28 August 2007

The Anari (V): The Allfather

The next instalment in our review of the enormous pantheon of Anuru concerns the most widespread of religious sub-groupings: Esu, called the Allfather, the god of men.

For simplicity's sake, I've also included his three Servants, his two Avatars, and the specialized cadres of Minions of Light that fall under his sway: the Battle Maidens, and the Blood Warriors.

Enjoy!

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ESU
Valfoðr (The Allfather), The Lord of Battles, The Father of Men
Mikkelseggr (The Big Man), The Master of Fist and Faith

Perhaps the best-known of the Anari, Esu is the quintessential god of humankind. An explorer, a warrior, a rogue and a riever by nature, Esu epitomizes all of the strengths and frailties of the branch of the Brahiri that was placed in his charge long before the beginning of the Age of Wisdom. While he is reputed to have taken many different forms when he strode Anuru before the closing of the Dome of the Firmament, today he is most commonly pictured in his primal form: that of a titanic, well-muscled man with long, dirty-blonde hair, a heavy beard and moustache (all usually braided), clad only in leather trousers and heavy fur boots.

He carries Ginnduna (“Mighty Thunder”), his enormous greathammer, in one fist, and is strong enough not only to wield it, but to do so one-handed. The Jarlin, his staunchest worshippers, say that his whispers are the thunder behind the stormclouds; the lightning, his javelins; and that his shouts cause stars and stones to fall from the skies. Legend has it that courageous warriors who fall in battle may be taken from where they lie among the slain by Esu’s Battle Maidens, and borne away to the Endless Hall, where they will fight, feast and make merry, until the world breaks and the final horncall of Tchudash sounds, and the forces of Light assemble to make war upon the Uruqua for the last time.

The Faith of the Allfather is probably the most widespread religion on Erutrei, if not necessarily within Anuru. It is certainly the most common religion in all human lands, with only three exceptions: Mirabilis, where no faith other than the White Hand is permitted; Ekhan, where the Hospitallers of the Healing Hand outnumber all other religions; and the Eastern Isles, where the worship of the Sea God, Thanos, has a slight edge. Priests of Esu cede to no one, not even warriors, the front rank in battle, and seek relentlessly the honour of battling the forces of darkness head-on. Esu fosters a particular hatred for the deathly Servants of Tvalt – especially Kaaris, lord of the corporeal undead, whom he calls The Corruptor. Clerics of Esu will go a long way out of their path for the chance to destroy the denizens of clay.

The Fists of the Allfather. Certain priests of Esu are known as “Fists of the Allfather”, and gain a variety of special powers, including the ability, through their very presence, to rally warriors and urge them on to greater efforts. Fists gain DR (electricity) equal to their level, and are treated as +4 CL when casting (or resisting) any divine or arcane manifestation of storms or lightning. In all other respects, Fists of the Allfather are identical to the “Warpriest” prestige class from the Complete Divine sourcebook.

Alignment: Lawful Good
Sphere(s): Battle, Humans, Storms, Lightning
Sigil: A raven standing upon and anvil
Preferred hues: Black and Steel
Preferred weapon: Greathammer
Worshippers’ alignment: Any non-evil
Domains: Chaos, Domination, Force, Glory, Strength, War

SERVANTS

KARG
The Lady of Courage, The Mistress of Bears
(Greater Servant)

Karg is most often depicted, whether in scripture, sculpture or other media, as a human woman of proportions similar to her master: a titanic, muscular female warrior, severely beautiful, with waist-length, unbound, white-blonde hair. She is normally shown wearing stylized heavy armour and wielding an enormous greatsword.

Occasionally these depictions offer a more historical perspective. Karg is one of the original Minions of Light, who came into being at the behest of the Anari at the onset of the Wars of the Powers. According to legend, when faced with the prospect of battle against the mightiest of Bardan’s minions, she sought a weapon like Esu’s hammer, Ginnduna, fearing that any lesser instrument would not be strong enough enough to bear her might and rage. So she approached Kyrrsmida, one of the fathers of the Giants, renowned as the wisest weaponsmith among the Anari or the Uruqua. Kyrrsmida, who had been forewarned by Morga of Karg’s desires, demanded her wings in payment, and she agreed; but after she had been crippled by the strokes of his axe, he revealed his treachery, laughing, and summoned Morga to gloat over her humiliations and defeat.
Enraged, Karg transformed herself into the shape of an enormous bear, and slew Kyrrsmida; and then, returning to her own form again, though still sorely wounded and bleeding, she tore the betrayer’s heart from his chest, and with it, and her own bloodied wings, completed the forging. Thus was born Ljósveittr, the Light-Giver, Karg’s greatsword; and it was in her hand when Morga arrived. Though he was a Power and she merely a Servant, still he fled in terror when he saw Ljósveittr and its terrible, blinding radiance. Ever since, Karg and the sword have been a bane and a terror to the Minions, the Servants, and the Powers of Dark.

The followers of Karg were at one time mighty and numerous, and nearly as widespread as the acolytes of Esu. After the Fall of the Shadow King, however, when the need for implacable opposition to evil was less apparent, Karg fell out of favour. Few temples have been built in her honour for many centuries. Karg appears to be making a comeback, however – a mixed blessing, as she is so closely associated with the eternal battle to overcome evil that the resurgence of her cult can only mean that evil is gaining in strength as well.

The Claws of Karg. Some clerics of Karg become exalted through their service, and are granted, in a special rite, the ability to transform into a bear in moments of great need; these rare individuals are called “Claws of Karg”, and are generally revered more for their ferocity and the example they set in battle than for their wisdom or leadership. The ritual in question is merely the divine transmission of Werebear lycanthropy from a more senior Claw to the more junior, and is only accorded highly experienced priests (minimum 8th level). The newly-appointed Claw is a Werebear in all respects save for two: he or she immediately gains complete control over all aspects of the transformation; and the lycanthropic “affliction” (actually a divinely-sanctioned benediction) can only be transmitted to a new recipient through the proper ritual.

Alignment: True Good (Neutral)
Sphere(s): Courage, Humans, Personal combat, Bears
Sigil: A raven, superimposed on a greatsword
Preferred hues: Black and steel (silver)
Preferred weapon: Greatsword
Worshippers’ alignment: Any good
Domains: Animal, Domination, Force, Pact, Strength

JURDISH
The Lord of Fidelity
(Greater Servant)

The origins of Jurdish are humble. Like Miros and many of the other Servants, he was once mortal, one of the Kindred, a mere man. He served an early king of Esud, long before the birth of Chuadwaith, who later unified the empires of men; but the king that Jurdish served was petty and villainous, and used his power to oppress and brutalize the unfortunate souls who lived under his sway. Jurdish attempted to walk the fine line between loyalty to his sovereign and mercy to the weak, giving help to the downtrodden, and protesting to his king, but to no avail. At the end, the king condemned Jurdish for treason, and ordered him to stand trial by combat. Jurdish stood the trial, and defeated each of his former colleagues, one by one, until at last, bent and bloodied but still standing, no one stood between him and his former master. He challenged the king to personal combat, but the craven monarch ordered his archers to slay the victorious warrior. The hero fell on the field of battle, only to be borne away by the Boðvarrmær, the Battle Maidens of the Allfather, to stand and be judged before the High Seat.

Arrived at the Endless Hall of the Allfather, Jurdish, though astonished at his lot, was nonetheless appalled at the undisciplined revelry around him, as warriors fallen throughout the ages ate, drank, caroused and laughed, awaiting the next round in the eternal battle as the Anari fenced with the Uruqua in preparation for the Breaking of the World. Standing stiffly before the great chair, he asked what the Allfather willed of him.

I wish you to serve me, Esu replied, his (current) mistress Sîaf perched on one of his knees, and a vast horn clenched in one fist.

“You have many servants already, lord,” Jurdish said, looking askance at the hordes of drunken merry-makers crowding the benches and tables of the Endless Hall.

I have many warriors, the Allfather chided gently. Soldiers and generals, heroes from every age of the world have I brought to my board. They are the minions of battle, sworn to stand for me when blows and battle are called for. What I need is someone to stand for me when mercy and forebearance are sought.

“Forgive me, lord, but your name, while revered among men, is known for neither of those things,” Jurdish answered, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and a grim set to his mouth.

You could change that, if you choose to serve me, the Mikkelseggr replied.

And so Jurdish agreed to serve the Allfather. While he has no large following in Anuru, he is seen by men as the face of reason and mercy; and his priests, though they are not many, know that he stands at the side of the Allfather and whispers to him of patience, and forebearance, and justice for the downtrodden. When depicted in works of art, which is not often, Jurdish appears as a black-bearded man, bearing heavy armour and a longsword; and his shield bears his device, which is a brazen, full-faced helm, decorated with raven wings. The closed helm represents the defence of the weak, and the anonymity and impartiality of true justice.

Alignment: Lawful Good
Sphere(s): Fidelity and faithfulness, lords and rulers, Paladins
Sigil: A brazen greathelm, winged
Preferred hues: Bronze and black
Preferred weapon: Longsword
Worshippers’ alignment: Lawful Good
Domains: Competition, Glory, Good, Protection, War

TCHUDASH
The Lord of Fire
(Lesser Servant)

Perhaps the most unlikely of Esu’s servants, Tchudash, the Lord of Fire, was born a Minion of the Dark – a giant of fire of immense size and strength. A mighty warrior, he was called Tchudash the Mad by his allies, and served in the armies of Morga during the Wars of the Powers, wielding a great axe, and reaping his enemies like a farmer reaps new hay. Even his allies feared his prodigious rages, though; for more than once, in the blindness of battle, Tchudash had become confused, and had gone ravening among them, cleaving allies as often as enemies.

His battle madness proved to be his undoing. As is well known, after the creation of the Children by Braea, by guile Bardan stole from them the secret of the spoken word, and taught it to his minions. The first to learn it were the dragons and the giants. But with knowledge of the word came the understanding that even the Minions of Dark could freely choose their own destinies; and so began the Great Division, as half of the dragons, and half of the giants, decided to choose their own fates, and transferred their allegiance to the Light. Whole giant clans switched sides, and Tchudash’s clan, unbeknownst to him, was one of these. In putting down these rebellions, Morga gloried in forcing his Minions to prove their allegiance by setting brother against brother, and father against son; and so it was with Tchudash, who was ordered to lead an army against his own clan. He did so, all too willingly; but when the madness of battle lifted, he found that he had himself slain not only his mother, father and brothers, but also his young wife, and their two sons.

Tchudash returned to Morga’s lair, threw himself at his master’s feet, and begged for mercy; but Morga knew not the word, and declared that Tchudash’s family had received nothing more than the portion due traitors. In despair, Tchudash left Morga’s service, and sought long and hard for the Anari Vara, to beg her to return his wife and children to his side. He was found instead, freezing to death on a mountainside, by Esu himself. When the Allfather learned of Tchudash’s plight and understood the depths of his remorse, he went himself to the Long Halls and importuned Tvalt to release the spirits of the stricken giant’s wife and sons. Tvalt's skinless, eyeless face stretched in the rictus of a grin, and he invited Esu to take them; but the woman and her children were at peace, and had forgiven Tchudash; but fearing the return of his madness, they would not come. Esu returned to the mountainside with the sad news, and found that Tchudash had, in his absence, was nearly spent; and so Esu himself brought the fallen giant to the Endless Hall. His Servants were aghast; but Esu said simply, Here is one who is worthy to stand among you. And when Esu offered Tchudash the opportunity to serve the Light, battling the Minions of Darkness that had forced him to destroy his own people, the giant agreed whole-heartedly.

