapped in a cowled robe, the figure drew near, a bone scythe gripped in its dessicated hands. Dirock looked at it, then at me. “It’s for you,” he said.

But this was not Death. It was clearly something far fouler, a creature fallen far from grace and here now on unholy business. Viggo drew his swords and vowed to destroy the reaper. Though I had supreme confidence in his abilities, I moved further to the right, just to be safe.

reaper

Arnold fired a sizzling sling bullet at the reaper, blasting away its jaw, and I took offence on Arnold’s behalf when that failed to stop it. Viggo rushed into battle, screaming in the language of Kuz and heedless of his own safety. Dirock added to the fight with his divine powers. Things seemed to be going fairly well … until disaster struck – the reaper lunged forward and shoved Viggo off the stairs and into the pit! With a final curse, Viggo disappeared into the darkness and a moment later we heard the sickening sound of shattering bones.

Enraged by the death of his friend, Dirock roared an oath to Kord and heaved his maul at the reaper. The creature was struck full on and vanished in a flash. From across the room, the robed human Ascetic of Vecna snarled in anger and placed a vicious curse on Arnold. I shouted at my little friend to come closer so I could help remove it. A moment later I felt a tug on my sleeve. Looking down, I saw Arnold standing next to me with an expectant look on his face and crawling filth on his arm. “What are you going to do about this?” he asked.

“Aagh!” I replied, “Not so close! You’re going to get it on meeeeee!” Sure enough, the necrotic curse seemed to leap from Arnold onto me, infecting us both. I was able to shake it off, but not before it burned my arm. I fired an acid arrow at the Ascetic and was rewarded when he stumbled back, hit. I then used my orb of unlucky exchanges to pull the necrotism off of Arnold and send it back at its creator!

With Dirock at our side, we surged forward to catch up with Thor, had managed to get well ahead of us and was cleaving orcs left and right as he tried to reach the Ascetic. Dodging arrows and spells, we dispatched the orcs and skeletons (though the latter were very good shots and put several holes in my robes) and Thor was soon hand-to-hand with the enemy leader. As the Ascetic uselessly smashed Thor’s shield with his staff, a hidden door slid open behind the dwarf and to our astonishment Viggo emerged! Without missing a beat, the ranger charged forward with a shout and ran the Ascetic through with his swords. With our enemy dead, Viggo was able to explain that he had survived the fall into the pit because the entire floor was covered with bones – the crunching we’d heard was some poor soul’s rat-eaten ribs breaking under Viggo, and not the ranger’s skull cracking on stone as we’d thought. Viggo told us how “an angel” had appeared shown him a secret staircase out. Along the way he’d passed through several preparation rooms and libraries and had taken the time to do as much damage as possible on his way back up to us. Though dubious of his story about divine guidance, I could not deny the efficacy with which Viggo has desecrated the Undercroft’s sacred vessels. Fortunately, he hadn’t gotten around to setting the various texts on fire, which allowed Dirock and I to save a few spell and ritual books, along with some volumes that we felt might give us some insight into the cult’s activities. We let Viggo burn the rest.

With the Ascetic’s death, Vecna’s power over the Undercroft seemed to be broken. The heavy darkness was lifted and we were able to see normally by our light sources. Moreover, we all shared a sense of great accomplishment and a lifting of our spirits that left us feeling energized and ready for action, despite our great exertions. Viggo told us that the Raven Queen was pleased by our success and that our renewed vigour was her reward for destroying the reaper and bringing down this temple of her sworn enemy.

Flush with victory, we pushed on through another set of doors, down some stairs and into a corridor which opened into a large room, encircled with a raised walkway. Off to one side were several ominous-looking pits and in the center of the room, next to an icon of Vecna carved into the floor, was an altar – around which were five people, bound and gagged! Surrounding them were a number of orcs and several Shadar-kai. As we entered the room, one of the orcs spotted us and shouted an alarm. As the rest of the evildoers rushed to intercept us, another orc drew a dagger from its belt and slashed the throat of the nearest captive! Dirock invoked Kord’s blessing upon us and so empowered we sprang into action.

