The Fairy Ring in the Nentir Vale

The Orcs of Gardmore Village
From the Gatehouse to the Wizard's Tower


The Deck of Many Things, book 2 p. 5

Wjizzo’s ancient ivory card named “Ruin” comes from a larger deck. There’s certainly a strange power in the card, and the magic of the Deck is surely greater than the magic of the individual cards.

Priest of the Eye, book 2 p. 6

Quoth Grundelmar in Fallcrest to Fosden: “Years ago, adventurers destroyed a cult of the Elder Elemental Eye but the leader, Vadin Cartwright, escaped. Well, the Sun Lord has spoken in my dreams to let me know that Cartwright is still a danger. He is dabbling with forces beyond mortal understanding that could be disastrous, and must be sought among the dead in old Gardmore Abbey.”
Quoth Pelor Sun-father: “The Temple is too high above you few.”

Peace with the Fey, book 2 p. 9

Lord Padraig of Winterhaven said: “Thanks for scouting the Abbey. Here’s 600 gp.
“The fey you describe living in these woods might be useful allies against the orcs and the best way to stop the raids. Find their leader and make peace with them, securing their cooperation.”
He had his scrivener draw up a document recognising Velfarren’s claim to the Feygrove, to be given to the Elf-knight if his claim is proven.

Establish a Claim, book 2 p. 13

The High Elf knight, Sir Berrian Velfarren, said: “My father had a hand in the establishment of this grove, and your Lord Padraig will recognise our rightful claim here if the proof of it can be demonstrated.”

Tower of the Archmage, book 2 p. 5

Valthrun the lorekeeper told you there is a tower in the village below the abbey, which he believes to be the location of The Winterbole Codex, a tome bound in white dragon scales, which he would very much like to get to read.

‘Icon Relationship’ Benefits pending

Cram and Fosden: Relationships to re-roll.
_Wjizzo, ___________________ : A clear benefit_
Eric Bloodhammer, Conflicted of Bahamut: A clear benefit and a benefit with complications.

Ramposh Vile Rune

Wjizzo and Lonnow emerged from the wagon to see Cram of the Thumpers pacing frenetically round the orc corpses on every side, his dripping fullblade still in his hands. “Six o’ them’re mine!” he boasted. “Come on! That’s the Rage of the Great Rabbit for you. I could do it again, you know.” He was the only one wounded in the encounter, but clearly there was nothing like red slaughter for helping one to shrug off one’s hurts.
Fosden was also in good spirits. “We’ve got a wagon we can call plunder, we’ve got nine dead orcs and their gear, and we’ve got ‘Gappy’ over there. Let’s turn this into a plan, so we can steal through Orc Town in broad daylight.”
Wjizzo cast his Charm Person spell on ‘Gappy’, who promptly gave him his name. “I’m Ramposh of the Vile Rune.” He explained that the Vile Rune orcs are the tribe that make up most of the orcs in Gardmore, the rest being reinforcements from other tribes of the Stonemarch mountains’ Bloodspear orc ‘nation’).
Ramposh remained hostile towards the group that just slaughtered his companions, Pumog and most of his ‘crew’, but wasn’t so much aggressive as he was fearful of them, especially Cram who hacked him up and Fosden who smacked him down. His one friend amongst these enemies, Wjizzo, explained that he has business in the wizard’s tower in the midst of the orc camps in the ruined Gardmore Village, and asked if he could help.
“All right, my friend, I’ll help you get there, if your crew don’t kill no one else who don’t ask for it. That place is a fucking blight.”
Once he was convinced that the spell had taken, Wjizzo took Ramposh aside and questioned him at some length while the others went about heaping the corpses of the orc slain into the back of the wagon, knowing that it had been the orcs’ practice to leave no sign of battle in any of their previous raids.
After a little while Wjizzo related to them that the orc chief, Bagrosh, held court with his ‘squeeze’, and his storm-shaman and warg-rider bodyguards, in the keep just inside the gatehouse, though apparently the door was guarded by an Ettin whose two heads never both slept at the same time. The rest of the force was divided into the ‘crews’ or ‘gangs’ who each kept their own watch-fire and were primarily loyal to their own leader, even if all they in turn owned Bagrosh to be the overall war-chief. The gatehouse was manned by a rotation of four of the tougher crews that each included an ogre, and they expected to get a cut of anything coming in through the gate that wasn’t from a major raid led by Bagrosh himself.
Lonnow Grent took his leave of them with hearty farewells on both sides, as he set out on the unenviable hike back up the King’s Road and home to Winterhaven. But the adventurers had an altogether different discomfort ahead of them. They organised themselves with Ramposh taking the reins of the wagon, Wjizzo just behind the canvas door-flap at his back, ready to whisper instructions or use a ‘Disguise Self’ magic if need be, and Cram – who spoke the Giantish tongue used by all the orcs of the Nentir Vale, including the Stonemarch – next to him in Pumog’s scale armour and the full-face helm of one of the other flail-warrior orcs. Should they be challenged, ‘Eric Bloodhammer’ was already known to some of the orcs in the camp as a mercenary, and Fosden was prepared with an identity as an amoral mercenary chaplain of Kord.
Wjizzo wondered aloud how they might avoid hostility with any orcs they might meet, and Ramposh and Fosden advised on what bribes of ale or coin might be appropriate in various circumstances.
And so, choosing to approach at daybreak when they knew the level of activity in the camp to subside, they approached the gatehouse into Gardmore Village.

In Through the Front Gate

They drove up under the watchful eyes of orcish archers on the towers to either side, and passed under the raised wooden portcullis into the gatehouse. The second portcullis on the way through into Gardmore was also up, as Ramposh had assured them it would be. But the battleaxe-wielding leader of the crew stepped in front of the horses and challenged in the Giantish tongue. “Who the fuck goes there?!”
“Yeah?!” echoed the ogre.
Ramposh was well-briefed. “It’s us, isn’t it? Pumog’s crew, with a captured wagonful o’ plunder,” Cram/Pumog tossed out an aleskin and two fistfuls of mixed coin without even lowering the tankard from which he was convincingly guzzling, accompanied by a chorus of supposedly orcish belches, drunken hiccups and guffaws from inside the wagon.
The orc-guards hesitated, somehow unconvinced.
“There yer go,” added Cram, but was still met only with a frosty glare.
A second orc at the leader’s shoulder muttered, “How do we know what they got back there?”

Eric felt the stand-off could only get worse. “What’s the hold up?” he called out in irritated tones., before thrusting his head out through the door flaps. “We’re on important business. Ah. I see you’re wondering about the eyepatch. Got it in the last scrap.”
“’Ere, Ginzle, it’s that dickhead mercenary!”
“In with Pumog? When did that happen? Your business sure as fuck ain’t more important than mine, Bloodhammer!” he snarled, putting a foot on the wagon, about to launch himself up there and have a go right away.
“Let us through, Ginzle,” growled Cram. “We’re exhausted. You boys’ve got your whack and you’ve got a skin of ale, and we’re getting back to our camp.” And he extended one booted foot to push the crew-leader back to sprawl on the floor amongst the coins.
Ramposh flicked the reins and the wagon rolled past as Ginzle just spat curses up at it. ‘Pumog’ seemed to escape his ire, but his cries followed the wagon as it progressed up the village road. “Eric fuckin’ Bloodhammer! You’d better stick like shit on the shoe of your new orc mates! ’Cos if we get you on yer own, we’ll put yer other fuckin’ eye out for yer!”
Eric yelled his own chorus of swearing as he stomped through to the back of the wagon, features contorted insanely as he bit a splintered chunk of wood from the tailgate and spat it in their direction as they continued with their hail of invective.
But they made no move to follow, and when more cries were voiced from the nearest camp to shut the bloody noise, the shouting match essentially faded away.
“It’s madness at Gardmore Abbey,” said Fosden to the others, looking askance at the big red-bearded fighter. “And it’s us who have brought the madness with us.”

Ramposh drove the wagon northwards up the road through the camps in the ruined village, reassuring Wjizzo that it was all right not to report in to Bagrosh in his Keep right away, as everyone knew he wouldn’t want to be woken at this time of day. Various orcs or their hangers-on cast incurious glances at the wagon passing through their midst, and the adventurers were painfully aware of just how many orcs there were on every side, if anything should go awry. They held their breaths when a pair of great warg-wolves came up to sniff the trundling wagon and snarl their distaste at its scent. But whether it was the orcish dead or the living elf and men that offended they never learned, as the wargs let the wagon pass on its way.

The Tower of the Archmage

And at length the unmolested wagon turned down a side-street and came to a rest around the back of the wizard’s tower. Wjizzo told Ramposh that if he stayed with the wagon and guarded it for them, he could expect to receive a portion of the ‘loot’ they would secure from the tower. Wjizzo’s companions were impressed with his grasp of the concepts most dear to mercenaries, raiders and orcs.
Ramposh whispered to the high-elf wizard, “Watch out, Wjizzo. Those two dragon-man statues outside the door to the tower are Gargoyle monsters. Any idiot who goes too close to them on his own, he gets grabbed and hauled inside. And none of them ever make it back out again.”
Gargoyles! Wjizzo had read of these. Though it was not widely known, gargoyles were creations of stone that possessed an acute affinity with the earth, and though blind when at rest in statue form, they could nevertheless sense the faintest movement through the ground.

The wizard’s tower brooded above the murky fog like a grey giant, the raucous calls of the ravens roosting in its spire echoing down to those on the ground. Wjizzo, giving it a wide berth, went around the front to survey the entrance and saw, between a pair of bird-dropping-covered statues of dragons, one door hanging from its hinges and the other a crumpled wreck.
The chill interior of the tower glowed with a flickering radiance. Faint tongues of fire glided along the stone floor and walls, crossing paths with webs of silver lightning that sparked and vanished; puddles of water formed on the floor to suddenly harden into ice and just as suddenly melt into stinking pools of acid. Several orcish carcases lay in sight within, ravaged by the elemental carnage.

Wjizzo proposed the plan that Cram, Fosden and Eric should approach as light-footedly as they might, to a point close by the entrance to the tower. Then he would show himself and draw the gargoyles forth, such that everyone else could gain the interior of the tower unharmed. He himself would Fey-step past the gargoyles and join his companions inside.

And this they did. But though Fosden and Cram kept their tread light, even they could feel Eric’s stomping footfalls through the ground.
The nearer of the gargoyles awoke, a red light coming into its stony eyes. It stomped one foot hard against the ground, and the eyes of the other lit up too.
“Hi! Over here!” cried Wjizzo valiantly.
The gargoyles scarcely paused, spreading their wings and launching towards the corner.
But when Eric Bloodhammer heard Wjizzo’s cry he joined it with his own familiar reaction to stealth situations. “Chaaarge!” Warhammer and stone beast clashed head-on, the head of the warhammer proving the harder, knocking the first gargoyle tumbling to the dirt. The second gargoyle plunged down upon him, Eric just managing to turn his thick shoulder-pauldrons into the path of its taloned feet. Cram dashed up to hack the tumbled one before it could rise, but the tortured scrape of steel on stone seemed to have done the monster little harm.
Wjizzo took a moment, calculating whether this was the moment to try a new spell technique that creates separate precisely-targeted bursts of force…

The Battle of the Wagon
Winterhaven, and Ambushing the Ambushers


The Deck of Many Things, book 2 p. 5

Wjizzo’s ancient ivory card named “Ruin” comes from a larger deck. There’s certainly a strange power in the card, and the magic of the Deck is surely greater than the magic of the individual cards.

Priest of the Eye, book 2 p. 6

Quoth Grundelmar in Fallcrest to Fosden: “Years ago, adventurers destroyed a cult of the Elder Elemental Eye but the leader, Vadin Cartwight, escaped. Well, the Sun Lord has spoken in my dreams to let me know that Cartwright is still a danger. He is dabbling with forces beyond mortal understanding that could be disastrous, and must be sought among the dead in old Gardmore Abbey.”
Quoth Pelor Sun-father: “The Temple is too high above you few.”