Tchudash has a small but powerful following, mostly centered in the outlying regions of Jarla, Kelva and Peshka; his cult appeals to berserkers, barbarians, fell druids and shamans, and the like. He is often depicted in a mode similar to Esu himself: as a giant of enormous proportions, clad only in a kilt and sandals, wielding a monstrous, flaming greataxe, and crowned by sun-yellow flames for hair, his dark skin burned white by the snows of the northlands. He also carries an ivory horn, bound with bands of brass, that summons storms and can be heard by whomever Tchudash intends to hear it, no matter where they may be. It is said that he will sound it one last time at the Breaking of the World, to summon all good beings to the side of the Great General for the final assault against the Powers of Dark.

True clerics of Tchudash are few and far between, but they gain a number of special powers. Like Barbarians, they gain the ability to Rage (once per day at 1st level, and one additional time per day for every five additional levels – 6th, 11th, 16th and 21st). They also cast fire spells at CL+2, and gain Damage Reduction (Fire) equal to their Cleric level. Finally, in addition to their Charisma bonus, they add half their cleric level to any Charisma-based checks made with respect to giants (e.g. Bluff, Diplomacy, Gather Information and Intimidate). They always carry a brassbound horn as their divine focus, and can blow it in place of Turn Undead attempts (bonus attempts from Extra Turning also count). This causes the equivalent of a Cause Fear spell of the Cleric’s level.

Alignment: Chaotic Good
Sphere(s): Rage, fire, battle, barbarians, good Giants
Sigil: A raven, entangled in knots, in a black circle, surrounded by flame
Preferred hues: Black, white and red
Preferred weapon: Greataxe
Worshippers’ alignment: Non-lawful, non-evil
Domains: Destruction, Fire, Glory, Madness

AVATARS

Ban Qoryllaq
Avatar of Battle, Lord of War

Little is known about Ban Qoryllaq; he is probably a former Minion of Light, elevated to the status of an Avatar by dint of excellence in leading the forces of the Anari during the Wars of the Powers. He has two aspects; one is that of a common human footman bearing a lance, the other of a massive, winged angel bearing a shining sword. While he has no cult per se, he is usually worshipped along with other members of Esu’s circle, especially when battle is in the offing. He is said to respond favourably to requests for tactical advice, particularly when human troops are outnumbered and badly in need of aid.

Alignment: Lawful Good (Neutral)
Sphere(s): Warfare, fighters, commanders, generalship
Sigil: A raven armed with a sword, scarlet, on a black-and-white checked shield
Preferred hues: Black, white and scarlet
Preferred weapon: Long, Bastard or Greatsword (or equivalent)
Worshippers’ alignment: Non-chaotic, non-evil
Domains: Competition, Domination, Glory, War

Olgar Olgarssen
Avatar of Rage, The Grey Slayer

Olgarssen was once one of the Blóðrekkr, the celestial warriors of Esu raised from the dead, who battle the forces of darkness by day, and crowd around the tables of the Endless Hall by night. In many ways he still resembled one of them, but he has grown beyond their ranks, and has become one of the lesser deities of the Allfather. Olgarssen is the patron of blood-fury, the insane battle rage that grips men from time to time, but most especially the fjord-raiders and seamen of Jarla, and the mountain and steppe barbarians of Kelva and Peshka. Such warriors often carry a token of Olgarssen, and those who do may enter the blood fury when wounded in battle (for every 10% of one’s starting hit points one takes in damage, the blood fury grants +1 on all attack and damage rolls, +1 on all fortitude saves, -1 on all reflex saves, and -2 on all skill checks other than Jump or Intimidate). It is said that those who earn Olgarssen’s favour may, in a hopeless battle, become infused with his indomitable spirit; and even though mortally wounded, will not fall until battle’s end.

According to legends, Olgarssen is the beloved of Brynhilde, the White Captain of the Boðvarrmær, the Battle Maidens of Esu. Olgarssen appears for all intents and purposes to be a warrior of Jarla, man-sized and with braided blond hair and beard, clad in a figured breastplate, and bearing sword, battleaxe and shield.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral (Good)
Sphere(s): Rage, barbarians, berserkers
Sigil: A fist clutching crossed lightning bolts, white, on a black shield
Preferred hues: Black and white
Preferred weapon: Longsword or battleaxe
Worshippers’ alignment: Non-lawful, non-evil
Domains: Chaos, Glory, Pact, War

MINIONS

Unlike the other Anari, Esu has two very specialized classes of minions: the Bợðvarrmær, also called the Battle Maidens; and the Blóðrekkr, the Blood Warriors.


The Boðvarrmær

The Battle Maidens are Minions of the Light who serve Esu as his messengers, scouts and envoys upon Anuru. They are routinely tasked to watch over men, and especially their wars and combats, and to report back to Esu with word of particularly courageous and heroic deeds. On very rare occasions, with Esu’s blessing and approval, they will appropriate the body of a slain hero and deliver him to the Endless Hall, where he will be judged; and if found sufficiently courageous, Esu may breathe life back into him, and keep him at the tables of the Endless Hall until the final battle at the Breaking of the World. A select few of such warriors are even sent back to Anuru as a special envoy of the Allfather, to aid men in their wars with the forces of Darkness.

According to legend, Karg, the Mistress of Bears, is attended at all times by five Battle Maidens of especial beauty and skill; while Olgar Olgarssen, the Avatar of Rage, is said to be the beloved of Brynhilde, the White Captain of the Maidens, whose name means “Armoured for Battle”.

Save for their hard-feathered white wings and pale azure aura, the Battle Maidens appear identical to large, muscular and coldly beautiful human females. Although they appear to wear armour (chain and breastplates are most common, although full plate armour is not unknown), this is actually an extension of their mystical being rather than an artificial protection, and as such they are never without its protection. The same is true of their +4 Holy Longswords; these disappear when dropped and reappear when the Maiden snaps her fingers (in contrast to their +4 spears, which they always carry, and which transform into a shimmering bolt of lightning when hurled). The Battle Maidens are fearless warriors, hurling themselves into battle with bloodcurdling shrieks; more than five Maidens shrieking together have the effect of a Cause Fear spell of Caster Level equal to the HD of the strongest Maiden among them. The Battle Maidens never retreat in the face of evil; their credo is to die before surrendering to darkness.

Battle Maidens always bear a symbol of their master or mistress somewhere on their person, usually in the form of a large, intricate but monochromatic tattoo on their left thigh, upper arm or breast. Due to their boisterous, impetuous and highly competitive natures, the Battle Maidens of different masters often get into arguments and even fights. Although capable of adopting human guise, they are unable to disguise their beauty, their strength or their tattoos (which can only be concealed by clothing); and they know that their special status depends on their remaining pure in body. Legend has it that if a Battle Maiden falls in love with a mortal, the brazen doors of the Endless Hall will be riven from their hinges, and the King of the Giants will enter in, and cast the Allfather down, and rule the world of men from the High Seat of the Mikkelseggr.

The Blóðrekkr

Death in battle is not always the end – at least, not for warriors who revere the Allfather and his Servants. The bravest of the brave who fall among the slain are on occasion carried away by the Battle Maidens, and borne beyond the Dome of the Firmament, awaking bloodied but hale and whole before the High Seat of the Allfather. If they are judged worthy, they will join the ranks of the Blóðrekkr – the Blood Warriors of the Great General. Most of those so chosen will remain at the Allfather’s table, awaiting the Last Horncall of Tchudash at the Breaking of the World, when they will storm the Gates of Bardan; but the wisest and the mightiest are often sent back to Anuru as envoys of the Allfather, to work his will on Earth. Occasionally they will mingle with mortals to influence matters in a direction desired by the Allfather and his Servants.

No being below 5 HD is ever selected to be a Blood Warrior. Upon selection, the being automatically gains 5 HD and all of the attributes of one of the Blóðrekkr. Higher level beings have concomitantly more hit dice; some of the Blood Warriors are powerful indeed, mighty warriors on Earth, who fell and were reborn at 15-20 HD or more.

The Endless Hall, as its name suggests, is infinite in size, but at any one time, it will contain no less than 1,000 Blood Warriors, carousing, drinking, wenching and even fighting. It is said that Karg maintains a regiment of 666 Blood Warriors ready for battle at all times, and that she bloods them by letting them fight on Earth and across the Lower Planes. Tchudash is also reputed to be attended by a personal retinue composed of nine Blood Warriors of 20 HD or more.

Blood Warriors bear the armour and weapons they did in life; all of their possessions are repaired nightly and imbued with the Allfather’s power, rising 1 level in potency (normal becomes MW, MW becomes +1, +1 becomes +2, etc). Normal power limits do not affect this transformation; a warrior who meets Esu with a +5 sword will wield a +6 sword as a Blood Warrior. The additional power only holds while the owner of the weapon bears it.

Blood Warriors look and act much as they did in life, except that in the dark, their hair and eyes exude a soft blue radiance that cannot be damped down or extinguished. They often have a great, even wild, love for life; and because they are celestials rather than mortals, tend to compete for the notice and charms of the Battle Maidens, with whom they can carouse without the former incurring the penalties for carnal knowledge of a mortal (and also without fear of quickening). There have been reports of Blood Warriors becoming excessively familiar with mortal women, but it is not known whether any half-celestial children have resulted of such unions. "How" would be an interesting question, as the Blood Warriors are technically dead. For this reason, although it may seem somewhat unfair, there are no penalties or world-shattering catastrophes associated with fraternization between Blood Warriors and mortals.

There is no limit on the potential number of Blood Warriors, and Esu and his Servants have been collecting them for thousands of years in preparation for the Breaking of the World. Nine out of ten of them are 10 HD; one in twenty is 11-15 HD; three in a hundred are 16-19 HD; one in a hundred has 20-24 HD; and less than one in a hundred has 25 HD or more. Captains of the Blood Warriors tend to be selected from the strongest and most capable; and the War Leaders of the Blood Warriors (i.e., their generals) are fearsome indeed.

27 August 2007

Anecdotes of the Wyrm #3: Ally'esch'ya

The PCs originally met the mysterious Ally'esch'ya during a musical performance at the Gane's Tankard Tavern, and their individual reactions to the appearance of a stunningly gorgeous Dark Elf in their midst were fairly predictable.

Except for Lyra. Lyra ALWAYS surprises us.


They bumped into Ally'esch'ya again during last weeks session, rescuing her and her ship-wrecked entourage from a passel of bugbears and dire wolves led by an Ogre barbarian. The PCs' reactions were pretty much the same as they were the first time around...including Lyra's.

As a straight-laced and pretty conventional DM, I sense difficult, possibly squirm-inducing, times ahead.

26 August 2007

Anecdotes of the Wyrm II: Surprises!

I originally thought this was a pretty neat idea for spicing up an otherwise fairly run-of-the-mill dire animal encounter. But ever since the Pain Demon popped out of the dire bear carcass, I haven't heard the end of it.



Jeez, why did they think Yogi was all rabid and pussy and stuff?

Meanwhile, there's nothing quite as awe-inspiring as a seasoned fighter/cleric of the Allfather raising his warhammer to the skies, and shrieking Esu's centuries-old battle-cry: "Dude! We're, like, sixth level!"

Sweet.

(N.B. The incident referred to in this little strip took place after the Party left Ganesford en route Bymill. Hopefully I'll have caught up to that point in another week or so.)