We clashed a few yards inside the room, and Arnold found himself in an unusual position – he was the first into combat … and he wasn’t even attacking from the shadows! He caught a nasty beating from the first orcs to enter the fray, but Dirock used his healing magics to keep the halfling alive and the rest of us moved in to to help. Even as he reeled under the orcs’ attack, Arnold came under threat from another quarter: some shadows along a nearby wall seemed to fold and from within emerged a small figure in black robe. With tremendous speed, this Dark One closed the distance to Arnold, unsheathing a dark-bladed dagger as it moved. “I’ve got you now,” I heard it say as it plunged its blade at Arnold’s neck. My companion twisted at the last moment and took the blow in the shoulder, then turned to face this newest threat.

“You again!” Arnold shouted through teeth gritted against pain, “I thought you’d had enough in Phirul!” He drew hisown dagger and lunged at the Dark One (Arnold later explained that this was Svernizug, and that the party had met him in the fallen city back before I had joined them).

There followed what I can only describe as a No Holds Barred Midget Death Match. Arnold and his rival danced and twisted through the fight, diving between the legs or leaping off the backs of larger combatants. When Svernizug slipped away to try to stab Viggo in the back, Arnold used his magic vambraces to appear right behind his foe, whereupon he slipped his dagger between Svernizug’s ribs. The Dark One shuddered and breathed his last.

Meanwhile, a roiling melee had broken out and even I was in danger of going toe-to-toe with a Shadar-kai sword fighter. Fortunately, Thor placed himself between me and our enemies, and I blasted spells over his head. Arnold managed to blind a number of enemies by throwing handfuls of dirt and grit in their eyes (followed up with sling bullets, of course). Behind the enemy lines, a Shadar-kai witch and an orc shaman were firing spells into the battle, and back at the altar, the cruel orc warrior had moved and was cutting the throat of yet another prisoner.

Shocked by this appaling display of poor form, I temporarily took leave of my senses: I cast Seven-League Step and rushed past the enemy over to the altar, where I poured my last healing potion down the throat of the nearest prisoner, who was only seconds from death. The man’s wound closed up as the elixir coursed through his veins. The orc executioner came at me with his dagger, but I managed to duck under his arm. Suddenly remembering my days of being bullied in the schoolyard, I responded as I had then: with a boot in the goolies. To my amazement, it actually worked, and while winded orc clutched at his groin, I hastily wrapped a bandage around the throat of the second man, slowing the bleeding. I stood up, feeling pretty proud of myself … until I noticed the Witch and the Shaman were approaching to help the executioner deal with me. I glanced over my shoulder at the brawl behind me. “Uh, guys? A little help?”

Thoradrin chose that moment to charge through the enemy lines and shield slam the orc executioner, sending the brute stumbling back. Meanwhile Dirock created an area of hallowed ground and began moving it towards the altar, intending it to protect and heal the prisoners from further harm. Arnold slashed at the orcs and Shadar-kai warriors, assisted by Viggo, who used his goblin stompers and the power of his enchanted bastard sword to move himself and his enemies into positions more to his liking.

Thor finished off the Orc executioner and brought his axe to bear on the shaman. I circled around the altar and engaged the Witch up close, using my repelling shockwave to send her tumbling head over heels. She recovered with surprising alacrity and rushed at me, invoking an aura of necrotism that burned at my flesh and then punching me with a hand wreathed in evil energies. The second blow had two effects: first, it reminded me of the end of my graduation ball (trying to get “fresh” with Corilane Bonesnap had been a mistake), and second it spun me around and filled my mouth with blood. Badly beaten (by a girl … again), I fled from the Witch and managed to keep the blood out of my eyes long enough to collapse next to Dirock. The cleric expended the last of his blessings and pulled me to my feet even as my wounds were healed. I returned to the fight, though by this point my repertoire of available spells was all but empty. I relied on my shockwave to batter the witch and shaman while my comrades dealt the real damage that would defeat them.