Peace with the Fey, book 2 p. 9

Lord Padraig of Winterhaven said: “Thanks for scouting the Abbey. Here’s 600 gp.
“The fey you describe living in these woods might be useful allies against the orcs and the best way to stop the raids. Find their leader and make peace with them, securing their cooperation.”
He had his scrivener draw up a document recognising Velfarren’s claim to the Feygrove, to be given to the Elf-knight if his claim is proven.

Establish a Claim, book 2 p. 13

The High Elf knight, Sir Berrian Velfarren, said: “My father had a hand in the establishment of this grove, and your Lord Padraig will recognise our rightful claim here if the proof of it can be demonstrated.”

Tower of the Archmage, book 2 p. 5

Valthrun told you there is a tower in the village below the abbey, which he believes to be the location of The Winterbole Codex, a tome bound in white dragon scales, which he would very much like to get to read.

‘Icon Relationship’ Benefits pending

Cram, Hero of the Spirits: A benefit with strings attached
Wjizzo, ___________________ : A clear benefit
Eric Bloodhammer, Conflicted of Bahamut: A clear benefit and a benefit with strings attached.

A Return to Winterhaven

Fosden on foot led his winded steed back to Winterhaven, and was reunited with Elana Lee-Chearda in Wrafton’s Inn.
Cram, Eric and Wjizzo arrived just half a watch later.
Elana intercepted Wjizzo at the door and guided him away for a private conversation.
“Something about those damned cards, no doubt,” grumbled Cram.
But Fosden said Elana had told him she needed to speak with Wjizzo alone regarding a wizardess who had recently been here in Winterhaven. Lenna, a student of Nimozaran the Green in Fallcrest and a confidante of Wjizzo’s in his researches into the Deck of Many Things, had joined with Tam and her companions: the dwarf with Tiamat’s emblem on his paunce-plate, the half orc barbarian and possibly a fifth of whom Elana could learn nothing. Tam’s Band of adventurers had left Winterhaven two days earlier, boasting that they would walk right into the ruins of Gardmore Abbey, even if the place was the lair of an orcish warband.
“But I notice you’re admiring my gauntlet…” said Fosden with a note of pride. “I rode hard, following the directions I received in a ray of sunlight from Pelor himself, until I gained a remote Chapel guarded by the Holy Order of the Returning Dawn. After many lifetimes of service, this order now included just one remaining elderly priest and the acolyte who must succeed him. They told me that my arrival fulfilled a prophecy and the priest offered up The Golden Gauntlet, the keeping of which had been their sacred charge.”
“Fill it with beer!” roared Eric Bloodhammer. “Let’s christen it. Hold on, I’m getting a strange waking vision… Cram, the gods are telling me it’s your round!”

Elana and brow-furrowed Wjizzo joined them at their table.
“I have further news,” said Elana. “A Bahamut paladin named ‘Sir Oakley’ is expected here in Winterhaven in the next few days.”
“Ahem. The name’s Walter!” exclaimed Eric abruptly. " I never heard of that ex-paladin ‘Eric Bloodhammer’ in my life, unless he’s my long lost twin, the one who still has both his eyes… Yes that’s it, I’m not him, I’m his twin brother."
Elana continued, “Having spent some weeks here in the Nentir Vale researching the history of Gardmore Abbey, Sir Oakley will be coming to Winterhaven before venturing into the ruin seeking to reconsecrate it to the Platinum Dragon. Perhaps if you can join forces with him you will have the strength to assail the Temple on the Mount.” This was met with sober nods from all but ‘Walter’.
Cram turned to him and asked, “What did you do, to get yourself black-balled out of the Paladins?”
“Nothing! I chose to leave of my own accord. I was getting all the rubbish chores, dishmaid’s hands and all that, and felt it was time to make a break. Or Eric did — I expect, since I don’t know him.”
“Hmm. Maybe I do begin to see why they did it.”

Having Scouted the Abbey for Lord Padraig

The group made their way Into the inner ward of Winterhaven, to the manorhouse of Lord Padraig. They indulged the scrawny-necked lad standing guard at the doorway when he bade them wait while he called for Lord Padraig’s butler, who very soon invited them to ascend to the Audience Hall. As they topped the stair to the first floor a man emerged from a connecting door with an elaborate twist of the hips to get his high-slung long duelling sword to clear the doorframe.
“Are you any good with that double-handed knitting needle?” quipped Cram.
Sizing up the barbarian’s fullblade that practically scraped the floor even in its shoulder-baldricked scabbard, the man replied diffidently, “There have been thothe who have found me tho. Good day to you.”

In his hall, Lord Padraig elaborated upon his plans more than on their first visit. He explained that they were his spearhead, but that he knew he needed greater strength in arms before he could do anything about so large a force of orcs, and was recruiting hireswords of every complexion in anticipation of the success of the spearhead mission.
He said he was glad to see that Fosden of the Cliffs had joined with the others as he had suggested, and enquired after the missing members of the group that had latterly set forth. They related the disappearance of Percival and the tragic death of Varris the Scarred, to which Lord Padraig responded with genuine concern.
“But we recruited a mercenary knight in their place, and completed the task you charged us with,” said Wjizzo.
“Yes, I’m a trained expert at reconnaissance. There were 157 orcs, 12 of them left-handed, and 3 with squints. And a giant of some sort. And a minotaur,” said Eric.
“Aren’t you forgetting something large and scaly?” added Cram.
“Yes,” said Wjizzo. “We also sighted a red dragon on the wing directly over the Abbey.”
“A dragon?!” exclaimed Lord Padraig. “In an orc camp? Come now, you try my credulity.”
“And gnolls, and land-sharks,” added Fosden. “The whole of Gardmore Abbey is a boiling pit of chaotic madness. But they’re not necessarily all working together, thank goodness.”
“You have my thanks for this information, and my commiserations for your losses. And I’ll make no bones about my earnest need for you to return to the Abbey. I hope this purse can convince you.” Padraig produced the sum of 600 gold, and charged them with a further request, “The fey you describe might be useful allies. Make peace with their leader and secure their cooperation.”
“That’s easily sorted — Ernest,” said Cram. “The nonce who was in charge said something about his father setting up the Abbey when it was founded, giving him a claim to the fey woods. If he’s allowed to call the woods his own, he won’t be against us.”
Padraig had his scrivener draw up a document in advance recognising Velfarren’s claim to the Feygrove, to be given to the Elf-knight if his claim proves justified. “If it is as you say, then the next requirement will be to establish a defensible fortified position I can use as a bridgehead for a move against the orcs.”

The group told Lord Padraig that if they were going back in there, they would need a covered wagon and a stout driver.
As he only required them to return to Berrian Velfarren the same way as they had left, he was initially reluctant about this. But they repeated Cram’s statement that they were confident of Velfarren’s cooperation, and they needed to push onwards into the orcish camp itself, like they believed another band of adventurers were doing. Given a lone wagon upon the King’s Road, they could expect a small attacking force to be despatched, which they could defeat, and then enter the orcish camp as mercenary recruits with a plundered wagon demonstrating their allegiance better than they could achieve with mere bravado.
Lord Padraig said he thought the watchtower at the southern limit of Gardmore village’s defensive wall would offer the best prospect for a base of operations against the orcs. But he was prepared to trust the judgment of those with the best sense of how the land lay. A wagon would be provided, and he would ask captain Kelfem (Rond Kelfem, leader of the Winterhaven Guard) if he might find a volunteer for such a mission.

A Night with the Spirits

Everyone returned to Wrafton’s, and many ales were sunk. Cram led the festivities, buying several rounds of a strong liquor brewed in the Winterbole Forest, called “Master Hunter”, to chase down everyone’s ales. In truth, Cram of the Thumpers was far more into the spirits than his companions.
That night, too drunk to pursue the affections of Elana or of the innkeeper Salvana Wrafton, Cram dreamt.
In a chaotic tumult, he ran through an endless forest of faerie delight. With his elven sword-brother, Varris, he stepped into an ancient ruin and relived the horror of Varris’ flesh melting before his very eyes.
High among the leaves of the trees he looked out over a landscape blighted by smoking fires, and saw ravens circling the spire of a tower. Varris would have seen omens in the flight of the ravens, said a voice he thought his own.
The ravens’ croaks echoed back to his ears as they ranged the whole sky as far as the eye could see beneath impossibly speeding clouds. But they never flew nigh to the garrison block nor alighted upon it.
And with a sourceless certainty he knew that the raven-spirits’ allegiance with the Raven Queen goddess of death gave them the wisdom to eschew an unholy deathlessness bound in that place by the power of the wizard whose tower had been their roost for generations.
In that tower The Land itself was in an anguish of magical forces gone awry. The tortured elements writhed and lashed, earth, wind and fire endlessly evoked by an undying wizardry but given no outlet by any guiding will.

Cram awoke the next morning with the sure sense that the spirits had charged him with putting an end to the rogue magic’s tyranny over the natural existence of the Land in that place.

The Battle of the Wagon

“Your chariot awaits,” the old boy said in greeting outside Wrafton’s Inn the following morning. “I’m Lonnow Grent, and if you need someone to drive a wagon, I reck’n it’s better an ol’ widower like me than me nephew or any of Rond Kelfem’s other young ’uns. I was a Winterhaven regular for 30 year, and even retired I still just about managed to squeeze into this.” He peeled back the collar of his shirt to reveal the dull glint of a serviceable mailshirt beneath.
The wagon he sat upon was a sorry affair, with woodworm-ridden timbers and a moth-eaten canvas awning over the back of it, but it was sufficient for their purposes.

The pair of broken-down nags in the traces drew them achingy slowly down the leagues of the King’s Road, till they passed into the Gardbury Downs in the late afternoon. Everyone assumed their stations concealed in the back of the wagon between the casks of ale that Wjizzo and Cram had conspired to bring along.
Though they saw no sign of any orcish scout as they peeked out of the convenient moth-holes, at sunset their plan came to fruition.

“Looks like this ain’t your lucky day, old man” called a growling orcish voice up ahead. Beit by luck or good judgment, the force that accosted the single wagon numbered only ten orcs, half of them hefting axes ready to throw from atop a low ridge on the left, and half sauntering with menacingly brandished weapons down the slope towards the wagon.
“Sweet Avandra!” exclaimed Lonnow in unfeigned terror and for a long drawn-out moment it seemed the orcs were willing him to abandon the wagon and flee back down the road. But his discipline held, and he dived through the canvas door-flaps into the back.
The scale-mailed orc leader laughed cruelly, his great stone maul staying at rest on his shoulder. “Lessee what this stupid frighty fuck’s brung us.”
Orcs moved down either side of the wagon, the pair on the right arriving first, one of them reaching out to pull the canvas awning aside…
At which Cram gave silent vent to his rage. He lent out of the back of the wagon, thrusting his fullblade past the first grunt to take the fiercer-looking orc at his shoulder right in the mouth. Ripping sideways despite the weight of the dead orc impaled on his blade, he brought its edge biting into the side of the first one’s neck. Eric forsook his hammer and reached out, hauling the two corpses bodily into the back of the wagon before they could hit the ground.
escalation_1.jpgFosden thrust his spear right out though the canvas in the direction of the leader’s voice, but his spearpoint met only air.
“You stab like a woman!” crowed the orc at the unseen attacker.
“Come and get it, boys. Line up!” came Eric Bloodhammer’s utterly unconvincing falsetto, followed by a deeper “Fuckit” as he leapt out of the wagon and brained the first of the orcs coming up the left side. “Next!”
The berserking Cram bulled his way right over Wjizzo and Lonnow to get to the front of the wagon and deliver another double-handed thrust through the canvas, stabbing another axe-wielding orc down.
A thrown axe missed him, and then the orcs joined battle. One swung a great spiked flail ineffectually at Eric, and another with an axe struck sparks from his plate armour. But the leader showed more skill with his stone maul, striking Cram almost in mid-air, battering him down off the front of the wagon to fall in the dust of the road. Another orc swung an axe down at him, but too slow to hit the barbarian who rolled out of its path.
escalation_2.jpgFosden stood forth on the driving-bench of the wagon with his golden gauntlet pointing right at the orcs’ leader. “Feel the Righteous Wrath of the Sun!” he cried, and brilliant spirits seared from his sun-medallion and his gauntlet into the orc who was driven screaming backwards.
Eric’s warhammer beat the flail-wielder about the shoulders and chest, though his victim had the strength to endure the assault.
Cram surged to his feet in a rising whirlwind spiral of berserk steel. The Fullblade of Krand sheared through both legs of the first orc, felling it instantly, across the belly of a second who howled his pain, and into the side of the sun-blinded leader’s helm. With a crunch of bone the helm tilted at an impossible angle, Cram swept a full circle and struck the belly-slashed orc a second blow in the shoulder. And behind him the corpse of the leader collapsed to the ground.
Even reeling from Cram’s double strike, the orc brought his spiked flail around to hit Cram glancingly in the face before lurching away along the side of the wagon to join his two remaining companions and bring the flail down on Eric’s stoutly-presented shield. Trusting to his armour, Eric shrugged off the attacks of the other two, sweeping his hammer out in a counter-attack that forced one of them back.
escalation_3.jpgLeaping down from the driving-bench, Fosden called upon Pelor and shot a javelin of sunlight at the wounded orc, bringing him down.
Eric seized the moment and sank the spike of his hammer in the chest of a second and Cram hurtled into the breach with a mighty blow that battered the last one to his knees.
“Good god!” barked Eric at his companion’s sheer ferocity.
“Surrender and we let you live!” called Fosden.
The orc defied him by slipping one hand to his belt and flinging an ill-aimed axe in Fosden’s direction.
escalation_4.jpgThe priest of Pelor bore down upon him, forsaking his spear to strike a perfect uppercut with his golden gauntlet, knocking the orc back twenty feet to fall unconscious on the grassy bank.