The Anari (IV) - Hara's Avatars

The fourth instalment in our series on the Powers of Light concerns the Avatars that look to Hara for rulership and guidance, and that serve as his personal representatives, governing specific domains under his overall span of control within Anuru.



ANNISTARA AKISTAN
Avatar of Elven Magic

Annistara’s tale is not dissimilar to that of her countrywoman, Miros; a wizard of extraordinary skill and power, she loomed large in the battles between the monsters of Bardan and the peoples of Harad in the eons of warfare that preceded the Age of Wisdom. Unlike Miros, however, Annistara was a battle mage, adept at combining arcane forces with blows, making her particularly effective against Bardan’s many magic-using minions. Annistara eventually attained the power to travel the Universe through her own arcane power; and her first act upon so doing was to seek out Miros, and offer to serve Hara. Hara agreed, and Annistara ascended to join the Anari. While there is no specific cult dedicated to her worship, Annistara serves as the focus for all Elves who go into battle wielding the sword in one hand, and the elemental arcane forces of the universe in the other.

Alignment: Lawful Good
Sphere(s): Elven magic, Elven magi
Sigil: A shield quartered, violet and white; twice crossed arrows in white; over all, a scarlet machilocated lightning bolt

Preferred hues: Violet, white and scarlet
Preferred weapon: Longbow / Longsword
Worshippers’ alignment: Non-chaotic, non-evil; arcane spellcasters only
Domains: Knowledge, Luck, Magic, Mind

CSAELEYAN
Avatar of Nature

Csaeleyan is one of the original Minions of Light, created by the Anari shortly after the forging of Anuru. She is one of the Forest Maidens, the Skogrfljodr (as they are called in the ancient Yonarri tongue) that are mentioned in one of the oldest writings known to the Kindred: the Seventh Rune of the Tarinas Valtakirjas, the “Tales from the Book of the Powers”. According to legend, Csaeleyan, the Princess of the Woodlands, stood first among the Forest Maidens, an eldritch being of immense power and beauty, with skin, eyes and hair the verdant hue of the forests in springtime. So lovely was she that Maelgorm, one of the Avatars of Bardan, called by the Kindred the “King of Winter”, fell enamoured of her, and stole her away from the woodlands to his frozen fortress at the top of the world. The tale of her rescue by the Esudi hero Eldukaris covers several chapters of the Tarinas Valtakirjas, and features prominently in the Tales of the Wyrm.

Csaeleyan appears exactly as she is described in the tales; a lovely maiden of the Haradi, all emerald in hue, who walks the woodlands unseen, waxing and waning with the forests. All animals, and all of the Forest Maidens pay her heed and homage. She has a significant following among the Wilder Elves, who revere her for her wisdom and her power over nature, and she is widely worshipped by druids and Rangers as well.

Alignment: Neutral
Sphere(s): Nature, neutral forest creatures, druids, neutral rangers
Sigil: An oak in winter on a silver (mithral) field; an oak leaf superimposed, with a white Elven star, upper left
Preferred hues: Forest green
Preferred weapon: Sickle
Worshippers’ alignment: N, LN, NG, LG
Domains: Animal, Earth, Plant, Weather

FEYNILLOR FREAGAN
Avatar of Elven Battle

Feynillor Freagan’s tale is a simple one. A captain in the personal retinue of Yarchian, High King of Harad, Feynillor stood in the line of battle at the Field of Oldarran against the onrushing hordes of the Uruqua. When Yarchian and his companion Jawartan, the Great Silver Wyrm, fell beneath the swords of the enemy, Feynillor led his turma to their aid. When all of his soldiers had been killed, he stood alone between the fire demons and his fallen king, and dared them to cross blades with him. Such was the battle fury upon him that he stayed the foe in their onslaught, and so allowed Jawartan, though mortally wounded, to escape with the body of the fallen King. Seeing this, the enemy howled, and rushed forward; but the dragon had escaped. Feynillor took up the fallen king’s sword and faced them alone, and was the last Elf ever to wield the Alurenqua. Although he was at the last hewn down, and the great sword, forged by Tîor himself, broke as he fell, Feynillor died with his head pillowed upon a mountain of fallen foes. And so, while he is not the focus of any specific following per se, Feynillor Freagan is venerated by all Elves who chose to oppose the forces of darkness by force of arms.

Alignment: Chaotic Good
Sphere(s): Elven battle, Elven warriors
Sigil: A black machilocated wall on a white shield; twice crossed arrows over; a white griffon, dexter, rampant, armée bow and sword
Preferred hues: White, black and gold
Preferred weapon: Elven greatsword
Worshippers’ alignment: Any Good
Domains: Competition, Glory, Pact, War

ISTRAVENYA
Avatar of the Wildwood

Istravenya may be one of the strangest members of either the Anari or the Uruqua. Although in outward form she more or less resembles a Wilder Elf, she is actually not a mortal or even an entirely corporeal being, but rather a quasi-physical embodiment of the uncontrollable ferocity of nature.

Istravenya came into being in the last years before the Age of Wisdom, when the Elves were falling back before the assaults of the Uruqua, and Miros had not yet brought the arcane knowledge of the dragons to their aid. Hard-pressed even to maintain their own strongholds, the people of Harad were forced to abandon the woodlands to the fires and fangs of the hordes of darkness. Countless trees were consumed and their inhabitants slain in their multitudes. Despairing of external rescue, the combined spirits of the great forests coalesced into a single being – an expression of pure force that took (and still takes) Kindred form, moving with blinding speed through the woodlands, appearing to strike at and destroy the enemies of the forests, and disappearing again.

Istravenya appears, variously, as a white and emerald streak of light beneath the trees; a common forest animal grown to ridiculously enormous dimensions, with glaring white eyes; or a maiden of the Wilder Elves (albeit an odd-looking one, naked and with mottled white and emerald flesh, wild, flowing brown hair, and eyes of blinding white). When armed, she wields a greatsword forged entirely of ravening white and emerald fire, that either slays whatever it strikes on contact, or transforms its target into some sort of forest plant or animal. Istravenya is the focus of a small cult consisting mostly of Wilder Elves and some druids, although most denizens of the forest, and all Elves everywhere, respect her much as they would respect a dangerous wild animal or a sudden summer storm. Her followers tend to be fanatical protectors of the woodlands, and have been known to offer Istravenya sacrifices consisting of individuals captured while harming the forests, who are staked out and left to nature’s tender mercies.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral (Good)
Sphere(s): Druids, Elves, plants and animals
Sigil: Stylized black tree blooming on a white field
Preferred hues: white, emerald

Preferred weapon: Nature magic, natural weapons, pure force
Worshippers’ alignment: N, CN, NG, CG
Domains: Animal, Cold, Fire, Plant

SHANYREET
Queen of the Fey

Shanyreet is among the eldest of the dryads, one of the most powerful ever to walk the Earth. Her origins are unknown, although legend has it that she was the daughter of Csaeleyan and Eldukaris (although no Kindred record mentions such a liaison). Shanyreet resembles an archetypal tree-dryad, appearing in the form of a maiden of the Haradi, albeit one with unnaturally brown skin and hair. She customarily dresses in similar tones, favouring long, flowing garments of natural materials, and she moves through the woodlands with all of the usual grace of her people. Unlike most dryads, when on Anuru, Shanyreet is capable of treating any oak tree as her own, although she begins to wane and fade if she ventures more than one mile from an oak; too long away from one, and she eventually winks out and returns to the Outer Planes. She has no significant following among the Kindred, but she is much beloved of the Fey races, and is the focus of their devotion. Forest-dwelling humanoids and centauroids also tend to revere her, as do the Wood Elves.

Alignment: Neutral Good
Sphere(s): Fey
Sigil: A towering fir on an oval white field, the whole upon a silver (mithral) shield, surrounded by three Elven stars
Preferred hues: Forest brown and gold
Preferred weapon: Club
Worshippers’ alignment: N, NG, CN, CG
Domains: Healing, Luck, Magic, Plant

The Earthquake (II): Undead and Fungi and Oozes, oh my!

THE BROKEN TEMPLE OF KARG

Yesterday I recounted how the new PCs, Lyra the Rogue/Sorceress and Bjorn the Fighter/Cleric, bumped into the remaining members of the original Party on the Nordvej. As you’ll recall, there had been a small earthquake that morning, and a landslide had collapsed a significant portion of a cliff face about a mile south of Ganesford, covering the road, and exposing something dark and sinister looking. The newly-constituted Party camped overnight in the shadow of the cliff, and determined to check the place out in the morning, when the rays of the rising sun would be shining directly into its depth.

While they waited for the Lantern (in this world, the sun is called the Lantern of Bræa, for reasons rooted in the ancient history of Anuru) to rise and illuminate the interior of the cave, the PCs spent a few moments questioning Ankallys, the NPC they had discovered digging in the rubble of the landslide. Ankallys explained that her master, a Zaran Human Wizard named Oras Rathorn, had led a party here from Vejborg over the summer in order to unearth a structure that had been covered by a landslide centuries before. Rathorn’s historical researches had revealed that there were vast treasures concealed within the buried building, and Ankallys still hoped to recover some of them in order to help pay off the enormous debts that Rathorn had accumulated on the project.

When asked about what sorts of treasures she expected to find, Ankallys got a little vague; she mentioned the “Relics of Ekruhalagar”, a hero of the ancient world, whose sword, armour and helmet should be worth a small fortune. Bjorn failed his Knowledge(Religion) check when this name was mentioned, but nonetheless waxed a little indignant that anyone - especially a mage - would consider disturbing a hero’s remains for crass lucre. More importantly, when Ankallys was asked what else they might find in the temple, she clammed up fairly quickly. Lyra, proving the adage that “a thief will always suspect you of stealing”, rolled a Sense Motive during these discussions, and determined that Ankallys knew more than she was telling.

And how.

After a night of rain, the mud-clotted hillside was a little treacherous, particularly as it was now strewn with shattered tree-trunks, enormous paving and building stones, and even a few fragments of stone sarcophagi that had slid half-way down the hill. The PCs rummaged through their packs and came up with some rope. They gave one end to Gwendilyne, who employed her fabulous Climb skills (four successive successful checks) to make her way up the slope to what proved to be not a cave, but rather the exposed foundations of a buried building that had been smashed open by the landslide. Big one, too; a hundred or so feet wide and nearly half that in height. She clambered up the stones and into the structure…and this is what she saw:


After a moment’s goggling, Gwen tied the rope off and stood back to let the rest of the party ascend. In true PC fashion, they immediately spread out to see what sorts of things they might scare up.

(DM RAMBLING ON)

At this point, it’s appropriate to embark upon another little self-indulgent bit of DM rambling about dungeon design. Harking back to an
earlier ramble, you’ll recall that, in my opinion, the single most important question that the DM has to answer when designing a dungeon is, “Why is this here?” A “dungeon”, in the classical sense of an underground space filled with monsters, is either natural or artificial, and if the latter, then the question breaks down into three parts: Who built it; Why did they build it in this place and in this style; and, What has happened to it since it was built to make it the way it is today. These questions are the foundation of the “willing suspension of disbelief” upon which a successful adventure is built.