Viggo and and Arnold cut down the remaining Shadar-kai warriors and assisted Thor, Dirock and I in defeating first the shaman and then the witch. At last, our enemies lay defeated and we released the bound prisoners. As we had hoped, these were the missing miners we’d been searching for all this time. It had taken everything we had, but we had prevailed!

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Eyeing the Undercroft

March 28, 2009 at 3:41 am (Monastery of the Sundered Chain, The Prophecy of the White She-Goat, Treepo, Undercroft of Vecna)

It has been one scary place after another since I left Peithras: demon-worshipping Sultorean nobles, angry albino sailors, legions of zombified undead, invading orcs, and even a hungry dragon. As we started to descend the ancient spiral staircase that led downwards into the evil gloom of the Undercroft of Vecna, however, there was little doubt that this was the worst of all. I could almost hear old Uncle Wilburforce admonishing me: “Arr, what ye be doing, yer daft halfling? Ye could be roasting yer toes in front of a warm fire with a pint of Horwhistle’s Olde Best Barley Stout at the Ginger Penguin, instead of creeping toward yer doom in the cellar of a crazed evil god with fewer scruples than eyeballs!”  

Viggo must have noticed my fear, for at that moment he slapped me on the back and grinned. “Fear not, little Arnold! The Raven Queen is with us, even here. And not worry about death, for I am sure Skalrag will meet us there!” The mage winced at the reference, and cast his usual cantrip to light our way. It seemed to function much less well than usual, as did my ever-burning torch. The blackness of the Undercroft mocked our efforts.

Despite Viggo’s efforts to keep our spirits up—truly, he is a ranger with no fears (unless that transvestite dwarven hedgehog-juggler in Peyon is counted)—we were a somber and quiet group as we travelled through the dark passages of the Undercroft. I wished Kiira was here, for we could do with her magicks alongside Skalrag’s in this dark place. The eladrin had stayed behind at Binwin’s cabin to do some research (she was none to clear about what), and had promised to catch up with us later. Little had she known, or had any of us known, where we would now be.

After a while, the passage entered into a chamber of sorts. Ahead of us a stone statue of a dark figure stood, holding a silver sword. To our left and right were smaller statues. We stepped in cautiously—it seemed an ideal spot for an ambush.

spikedchainIndeed it was. Without warning, two figures emerged from the shadows, and attacked. Both were carrying long spiked chains, which they wielded with deadly skill, injuring or knocking prone several of our party.

As if this wasn’t enough, we heard—if heard is the right word—a dark moaning, which rose to a crescendo of anguished shrieks that ripped at our very souls. A hideous incoporeal wraith passed through the largest statue, and also advanced on us.

Viggo shook his head, and first muttering to his grandmama, then uttering words that unleashed the bound-magicks of his weapon. The wraith was thrown backwards and restrained for a time in sinews of magical energy. Skalrag cast a spell—which, oddly, caused the floor to glow a little (he later claimed he knew this all along, but at the time seemed as surprised as anyone). Thor charged at the first of the twirling enemies, and Dirock grabbed at his holy symbol.

For my own part, I drew my dagger, and stabbed at the chain-dancer with little effect. I also backed away slowly from the wraith, having no desire to once more hear its haunted screaming within my skull. Viggo laughed—I swear, he liked this place—and severely injured one of the dancers, which Thor promptly decapitated with a heavy blow from his axe.

The ranger shouted to the other chain warrior, “Szervusz? You with whirly thing? Bozmeg kecske! You see what a sword of the Raven Queen do to  your friend?”

Thor interjected. “Aye lad, ye grazed him an’ left the dwarf to slay him…”

At this point, a new foe entered the fray—one of those accursed dark ones that we had first encountered in Meepo’s dye and alchemy shop in Phirul. He stabbed Viggo in the side with his dagger, then vanished.

wraith

The wraith, now free of his arcane restraints, once more floated towards us…

“NO! By the might of KORD, I command you BACK, I say BACK foul creature of death!” Dirock’s voice boomed and echoed against the stone walls of the chamber as a searing flash of light burst from the small silver hammer-symbol in his hand. The wraith was thrown back into the shadows.