And silence fell on the scene of bloodshed, broken only by heaving breaths as Cram regained his composure.

A Dilatory Day
Pelor comes, Fosden goes, and the others watch...

Possible Goals:

The Deck of Many Things, book 2 p. 5

Wjizzo’s ancient ivory card named “Ruin” comes from a larger deck. There’s certainly a strange power in the card, and the magic of the Deck is surely greater than the magic of the individual cards.

Scout the Abbey, book 2 p. 8

Lord Padraig of Winterhaven said: “I suspect that the orc raiders preying upon the King’s Road lair in the ruins of Gardmore Abbey. To start with, find out whether they are on that site and if they are, give me as complete a picture of their lair and defences as you can.”

Tower of the Archmage, book 2 p. 5

Valthrun told you there is a tower in the village below the abbey, which he believes to be the location of The Winterbole Codex, a tome bound in white dragon scales, which he would much like to get to read.

Priest of the Eye, book 2 p. 6

Quoth Grundelmar in Fallcrest to Fosden: “Years ago, adventurers destroyed a cult of the Elder Elemental Eye but the leader, Vadin Cartwight, escaped. Well, the Sun Lord has spoken in my dreams to let me know that Cartwright is still a danger. He is dabbling with forces beyond mortal understanding that could be disastrous, and must be sought among the dead in old Gardmore Abbey.”

Establish a Claim, book 2 p. 13

The High Elf knight, Sir Berrian Velfarren, said: “My father had a hand in the establishment of this grove, and your Lord Padraig will recognise our rightful claim here if the proof of it can be demonstrated.”

‘Icon Relationship’ Benefits pending

Cram, Hero of the Spirits: A benefit with strings attached
_Wjizzo, ___________________ : A clear benefit_
Fosden, Favoured of Pelor: A clear benefit
Eric Bloodhammer, Conflicted of Bahamut: A clear benefit and a benefit with strings attached.

No Lingering near the Gnolls

Wjizzo‘s spell of holding had bought them a few minutes, and no one hesitated in using them for a few minutes’ lead in getting right out of there. Even Fosden did not feel that now was the time to redress the defilement of the chamber dedicated to Pelor, his sworn deity.
They laboured up the long, over-steep stair, and without debate left the hilltop and headed straight down the winding path into the Feygrove. As they regained their breath, it soon became clear that the members of the group who remained were still in good condition, though Wjizzo had spent his most potent magics. But they had intended to investigate a cellar, and had no cause to battle a pack of psychotic yet intelligently organised gnolls.
A short way below the Belltower the path ahead was unfamiliar and therefore perhaps perilous. Wjizzo turned aside through the dense otherwordly undergrowth. Within moments the others were all hopelessly disoriented, but a very little later they were pleasantly surprised that Wjizzo led them unerringly to emerge into the clearing with the ruined shrine and the camp of the Elf-knights.
After Wjizzo introduced the chance-met ‘Eric Bloodhammer’, the still stand-offish Sir Berrian consented for them to make themselves a camp a short distance from his own and the pavilion where his sister still slept.

A Touch of Sun

As soon as they had chosen a spot and downed packs, Fosden declared that though the dawn was some time past, he would now spend a moment in reverence to the Sun Lord, and would be glad to include anyone who wished to join him. Wjizzo, Eric and Cram were all glad to do so. In a spot where the light of the sun lanced through the trees, Fosden made a brief and tactful reference to absent friends, and then incanted his prayer. After a traumatic night without sleep, the rhythm of his words slowly brought a strange weariness upon them. Their awareness of the fey-touched forest slipped away, their full attention focusing upon the sunlight coming through the trees, and the next thing they knew they somehow beheld the sun unobstructed, and then it became the bronze-skinned, mane-haired face of Pelor himself.
Cram had a notion that he might have been drugged, but kept it to himself. If this was how the gods granted boons to their followers they were welcome to them, this son of the Great Rabbit was going to buck the trend. But he didn’t say so.
“All right, Sun!” he said, with a trace of a smirk.
Fosden held his peace, as the light from Pelor’s face bathed that of the barbarian, and with immense and knowing patience, the sun god beamed radiantly, smiling a modicum of appreciation of the humour.
“Fosden, my son,” said the face of Pelor, “it is good that you have answered the call that I sent to the faithful in this land.” The cleric’s heart swole to receive the approval of his deity so directly. “It is good that all of you are here, where forces threaten to rise and challenge the order of the world. But you are fewer than when you first set out, and the Temple is now too high above you. Fosden, leave that task until you may prevail in it, and seek instead that which may give strength to your hand.”
And with that the sense of the world about them returned, the birdsong echoed around them, and the sun was again half-hidden by the canopy of the forest. A breeze stirred the leaves and one sunbeam struck through, touching Fosden upon the brow. He blinked and started and announced to the others that he must go, for a hard ride lay ahead of him even after he hiked the two leagues back to the horses.


“What exactly are we here for?” mused Cram out loud. “I mean, that twat elf sitting on his arse wants something or other, but he can whistle for it as far as I’m concerned.
“Wjizzo, you and Elana were wanting to pursue these cards, though owning that one — called ‘Ruin’ of all things — seems to have got Varris killed by your hand and seen you put down at Fosden’s spear.”

“It hasn’t exactly proved to be a blessing!” growled Eric in agreement.
Anguish at the loss of Varris was written all over Wjizzo’s face. “The cards of the Deck have very diverse natures,” he replied. “If we can acquire others of more positive aspect, perhaps we can improve our fortunes. But apart from reports of these various cards centring around Gardmore Abbey, we do not as yet have any specific knowledge as to how to seek them out….”
“I am here for Bahamut!” asserted Eric. “If your necromancer is ‘amongst the dead’ of the Abbey, I would expect that to mean he’s in the Catacombs that would traditionally have been delved beneath the main Temple. But unless it was some illusionist or something messing with our minds, we have the word of a god that we should not attempt that right now.”
Wjizzo said, “So is our next best move to find out what we can about the orcs for the lord in Winterhaven?”
“Yeah,” said Cram. “I can’t believe your elf mate really knows nothing at all about them.” He sat back against a tree and gestured in the direction of the high elves’ camp in the ruined font-shrine.

A Long Watch

Berrian Velfarren embodied the risk-averse nature of the high elves, for whom conflict can so often be avoided by the simple patience of a race that live forever. He knew full well that the orcs and their sundry allies numbered well over a hundred, and the lives of his party depended upon their giving the orcs no cause to reconsider their reluctance to brave the Feygrove.
“Had we not opted to investigate the stair beneath the ruined barracks,” Wjizzo told him, “our next intention was to survey the orcs’ camp from atop the mount. Do the upper reaches of this grove offer a similar vantage point?”
Berrian and one of his knights led the trio back up the slopes by a route as bewildering as ever, though they said they were passing directly northward. They crossed the path to the Belltower, and Berrian told them that in the other direction the path led down to a former garden at the rear of the keep beside the main gatehouse, the garden now returning to nature and shrouded by the webs of deathjump spiders the size of a man. It seemed to Wjizzo that the knight might have spoken more, but stood on his dignity and held his tongue before the impetuous human adventurers.

“My sister, Analastra, often watches from here,” said Berrian at length, indicating the branches of a great and ancient-seeming tree with a trunk two yards thick and festooned with sturdy creepers.
Wjizzo, Cram and Eric hauled themselves aloft and found places on the tree’s great broad branches that offered a perfect view of the northwestern aspect of Mount Gardmore. Within the Abbey’s mighty outer wall, long-ruined dwellings lined both sides of a roadway that skirted round the lower slopes. At the limit of the adventurers’ view were two more significant structures, a large building of uncompromising military design built into the outer wall, and a tall square-spired tower. The orcs had upward of a dozen separate camps spaced throughout the village, sometimes inside a blackened shell of a building, but many in the open outside the buildings altogether. Though the force consisted mostly of orcs, there were a handful of wargs, ogres, and bandits or mercenaries of various races. None of them put any sort of a watch up on the outer walls.
“They appear to be organised in crude squads of roughly equal strength,” stated Eric. “If we say there’s approaching ten to a camp, that makes something around 150 of them in total.” Cram said he could only see ten camps, and Eric replied that there were more of them out of sight from here, further around the northern end of the hill.
“And you know this because…?”
“How do you think I got up to the plateau where I met all of you? It might be possible to make one’s way through the sleeping camp by day: muffled drums, what? Or you can do it bold as brass.”
“Walk through there just letting them assume you’re a mercenary?” asked Wjizzo.
“Quite so! (Not so far from the truth in my case, as it happens.) Might have to discourage the odd one or two of them from picking an argument, if you know what I mean. But in such numbers they hardly feel threatened by an unfamiliar face. Come on, just follow my lead!” And with that he leapt to the ground and began to stride down the slope. Cram and Wjizzo had some difficulty persuading him not to take such a risk simply to prove a point, until they knew what they wanted to achieve down there.

In the end, the three opted to take watches for the whole day, hoping to learn something about the leadership of the orcish force. The long watch went without incident.
Cram had a sighting of a huge figure, larger than any ogre, which he judged to be a hill giant. On Eric’s shift a pack of half a dozen orcs and a warg came in through the gatehouse, crossed the conspicuously unoccupied low-walled courtyard just inside it and went into the keep-like building for a short space before emerging again to go and return to their campsite at one of the great bonfires the orcs all seemed so keen to keep burning.
“Reporting in,” judged Wjizzo without needing to be told, as Eric related this when they changed shifts.
And by the end of Wjizzo’s shift, when the three of them conferred, none had seen any sign of the gnolls, the minotaur or the red dragon that they knew to be in the vicinity, nor anything else especial significance to Lord Padraig. But all agreed that the orcs seemed to consistently shun both the military building in the wall and the square tower. “I’m sure that will prove to be the wizard’s tower of which Valthrun spoke,” said Wjizzo.
“Where ‘The Winterbole Codex’ is supposed to be,” nodded Cram, who added sourly, “whyever the feck someone would want to write a book about the place instead of actually going there .”
“More importantly, a wizard’s tower is the most probable place to find the rest of the Deck of Many Things,” said Wjizzo. “But as I watched, I remembered that Sir Berrian had spoken of a white apparition, and I saw no sign of that.”

They returned to the elves at the Font of Ioun, and asked Berrian about the white appariition.
“A frozen thing in white robes, it is,” he replied, “in the shape of a man, but lacking the warmth of life. We thought better than to approach it when it came to look into the waters of the Font, but we watched when it left and saw it return to the tall tower in the village, the orcs keeping well out of its path as it went.”
They asked why it would look into the Font, and Berrian replied that Ioun is the goddess of lore, and the Font of Ioun is said to grant knowledge to those who partake of its waters without avarice.
Eric partook. In the space of scant moments he experienced a vision of events in the history of Gardmore Abbey that surely spanned whole centuries, the Abbey standing ever fast in the face of all threats. “It was amazing,” he said, filled with inspiration as he described what he felt he had witnessed.
“And then it was fecked right up.” said Cram.
“But their will to endure,” said Eric. “It was a marvel to behold.”