The “Broken Temple”, which was my working title for this particular dungeon, was a relatively easy concept to design and justify. It consisted of a large temple, built a little over a thousand years ago (in the period of post-bellum religious fervour following the defeat of the Shadow King), and dedicated to what was then one of the popular Servants of Esu – Karg, the Lady of Bears, patroness of courage and of warriors. The temple served as a center for Karg’s worship in Zare and became increasingly popular as, courtesy the Stjerneflåde River, trade flourished between the coastal cities and the Bjerglands. As a result many of the heroes of the War of the Shadows were interred here, along with those acolytes of Esu and Karg that did mighty works in the immediate post-War period.

(Here's a blueprint-style shot of the temple as it looked when first constructed; the Party found this architectural plan amongst Rathorn's papers when Gwen broke into the mage's room at the Gane's Tankard Tavern a few days later.)

All of this came to a crashing halt, however, a century or so after the temple’s construction, when an unstable cliff-face above the temple collapsed in a shower of earth and rubble, burying the temple completely, and covering a large segment of the Nordvej with debris. The temple’s senior clerics had been outside during the landslide, and were immediately killed; the unfortunate acolytes and low-level what-nots actually in the temple were not so lucky. Due to its heavy stone construction, the temple withstood the landslide, and those within it survived; but theylacked the divine power to extricate or sustain themselves, and there was no-one left outside to help. They had plenty of food and water, and so faced a slow and painful death from suffocation – so, courage being their hallmark, they committed their souls to Karg, and fell on their swords to avoid the inevitable suffering.

With this sort of background history, the next question for the serious dungeon-designer is this: What are any monsters doing here, and how do they survive? In the case of a buried temple with no external access, your monster options are pretty limited. You need to find denizens that either (a) don’t require material sustenance, (b) can sustain themselves on tiny vermin that can get into and out of the place using holes that PCs can’t fit through, or (c) use the place as a lair, but are able to get in and out of it a different way to hunt. And most importantly, if they’re all going to be in the same place, they had better not compete either for living space or for prey. To meet these criteria at an appropriate Encounter Level for a party of 4th and 5th level PCs, I decided to employ:

(a) Allips (CR 3);

(b) Violet Fungus (CR 3) and Shriekers (CR 1);

(c) A Gray Ooze (CR 4); and

(d) Phase Spiders (CR 5).

Allips are incorporeal undead who require no sustenance and can move through walls. Best of all, though, they are, to quote the MM, “the spectral remains of someone driven to suicide”, which fit the temple’s backstory perfectly. I saw the Allips as the spiritual remnants of the temple’s inhabitants, who had died at their own hands for their diety, and would therefore rather resent anyone despoiling the temple. So I decided they would show up any time any one disturbed one of the sarcophagi (about 2-3 at a time for an EL of 4-5, appropriate for the Party); but the number of Allips appearing might also be proportional to the importance in life of the disturbed individual’s remains. This last concept was key to one of the major "story goals" of the dungeon - an important factor, as this was the first of the adventures along the "myth arc" I had designed for the campaign, and a few important things had to happen to get the campaign train on the rails, and rolling in the right direction.

Violet Fungi and Shriekers “often work together to attract and kill prey”, which in a closed, underground dungeon would come in the form of rats, mice, spiders and the like. This explained why there weren’t many of them (2 Violet Fungi, for an EL of 4, and 8 Shriekers, for a notional EL of 7 – but not really, since Shriekers don’t deal damage, and there weren’t any other creatures for them to call in on their side. Also, since they are stationary, I had to put them somewhere permanent – so I stuck them in the middle of the temple (at area 4 on the map).

The Gray Ooze I stationed at Area 5, next to the fungi, reasoning that this would be the most likely place for it to find food (e.g. by intercepting rodents being drawn to the fungi by the Shriekers’ cries). The Ooze also made a decent “monster trap”, seeing as how they can appear to be a “section of damp stone” and require a DC 15 Spot check to notice. This worked just fine, as you'll see in a moment; even though I marked the Ooze on the battle map (and in a different colour than the water, no less!), the PC who sidled up next to it thought it was nothing more than another puddle.

Finally, I included the Phase Spiders as an “optional monster” in case the Party breezed their way past the other ones. My theory here is that Phase Spiders would love the buried temple as it was entirely underground and therefore relatively immune to intruders, while they could simply “ethereally jaunt” in and out of the place to hunt. The temple would be, for them, a completely secure lair; by building their webs high up in the temple’s dome by the giant statue (at Area 11), they would be out of reach of the ooze and any vermin while resting. The Phase Spiders would also offer a tougher challenge to the Party if necessary (two of them together would be EL 7, after all). As it turned out, they wasn’t necessary, so I simply deemed that they were out hunting when the PCs came to call.

So there you have it! Four different monster types, living neck and neck in a dungeon, logically and without interfering with each other. And there was another monster, too…but more about him later.

Oh, and one more thing: with no way for monsters or adventurers to get in or out, there couldn't be any treasure in the temple that had not been there already when the landslide occurred. The only possible exception to this judgement would be if the Phase Spiders had nabbed somebody elsewhere and brought him back for long-term storage in their webs; but I decided that there would only be treasure there if there were monsters as well (no risk, no reward).

(DM Rambling Off)





The first thing the PCs noticed were the long lines of sarcophagi stretching down into the temple’s interior, each at the foot of one of the massive stone pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling. Interestingly, everyone was very much in character as things got underway. The potential for loot sparked Gwen’s avarice, and she immediately asked for help getting the lid off one of them. Bjorn was appropriately scandalized; there was as yet no hint what sort of temple this was (the statue of Karg at the far end was still mostly immersed in the shadows), but he nonetheless wasn’t keen on disturbing the dead. Joraz and Lyra began poking around, while Breygon, characteristically cautious, kept an arrow nocked. He was a little more nervous than usual, seeing as how Greywind lacked the opposable digits necessary to scale the rope up into the temple. Ankallys had also ascended the rope to lend her aid, but she hung back, knowing a lot more about the temple than the PCs did. And also knowing what she was looking for.

At length, with Bjorn’s grudging assistance, Gwen picked the first sarcophagus she found that had any intact writing on it: the one belonging to Nambris (at Area 6). They got the lid off of the thing and Gwen began rummaging around in its interior, looking for shiny stuff. Bjorn, who had been reading the engravings on the stone, found that the tomb belonged to one of the acolytes of Karg, a servant of his own diety, Esu, and began protesting vehemently any further looting. Gwen came up for air, triumphantly holding Nambris’ silver vambraces…and then everything went pear-shaped.

A pair of Allips floated out of the depths of the floor-stones and took form, gibbering and moaning the way Allips tend to do. Roll initiative! Will saves all around! Nobody fell victim to the hypnotic effects of the babbling on the first go-around, then everyone took their actions. Breygon and Gwen launched arrows, to no obvious effect, while Joraz backed away, further into the temple. Lyra hit one of the Allips with a magic missile. Then came Bjorn’s turn, and he hauled out his holy hammer, called down the wrath of the Allfather, and Turned both of them. Well, actually, he didn’t; it took another round of shouting and flourishing before he managed to get them both to back off.

By this time, Joraz had backed up far enough into the temple’s interior that the Shriekers got into the action. There’s nothing like screaming mushrooms to ruin your day. The Violet Fungi took a few swats at him and hit, causing damage but failing to dent his strength or constitution. Bjorn lumbered over to the rescue, while Lyra took cover, and Gwen and Breygon began launching arrows at everything they could see. I seem to recall that Gwen managed to put an arrow into Bjorn while aiming at one of the Fungi here, but I could be wrong. What DID happen was that Ankallys hauled out a scroll she had been carrying and launched a fireball at the fungi. This took down all of the Shriekers and did a number on the Fungi, but regrettably, Bjorn was in the blast radius and took a face-full of plasma on top of his other woes. Joraz by now had other problems, being in range of the Gray Ooze’s tentacle attack. While the rest of the party filled the Fungi with arrows, Joraz took on the Ooze, whacking it repeatedly with his staff. This was of course quickly dissolved by the Ooze’s acid. Bjorn lent a hand, and between the two of them, they managed to give the gooey thing quietus.

Bjorn then healed himself and the others who had taken damage – and then he made Gwendilyne put the vambraces back in Nambris’ tomb, and closed it up again. This engendered much grumbling from the Halfling, and a stern lecture from the priest about touching anything else without his say-so. The Party resumed searching the temple, and Breygon eventually located the low door to Area 8, seeing the inscription “Ekruhalagar”, and recalling that Ankallys had mentioned that name. Despite his better judgement, Bjorn helped Breygon and Joraz force the door open, then the priest took a torch and descended into the depths of the crypt whilst the others kept watch outside.

At this point, I rolled a few secret Spot checks behind the DM’s screen. Everybody was enthralled by the enormous statue of Karg that dominated the temple's nave, beneath its magnificent vaulting dome filled with odd, violet spiderwebs.


Nobody seemed to notice that Ankallys had disappeared.

* * * * *
DUNGEON DESCRIPTION
(N.B. Some parts of the following have been censored to protect the integrity of the DM's nefarious and evil plans for the Party.)
The Broken Temple of Karg


Nine miles north of Bornhavn, the Sweetvale River flows down out of the hills of the Great North Woods to join the Stjerneflade. Here lies the town of Ganesford. It’s an old town; folk have been crossing the Sweetvale Shallows here for nigh on a thousand years.

A mile south of Ganesford, the Nordvej runs past a high cliff. Centuries ago, the cliff collapsed, spilling a broad fan of earth down the hillside, burying everything in its path, and covering most of the road down to the riverbank. One of the things that was buried was a Temple to Karg, Lady of Courage and Mistress of Bears; the first such temple to be built in northern Zare after the return of the Powers in the wake of the War of the Shadows. It had been a magnificent structure of limestone and marble, boasting a gigantic statue of Karg herself, carved by hand from marble and carefully gilded – and on that black day, it withstood the terrible force of the landslide intact. But all within it were buried alive, and slew themselves rather than suffer a slow, agonizing death. Many things were buried with them, including the tombs of many heroes and clerics of the Lady, and a mighty religious relic: the Crown of Ekruhalagar. And some things that were even more important: the [CENSORED], and a clue about [CENSORED], the [CENSORED].

After weeks of work, the Nordvej was uncovered, a retaining wall was built, and traffic flowed again on the great highway; but the temple and its final occupants remained forever buried against the cliff. Secrets cannot be hidden from the wise, however; and eventually Oras Rathorn, a wizard and wise man of Vejborg, poring over ancient documents and land grants, discovered the location of the temple and the records of the mighty treasures it contained. Gathering his apprentices, henchmen, and an army of miners, he set out for the North.

He passed through Bornhavn some months ago and took rooms at the Gane's Tankard Tavern, setting up his headquarters at the Traveller’s Rest, an inn on the south bank of the Sweetvale near the ford. It took weeks of effort to pin down the exact location of the temple; but once he had done so, Rathorn began to ply his mighty magicks to move the earth and uncover its secrets. Much to his sorrow; for the ground remained terribly unstable, and just as he was casting his spells to remove the last of the dirt from the mighty front gates of the temple, his magicks triggered an enormous earthquake, and the cliff collapsed anew. The quake was felt for miles in every direction, and this time the fall was terrible, tearing away the front of the temple, and hurling its mighty stones down the cliff and into the river. The Nordvej, Rathorn’s camp, his followers, and the wizard himself were all buried under countless tons of earth and rubble.

The only survivor was Ankallys, one of his apprentices, who had been out hunting for herbs and spell components in the forests south of the temple. She returned after the quake to find her master, her friends, and all of their possessions buried alive under thousands of tonnes of earth and rock. The slide had torn away the front of the cliff, spilling dirt and rock splinters down the hill, reburying the Nordvej and dropping the detritus of ages in a dark fan into the river.