I stepped into the shadows myself—shadows far across the room from the wraith, I hasten to add—and hid, readying my sling. As I did so, there was a POP, and everything went black.

Thor’s voice called out: “Ah cannae cut th’ heids aff ay these evil folks if Ah cannae see them! Skalrag, whit is gonnae oan?”

“Its not me!” I heard the mage reply. 

POP! The dim light returned, and there in the room stood the dark one, ready to plunge his blade into Viggo’s underparts. He didn’t get the chance. I let my sling-stone fly, and it hit the creature square in the middle of the head. It fell dead at the ranger’s feet. The other chain warrior was soon dead too, leaving us only with the wraith to deal with. Skalrag and Dirock made short work of it.

We examined the sword. It appeared to be more ornamental than practical, but it did appear to be made of solid silver. I put it in my bag of holding for possible resale. How much would a sword of the one-eyed one fetch in the markets, I wondered?

Beyond this passage there lay another, the walls carved with strange patterns, scripts, and figures. At one point, however, a carving projected further from the wall than most—a small semi-statue of a figure stood near the floor, its hands held upwards as if to hold some spherical object…

I guessed quickly what the object might be–the platinum eye I had taken from the large orog leader in the Monastery of the Sundered Chain. I had dropped it into Dirock’s pocket, partly as practice, partly as joke, and partly for safekeeping. He hadn’t mentioned it, though.. had he perhaps not found it among the many religious tracts and symbols that he kept on his person?

I brushed past our cleric, and—with a quick covert filch—retrieved it. It fitted perfectly in the statue’s hands, causing a secret door to grind slowly open. “This way, I think…”

The secret passage continued for some forty or so paces before opening up into a chamber with a vaulted opening to our left. The walls here were carved with a scene of stick-men with spears, and some sort of bizarre-looking dragon. A hunting scene, perhaps? But why here, in the Undercroft? We searched, but found no more secret doors. We thus continued on through the opening, and to another passage beyond. It went a further fifty or so paces, and turned to the right—where a large pit blocked our way.

I volunteered to climb down, and have a look. I could find nothing of interest (although Viggo would later find panels in the stone that I had missed), and so I climbed up the other side. My companions all jumped across safely.

We continued on some more. We passed an area of dart-traps, but none of us were injured. Soon, we saw a light up ahead—a stone pedestal stood in a tall circular cavern. A single beam of arcane light shining down upon it from above.

ram0046As if that wasn’t marvel enough, there was the even greater marvel of what stood on the pedestal. An ivory goat! As Aunt Petunia used to say, you could have knocked me down with a wet ferret … what was it doing here?

Skalrag walked around the dais, and pronounced that the goat seemed to be magical. Viggo and I searched for traps, but could find none—although we both presumed that this was because we could not find them, not because they were not here. After all, who leaves a magical goat on a pedestal in their undercroft unguarded?

Nevertheless, it was all too much to pass up. As all of us (except Viggo) stepped back, Skalrag used his arcane mage hand to lift the statuette from its location. No sooner than he did so than things began to happen.

RUMBLE! First, the room began to shake, and large blocks started falling from the ceiling. 

Next, Viggo grabbed the goat as it floated past him, and thrust it under his cloak.

GRRRRCLICKCLICLCLICKCLICK… as he did so, I heard a grating sound further back along the passage—an iron portcullis was descending to cut off our escape! Faster than you could say “Old Derrick Darrowtoes grows very large Talonian rutabagas in the sunny patch of upper meadow near Farmer Brownlee’s prize cow Bessie and her four spotted calves, one of which he’s named Mildred after his spinster aunt for reasons he won’t divulge, sober or otherwise,” I raced down the corridor, leapt over the pit, and slid toward the grate, desperately hammering an iron spike into the wall in an effort to block its passage. Moments later Thor and Dirock joined me, doing the same (and with rather more success).