Wjizzo followed suit, and was also judged by the Font of the Goddess of knowledge to be without avarice. Visions of monks about their tasks showed that the brothers of the Abbey had included master craftsfolk of many diverse callings from beekeeping to mithral-smelting.

Wjizzo said, “So if what Eric said before is true, we can just march through the orc camp, to the door of the wizard’s tower. If any orc challenges us, Eric can ‘persuade’ it to think again, like he did when he passed through before, and failing that I can Charm Person… And we get to the wizard’s tower…”
“And then the three of us get fucked up by whatever that undead thing is, or whatever your magic card does next,” exclaimed Cram. “Whatever might be in that tower, the orcs are having none of it, so it’s nothing to do with what Lord Padraig hired us to find out.”
They opted to return to Winterhaven to bring Padraig the news of what they had learned.

The Barracks and Below
Smite them like the dogs they are

Possible Goals:

The Deck of Many Things, book 2 p. 5

Wjizzo’s ancient ivory card named “Ruin” comes from a larger deck. There’s certainly a strange power in the card, and the magic of the Deck is surely greater than the magic of the individual cards.

Scout the Abbey, book 2 p. 8

Lord Padraig of Winterhaven said: “I suspect that the orc raiders preying upon the King’s Road lair in the ruins of Gardmore Abbey. To start with, find out whether they are on that site and if they are, give me as complete a picture of their lair and defences as you can.”

Tower of the Archmage, book 2 p. 5

Valthrun told you there is a tower in the village below the abbey, which believes to be the location of The Winterbole Codex, a tome bound in white dragon scales, which he would much like to get to read.

Priest of the Eye, book 2 p. 6

Quoth Grundelmar in Fallcrest to Fosden: “Years ago, adventurers destroyed a cult of the Elder Elemental Eye but the leader, Vadin Cartwight, escaped. Well, the Sun Lord has spoken in my dreams to let me know that Cartwright is still a danger. He is dabbling with forces beyond mortal understanding that could be disastrous, and must be sought among the dead in old Gardmore Abbey.”

Establish a Claim, book 2 p. 13

Sir Berrian Velfarren said: “My ancestors had a hand in the the establishment of this grove, and your Lord Padraig will recognise our rightful claim here if the proof of it can be demonstrated.”

‘Icon Relationship’ Benefits pending

Cram, Hero of the Spirits: A benefit with strings attached
Wjizzo, ___________________ : A clear benefit
Fosden, Favoured of Pelor: A clear benefit
Eric Bloodhammer, ____________ : Still to roll

In the Ruin of the Barracks

Eric Bloodhammer, whose explanation for being here was that he “used to be a religious bod,” had scouted the building. He identified that it had originally been a barracks block and mess hall for the knights of Bahamut. “Used to work in these places, what.”
“Used to?”
“Fell from grace, don’t you know? I was terribly, terribly drunk. All I remember is someone crying, ‘The gorgon’s alive!’ Might even have been me…”

The rubble didn’t lie where it had fallen, but had been piled, in the absence of any better material, into makeshift fortifications for the defence of the surviving parts of the building, and especially the head of the staircase Wjizzo had previously spotted. Though Valthrun had told them, back in Winterhaven, that the Siege of Gardmore Abbey had failed when the paladins suffered a terrible attack from within, these defences were not arranged against enemies emerging from below, but for a step by step retreat defending whatever was below from incoming attack. Cram vividly imagined civilians and wounded packed into the cellars for cover from dragon-fire, protected by the heroic but doomed efforts of a last few brave knights.
Still stricken by the double loss of Varris the Scarred (killed in action) and Percival (missing in action), the shrunken group plus Eric Bloodhammer were wary of exposing their rear to any peril. Before committing to anything further, they opted to gauge the locale, and Fosden resolved to survey the area from a position of watch on an intact part of the barracks roof. His first attempt pulled loose a section of wall in a clattering tumble, but after a few moments with everyone’s hearts in their throats, they realised this had not brought any more carrion crawlers, land-sharks or anything else upon them.

The hour passed quietly, and dawn broke in the east. The distant hubbub from the orcs in the ruined village on the north-easterly aspect of the hill subsided, and the dozen or more plumes of campfire smoke dwindled. It seemed like the start of a pleasant day, marred only by two discoveries.
“F— spiders!” exclaimed Cram, to everyone’s alarm. But it was a favourite exclamation of his, and the two spiders in question were no more than an inch across, and a good couple of feet away from Wjizzo’s elegant shoes. Wjizzo recognised them to be of a species called the bloodweb spider, common to both the Feywild and this world, and harmless enough individually but aggressive when massed in a swarm. The adventurers were right to stick close together, and to remain cautious in their further scouting of the ruins.
And the great doors on the colonnaded building on the west of the plateau were burst open by a minotaur soldier who stomped his way off north towards the gatehouse-looking building before passing out of sight from Fosden’s vantage point.
But Dragon’s Roost, though full of threat, offered no immediate dangers and the party judged it safe to venture down the stairs beneath the barracks.

Below the Barracks

Wjizzo’s wizard-light revealed a flight of steps leading down at a steep pitch, the staircase fully ten feet across and the steps too deep to be comfortable for a human gait. They descended a long way round frequent left-hand turns, beyond the depth of any normal cellar. Some way down the party discovered deposits of excrement, fresh enough to be giving off an unwholesome stink, but located tactfully against the walls.
“These are sentient turds,” opined Wjizzo, to quizzical looks from the others. “If that means there might be listeners…” The hint was all it took to have everyone soften their step.
But after only a few steep stairs more, the clanking Eric incisively identified the best tactic. “Charge!” he yelled (just like his poor deceased father before him).
Everyone surged forward in his wake and they rounded the last corner in reasonable order, to see a great gangling gnoll step to the foot of the stairs.
“Go see what the f— that is!” came a snarled command from somewhere beyond.
Area_32_Gnoll_Blood_Caller_50pc.jpgThe gnoll was armoured in leather adorned with gruesome fetishes but unarmed, flexing its great long arms as to attack with nothing more than its own claws.
Fosden shot his bolt desperately awry but, with his instinct for safety, managed not to shoot his companions. Eric bore down with his hammer to strike the gnoll a mighty blow, Cram’s fullblade attack a heartbeat later staggered it yelping back, but Wjizzo’s sword-strike failed to connect.
“Take one alive!” called Fosden, somewhat distracted by the bull-and-sun murals and the reflective pool that suggested this to have been built as a rare subterranean shrine to his own god, Pelor.

“We don’t know how many of the f—ers there are. Fall back to the others!” came a barked command from a gnoll away to the right.
“Mind your language!” demanded Eric.
The leader and the other two gnolls backed up to a doorway, the one with a bow loosing an ill-aimed arrow in the vague direction of the intruders. The gnoll beset by the three attackers tried to feint fowards and bound away, but found a weapon in his path at every attempt.
“Come on then, you filth, I’ll take youse all!” he howled. “Nebrix, get out of here!” And with that he lurched around in a wild arc, claws flashing out almost impossibly fast, buffeting and raking Cram, Eric and Wjizzo.
escalation_1.jpg“Pelor preserve you,” intoned Fosden, extending a degree of the Sun Father’s protection to his comrades, before raising his voice louder. AND SPIRITS STRIKE DOWN THE DEFILER OF THIS TEMPLE!” Beams of pure sunlight lanced forth from his medallion to strike Nebrix the gnoll pack lord, who recoiled shrieking in pain.
Neither Eric nor Cram could strike properly against the ravening gnoll between them, but a lunge from Wjizzo drew blood from its furry flank.

Nebrix shook off his pain and backed off through the door at the same time as retaliating with a focus of some strange force of insanity upon Fosden. Wjizzo’s instinct was to raise an arcane counter, giving Nebrix some alarm and forcing him to snarlingly redouble his will. Fosden succumbed and a canine howl escaped his throat as he drove his spear first at Eric’s back, glancing off his armour, and then at Wjizzo. The elf’s Shield spell failed to deflect the attack, and Fosden’s spear stabbed into his belly. Wjizzo crumpled to the floor and Fosden was left in a state of shock. The magelight upon Wjizzo’s casting orb winked out to leave the room lit only by a flickering flame-like glow from a sacred circle opposite the pool.
escalation_2.jpgJust barely regaining mastery of his own limbs, Fosden bestrode Wjizzo’s body deny it to the frenzied claw-attacker but found himself scarcely able to wield his spear effectively.
“Radiant One, shine the light of your mercy upon this fallen one,” he prayed, and gentle light broke upon the benighted elf’s form as though he lay in a sunlit glade.

The bloodsoaked gnoll goaded Cram and Eric, dancing just beyond reach of everyone’s weapons and drawing them after him as he bounded backwards into the defiled pool of Pelor. Cram halted at the brink, resisting the urge, but Eric steamed in. An unwholesome power in the water shuddered him, but he purposefully struck the cur down with his hammer.
“You sons of cows!” came Nebrix’ improbable curse at the death of his packmate, as Eric lost no time in heaving himself back out and onto the stone floor.
“I can deal with this,” said Wjizzo from a half-sitting position. “Cram! Close the door on them!”
The Son of the Thumpers shot forward. He noted at least another three gnolls in the room beyond answering Nebrix’ calls, then crowed “No more walkies for you!” and slammed the door upon them.
Two arrows struck the timber right where Cram stood, and then Wjizzo’s spell of holding wrapped the door in force. Several heavier thumps failed to make the door so much as quiver.
“We have time,” said Wjizzo. “Not long, but enough to get safely away from here.”

Death on the Mount
when Varris fell to tragedy, Percival left & Eric arrived

Possible Goals:

The Deck of Many Things, book 2 p. 5

Wjizzo’s ancient ivory card named “Ruin” comes from a larger deck. There’s certainly a strange power in the card, and the magic of the Deck is surely greater than the magic of the individual cards.

Scout the Abbey, book 2 p. 8

Lord Padraig of Winterhaven said: “I suspect that the orc raiders preying upon the King’s Road lair in the ruins of Gardmore Abbey. To start with, find out whether they are on that site and if they are, give me as complete a picture of their lair and defences as you can.”

Tower of the Archmage, book 2 p. 5

Valthrun told you there is a tower in the village below the abbey, which believes to be the location of The Winterbole Codex, a tome bound in white dragon scales, which he would much like to get to read.

Priest of the Eye, book 2 p. 6

Quoth Grundelmar in Fallcrest to Fosden: “Years ago, adventurers destroyed a cult of the Elder Elemental Eye but the leader, Vadin Cartwight, escaped. Well, the Sun Lord has spoken in my dreams to let me know that Cartwright is still a danger. He is dabbling with forces beyond mortal understanding that could be disastrous, and must be sought among the dead in old Gardmore Abbey.”

Establish a Claim, book 2 p. 13

Sir Berrian Velfarren said: “My ancestors had a hand in the the establishment of this grove, and your Lord Padraig will recognise our rightful claim here if the proof of it can be demonstrated.”

‘Icon Relationship’ Benefits pending

Cram, Hero of the Spirits: A benefit with strings attached
Wjizzo, ___________________ : A clear benefit
Fosden, Favoured of Pelor: A clear benefit
Eric Bloodhammer, ____________ : Still to roll

Tragedy upon the Dragon’s Roost hilltop

Harrowed by the destructive sorcery of Wjizzo’s acid arrow, the monstrous Carrion Crawler responded with an outraged attack upon the first person in its path. Cram ducked and twisted and his used his fullblade to beat aside the mouth-tentacles that darted at him, but one glancing contact sent fire through his nerves.
Fosden demonstrated a cool aim with his crossbow, shooting assuredly past Cram to strike the monster squarely on its chitinous head. “Varris, strike with the power of Pelor!” he exhorted.
Varris the Scarred set his sights on the thing, and sprang up to alight momentarily atop the pile of rubble and then launch himself with a shower of masonry in his wake clear past the Carrion Crawler, striking it a glancing blow as he passed.
The enraged beast half-turned to follow the wood-elf’s baffling move, and Cram struck out, hacking diagonally down through its head. Instantly dead, the creature’s long body thrashed and twisted, but its tentacles hung lifeless and it was no longer any threat.