As Ankallys struggled to find some sign of her vanished colleagues, she saw enormous blocks of worked white stone projecting out of the morass, and here and there, jagged broken pieces of enormous marble pillars. And then she saw what was clearly a sarcophagus. She raised her eyes; sixty feet up the collapsed cliff, the interior of the broken temple yawned darkly.

Hours later, she was still digging frantically through the rubble, finding only detritus and the dead, when a pair of riders arrived from the north and offered to assist. The trio was hard at work later that evening, when a party of three adventurers, accompanied by an enormous silver wolf, trotted up the Nordvej from the South.

Ankallys will absolutely insist that the party do everything in its power to recover the Crown; only by selling it could she hope to pay off her Master’s (and therefore her) debts and avoid being sold into servitude. At the same time, however, she will be searching frantically for the Tomb of Moldukar, the High Priest of the Temple from 41-101 (New Hope), at the time when many of the [CENSORED] were being hidden away forever. She will do everything she can to recover [CENSORED].

Timeline:

1) 1 hour after party leaves Bornhavn: EARTHQUAKE (rumbling, shaking, trees swaying, rocks rolling down hillside towards river); Wilderness Lore or History DC 20 to figure strength (moderately strong) and location of epicentre (somewhere not far to the north)

2) 30 minutes after quake, they can see the north tip of Sweetvale Island, marking the point where the Sweetvale River flows out of the Western hills to join with the Stjerneflade. At this point, they notice brown mud-swirls coming downstream, followed by enormous tree-trunks and broken branches. At the same time, Bjorn and Lyra come upon Ankallys digging frantically through the dirt.

3) 30 minutes later the Party enters a part of the road with high cliffs on the left, and a steep slope down to the Sweetvale River on the right

3) An hour after that, they round a bend and see a huge swath of the cliffs have collapsed, leaving a denuded landscape that head more than a mile up the hillside to their left. There is still a haze of dust in the air, and they can see enormous trees have been uprooted and cast down the cliff. The landslide has covered the Nordvej for at least a mile, and spills into the Sweetvale River.
[SPOT DC 14] You can see two figures down by where the slide enters the water, a mile or so away. They appear to be digging.

AREA DESCRIPTIONS
Note: Lettered descriptions refer to large areas; numbered descriptions refer to specific encounter areas.

A) The Road and the River

The Nordvej has been buried under 20’ of rock, earth and uprooted trees for a distance of nearly a mile. The landslide stretches all the way down to the river, and into it; but the force of the current is rapidly washing the fallen dirt and trees away, leaving only the large rocks behind.

Here and there on the slide can be seen enormous, squared building stones a yard on a side; most of them are chiselled and gray, but some are white and have been polished smooth.

If the location of Rathorn’s Camp can be ascertained with any reliability (Knowledge(Geography) DC 20 followed by Survival DC 20), it would still take 10 man-days to dig down to it (no more than 4 men working at a time). Everyone is of course dead, although there is a small chance of recovering Rathorn’s magical possessions: [CENSORED].

B) The Slope and the Rivulet

The slope from the Nordvej up to the Temple is precipitous; it starts at 30 degrees and is closer to 45 near the temple. It is jumbled with stones, tree trunks, building materials and such, and is very unstable. Here and there, wall stones and floor tiles can be seen. There are a half-dozen enormous, broken marble pillars scattered here and there; if these begin to roll, anyone below will be in a world of hurt. Finally, three of the Temple’s stone sarcophagi have slid down the hillside.

A Knowledge: Engineering/Geography or Survival check (DC 16) reveals that the slope is extremely unstable and could collapse at any time. Anyone climbing up the slope must make a successful climb check (DC 16) to reach the bottom of the temple foundation. The results of failure are as follows:

Failure by 1-4 pts: a large stone or log is dislodged, rolls downhill. Everyone on downhill slope must make Reflex Save (DC 14) at +6 or take 1d6 damage.
Failure by 5-8 pts: several logs and stones are dislodged; everyone downslope must make a Reflex Save (DC 16) at +3 or take 3d6 damage.
Failure by 9+ pts: a swath of the hillside is disrupted; everyone downslope must make a reflex save (DC 18) or take 6d6 damage. Person on slope must make reflex save (DC 15) or take 3d6 damage and end up buried alive
Critical Failure (natural 1): the landslide is restarted; person on slope and everyone downslope must make a Reflex Save (DC 20) or take 8d6 damage and be buried alive

1. Broken sarcophagus

This stone sarcophagus is badly damaged, having rolled several times. Climb DC 10 to reach it. The lid has been smashed partially off; it contains dry, desiccated bones and the remains of fine clerical robes. The body has a cloth-of-gold cincture (worth 150 gp if cleaned and restored) and a tarnished silver symbol of Karg on a heavy silver chain (worth 75 gp if cleaned).

2. Intact sarcophagi

Both of these sarcophagi slid rather than rolled, and are relatively intact. The Climb DCs are 14 for the lower and 16 for the higher. Both contain dry, desiccated skeletons in priestly robes over rusted chainmail. The lower one is garbed in a once-rich but now rotting silk surcoat emblazoned with the sigul of Karg. The upper one contains a MW longsword and gilded scabbard (good condition, 500 gp) and a large wooden shield (rotting) marked with the remains of the symbol of Karg.

C) The Buried Temple

Note: If any of the intact tombs within the temple are disturbed, party will be attacked by 1d4 Allips, the spirits of those who died alone and in the dark.

To get from the bottom of the temple foundations to the temple interior requires a Climb check (DC 20).

3. The temple interior and the rivulet

The temple is 60’ wide, with 30’ high walls and a barrel-vaulted ceiling that arches to 60’ in the middle. The ceiling is supported by massive marble pillars 5’ in diameter and 45’ high; these are highly polished. The floor is made of sandstone, with polished marble tiles leading down towards the nave, and off between the pillars on both sides. The walls are greyish-green stone; the doors running down the sides are constructed of some sort of black stone, harder than iron, and highly polished.

Near the opening where the temple walls have been smashed away, the floor tiles are loose and prone to tilt, and occasionally a stone falls from the broken ceiling. The creaking of overstressed rock is everywhere. Piles of fallen rock and broken ceiling stones lie here and there on the floor, and pools of stagnant, reeking water can be seen dotting the marble. A trickle of water no more than a few feet wide and a dew inches deep snakes down the apse towards the opening; water runs down the newly-broken cliff-face.

4. The Violet Fungus colony

A colony of 2 large Violet Fungi, surrounded by 8 Shriekers and the skeletons of many dead rodents, clusters around this pillar. They have no treasure.

5. The Gray Ooze

This puddle resembles the other water puddles so closely that a Spot Check (DC 15) within 30’ is necessary to detect it. It will lash out at any living creature that comes into range, and will follow any that retreat. It has no treasure.

6. The Sarcophagus of Nambris

This sarcophagus is one of the only ones with intact writings on the surface; it is carved of limestone and inset with pieces of mother-of-pear. The insets spell out “Nambris, Warrior of Karg. Born 28, Died 69, Age of New Hope. Rest Well in the Mistress’ Arms”. It contains the desiccated skeleton of a mighty human warrior more than 7’ tall, wearing rusty ancient full plate, and bearing a rusty greatsword. The cadaver wears fine vambraces, silvered and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, easily worth 500 gp.
(More to follow)
* * * * *

25 August 2007

Anecdotes of the Wyrm

Well, I finished reading Rich Burlew's "Order of the Stick: Dungeon-Crawling Fools" today, and next week I'm going to head out to my favourite gaming store and pick up "No Cure for the Paladin Blues".

Have I already read them all on the web? Of course I have. What's your point?

Anyway, I've had so much fun playing around with the PC designs based on Burlew's OOTS guys and gals (scroll down, I'm way too tired to mess around with hyperlinks tonight) that I decided to try my hand at single-strip comics featuring Da Crew. My first effort is below.


(For those of you unfamiliar with our dramatis personae, from left to right we have the Orb of Undeath, Alric Wolfsbane, Joraz, Qaramyn Lux, Greywind the Half-Celestial Winter Wolf, Breygon Sylvanus, Gwendilyne, and a few of the 141 silver bars the PCs found in the hold of the Sea Wyrm.)

The scene depicted is the final denouement of the Battle of the Sea Wyrm, the sunken ship filled with an undead crew that had been slain and raised again by a hideous artifact - the Orb of Undeath, a crystal ball with a skull embedded in it (yes, exactly like Janeane Garofolo was hurling around in "Mystery Men". Jeez). As you may recall from reading the account of the battle, Alric for some reason decided that the skull belonged to the vampire, Rant Strongale, that the Party had been fighting moments before. I'm not sure how the guy playing Alric came to this conclusion, seeing as how the vampire had clearly had his skull with him during the battle, a fact to which Breygon could have attested, seeing as how he picked up a pair of bite-marks courtesy the fangs embedded in said cranium. Anyway, Alric smote the crystal ball mightily with his - which is to say, the cleric Viloriannis' - blessed mace. The ball exploded, Alric got a faceful of crystal shrapnel, and the PCs spent the rest of the evening putting the chop on the few shambling horrors left alive (or not-alive) in the dungeon, and looting the place blind.

And in case you were wondering, YES, I was inspired by the story of Van Der Decken and his cursed, immortal crew. In fact, the working title for this dungeon was "The Dying Dutchman". What can I say? It was a good story before Gore Verbinski got his hands on it and turned it into a giant, steaming pile of dingo's kidneys (although the three POTC movies have some redeeming features, e.g. adequate swordfights, Captain Jack Sparrow, the best example of a chaotic neutral character EVER, and Keira Knightly).

Anyway, I ramble. Enjoy. Or not. Maybe I'll make some more. But you won't see Qaramyn or Alric again; this was their last adventure with the Party. On the upside, after the wizard's departure, the Brotherhood was able to cancel all of that extra fire insurance.

The Earthquake (I): First Impressions

Earlier on, I described how the remaining members of the original Party – Breygon (Half-Elf Ranger 5), Gwendilyne (Halfling Rogue 5) and Joraz (Human Monk 5) – were inducted into the Brotherhood of the Wyrm by Cymballa, the hot warrior in the disturbingly snug plate armour. I also described (in what is probably far too much detail) how the new Party members – Bjorn (Human Fighter 2 / Cleric 2) and Lyra (Hiarsk Rogue 1 / Sorceress 3) – met each other; and how, travelling southwards (Lyra to escape the wrath of someone she had annoyed and to meet this Party, of which she was to be the new primary spellcaster; and Bjorn, to find the quarter he was supposed to sustain with his faith “against the encroaching darkness”), they felt an earthquake one morning, and then came upon a bedraggled woman digging in a fresh-fallen landslide blocking the Nordvej about a mile south of Ganesford.

MAP: The Sweetvale River Valley


The woman in question was one Ankallys of Vejborg, who turned out to be something of a spiritual sister to Lyra: a rogue/wizard with a flexible idea of party loyalty. As an orphaned street urchin in the rough-and-tumble port district of the coastal city of Vejborg, she became an accomplished confidence artist and cat burglar, eventually becoming skilled enough to support herself and an extensive chain of younger apprentices. All of that came crashing to a halt, however, when she made the mistake of attempting to burgle the tower of Oras Rathorn, a renowned and reclusive wizard and sage.