As the passage behind us continued to crumble, Viggo ran past clutching the goat. Skalrag followed, turning into the next passage for safety. This wasn’t such a good move, as it turned out.

CRASH! A large stone sphere came crashing through the wall, smashing heavily into Skalrag before continuing down the passage. We chased after it, planning to step out of the way at the next turn in the corridor.

easleyskeletonwarriorTHWORPLING! There was a sound of an enchantment being tripped, and suddenly the chamber that had once featured engraved stick-men and a dragon on its walls suddenly sported a bare section of wall, a dragon, and a collection of skeletal warriors. They clattered towards us.

I stepped aside, waiting for them to come closer. Closer they came too, so close in fact that the dragon knocked Skalrag unconscious with a blast of its fearsome breath weapon. He fell, groaning and bleeding in his traditional way. As Viggo and Dirock bickered over who would save him this time, Thor kept the dragon busy with his axe, cutting into it with powerful blows. I decided to help—stepping out from my hiding place to throw a handful of spinnyblades at our enemies, blinding the dragon and cutting down several of the skeletons. I then used a move that I had first practiced on the gray dragon at Chenth: slipping under it, I stabbed it hard, then kicked it harder, pushing it several feet back. One more cut of my dagger and it was dead. Or more dead, perhaps—it seemed almost stitched together out of dragon parts, an undead zombie draconid of sorts.

Skalrag regained consciousness, muttering something about Death. By now we had grown accustomed to it.

Injured, tired and hungry as we were, we decided to rest for a bit. This seemed as good a place as any to do so—there was but the one secret entrance, which had closed behind us when we had removed the eye-orb from the statue. For good measure we pushed the stone sphere to block the passage, and took turns on guard duty as the others slept. Our dream were haunted by this place, but we nonetheless all felt better for having rested.

After gnawing on some dry biscuits, we decided to reenter the main passage through the secret door, and continue further along it. Eventually it ended in a junction. The passage to right led to a set of stairs spiralling deeper into the Undercroft. The passage to the left led into a large dark chamber. Before us, set into the wall of the junction, was an imposing stone door. It was locked. There were, however, clues as to how it might open: a depression large enough to hold a small orb, and an inset in the wall where one might place something… like a hand.

Dirock looked at it, and immediately recognized the significance. “The lock here bears the iconography of Vecna… the depression for an eye, and a place to put a hand, symbolically representing the very disfigurement of the Whispered One.” We tried the platinum eye we had found, and a skeletal hand, but to no avail. If there were magical keys to be had, they weren’t ones that we yet possessed.

At this point, Skalrag spoke up. “I have an idea.. let us consult the Blue Hand of Wisdom!”

The suggestion brought back memories—I had remembered the Blue Hand of Wisdom playing their ever-popular music at the Harvest Festival, and it was common indeed for an inebriated patron or three at the Ginger Penguin to try to sing their classic “Get Yer Hands Out Me Pockets, I’m Not Dead Yet,” usually loudly, and rather off-key. I was unclear, however, how a halfling fiddle trio could help us out here, or indeed how they could even be lured to perform in the undercroft of a malevolent, twisted god.

“No, no,” Skalrag said as I asked him about his plan. “Not that Blue Hand of Wisdom—they’re good, by the way.. I meant the.. what’s it called? The… Hand of Fate. Yes, that’s it. Hand of Fate.” 

The mage opened his ritual book, and murmured an incantation. As if by magic—well, precisely by magic—a large hand appeared, floating in midair before us. It was blue too, which added to my confusion, and possibly his.

“Are you the the Hand of Fate?” asked Skalrag. The hand responded with a thumbs-up, to which the mage winced in reply. He had just used up one of his three questions.

“Which path would most benefit us?” The hand seemed uncertain—clearly, each of the paths had some gain. Perhaps all three of them were even necessary. Skalrag asked something else—I don’t remember what—and then released the Hand. It responded with a V-sign, and then vanished.