But before the dread thing had ceased to move, a second one barreled out from round a corner behind Varris and closed half a dozen tentacles around his head and face. The elf screamed out as the venom of that contact seemed to set his body afire.
escalation_1.jpgAs the odds rose with this second arrival and Varris’ sudden plight, Wjizzo sought to redouble his efforts and spent a moment to summon even more power than he had put into his first spell. When he had mustered all that he could sustain he unleashed it again. “Milf’s Acid Arrow!” he shrilled, launching a doubly intense bolt of sorcerous acid from his wand.
But, tragedy of tragedies, even as the Arrow arced out and over, the monster drew back and Varris half fell a staggering step backward, right into the Arrow’s path! The magic of Wjizzo, bearer of the card of Ruin, struck the hapless Varris squarely in the head, neck and breast, the eldritch acid searing through his elven leathers and killing him instantly. The links of the chain about his throat sizzled apart and the great glowing pearl, the Orb of Light, fell to the ground. The raven’s head image upon it, token of the bond between the Raven Queen and her living servant, faded and was gone.

With all in a stunned silence save the Carrion Crawler that clicked and hissed at being deprived of its prey, Fosden had the greatest presence of mind. “Fly forth, o righteous spirits!” The living sunbeams that spiralled out from his symbol of Pelor put a protective shimmer of gold about Cram before searing forth and ravaging the clicking beast.

And the very ground shuddered beneath their feet. But the cause proved to be something of great strength beneath the floor. In the darkness, something upheaved the ground, making straight for the adventurers. Faster than they could evade it, the thing passed under Cram, tilting the paving stones every which way, making it a marvel that he kept his feet (especially with his legs not working properly as something from the first crawler was still washing through him).
The line passed like an enormous mole’s run under the threshold of the ruin and a great armoured monster erupted in a shower of earth right under Fosden and Wjizzo, spilling them both onto their backs.
“A landshark!” cried Fosden.
Wjizzo frowned, and then brightened. “Oh, a bulette,” he said.
Cram drove himself to a violent frenzy of urgency, laying into the sun-smitten Carrion Crawler, driving it back half-battered, its half-hearted tentacle-lashing reply seeming warded off by the golden glow, and failing even to touch him.
escalation_2.jpgWjizzo half rose and levelled his wand to shoot forth a spray of light in disturbingly clashing colours, and the monster gave a strangled cry, subsiding backwards and seeking to hide its alien eyes from the insult.
“Mighty Pelor, shield this virtuous foe of your enemies,” called Fosden, as he sprang to his feet and backed away from the great tunnelling beast, reinvigorating Cram even as the golden sun-glow upon him faded. And holding his medallion in both hands he caused it to strike a lancing beam against his own attacker, though it seemed to have little effect. For all that, though the monster bore down upon him, he managed to evade the massive scaled snout.
Cram, his legs still betraying him, was unable to get away from the second crawler, and just battled furiosly on against it.
escalation_3.jpgTo his surprise Wjizzo came up behind him with a cry of “It’s nearly done. I’ll take it!”, drew his elven longsword and stepped up. But the High Elves’ fabled skill with that weapon was not in Wjizzo this day, and it was all he could do to keep control of his weapon and avoid striking Cram or falling on the blade himself.
“Take that, you f—!” yelled Fosden, scoring his spearpoint along the flank of the landshark’s muzzle. The brute snapped back at him, but again Fosden was able to keep away from those jaws.
The rage was upon Cram, and whatever he might have felt about Wjizzo’s competence right now, he sought to pull away and turn his sword against the greater beast. Giving a little of himself to his dark armour, he felt its power wax about him… But the carrion crawler was not to be denied and whipped a tentacle against his side. Cram laughed callously as he barely felt a thing, then groaned as venom locked up his stride, and finally voiced a foul curse as he span back around and swung his fullblade into the persistent monster, chopping it into two lifeless halves.

escalation_4.jpgWjizzo lost no time in twisting about and shooting his cone of disconcertingly shifting colours at the head of the bulette. The monster bellowed in frustration, and Fosden’s spear struck well for the second time, and then a third, as the thing abandoned its attack upon him to haul itself about and avenge itself upon the wizard.
Striking masonry aside, it plunged in upon Wjizzo and with open jaws so wide that a Shield spell could not avail him. Even diving back from the closing maw with graceful elvish speed, Wjizzo was gashed across his hind parts by a row of wicked fangs.
But though Cram, suffering from crawler poison, could not have closed the distance the land shark’s own rampage had brought it within reach of his fullblade. The Thumper barbarian struck with the full weight of his rage, heedless of the armour plating his target, and striking clean through it!

escalation_5.jpgWjizzo, still anguished by Varris’ death and flabbergasted at his further ineptitude with the sword, had much to prove and tried harder… And lost his grip on his sword, sending it sailing over the head of the bulette looming over him.
“No!” he shrieked, and all but covering his face in shame, stepped out of this grim world and into its Feywild counterpart. Verdant turf gave spring to his step and bright blue butterflies the size of dinnerplates fluttered aside as he ran forwards— and crashed back into the grim world just past Varris’ mortal remains. The Orb of Light lay there glowing but ravenless, and Varris’ steel mask had fallen aside. The facial burns that Varris had sustained yet never allowed to be seen even by his closest allies was a horror to behold; the epithet “Varris the Scarred” fell far short of honouring the torment that he must have endured in life. With a flicker of his Mage-hand, Wjizzo set the mask back in place and folded Varris’ cloak and hood about his remains.

Then a big armoured man with a great red beard stepped around the corner of the ruin, nothing about him suggesting any connection with the orcs in the camp below.
“Whatever is all the— Daisy! I told you! Back! Stand back you people, she’s only a baby—” And he administered a blow of his enormous hammer to the snout of the land shark like it was a rolled up parchment. The beast’s head was struck flat onto the ground, and its whole body slumped inert.
“Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen!” he bellowed. “The pet’s a bit feisty. Stand aside, stand aside… I say, do any of you know the kiss of life? She was only halfway through training. Still didn’t like to be mounted… But where are my manners? Eric Bloodhammer’s the name.”

Onwards and upwards
Where they reach Dragon's Roost

‘Icon Relationship’ Benefits pending:

Percival, Thwarter of Orcus: Benefit
Varris, Thwarter of Orcus: Benefit with complications
Cram, Hero of the Spirits: Benefit with complications
Wjizzo, Correllon-connection in Mithrendain OR ‘other’: Benefit with complications

The Bell Tower, continued

A wounded displacer beast marauding through the mêlée, and stirges locked onto Cram and the fallen elf-maid, Fosden, Wjizzo, Percival, Varris and Cram fought on.

Fosden called a second time upon the Sun Lord to give him the strength to endure, and immediately the pain of his wounds left him. Stepping forward, he stabbed hard at the stirge feeding upon the blood of Analastra, and then the air around them was filled with the shimmer of Wjizzo’s magic. Fosden’s target slumped lifeless upon Analastra, and Cram’s tormentor let out an anguished shriek.

The displacer beast leaped back into the fray, its glamour of elusion defying all attempts to swing out at it, and its tentacles flying. Varris brought up a twin-sworded guard to fend off one attack but Cram, suffering from loss of blood was not so lucky and a raking strike sank him to his knees. Percival doggedly pursued it and as it struck, so too did he, Stanley the Knife crippling one of its hind legs. It recoiled in pain, and Varris mercilessly slashed down across the back of its neck to fell the monster. With two steps he brought his other sword down to strike dead the stirge upon Cram’s back, and with elven grace he struck yet again at a third stirge even as it swooped in upon Analastra, grievously wounding it.

Fosden impaled the injured stirge upon his spear and lofted the lifeless corpse clear of its victim, and in the moment that he looked around for any other attackers, he was poised like a knight raising a grisly standard. But there were no other threats, beyond a flurry of smaller stirges around the tower, that had more sense than to venture anywhere near the victorious adventurers on the ground.

Fosden inspected the extent of Analastra’s wounds, and declared that she should not be moved. Wjizzo doubted her plight could be so grave, and even as Varris was proposing to go for the assistance of the High Elf knights, Analastra came round.

Analastra Velfarren

Analastra__Eladrin.jpg_.jpgBlinking, she awoke.
“Thank you,” she said in a voice bright as silver. “You have saved my life, and I am deeply in your debt. Come, if you return with me to my brother here in the grove, he too will be grateful for your heroism.”

After regaining their breath and bandaging their wounds, they allowed Analastra to lead the way back to the High Elves’ camp. She took them by a different route, which she said was the most direct, but which nevertheless took them several whole minutes to traverse. She explained that she had been ranging the Feygrove to ensure a quick death for any orc that might enter beneath the trees when she had stumbled upon the displacer beasts, and inadvertently drawn their ire where normally she and her companions left them alone, since they were every bit as effective at slaying orcs as she.
At Varris’ query she explained that the other, larger, fey beast of which he had seen sign would have been an owlbear. At least one of the ferocious predators hunted the Feygrove, and she suspected there might be a mated pair. Wjizzo was tactfully silent on this, but Varris said that his clan had known of owlbears in the Harken Forest and knew them for aggressive brutes with enormous claws that grab and bite their prey, and are possessed of a screeching cry that can stun a person in their tracks.

Sir Berrian retained his prideful manner, but expressed his sincere gratitude for the adventurers’ saving his sister’s life. The beverage that had conspicuously not been shared in their first confrontation was now served up to one and all.

With only a little prompting from his sister, and with Wjizzo this time properly engaging in conversation, he was a little more forthcoming about his group’s purpose in the Feygrove. He did not know what mystery his father, Zandrian Velfarren, had pursued when he left the two children with their mother, centuries ago. But his trail led here, where it promptly grew confused, as some force in the Abbey Mount defied, and continued to defy, their attempts at divination. Berrian’s suspicion was that his father had been involved in husbanding the force of the Feywild that so filled this place, and he would very much like to find some sort of evidence of this.
“The plants that thrive in this grove, and the creatures attracted to it — they are not of this world. My ancestors had a hand in taming a wild force here, and we therefore have some measure of a claim to it. If there were more certain proof specifically of our father’s hand in this, perhaps amongst the written records of the humans, we would very much like to know of it. "

The Fairy Ring acknowledged the charge that the fey knight placed, ever so lightly, upon them and promised to share with him anything they learned. But their goal now was atop the mount on the ’Dragon’s Roost’. Analastra looked keen to accompany them, but Berrian remained firm that she must remain in the camp to fully recover from her injuries.

“Can she not be availed of the powers of the healing waters in this pool?” challenged Wjizzo. “I did not speak sooner, because I was studying the runes upon the tessera of the mosaic. But I believe there is a potent force of healing here.”
“Indeed,” replied Berrian, inclining his head in respect for Wjizzo’s learning. “But whilst the power of the font can be invoked to remove many afflictions, it has no magical power over common wounds.”

Onwards and Upwards

The Fairy Ring took their leave of the Velfarrens, and followed their directions to the path that wound through the grove to the Bell Tower where they had saved Analastra, and beyond, towards the top of the mount.

At the last bend in the steeply climbing path a couple of them heard the strains of an enchanting music, which Wjizzo identified as being sung by Autumn Nymphs — the tantalising “gossiping nymphs” mentioned by Berrian. He knew they would command many secrets that it might be gainful to know, but that the cost might be too high, particularly if Cram , Percival or Fosden might unwittingly become ensnared in the nymphs’ games.
“Pay no heed!” he directed. “Wood nymphs are perilous to those unaccustomed to their ways.”

The path led them next to emerge from the Feygrove, and onto the treeless hilltop dominated by the fire-blackened shell of a great temple. All seemed ruined and desolate, but Fosden said to the others, “There is an enemy here. I sought to come to Gardmore Abbey because Grundelmar the priest of Pelor in Fallcrest was visited by dreams from Pelor in which the Sun Lord told of a man named Vadin Cartwright, pledged to the Mad God, dabbling with forces beyond mortal understanding among the dead in Gardmore Abbey.”