Rathorn caught her in the act; but rather than turn her over to the authorities, he made her his unwilling assistant, working her to exhaustion cleaning every nook and cranny of his enormous stronghold. She paid close attention to the wizard’s workings, however, and eventually she gained enough skill to cast her first cantrips. At this point, Rathorn, ever in need of competent help, freed her and began instructing her full-time in the arcane arts.

Ankallys soon demonstrated an aptitude for finding things out, and so he focussed on training her as a diviner, and made her his assistant in what turned out to be his true profession: treasure-hunter. By the age of eighteen, three years after her arrival, she was competent enough to join him on his excursions; and by 20, she was his full-time chief-of-staff. Her thieving skills gave her an extra edge when penetrating complex or dangerous areas, and Oras came to rely on her completely – until the day he got himself killed.

Despite being attractive, Ankallys tends to take a lackadaisical approach to her appearance, finding beauty more of a hindrance than a help in her chosen life. Very slender and of middling height with curly brown hair and hazel eyes, she tends towards scholarly garb when working at Rathorn’s keep; but when adventuring, she hauls out her old cat-burglar’s gear, including her trusty rapier, tool kit, and enchanted Vest of Getting Out of Tight Spots. Although she prefers to run rather than fight, she is a competent swordswoman and a reasonably good shot with the bow. When she tries, she can make good use of her pleasant features and personality to talk her way out of difficult situations; but she usually doesn’t try.

Ankallys of Vejborg
(NG Zaran Human Female, Rogue 1 / Wizard 3)

Stats: Human Female, 5’6”, 113 lbs, 20 yrs old
Hit Dice: 1d6+3d4 (16 HP)
Initiative: +4 (Dex)
Speed: 30’
Armor Class: 15 (+4 Dex, +1 Ring)
BAB/Grp: +2/+4
Attacks: MW Rapier or Dagger +4 melee, MW Comp Shortbow +6 ranged
Damage: MW Rapier 1d6+2, MW Dagger 1d4+2, MW Shortbow 1d6
Face/Reach: 5’x5’/5’
Saves: F+1, R+7, W+2
Abilities: Str 14, Dex 18, Con 11, Int 17, Wis 9, Cha 16
Alignment: Neutral Good
Feats: Dodge, Skill Focus (Disable Device), Spell Focus (Divination), Scribe Scroll
Languages: Common, Draconic, Dwarven, Elven
Class skills: Sneak Attack +1d6, find and disable traps
Treasure:
MW Rapier, MW Dagger, MW Comp Shortbow, Ring of Protection (+1), Vest of Escape
Skills: Appraise+4(7), Balance+4(8), Bluff+4(7), Climb+4(6), Disable Device+4(9), Escape Artist+4(14), Hide+4(8), Jump+4(6), Knowledge(Engineering)+3(6), Knowledge(History)+3(6), Knowledge(Arcana)+6(9), Move Silently+4(8), Open Lock+4(12), Search+4(7), Spellcraft+6(9), Tumble+4(8)
Spells: 0: 4+1, 1: 3+1, 2: 2+1
0:
Acid Splash, Arcane Mark, Dancing Lights, Daze, Detect Magic(*), Detect Poison(*), Disrupt Undead, Flare, Ghost Sound, Light, Mage Hand, Mending, Message, Open/Close, Prestidigitation, Ray of Frost, Read Magic(*), Resistance, Touch of Fatigue
1:
Animate Rope, Comprehend Languages(*), Detect Secret Doors(*), Detect Undead(*), Feather Fall, Hold Portal, Identify(*), Jump, Mage Armour, Tenser’s Disk
2:
Continual Flame, Darkvision, Detect Thoughts(*), Gust of Wind, Invisibility, Knock, Levitate, Locate Object(*), See Invisibility(*)

* * * * *

Ankallys’ sorry state and her tragic tale touched Bjorn’s heart and Lyra’s curiosity (and possibly her avarice as well; after all, there was a wizard buried under all that detritus and marl), and so the pair dismounted, secured their horses, and began to dig, concentrating in the area where Ankallys thought the camp had been. While they were working, Ankallys explained that she had been away from the camp when the earthquake had occurred, high in the hills overlooking the river valley, searching for herbs for use in healing, in cooking, and to serve as spell components. She explained that her master, whom she called “Magister Oras”, and his party had been here for nearly a month, engaged in trying to uncover part of the hillside above the road. This explanation was borne out when Bjorn and Lyra took a more careful look at the raw cliff-face exposed by the landslide, and saw a broad, rectilinear cave opening stretching deep into the hillside. The nature of the opening became more clear when the diggers discovered what was unmistakeably a carved stone pillar; and equally unmistakeably, finely-cut tiles and building stones, and finally an intricately carved a stone sarcophagus, half-buried in the jumble of stone and dirt.

Ignoring the tempting cave opening in hopes of finding survivors alive, the three unearthed a few miscellaneous articles – blankets, shovels, a bucket – and the corpse of one of the miners, but found nothing else. Bjorn expressed his fear that most of Ankallys’ comrades were either buried too far down to reach, or had been swept into the river to be washed away or drowned.

Around about mid-afternoon, as they continued to dig despite fading hopes, the original party rode over the hill from the south, and saw the landslide and the three filthy figures struggling in the dirt. Breygon,Gwen, Joraz and Greywind approached cautiously, introduced themselves, discovered what was happening, and offered their aid. Lyra noticed the Party’s composition and immediately raised her left palm, intoning the Draconic phrase of introduction (which, in case you'd forgotten, is Veli lohikäärme, huoltaja hyvyys), and all three of the newcomers reciprocated.

The combined group toiled in the mud-heap for a few more hours before reluctantly giving up. Exhausted, they decided to sleep overnight and examine the cave in the morning light. They set a watch, just in case, and settled down for a night that ended up being punctuated by weird moans and other spooky noises emanating from the mouth of the cave. And, of course, it rained (I’m a great believer in the pathetic fallacy).

The next morning they rose with the dawn, breakfasted, broke camp, and addressed them to the deep, dank, dark, inviting adventure hook – sorry, I meant “buried temple” – lying a hundred meters up the stone-swept and muddy hillside.
More to follow...

The Priest and the Princess

Players come and players go. As I mentioned below, Alric’s Player found that combat in the Dungeons & Dragons world moved a little more slowly than in the uber-hack universe of Diablo, where the game code can be summed up as:

10 SELL TREASURE AND BUY KIT
20 FIGHT A MONSTER
30 IF DEAD GOTO 10
40 TAKE ITS TREASURE
50 GOTO 10

Anyway, Alric’s Player’s departure coincided with the arrival of a new Player who was keen to join an ongoing campaign; while at the same time, the DM who had begun our campaign (and for which all of the foregoing nauz was merely supposed to be a side adventure) asked me if I wanted to take over on a permanent basis. So I did (retiring Qaramyn to NPC status), and he rolled up a new PC for insertion into the campaign.

This required that I find a means of integrating two new PCs into the campaign. There are two options in such a case:

OPTION 1: Come up with something original; or
OPTION 2: BAR FIGHT!

Sadly, I chose Option 1, which meant that I had to do some thinking and writing. The new PCs were rolling up at one level below the existing PCs (so 4th level, rather than 5th). The new Player decided to run a Half-Elven Rogue 1/Sorceress 3 called Lyra Alyra, and the former DM decided to go with a Jarlin (i.e., Viking) Fighter 2 / Cleric 2 named Bjorn Guthbrandr.

Coming up with a backstory for Lyra was relatively straightforward. Given her nature and alignment (Chaotic Neutral, a true challenge for the Player, on top of the fact that he was playing a girl), it made sense to start her off as a bit of a party girl and ne’er-do-well in Ellohyin, a large city about a hundred miles north of where the Party was currently located. The Player advised me that he was going to use her high Charisma, the usual array of charisma-based skills, and her quirky alignment to play her as something of a mercurial and capricious flirt, using her looks to get what she wanted. This initially weirded me out, but I've gotten used to it - more through consistently deft and in-character role-playing by Lyra's Player than due to any psychological adaptation on my part. Sometimes you just have to roll with the weirdness, and enjoy it. Anyhow, I decided that she would end up hitting the road in order to escape the vengeance of a wronged nobleman.

(Yeah, I know I said “something original”. Sue me.)

Lyra had spent a couple of weeks hiding in garbage heaps to stay out of sight of the nobleman’s marauding and bloody-eyed henchmen. During this low point in her life, she was approached by a tall, stunning blonde in impractically skin-tight plate armour. Cymballa offered Lyra induction into the Brotherhood of the Wyrms and a fast horse, and Lyra, who preferred ritzy hotels to dumpsters that an otyugh would turn up its nose at, agreed. Given her nature, she might also have agreed if the offer had been extended by some warty, slavering, cannibalistic minion of Demogorgon...but hey! That’s our Lyra.

Anyhow, once she had her brand new brand, Lyra was informed that she was being assigned as mage to a party of other newly-inducted Brothers of the Wyrm, who were even now about to set out from Bornhavn for the town of Ganesford, where the Sweetwaters River enters the Stjerneflåde. Lyra said, “Whatever, gorgeous,” took the horse, and hit the highway in a welter of flying fetlocks and rancid apple cores.

A day’s travel took her south along the Nordvej, crossing the Crystalsheen River (which runs parallel to the Sweetwaters River) at Erdallen, and stopping for the night at Dolin’s Pit, a dingy mining community on the banks of the Stjerneflåde about 40 miles south of Ellohyin. She enjoyed her first bath and sound night’s sleep in a couple of weeks, and awoke to a sunny autumn morning. Riding out of the inn’s stables, however, her horse slipped on the wet cobblestones and broke a leg. Fortunately (!) a priest of Esu, the Allfather, was exiting the same inn at the same time, and stopped to render assistance.

Enter Bjorn.

Bjorn’s backstory was a little more challenging, complicated by the fact that I had to explain how (and why) a warpriest of the Allfather had come down to the southern part of Erutrei from his island homeland a thousand leagues to the northwest. The “why” was fairly easy; for some reason, he had shared the same dreams as the original members of the Party after the Battle of the Sea Wyrm, but for him the dreams had begun several months earlier. Consulting his mentors back in Jarla, he had decided that doing Esu’s will meant that he had to travel south, find the “great river of stars”, and travel along it until he met “a man of Harad, a man of Esud, a woman of the Holbytlan, and a silver wolf”, and support them in their struggle against "the growing darkness". The journey took him most of the summer and involved a lengthy sea voyage and a lot of hard riding through valleys and mountain passes. Not surprisingly, it put him into the same inn that Lyra was staying in in Dolin’s Pit, on the same night that Lyra was staying there.

(Something I have to emphasize: the first coincidence is NEVER a coincidence, let alone a deus ex machina; it is simply a random event which makes a SUBSEQUENT identical event a coincidence. Think about it this way: is it really a massive coincidence if you roll a pair on two six-sided dice? A lot of people think it is, but it's not. While there are 36 possible combinations of two d6's (six different possibilities for each of two dice, or 6x6), there are six possible “doubles” – 1 and 1, 2 and 2, 3 and 3, etc. So the actual chance is 1 in 6, because if all you're looking for is a pair, it doesn’t matter what you roll on the first die; it only matters what you roll on the second one. In other words, Lyra and Bjorn staying in the same inn on the same night was just life; it wasn't significant until they teamed up. If it happened again later on, of course, it would be a huge coincidence.)