We all agreed that it made sense to go to the left and explore the large chamber before descending into the Undercroft further, and so in that direction we headed. Entering the room we found three large capstans set into the floor, each marked from zero to nine in what looked like a giant combination lock. An engraving on the wall provided what seemed to be a clue:

Witness the nascent warlord, once prisoner

He who would unite the tribes around his banner

He who would betray his people in our name

He has come full circle, as must those

Who would witness his reward

What did it mean though? Perhaps we should rotate each of them a full circle to unlock whatever it was they unlocked?

“No,” said Viggo. “Viggo think we must go round like the days and seasons, and the sun in sky, which is 365, except not is 365 of us, is five, so…” He started to do some math on his fingers.

In the meantime we tried my solution. It was the wrong one, and Viggo, Skalrag, and I each received a painful bolt of necrotic energy in punishment. A short while later, Viggo finished his math.

“360!” While his logic was unclear, it did have the advantage of being the number of degrees in a full circle. Moreover, I was quite sure that my capstan, the third of the three, had let out a louder “click” when I passed the number zero, which also buttressed the ranger’s theory. We tried it.

“CLICK… CLUNK…… WHIRRRR.” Rather than more necrotic pain, this time we were greeted with the sight of a secret door opening at the far end of the chamber. We walked over to investigate further.

The door led into a labyrinth of small passages, each more roughly hewn than those we had seen earlier. Moreover, the very walls here seemed to be embedded with bones and skulls, in a sort of macabre stucco. I shuddered—it wasn’t a home decorating technique that I was likely to ever use in my own barge or burrow.

We explored the tunnels for several minutes, and found them finally to converge on a small central cavern. There stood a motionless skeletal warrior, with four arms and a scimitar in each of its four hands.

“Well, as they say–four-armed is forewarned…” My companions groaned.

“Aam sure ‘at if we tooch heem, he’ll jist wake up an’ lat at us.” said Thor. “Ah aam sooo siick an tayerd ay bein’ attacked! Ah say we jist lay intae th’ creature an’ chop it up intae wee shards ay bain afair it can dae much damage.” It was a brutally simple plan. And so that is what we did: we ringed the skeletal creature, and at Thor’s signal unleashed our attacks. As soon as we did so it began to stir, and then lashed out furiously with its blades. 

skullwarriorThe fight went well enough from my vantage point skulking around a corner and flinging stones at the thing. I became aware, however, of a complication: several skeletons had emerged from the very walls of the tunnels, and were converging on our location. I stabbed at one with Petunia, missing, and then called out for assistance.

Thor stepped back to assist me, and between us we destroyed two of the undead nearest me. In the main chamber, Viggo and the others finished off the four-armed warrior. We all then went skeleton-hunting.

I couldn’t see so well in the dark, but soon heard Thor cursing as he found himself facing another. Unable to squeeze past him to assist in the narrow chamber, I instead ran up, jumped on his shoulders, and tried to summersault over the skeleton’s head.

It was a bad jump, and the creature swung at me with its rusty sword as I leapt past. In doing so, however, he left himself open to the dwarf’s counter-stroke. Thor cleaved it in two. I picked myself up from the ground, and grinned.

“Hawhaw, ‘at was fin, halflin’! Let’s gang fin’ anither!”

It didn’t take us long. Once more as Thor engaged it, I leapt onto his shoulders, and attempted a summersault. It wasn’t much better, and I fell prone behind our foe. I stood up, blade in hand, when I heard Viggo behind me.

“Viggo want to try, like Arnold!” The ranger ran up behind me, and tried leaping on my shoulders. The effect as was might be expected: he knocked me to the ground, barely cleared the skeleton, and started falling toward Thor. The dwarf bashed him down a side passage with his shield, then together he and I finished off our skeletal opponent.

We returned to the small central cavern, where Dirock and Skalrag waited for us. They also had eliminated a skeleton or two, albeit in more traditional fashion.

TO BE CONTINUED

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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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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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