All were wary of the temple itself, in some way that was unspoken but shared by all but Cram. Their first dilatory investigations were therefore made into a mostly ruined building to the left of it, at the southern end of the hilltop. Within one gaping entrance to the low structure they saw ruined and blackened features suggestive of a barracks and mess-block. But the walls and roof were mostly collapsed, and there was a mass of broken masonry and roof tiles immediately inside the entrance.
“Stairs down,” said Wjizzo authoritatively.
But before he could elaborate, they heard a slithering, scuttling noise from just beyond the .
“Milf’s Acid Arrow!” barked Wjizzo, unleashing one of his more powerful spells. A great bolt of lurid green energy gouted forth from his casting-orb and arced over the rubble to strike a sizzling impact. There came the shriek of an angered beast and an acrid steam rose, followed by the rearing form of a carrion crawler. 19_Carrion_Crawler.png

Wjizzo was already behind Cram and Varris before anyone noticed. And no one was surprised that Percival seemed to have disappeared…

Into the Feygrove
Velfarren Encounters: Berrian and his sister

‘Icon Relationship’ Benefits pending:
Percival, Thwarter of Orcus: Benefit
Varris, Thwarter of Orcus: Benefit with complications
Cram, Hero of the Spirits: Benefit with complications
Wjizzo still to roll

Fosden of the Cliffs

2 miles off the King’s Road, with the last light of the day, a rider came up on the trail of the Fairy Ring, having pushed his steed hard all the way from Winterhaven. Dismounting, the chainmailed spearman introduced himself as Fosden, a priest of Pelor the Sun Lord.
‘Fosden of the Cliffs’,” Cram greeted him. “I know you from Fallcrest. First man ever to scale the Drachensgrab Cliffs (or first civilised one), and now a priest. Have you come to join my party?
Not if it’s a the sort party you hold in the Blue Moon Alehouse,” he smiled. “But I’m glad to have caught up with you.” Fosden told that he had accepted the charge of the voluble dwarven High Priest, Grundelmar, to investigate Gardmore Abbey.

[ Gary, did Fosden give more details about what’s supposed to be there, or about the paladin who’s expected up from the old capital in a few days’ time? ]

Though they had different goals, all agreed that they should approach the ruined abbey together.
When good is divided, evil prospers,” quoted the priest.

Varris picked them a cautious route over the Gardbury Downs, clear as day to his elven sight, and by the light of a moon just past the full, the night gave none of them any difficulty.
By midnight they beheld the ruins of Gardmore Abbey on the next hilltop, a dark outline against the moonlit clouds. On the eastern flank of the hill flickered a number of fires, and at its base a mighty defensive wall reared up five times the height of a man. Cram favoured approaching the gatehouse, but the wall did not encircle the whole hill. It ended with a last watchtower at a point beyond which the steepness of the hill itself protected against any military assault. Percival pointed out that though an army could not launch an attack that way, a group such as themselves should be able to negotiate it. Fosden too was keen to make the climb, but Varris pointed to a place where the wall had been breached and never repaired, beyond which the slope of the hill was covered in forest.

The Fey-knight

With Varris leading again, they made their way through the wide breach and into the forest., unobserved by any watcher, and finding no sign of any others passing this way with any frequency. In low tones the ranger declared that this was more than a natural forest. It was denser and more vibrant with life not all of it just what was normal for these climes. He believed it touched by the Feywild. They stole forward through the heavy undergrowth beneath the trees, until they heard movement just ahead, and saw several figures moving to cover behind the trees around a glade.
Hold, brothers. We do not know their intent,” came a whispered command in refined tones of the elven tongue.
Varris stepped forth, and promptly found the strangers to be High Elves of Wjizzo’s folk. But though he looked to Wjizzo to speak, the wizard was intent on divining the nature of this place’s connection to the Feywild, and simply shook his head.
What is your business here?” demanded the leader, stepping forth. “Speak quickly or fall where you stand.” His long straight hair, his hauberk of fine chainmail and the naked edge of his longsword glimmered like quicksilver in the moonlight.
Varris introduced himself in elvish, but when the haughty ones failed to be impressed by his unpolished silvan accent he switched to the common tongue. Font_of_Ioun.JPG
They were bidden forth out of the trees, and found themselves before the ruined shell of what must once have been some manner of shrine. At its centre bubbled a font, with a mosaic encircling its base, depicting a platinum dragon and a silver stag in eternal chase, all marked out with exquisitely tiny magical runes.

Varris explained their mission for Lord Padraig to the half-dozen high-elven knights.

Area_13_Berrian_Velfarren_50pc.jpgThe fey knight leader gazed upon the clear waters of the font as he contemplated a moment, and then gave his own introduction.
“I am called Sir Berrian, and my house is Velfarren. For a century I have searched the wide world over in a quest to discover the mystery of my father’s fate and pay a son’s proper tribute to his memory.
All roads have led me here, to this human ruin. But once again they diverge and lose themselves in the fog of time, and though I near their ends I cannot see them clearly even now. Do they lead to dishonour? Vengeance? Death? It is impossible to see.
(“Varris could help you with two of those,” Percival muttered, soft enough for only Cram to hear.)
The dark abbey crawls with perils, and orcs and giants infest the grounds. A frozen thing in white robes sometimes lingers near the font, staring into the memories its waters contain. And in the shadow of yonder doorless evil tower, this place confounds us with its mysteries and dangers.” A nod indicated the watchtower back through the trees behind them.
The grove is vibrant with the life of the Feywild… of home. But the closer we come, the farther we fall away. Fey beasts lair in the ruins. Gossiping nymphs tantalise us with secrets. And now my sister, Analastra, too has vanished, thus halting our sacred quest until she can be found.

The Feygrove

Learning that Analastra had been gone only a few hours, and perceiving that the seemingly capable high elves were nonetheless for some reason unable or unwilling to seek her themselves, and inclined however reluctantly to be grateful if they received help, the adventurers vouched their assistance.
The superior demeanour of the high elves dropped for a moment of surprise and respect when Varris identified the direction that the elf-maid had taken, clad in stout armour and bearing a shield, he added.

The wood elf followed a trail imperceivable to his companions, up and down the steep forested hillside, through a thick, riotous tangle of trees, bushes, vines and ferns that had a wild and ancient feel belied by an occasional fragment of tiled pathway beneath the moss or an ivy-clad stone bench. They followed a seemingly purposeless route for half an hour, during which time it seemed impossible that they never emerged from this small stand of forest. Squirrels and birds chattered and chirped in the branches, bees and iridescent butterflies drifted amid blossoms, and the tracks of larger creatures crisscrossed the wood. “The knight mentioned fey beasts,” said Varris at one point. He toed aside some scratched earth to reveal shallow-buried droppings. “This looks like the work of a great cat, a really large one. And there has been more than one sign of something else larger still, but I have no idea what.”

The Bell Tower

And then, “There!” he hissed excitedly.
They saw a pale, slender figure with long silver hair speeding towards them through the dark grove, footfalls making hardly a whisper. She dared a glance over her shoulder, gasped in alarm, and veered sharply aside towards the curving wall of a tower.

Two feline monsters drew close upon her heels, black forms that somehow defied the eye, but seemed possessed of too many legs. Then a pair of spiny tentacles lashed forward from the back of the lead beast and dropped the fleeing figure with an agonised shriek.13_Displacer_Beast_50pc_flipped_and_rotated.png

Fosden charged past him to thrust at the flank of the beast looming over the fallen elf, but his spear inexplicably seemed to pass through nothing but the air. The black panther-like thing hissed at bay, straddling its fallen prey with no fewer than six legs and baring its fangs, as the nearer of its tentacles flashed out and struck Fosden a nasty blow.

11_Stirge_33pc_darkened.pngA dark shape dropped out of the sky from somewhere up at the eaves of the ruined bell tower, pulling up to skim the ground and punch into the fallen elf-maid. Four bat-like wings folded away to reveal a dog-sized monster that seemed a mass of grasping pincers.
“A dire stirge!” cried Wjizzo. “Watch out for more of the pernicious vermin!” His unerring magic missile elicited a shriek from the thing, but did nothing to loose its hold on the fallen elf.

Varris followed the sun-priest, invoking the Orb of Light and slashing out. He too failed to draw blood, but a white flash cowed the beast. With vein-popping anger, Cram threw himself forward between both panther-beasts, swinging his fullblade around a full arc which missed the other beast, but struck the cowed one true and staggered it back.
Fosden dared a moment forsaking his spear and raising the golden sun-medallion on its chain around his neck. “Aid us, Spirits of Righteous Pelor!” he cried, undaunted as a barbed tentacle grazed over the links of his chainmail. A succession of searing golden rays curved out of the medallion and struck his attacker with burning force, making it recoil with an anguished yowl and then slump lifeless to the ground.
“We give thanks, Sun Lord, but give us also the strength to endure.” The prayer buoyed Fosden up, and probably saved his life as the dead beast’s mate flashed between the adventurers, heedless of all the drawn steel, tentacles lashing left and right. One spiny tentacle raked across Fosden’s neck and chin. Cram grunted in pain as he was struck along the hip, and then the stirge sprang up from Analastra and drove its pointed beak-snout into his back, pincers locking it tight up against his body.

Percival seemed to have anticipated the displacer beast’s move, and appeared out of nowhere to strike with his wicked dagger, but his target’s innate glamour of blurring thwarted his aim.

A second stirge shot down onto the exposed target of Analastra, but Varris was there and struck it a swingeing blow.

Cram whirled his fullblade about in a great circle that did nothing to the monstrosity on his back, spinning around with him and sucking the very blood out of him, but the weapon striking through such an arc was not to be confounded by any trick of fey magic and he dealt a great blow to the second displacer-beast.

The Ring that was Broken
After Thunderspire, to Gardmore (3 yrs RL)

The Passage of Time

The Victors in the Thunderspire

The Fairy Ring and friends enjoyed the hospitality of the re-established Mages of Saruun, rulers of the Thunderspire — and of the halfings of the Halfmoon Inn in the Seven Pillared Hall — for several days. But their welcome could not last forever, and they each began to long to feel the sun on their faces. The day came when all but Surina the Firebrand and Denoa the shadar-kai witch decided to leave the Thunderspire.

They travelled to Fallcrest, and enjoyed their newfound wealth for several days more. But eventually, lacking a common cause for the first time since their fateful meeting in Winterhaven, they drifted off on their separate ways.

Pyramid_of_Shadows_excerpt_h3_cropped.jpgThe Thumper barbarians, Cram and Borran Lightfoot, accompanied by Elana, returned north to the Winterbole Forest to try to avert the pestilence encroaching on the borders of the clan’s lands. It was unrelated to the dread black pyramid hanging over the no-barbarian’s-land between the Thumpers and their Tigerclaw neighbours, which they were glad to shun.

Wjizzo turned from carousal and turned to courting the knowledge of Nimozaran the Green in Fallcrest’s Emerald Tower and exploiting his reluctantly granted status as an associate member of the Mages of Saruun. Varris the Scarred, gaining scant solace from frankly anything, set forth to try and track down Percival the Halfling.


After half a year Cram was back in Fallcrest, and found gainful employment fronting the management of a tavern. Another underling took care of the accounts, and Cram played both host and bouncer. Some patrons even took to calling the place [tbc] Cram’s Bar! Wjizzo frequented there on the occasions that he needed a break from his studies, and whenever Elana’s travels brought her back to Fallcrest she always looked up her friends.


Then Wjizzo came by _ [details tbc]_ a strange card of ivory bearing the inscription ‘Ruin’, and painted with the device of a broken sword. He knew nothing of this thing, but soon divined that it contained a potent arcane power.Ruin.png

In the months that followed, Wjizzo consulted all the mages and sages of his acquaintance, Nimozaran in Fallcrest, the Mages of Saruun Khel in Thunderspire, Valthrun in Winterhaven, and his own people in the shining Feywild city of Mithrendain, researching the thing in every library he could access. He learned that the card was from the storied but obscure Deck of Many Things, an unknowably ancient artefact that was full of contradictions, not least as an immense wild power more or less contained in a shifting set of fortune-teller’s cards.