(Except there’s no such thing as coincidences when the DM runs a nice, tight railroad plot. All aboard!)

Anyhow, because I enjoy the writing thing, I decided – once I had watched these two play and knew a little more about their characters – to try to visualize what their meeting might have been like.

And since I liked how it sounded, I extended it a little bit to bring our two new PCs up to the point just before they met the rest of the Party.

(N.B. Lyra's not really a princess; that's just what Bjorn calls her. It's a term of "derisive endearment". They've had a difficult relationship and are the only two members of the party to actually come to blows, which is a little incongruous given that Bjorn is about 18" taller and outweighs her by at least a hundred pounds. But that's how we pass the day away, in the merry old land of Oz!)

(N.B.B. Lyra calls Bjorn lots of different things, from "Big Fella" and "Brother Bear" to - I swear - "Hairy Britches". He'd probably level a charge of sexual harassment against her, if (a) Jarlin types knew what that was, and (b) they weren't usually more preoccupied with a different sort of "hostile workplace". Also, the following imaginary tale of how they met includes a lot less in the way of sexual innuendo, double entendres, and "I'm not bi, but I'm curious" commentary than Lyra normally indulges in at the gaming table. I guess I haven't learned how to roll with the weirdness THAT much yet.)

* * * * *

The Priest and the Princess

He was tightening his mount’s girth straps when the unruly beast reared and nearly kicked him in the head. Straightening, he grasped the bridle in one hand and cuffed the wretched creature genially between the ears. The blow steadied the stallion, and it stood stock still, its knees trembling oddly. Bjorn was wondering whether he had struck the poor thing too hard when the first tremor hit.

The ground dropped out from beneath his bootheels faster than the halfdeck of his father’s longship in a heavy sea. Caught entirely off guard, he stumbled, and would have fallen unceremoniously on his fundament, had Sleipnir’s harness not still been grasped in one fist. The great, shaggy wagon horse braced its knees, and Bjorn hauled himself vertical again, tense and wary, expecting the inevitable aftershock. None came; and after a moment, the chirping of birds and the impatient shuffling of his mount’s hooves in the dirt signaled that the crisis was past, at least for the moment.

“What in the name of the Three Houses was that?”

Bjorn turned. While he had been keeping a weather eye on the hills, his traveling companion had come out of the tavern’s stable door, saddle bags slung carelessly over one shoulder, and was greeting her own horse, a sleek, mild-tempered mare, making embarrassing clucking and cooing noises. The girl was a sweet sight, of that there was no doubt, and Bjorn was surprised once again to be able to look upon her with appreciation, but without lust. No doubt, the Allfather’s service had changed him. For the better, he added to himself. Absolutely.
“Earthquake,” he rasped. “Did it knock you down too?”

“Goodness, no,” the woman replied. She threw her saddlebags across her destrier’s withers, tightening the buckles with a practiced motion, and then swung herself easily up into the saddle – an impressive feat, given her tiny stature. “You?”

“Damned near broke my a...my axe,” Bjorn finished lamely. The woman’s laughter tinkled prettily.

“You needn’t curb your tongue for my sake, Brother Bear,” she said with a smile. “I’m used to rougher company than you might think.”

Bjorn glowered at this, disliking the teasing, even from one so decorative. “It’s more than a simple matter of propriety, my lady,” he answered. Placing his left foot firmly in the stirrup, he levered himself into his seat. Sleipnir uttered a resigned whoof and turned a reproachful eye back over one shoulder. “I am bound to raise my voice in praise, in prayer and in battle. Raising it in needless blasphemy is the mark of a weakling.”

“You are new to your vows, Brother,” she replied, serious for a moment, “and the furthest thing from a weakling I’ve ever met. I’m certain the Powers you serve would be willing forgive these minor transgressions.”

“The Allfather forgave much when he called me, lady,” Bjorn said with a wry grin. “I’m afraid I still owe many years of good behaviour to clean the slate.”

“Well, then,” the woman answered, “wipe a part of it this morning, and tell me a tale as we ride.” She heeled her mount lightly, and the creature wheeled obediently towards the stable gate. After much encouragement with the spurs, Sleipnir lurched into motion and followed.

“I’m not sure I know any that you might find amusing, lady,” Bjorn said as they cantered out into the square. “If I exclude tales of women, wine and war, I exhaust my repertoire.”

“Don’t exclude them, then,” she called back over her shoulder. “Two of those are my favourite subjects.”

As they rode southwards out of town and down to the ford, Bjorn was left to wonder what, precisely, that meant.

* * * * *

Bjorn had met Lyra Alyra the preceding morning under virtually identical circumstances. He had stayed the night in a small but comfortable inn just off the Nordvej, in a non-descript town called Dolin’s Pit, a few miles south of Ellohyin. In a journey that had thus far lasted more than a season there had been many such towns, and in Bjorn’s travel-fatigued mind, they had all begun to blur together. An infinity of poor meals and bad ale, an endless succession of weevilly loaves and vermin-infested straw ticks, and an unending nightmare of saddle sores and damp clothing had inured him to the drabness of his surroundings. He had seen nothing to differentiate "The Pit", as the inhabitants called it, from any of the infinitude of similar demesnes through which he had passed...until the girl hove into view.

Dawn had found him blanketing Sleipnir for yet another endless day in the saddle. The inn-yard had been quiet, and he had been enjoying the blessed interval between cock-crow and the first appearance of water-drawers and wood-hewers, when the stable doors had sprung open, disgorging a small but fine-boned roan mare cantering swiftly out into the courtyard, bearing a maiden of startling beauty.

Bjorn had been entranced, and had dropped Sleipnir’s bridle, standing paralyzed with wonder at the vision before him...until that vision had gone crashing to the courtyard flagstones in a tangle of girl, gear and thrashing hooves. And then came the fatal snap and anguished whinny. Even Bjorn, a poor horseman at the best of times, recognized those sounds for what they meant.

He hurried over to the fallen pair, and was relieved when the woman extricated herself easily from the mess of saddle and gear and stood, evidently unharmed. Her horse was a different matter; it thrashed about in agony, and Bjorn marked the injury, bright blood spurting from the torn flesh surrounding the protruding bone, just above the fetlock on its left foreleg.

Bjorn knew instantly what he intended to do, but hesitated for a moment; he had healed many a grievous injury in the course of his brief career as an instrument of the Allfather, but he had never yet applied his gifts to an animal. Indeed, he had no idea whether...

Nonsense, he told himself, dropping to one knee and grasping the beast by the bridle. A horse was one of Bræa’s creatures, a living being of sense and feeling; and a wound was a wound. “Steady him,” he rasped over his shoulder. Closing his eyes, he attempted to gather his concentration, and felt, rather than saw, the woman kneel next to him on the hard flagstones. He heard her begin to whisper to the stricken horse, soft, sibilant syllables that held no meaning for him...and then all worldly sounds faded.

As his focus tightened, the horse’s heartbeat grew louder, and louder still, thundering in his ears, pounding with an intensity that was as marvelous as it was frightening. Bjorn felt his chest and shoulders tighten as the might of the Divine General swelled within him; but where once the sensation of being filled to bursting with the glorious strength of the Powers had terrified him, now he knew it for what it was, and he was exalted. He heard his own heartbeat accelerate, racing and deepening until it matched that of the creature now lying, quiescent, before him, and he opened his eyes.

The mare’s life force was glorious, incandescent, shining bright and inviolate through the thin flesh of the animal’s corporeal being; but it contained a flaw, a pulsating, dripping incarnadine blot spreading from the site of the injury, oozing agony and corruption. It was no different, really, than had a man been lying leg-broke before him, inviting him to become the conduit for the divine flux. And yet he held off a moment longer, savouring the electrifying sensation of healing ecstasy unto the last possible instant, until he could contain the power no longer.

The moment came and went. Bjorn laid his right hand upon the iron head of the great sledge at his belt, and pressed his left firmly against the mare’s heaving barrel, and intoned a word that rang with all of the authority of the Light. A rushing, crashing wind, like fire and stones caught in a whirlwind, filled him and flowed through him, hammering down his arm, knotting the muscles, locking his elbow, and causing his fingers to clench against the soft hair of the mare’s chest. A pure white force, the irresistable ethereal breath of the Allfather, blasted through the frail outline of the mare, lighting it from the inside, limning the creature’s natural aura with an unnatural argent blaze. It seemed impossible than any mortal flesh could contain such power. Before his eyes, Bjorn saw the threatening blood-blot on the horse’s aura erased, the injury wiped away by the unstoppable, all-consuming, healing wave of the Allfather’s might.

And then the power was spent; the gale of wind and fire gone, the horse’s divine aura vanished. Bjorn leaned forward, panting slightly; the ecstasy had departed as quickly as it had come, and he was as blown as if he had run a mile, armed and armoured, wearing waterlogged boots. Eyes closed, he rested a moment on his haunches, hands on knees, willing his heartbeat to return to normal.

Something damp touched his cheek. Bjorn looked, and saw that the mare had righted herself, and was nuzzling him affectionately. He chuckled weakly, then grasped its bridle and pulled himself erect. The mare followed him with her muzzle, whickering softly and snorting in his ear. Feeling his strength return, he laughed, and glancing over at Sleipnir, said, “See? This is how a proper horse behaves.” The enormous stallion hung its head and stamped impatiently, managing to look sheepish and offended at the same time.

A soft, musical voice broke into his reverie. “I owe you my thanks, stranger.”

Bjorn turned and regarded the woman whose horse he had healed. “My duty, madam,” he began. Then his voice trailed off. At a distance, he had thought her beautiful; close up, she was devastating. Pale skin, honey-coloured hair, a high-arched brow, and pearlescent emerald eyes were mated to a form as exquisitely proportioned as anything the Divine Sculptress herself had ever achieved. After a moment, Bjorn realized that he was staring as impudently as any slack-jawed backwoods lad, and stammered, “Your pardon, my lady.”

The woman laughed merrily. “I’ve lived among men long enough to take stares as a compliment,” she said with a roguish grin. With a graceful, practiced gesture, she flip a fall of hair back over one shoulder, revealing a delicately-pointed ear, and Bjorn mentally kicked himself. Elf, he grumped to himself, disgusted at his lack of perception. I might’ve noticed that she only comes half-way up my brigantine.

It was a mark of Bjorn’s peculiar character that he found it far easier to gather his concentration to wield and shape Allfather’s divine power than to speak coherently in the presence of a pretty girl. Shaking his head slightly, he replied, “You owe me nothing, my lady. I am a servant, and this was my duty. I seek no recompense. Indeed, it is I who should be offering you thanks.”

“And why is that?”

“Because,” Bjorn answered, “until just now I’d never healed an animal. Didn’t know if it could be done, in fact.”

“Then fortune has served us both,” the woman said, still smiling. “I saw you arrive yester-eve, from the north. If you travel south, we can ride together. The road is more bearable with one to tell tales, and one to listen.”

Bjorn smiled broadly. “Mine has been a long and lonely road. I accept, with thanks.” Sleipnir grunted heavily as he hauled himself up into the saddle. Belatedly remembering his manners, he raised his right fist, and made the sign of the Hammer over his heart. “Bjorn Guthbrandr, your servant. A lesser brother of the Great Hall, and a humble acolyte of Esu, the Allfather.”

The woman had grinned mischievously at this ponderous formality. “Nice horse, Brother Bear,” she said with a laugh. “Can it run?”

And so saying, she dug her heels into the mare’s flanks, and galloped out of the innyard, hooves sparking against the cobbles of the Great North Road.