Between his enquiries and what Elana could glean upon the road, they heard several accounts of cards of the Deck coming to light here in the Nentir Vale in the last few generations, often with a connection to the orcs and other monsters infesting the ruined site of Gardmore Abbey… But the cards had a conspicuous tendency to change hands in unusual circumstances, and were impossible to track down.

The Rovers’ Return

Varris the Scarred had spent a year or more ranging far afield, following the occasional report of a lone halfling matching his description of Percival. In his travels Percival was making every effort to escape detection, and on one occasion Varris found cultists of Tiamat making the same enquiries as himself. Several tiimes the trail went cold. But when Varris placed his faith in the Raven Queen, mistress of fate, and let fortune guide his feet, he more than once found himself close again.

Then almost beyond his own believing, he came upon his quarry. Percival lay unconscious, clad in tatters, and his much-scarred body laced with new wounds as of knife, of sword and of fire, and his only possession the dark dagger, “Stanley”, in his rigid fist. He did not regain consciousness for two days, but on the second day of tending him Varris found a familiar black and silver throwing star in a fold of the bedclothes that wrapped him.

When finally he awoke, the halfling did not know his rescuer, nor anything else. For what Varris knew to be at least the second time in his life, he had lost his entire memory. The road to recovery was slow, and the halfling was slow to trust this elf who said he knew him, and that his name was “Percival”. But over the course of a long journey back to the Nentir Vale he gradually revealed that he seemed to have been chosen for some very particular task, and that he had not simply lost his memory through a blow to the head, but believed it to have been stolen. Such theft could be possible only to the very greatest of thieves, the fabled Prince of Shadows, reputed to be able to steal blood from a stone, the memory of autumn, or the twinkle from a lover’s eye.

The Madness of Gardmore Abbey

The King’s Road and Winterhaven

Within a day or two of returning to Fallcrest, Varris and Percival had found their way to Cram’s Bar. And less than a week from then Elana returned, telling of dangerously organised depradations of large bands of orcs upon the King’s Road where it passes through the Gardmore Downs between Fallcrest and Winterhaven. A little birdie had told her that the lord of Winterhaven would love to find someone he could trust to investigate. And lo, when she fetched Wjizzo from the Emerald Tower, the Fairy Ring had come full circle!

No one could argue with logic like that. Varris called it the hand of fate, and touched a reverent finger to the pearl at his neck. Percival suppressed a suspicious frown. And Wjizzo smiled enigmatically.

A week later, taking the King’s Road to Winterhaven, Varris inspected various sites and pronounced that a force of at least several dozen orcs was preying upon the traffic on the road. At Wjizzo’s query he said there was no sign of any attacks using anything but force of arms.

And then they rode once again into the familiar farmlands of Winterhaven. The damage wrought by the undead horde of Orcus that Kalarel sent forth from the Shadowfell had been repaired, and the countryside throve once more. Folk on the roadside recognised the five riders and hailed them as their saviours. Salvana Wrafton’s Inn was thronged with well-wishers that night, and many old acquaintances were renewed.
[You may remember the chatty old farmer Eilian the Old, gruff Rond Kelfem who leads the Winterhaven watch, Sister Linora the healer priestess, Thair Coalstriker the obligatory dwarf smith, Delphina Moongem the wood elf wildflower seller, and Bairwin the trader who sent you with a frustratingly well-locked casket for Gendar the drow in Thunderspire; the treacherous Ninaran was unsurprisingly never seen again.]

Most notable was the mid-evening arrival of the ruler of the place, Lord Padraig. Wearing his authority lightly, he greeted everyone with informal but gracious words which were naturally overheard by everyone in the Inn. And asking Cram whether the reason for his return to reprise their previous drinking competition, he ended up joining them at their table for the rest of the evening. (He left only when the alternative was to end up under their table.) As he drank he told them of his concern over the orcish banditry on the King’s Road.

Padraig_Portrait_cropped.jpg“Travellers have been attacked of late by raiders in the area where the road crosses the Gardbury Downs, just a day to the south-east of here. The attacks mostly occur in the vicinity of the old ruins of Gardmore Abbey, so I suspect the orcs are using the ruins as a lair. If I could, I’d raise a militia to go root the orcs out of their holes and put them to the sword, but these folk can’t see past their village walls. If it’s not a threat to Winterhaven, they don’t think it’s our problem, never mind that it affects caravans coming here. So if I can’t raise a militia, I’m thinking I could hire you to deal with these orcs. To start, I want you to go to the abbey and find out whether the rocs are lairing there. Come back and tell me what you find — as complete a picture of their lair and defences as you can.”

As he departed he invited them to the manorhouse for breakfast, at which he would invite the resident sage in the tower, Valthrun, to give them a history of the site.

Gardmore Abbey

Valthrun greeted them familiarly, and said how pleased he was that they were still alive. He was glad to be able to thank them in person for the details of the minotaur ruins in the Thunderspire that they had relayed back to him.

Valthrun.png “The abbey was one of the first settlements in the Nentir Vale, established duing the rise of the empire of Nerath around 350 years ago. Along with Fastormel, the combined village and abbey defined the northern forntier of Nerath until the founding of Winterhaven three decades later.
“The abbey was built as a defensive fortification, combining the natural slope of the land and a strong stone wall to protect the village and the home of the monastic knights in the abbey proper. A prosperous settlement grew up between the outer wall and the cloister of the abbey, supporting the knights and enjoying their protection.
During the eight of Nerath’s rule, the holy knights of Gardmore Abbey fought valiantly in Bahamut’s name against any monstrous and evil forces that encroached into the Nentir Vale, and on occasion launched campaigns to bring down bastions of evil in the world beyond. They destroyed thousands of orcs in the Stonemarch, brought low a temple of Zehir in the depths of the Witchlight Fens, and journeyed to the Dragondown Coast, far to the south, to sack the Infernal Bastion of the terrible hobgoblin warlord Hur-Tharak.
“About 150 years ago, a resurgent force of orcs from the Stonemarch descended upon Gardmore Abbey. Aided by ogres, hill giants, and demonic embodiments of chaos, the orcs laid siege to the abbey, but even against such terrible foes the knights held firm.
“But then in a roar of infernal wind, a new wave of attackers was unleashed upon the abbey from the inside. Scores of undead monsters, from skeletal legions and sword wraiths to nightwalkers and fire demons, spread throughout the abbey bringing terror and destruction in their wake. The walls were breached, the Stonemarch forces spilled inside, and a titanic battle among knights, undead and orcs left the abbey in ruins.
“Some decades later, 90 years ago, the ruins were a major battlefield in the Bloodspear War, when another wave of Stonemarch orcs eventually overwhelmed the defenders led by Lord Markelhay of Fallcrest before going on to sack the city itself.”

The adventurers were keen to journey into the Gardbury Downs that day. Wjizzo was particularly keen, winking one silvery eye and telling the others that he had something up his wizard’s sleeve that could make the reconnaissance go very well indeed.

Perhaps guessing that she would not be needed, Elana excused herself from the mission. The last time she’d been singing in Winterhaven there’d been a mercenary captain here by the name of Tam (it transpired Cram knew her slightly from Fallcrest). But perhaps more significantly, the black dwarf in company with her wore a steel plate paunce over his chainmail that openly flaunted a star device with five curved arms.
“Oh!” said Varris, giving Percival a pointed look.
Tam and the dwarf were no longer in town, but Elana thought she might want to track them down.

Nightfall on Gardbury Downs

Travelling back down the King’s Road and taking the route of the old track to Gardmore Abbey would be a full day’s riding, but the group opted to halve the journey by taking the road part way and then cutting straight over the Downs as the crow flies.

When they pulled off the road, Wjizzo unwrapped the golden figurine that he had received on behalf of the group from the Mages of Saruun. With a word, it transformed into a mighty metallic eagle, and the high elf swung himself up onto its neck.
“Lead my horse while I’m gone. I’ll make sure you don’t stumble into any orc ambushes you can’t see from down here.”

The Downs were deserted, but not unnaturally so, and Wjizzo saw nothing amiss in the movements of the local birds and other wildlife. But then, with the sun sinking towards the horizon and forcing Wjizzo practically into the knap of the earth to avoid his eagle attracting attention rather than averting it, he saw a flicker of movement above the left flank of the abbey on the distant hilltop.
“There’s more than orcs in there hills. There’s a red dragon. I think it is unlikely to be working for the orcs…”

The Pursuit of Paldemar
In which Paldemar himself was finally taken

Cram plunged into the darkness. His running footsteps echoed back up the secret corridor to his fellow heroes and allies clustered in Paldemar’s chamber, followed by a noise of muffled impact.
“It comes to a dead end,” protested the incredulous barbarian. “No, wait. It’s a door!”
Light spilled into the far corridor when Cram got the door open, and the chase for the traitor wizard was afoot.

It emerged from an indistinguishable section of wall in that great hall dominated by the mass of umbral shadow. A metallic boom echoed from the away to the right, as the great black Gates of Orcus swung closed.
   Everyone piled out after Cram: Surina, Elana and Varris, followed more hesitantly by Denoa the shadar-kai and Borran the cunning-man, and dodged between the pillars of bones, where vengeful skeletal hands still twitched at the sense of the living.
   Cram reached the metal doors and shouldered them open, and Surina dashed past him at a full sprint, Denoa close behind. She was met by an utterly unexpected prospect: in the middle of the circular antechamber there now stood a tree — or rather a bipedal tree with a face and womanly protruberances. But where others of the Fairy Ring might have recognized and been given pause by the sudden appearance of a dryad,1 this was Surina the Firebrand.

“Trees burn! she snarled; and hurled forth a blast of hellfire.
 And the dryad was simply gone. Surina blinked and saw her billow of flame strike the far side of the chamber as though nothing had been there at all.
   “Beware illusions,” she warned Denoa and Cram.
   But Denoa shook her head. “Shadow Reflections,” she stated flatly, gesturing at the dark polished mirrors on every side. And then she held up a hand for silence, stopping Cram in his tracks. She mimed listening and pointed out a spot halfway down the stairway out of the room.
   Cram gave no thought to subtlety. With a running start he reached the top step and launched himself into midair. A tree-like form halfway down one wall was silhouetted by the glowing light of the magic circle below, and Cram swung his fullblade into it as his leap carried him several steps beyond.
   For a second time a dryad-image melted before the party’s attacks. But where Surina had banished a reflection of this one, summoned as Paldemar passed through the mirrored chamber, Cram now banished the desperate guise adopted by Paldemar himself. A stray branch knocked aside from Cram’s tumultuous path proved to have been an ineffectual last-ditch swipe of the wizard’s staff at the airborne barbarian.2

For a moment Paldemar regarded Cram between him and the magic circle, with the sound of many feet announcing the arrival of Cram’s friends in the room above. Then with a desperate, almost incoherent No!, Paldemar fled up the stairs. It cost him a wrenching effort to lurch out of range of Cram’s swinging fullblade, but he reached the mirrored room and looked around at Surina, Denoa and Elana, and Varris and Borran in the doorway.
   “Servants of Orcus, step forth and puni—” Denoa brought darkness into being and wrapped it like a cowl about his head. His invocation was punctuated with a whimper. “— punish this intruder!” he finished in a strangled tone, pointing at Surina. Standing right before him, she was the only one he could still see.
  From the nearest mirrored wall stepped the crabbed form of a dragonborn, scales mutilated with the scars of untold harm and face contorted with hate.
   Varris had pause; suddenly there were two Surinas in the room. But he remembered the power of these mirrors and the horrible misrepresentation of himself that Kalarel had brought forth not an hour before.

With a distorting shift of perspective, the shadow-reflection tilted and elongated and tried to clutch at Surina and hold her fast,
Surina s shadow
but in a flash Varris was upon it with a double-slashing move left and right. As soon as his longsword bit, the reflection winked out; his scimitar swept through empty space.