Sleipnir turned his mighty head, glancing back at his master with an almost accusatory look in his eyes. “I know, old friend, I know,” said Bjorn, patting the big black between the ears as it lumbered heavily after her.

* * * * *

Her name, he found out later that same morning, was Lyra Alora. It was musical, like her voice, which, as they rode, rose and fell delightfully, at times child-like with wonder at the magnificent vistas of the river valley, and at others, husky and seductive, as rich as the honeyed timbre of the most practiced courtesan. She even sang for him, a lilting, syncopated melody in the Elven language, a tongue unfamiliar to him, more like the trilling of some exotic songbird than any human speech. He recognized the soft accents of the tongue of old Harad in her words, and although he did not understand them, he was struck silent by the throbbing sense of ancient glories and equally ancient sorrows that her gifts conveyed. Even their horses seemed to be listening, harking to the power of her words and the almost mystical potency of her voice, plodding with lowered heads when the phrasing lagged, and breaking into a spirited canter when her voice evoked drums and horns and the battle-calls that had rung out, clear as glacier water, when the world was young.

She had accepted his enthusiastic applause with a smile and a nod, and asked him to tell her about his journeying.

“There’s not much to tell,” he replied with a sour grin. “A long and busy sea-voyage, followed by day upon day in the saddle. My blisters have blisters.” He shifted his seat slightly, causing Sleipnir to snort resignedly at the new distribution of weight. “My people are a sailing folk. I’d rather deal with sea-serpents than saddle-sores.”

“Surely you can do better than that,” she chided gently. Bjorn eyed the girl enviously; either she was an accomplished rider, or possessed a sufficiency of natural grace to convince her horse that she was. Probably hasn’t been a month in the saddle, either, he groused to himself.

“Very well,” he replied. “But be warned, I’m not much of a teller of tales. My father’s skald wore out more than one birch cane trying to teach me the Deed of Mottaccho.”

“But did it work? Did you learn it?”

“Not completely,” Bjorn said. “He eventually gave up. He told me he had better things to do than waste our people’s glorious legacy on a brainless, bloody-fisted lout.”

“That sounds like a quote.”

“Word for word,” he replied with a chuckle. “It was my nickname for a while. But my brother always insisted that Herukastr stopped trying to teach me because father’s lands were running short of birch trees.”

Lyra laughed her gentle, tinkling laugh. “I knew you could tell a tale if prodded,” she said merrily.

Bjorn shrugged his shoulders, easing them against the weight of his mail. “All right, then,” he replied, “but remember that you asked.” He paused for a moment, considering where to begin.

“We left Ulborg at the end of spring, the morning after the Feast of Olgarssen,” he began. “Bjarni Helgrimsson signed on as helmsman, but he fell to an ague within a week, and I ended up at the tiller. Boring work, but a damned sight better than being at the oars in a foul wind…”

* * * * *

His first day in Lyra’s company passed with astonishing rapidity. She proved a good listener, deft at drawing him out on subjects she found interesting, and equally adept at causing him to shift to a different topic when he strayed into too much depth on the battles he had seen, the ships he had handled (and mishandled), and the ale he had consumed over the course of his life to date. As the Lantern sank towards the Dragonspine Mountains, far beyond the heavily-wooded hills of the western branch, he found himself regretting the coming night for the inevitable loss of pleasant conversation. No man, no matter how devout or reticent, tires of talking about himself to a pretty girl.

Dusk came on. As Chuadan and Lodan rose over Ryker’s Range, far to the east, they passed a walled tower on a high motte overlooking the river, just where the road turned westwards, inland and away from the Stjerneflade’s tumbled stony banks. Bjorn suggested that they approach the keep and seek the lord’s hospitality for the night, but Lyra demurred, informing the puzzled northerner that the town of Ganesford lay only a few more miles on, with inns and taverns sufficient for their needs. Bjorn shrugged, disappointed at the thought of missing an evening at a knight’s board, but he acquiesced gracefully. He found it increasingly difficult to refuse the stunning Elfwoman anything. Dedicated though he was to the service of the unseen, he was yet a man, and the Allfather, bless his iron arse, had never yet denied his servants the pleasures of beer, board or bed. Probably explains why we still worship him, Bjorn thought with a chuckle, then cursed himself, mortified at his blaspjemy.

And so they continued on, riding another hour, as the moons rose in the sky, and a chill mist crept from the bracken along the roadside, swirling around the fetlocks of their mounts. At length they topped a low rise, and Bjorn saw that a valley lay before them: broad and shallow, with a wide river ford meeting the road, just south of a modest cluster of buildings.

After the cheerful, bustling squalor of the cities of the Northlands, and the orderly splendour of Bitterberg and Ellohyin, Bjorn found the town of Ganesford squalid and unpleasant. Although cobbled where it ran through the town’s centre, the Nordvej was banked with mud clear down to the ford, and it was with no little distaste that he shook the clinging goo from his boots when he dismounted. Lyra had led them unerringly to one of the largest buildings – the Gane’s Tankard Tavern, from the weatherbeaten sign hanging over the door – and Bjorn was more than content to give his outraged posterior a rest. Even Sleipnir, no weakling, heaved a great sigh of relief as he tumbled gracelessly out of the saddle.

They secured their mounts in a fenced paddock and entered the inn. Bjorn paused at the threshold and tried vainly to scrape the mud from his seaboots, but Lyra strode directly into the building, and Bjorn noted, much to his consternation, that she somehow seemed to have avoided being soiled by their travels. He shook his head in wonder. Witch? Or just one of those beautiful types who never seemed to dribble gravy on their tunics? Maybe both, Bjorn thought. He considered testing his surmise by lobbing a horse-turd at her to see if it stuck, and grinned at the thought.

A few moments later, Lyra had secured a pair of rooms, ordering food and wine (“Beer!” Bjorn had corrected automatically), turned, and handed her companion an ornate iron key. “The best chambers are at the front of the inn,” she said, “but I’ve selected something upstairs instead.” She paused for a moment, then added by way of explanation, “I don’t like ground-floor windows.”

“Whatever you think best, lady,” Bjorn answered. “I’m in your hands.”

“Not tonight, Brother Bear,” she said with a roguish smile. “And in any case, not until after you’ve bathed.”

And with that final sally, she undulated her way up the stairs, leaving Bjorn to carry both sets of saddlebags. Bjorn sighed, slung the saddle-bags over his shoulder, and followed.

* * * * *

Somehow he ended up paying for both rooms.

* * * * *

They came upon the landslide the following morning, less than an hour after they rode out of Ganesford, up and out of the Sweetvale River valley. The southern valley wall had been steep and stony, and south of the Valley, the precipice crept gradually eastward, crowding the roadbed against the bank of the Stjerneflade. Soon it seemed to loom over the road itself, flecks of granite, alabaster and mica glinting in the cliff face. Bjorn admired the visual spectacle, but remained vigilant; such cliffs had claimed the lives of his friends and family before, and he didn’t trust them.

With good reason. It appeared that the morning’s earthquake had vented much of its force on the hillside. A wide section of the cliff face had collapsed, and had come crashing down the slope, tearing away stone, earth and tree cover, burying the Nordvej for hundreds of paces, and forming a precipitous and shifting ramp of earth, rocks and debris that carried all the way down to the river bank, projecting far into the flow. Bjorn could see the fast current eating away at the long, brown tongue of dirt, breaking off fragments of logs and bits of stone, and carrying them away downstream. “Nasty,” he said calmly.

Lyra seemed perturbed by the prospect of wending their way across the tumbled maze of earth and stone. “How are we supposed to pass that?” she squeaked, a note of fear in her normally musical voice.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Bjorn replied. “I’ve seen worse back home. We’ll rope ourselves together and lead the horses. If one of them gets carried off we won’t be lost ourselves. It should work unless…”

“Unless what?”

Bjorn pointed to a dark mass of cloud advancing from the eastern horizon. “Unless it rains,” he said grimly. “If this becomes a sheet of mud, whatever’s holding the fall will melt away, and it’ll be lethal.”

“So we have to cross now?” Lyra asked.

“If we’re to cross at all. Come on.” He kicked Sleipnir into a canter and started down the hill towards the fall’s edge.

By the time they reached it, they knew they were not alone. Bjorn had been hearing something odd on the wind, like the call or cry of an unknown animal, but evidently Lyra’s ears were sharper. “It’s a woman,” she said simply.

She was right. As Bjorn dismounted at the edge of the slide (up close it was much, much larger than he had previously thought; stones the size of houses were tumbled about, and trees thicker through than he was tall had been snapped like kindling by the force of passing debris), he heard a shriek.

“Aid!” It was without doubt a woman’s voice. “Aid and succor, travelers!”

Bjorn saw nothing until Lyra pointed into the fall. One of the lumps that Bjorn had taken for one of the smaller stones suddenly moved, and stood, and resolved into a bipedal shape. It staggered towards them, black and forbidding, and Bjorn momentarily clutched at his hammer’s haft, before realizing that what he saw was not some grim specter, but rather an ordinary human being, covered from head to foot in thick, clinging mud.

Lyra leapt forward. To Bjorn’s eyes, she seemed to dance across the clumps of earth and shifting, unsteady logs, and in a moment had reached the woman’s side. “Softly, sister,” she said in a soothing voice, taking the woman’s filthy hand. “What aid do you require?”

The woman gasped, taking in air in a deep, sobbing breath. “They are gone,” she said, chest heaving as she collapsed into the Elfwoman’s startled embrace. “All of them. The miners. Our servants. My master! All taken by the earth.”

“Where?” Bjorn shouted. Sinking knee-deep into the clinging muck with every step, he picked his way carefully forward, until he stood beside the two women. He noted that the newcomer was taller than Lyra, and not nearly as pretty – although to be fair, it was hard to tell under the filth.

“Here,” the woman said, pointing at the ground. “There.” She waved indiscriminately, indicating an area roughly the size of a churchyard. “I cannot tell. Our camp was among the trees, and the trees are gone.”

“How many?” Lyra asked quietly, holding the woman gently, glancing at Bjorn over the top of her filth-bedaubed head.

“Threescore miners,” the woman answered, giving an exhausted sigh, and sinking to a sitting position on a nearby mud-covered stone. “A score of servants and bearers. Two apprentices. And Magister Rathorn, my master.” She choked back a sob again, and slumped forwards, her face buried in her hands.

“Take heart,” Bjorn said, feeling awkward. “The Allfather has vouchsafed you your life.”

The woman sobbed bitterly. “Am I then to rejoice?” she asked bitterly. “All that I owned in the world is gone with them. Steed, money, tools and all. My wealth lies before you.” She spread her hands, indicating her filthy garb. Bjorn could not help noticing a slender rapier and dagger, both clotted with earth, depending from an equally wretched baldric.

“Still...” he began.

My books,” the woman cut him off, hissing through clenched teeth. She looked pointedly at Lyra. “Surely, sister, you comprehend what that means?”

Lyra nodded slightly. “I am not of your breed of magi, but I understand your loss.” She glanced at Bjorn. “What aid can we offer you?”

Bjorn nodded his agreement. “Anything, lady,” he said. He was perversely satisfied to note that Lyra’s impeccable dress-front was besmirched with mud where the other woman had grasped her.

The woman glanced from Bjorn to Lyra, and then back to Bjorn, as if assessing the strength of his monstrous thews. She asked simply, “Will you help me dig?”

* * * * *