Elana hefted her staff but, before closing upon Paldemar, gave a yell of pure channeled wrath.
   “Here’s your quarry, Ringers! Paldemar: y i e l d !3 The very force of it rocked him.
   Cram charged back up the stairs and swung his mighty sword in another attack, which though met by Paldemar’s staff had enough power to smash him bodily into the pillar at his back. Denoa, hands blossoming with black flame, appeared around the other side of the pillar, forcing him away again.
   “No,” quavered the harried Paldemar, “you have no idea. The Demon Prince has no mercy for those who fail him.”
   Lightnings struck out from his staff, forcing his attackers back.

And then everyone turned as an immense creature flew in through the Gates of Orcus from the hall beyond — a great eagle of metallic gold which backed its wings, sending a great gust of wind through the room. Shrieks of surprise were stilled at the sound of Wjizzo’s voice in incantation. The Eladrin sat astride this eagle, imperiously holding aloft his wand and orb.
   The eagle landed with a jarring crash but Wjizzo sprang effortlessly clear and landed with perfect poise. Paldemar stared, oblivious of the giant floating hand of ice that manifested in the air behind him, until he was abruptly seized in its merciless grasp.
   Varris was the fastest then, and dashed the captive wizard upon the head with the flat of his scimitar. Their victim slumped inert in the clutches of the icy hand, to a cry of jubilation and victory from the heroes of the day.

But with a burst felt only by Varris, the Shadowfell power of the lifedrinker weapon stole for him a measure of the fallen wizard’s life force. With a start he realized that this could still mean the death of the prisoner! In a last bout of action Varris urgently ordered Wjizzo to release the grasp of his magical hand, caught the limp Paldemar as he would have fallen and — not without misgivings — ensured that he would live to face his fate. The wrath of Orcus would have to wait; first would come the questioning of his captors and the Mages of Saruun would also doubtless have an interest in what should be done with him…



1 Wjizzo the Eladrin, Varris the Elf, or Elana the fey-pacted worshipper of Corellon

2 It was a Hare Strike.

3 Stirring Shout, the Leader-power of target-designation, run-together with a representation of Elana’s also having urged that he be subdued rather than killed.

The Chapel of the Demon Prince
In which the battle was carried to Paldemar, the Bringer of Change

The Chapel of the Demon Prince

From the laboratory of the Machine, Varris stepped stealthily into a small hallway with additional doors on all three other sides, each adorned with a ram’s skull design. No sound could be heard, and Varris tentatively tried the left-hand door, first finding it locked and then after a few moments with a set of tools declaring that there was a problem. Wjizzo frowned and whispered that it was likely to be an Arcane Lock ritual, probably the work of the wizard Paldemar himself.
Pressing his keen ear to the door ahead, Varris faintly made out a guttural chanting.
“This is it,” he whispered. Everyone poised themselves, and he opened the door.

The Chapel was a large, pillared chamber with an inlaid mosaic of Orcus on the floor before a 20’ black stone idol of the the demon prince. The two outermost pillars were unlike the others, being of some crystalline rock that pulsed with inner energy. But the immediate concern were the chanters: a congregation of three norkers being led in an unconvincing monotonous droning by a figure in crimson-robes.
The heroes’ assault began, arrows, arrows magically aflame, and bolts of force, of eldritch power and of shadow sprayed upon the unsuspecting worshippers from the doorway. Cram hurtled forward with the Thumpers’ battlecry. Before their victims could react, the attackers poured in. Remembering the Court of Bones, they split left and right to head around and not across the mosaic on the floor, shooting on the move. They found each of the nearer walls to contain a double-door, matching up with the side-doors in the entrance hall, but they had live prey in their sights.

Two of the norkers produced slings and backed away before the onslaught. A shot struck Borran a glancing blow on the shoulder before he ducked back and began to call upon Brother Rabbit. The other had no such chance, as it had scarcely clawed a stone from its pouch before Denoa called wisps of shadow from the air to wrap themselves about its face, denying it sight of any target.
The third norker was a foot taller than any they had seen before, and lost no time in pulling out a cruel ball-and-chain, shrieking a battlecry of its own, and striding forward. But Cram was faster, closed down and delivered a fearsome leg wound to the robed cultist before it could react. As the norker came in and Cram was forced to sway aside from its attack, the cultist backed away and then fixed him with a hideous gaze that physically staggered him, assailing his very sanity.
Varris retaliated against the monster with a blistering rate of arrow-shots.

Then one of the sets of double-doors were wrenched open and with clanging steps a Bronze Warder surged forward, bringing its massive axe crashing into the stone floor as Cram hurled himself out of its path.
Surina, issuing a curse of diabolical power on the half-blind norker slinger, swept left around the other side of the room. Elana shot at the ball-and-chain wielder and drew another arrow as she advanced. Wjizzo moved the same way to gain a clear shot and sent an orb of force to rock both the cultist and the norker berserker on their feet.


And then one door of the other set opened. The nearer adventurers had a brief glimpse of the slight figure of a wizard with blond hair and beard before a sweeping gesture of his quarterstaff sent an arc of lightnings lashing into Elana, Wjizzo and Surina.
“Paldemar!” Elana managed to cry, but before anyone else could look round, the evil architect of Orcus’ plots within the labyrinth had closed the door again.
“Oh dear,” said Wjizzo softly to himself, having an inkling as to the other wizard’s tactic.
But before Wjizzo could explain, Cram the barbarian turned on his heels, swerved around the descending sweep of the Bronze Warder’s axe and hurtled right across the room to throw himself against the door. His shoulder impacted it with an echoing boom but the doors did not so much as quiver.
“It’s another Arcane Lock!” Wjizzo announced. “Paldemar’s door will only open to his own hand. He has a bolthole from which he can do whatever he likes!”

Paldemar’s five followers continued to give battle out in the chapel — though the slinger blinded by Denoa’s shadow-power only cowered behind a pillar vainly trying to shake the magic. Its companion took its revenge for it, sending a stone whistling into Denoa’s belly. The norker berserker and the Bronze Warder advanced, and the indefatigable Cram threw himself back onto them as the magic-wielders concentrated their efforts against the norker. Insanely undeterred the norker berserker came after Cram, swinging his ball-and-chain but never finding his target to stop still long enough for it to use its weapon to best effect. But between evading both it and the Bronze Warder, Cram’s strength began to fail him. He went down on one knee, his weakness unfeigned, then chopped up at the norker as it was distracted by a bolt of darkness from Denoa. It bared its fangs, reaching out for the barbarian, only to slump dead on his blade. Its jaws closed on air as it fell to the ground and Cram rallied, jumping back to his feet with a yell of victory.
Wjizzo meanwhile shouted for Surina and Denoa to join him in using their powers to pass through into Paldemar’s chamber-haven if he so much as opened the door a crack.
But the door opened again before they could ready themselves properly. In a split second Wjizzo recognized the ball of power forming at the end of Paldemar’s staff to be a shock sphere like his own, but then it was launched. Right in front of Paldemar’s doors an area the size of a normal room was filled with coursing veins of storm-power which wracked through Wjizzo and Elana, sparks dancing on the bard’s mailshirt.

Surina bore purposefully down upon the norker slinger, and fulfilled her curse by dropping him with a third blast of power. But she was answered by a ray of withering black-purple light from the carved ‘wand’ in the hand of the Orcus statue.
She turned to the Bronze Warder that was manoeuvring as it fought to line itself up on the throng at its master’s doors. One bronze hoof clanged as it struck the ground, preparing the Warder for a charge. To Surina’s horror, she saw Cram’s balance desert him, leaving him open to a cleaving blow of that massive axe. But at the last instant Varris was there. Replaced by the injured Denoa at Paldemar’s other door, there he was with his magical longsword stabbing up at the descending arm of the automaton and deflecting the fell stroke from its target, saving Cram from certain death.
The shadar-kai witch, meanwhile, began a concentrated effort to disrupt the structure of the door that held the matrix for the energies of the Arcane Lock.
Cram lived to fight on, and looked down to see Brother Rabbit at his knee. Before his eyes the glowing form of the spirit-creature danced and blurred and split into a veritable drove of rabbits which leapt upon the minotaur. They passed through it in an uncanny silence, but in its confusion the metal warrior batted vainly at the vanishing spirits. Its guard forgotten, Cram punished it by hammering a volley of blows into it, dinting and scarring its bronze shell.
Wjizzo was poised for the moment Paldemar opened the door. Elana stood ready with the Staff Resounding in her hands, chanting an elven war song. But when the moment came, their nerves were screwed to too high a pitch. The Staff struck the frame of the door, and only a timorous wave of thunder washed over Paldemar, failing to dislodge his grip on the door let alone blast him back into the room. Paldemar arrogantly stood and braved their attacks to unleash his own magical assault, and not even a clubbing swipe of Wjizzo’s orb-implement could distract him. A ray of frost shot point blank from the end of his staff into Elana.

Surina ran back away from the statue, shouting out a warning to everyone else not to go too near it. But already the Bronze Warder clanged its hoof again in readiness to charge. By dint of extreme will, even at a flat run, she unleashed a tyranny of flame at the automaton. Sulphurous fires tinged with the necrotic power of the Shadowfell streamed from her blasting-rod to strike with a hellish fury that would have smitten a lesser victim to the ground, but though the Warder’s features distorted in the heat it was undeterred.
The Bronze Warder charged!
Cram beat his fullblade resoundingly upon its back as it moved by, but it barrelled heedless straight forwards with its axe-haft held before it in both bronze fists, knocking Wjizzo and Elana flying from its path. Then with blinding speed it switched its grip and swept its axe around in a low scything arc that carved Wjizzo’s left arm to the bone and knocked Elana senseless against the wall behind her.
The great bronze bull’s head came up and around as Surina shot a bolt of force at it, and in a last-ditch effort Wjizzo put his hand to the control amulet around his neck and uttered the hard-won word of command. Instantly he could feel the arcane strangeness that was the minotaur-like ‘mind’ of the metal guardian, and he could feel the elusive sense of the power of Paldemar that had given it its commands, and knew that Paldemar in turn could feel him through this connection. Wjizzo’s poured forth his will and overwhelmed the echo of Paldemar’s thought with a wave of force that cancelled all commands. The lethal assault ceased as the Bronze Warder froze in place. Paldemar’s attention would be too divided to be able to both grapple with Wjizzo for control of the Warder, and coordinate his magical attacks with opening and closing the door. Wjizzo braced for retaliation, but felt nothing forthcoming; the sense of Paldemar fled.
“He’s letting it go,” Wjizzo declared in a cracked voice.

And then a yell of triumph from Denoa came round the corner. Fingers of both hands interlaced, she’d concentrated her black fire to a perfect pitch, and a combination of scorching and accelerated woodrot had sundered a timber of Paldemar’s other Arcane Locked door.
Cram, invigorated with a gift of the Great Rabbit’s vigour for which he barely had time to nod his relieved thanks to Borran, dashed off in a looping sprint that ended with a shoulder-charge that burst several more timbers. Perfunctorily hacking some of the wreckage away he forced himself bodily into the breach. And found no sign of Paldemar in the chamber beyond.
“C’m ’ere, you invisible bastard!” he yelled, swinging his fullblade about him at full reach and using one swing to shear down the curtains on the truly massive four-poster bed against the wall. But his sword met no resistance and he found no sign of Paldemar.
Barring Wjizzo — who barely felt capable of standing and wanted to secure his hold on the control of the Bronze Warder — the others joined Cram in Paldemar’s chamber, a ragged and battered crew. Paldemar wasn’t under the bed, and in truth seemed not to be invisible anywhere in the room, although Cram rued the absence of practical little Percival and his pouch of “you never know when you’ll need them” flour bombs.
Everyone looked at Varris and reminded him of his elven heritage, and as they regained their breath Varris manfully turned his attention to the masonry of the walls, to no avail.
“I don’t know what this was,” came the apologetic voice of Borran. “Nothing herbal that I’ve ever come across. But it’s fresh.”
Everyone, Varris included, stopped to look in surprise at the barbarian cunning-man, who had just found a small crystal vial discarded in the corner, under the heap of the wall-hanging that Varris had torn aside in his search.
“A potion bottle! Told you he was invisible,” said Cram. But Varris leapt over to the wall where Borran had found the vial. Borran started to explain, but stopped mid-sentence to paw at a loose tile on the wall, and a stone door scraped open.
Papers from the desk fluttered around the room in the wake of Cram’s dash for the secret passage his cousin had found.