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Silverdawn's 5E Flash Game Log

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SD challenged herself to draft a one-shot D&D adventure from scratch in about 2 hours and run it that same evening. A few of us were able to jump in as her players. It was a blast! She has given gracious permission to post this log (note it has been edited to remove ooc chatter, most mechanics, notes that everyone understood lines in Common, and to improve flow where some lines got typed and entered a few beats late. One or two very minor typos were also corrected).

The three of you were aboard a ferry - the Wavedancer - set to take you from the City of Splendors to the ports of Neverwinter. It is the coldest month of winter, and the weather along the High Road is harsh at this time of year. You were one day away from your destination when a storm struck. Great, pale clouds gathered up along the horizon, and the wind blew freezing gales across the sea. The last thing you remember is the way the sea churned and buckled, the whiteness around you, the screaming of the other passengers drowned out in the howling winds.
GM: You come to in the dead of night. The moon is pale behind a veil of thin clouds, and the last dusting of snow has settled around you. Beneath you is the sand, rough against your face. Behind you, the tides crash against the broken remains of the Wavedancer, shattered against the rocks. It's bitterly cold. You can feel it down to your bones.
Tartak heaves and coughs out a generous portion of the sea.
Wickwock: "Twigcrackles!" The diminutive woman flops over in the sand.
GM: The two of you spot one another. You're nearby, but as far as you can tell, you might be the only survivors. The winds have died down, and your belongings have washed up beside you.
Tartak shoves himself to his feet unsteadily and tries to get his bearings. He shakes sand out of his hair and spits out a lump of kelp. Blech.
Wickwock levers herself upright, coughing and shivering, to her full three and a half feet. One foot hooks under a staff gouging a furrow in the sand and flips it up to her ready hand.
Tartak [common]: You in one piece?
Wickwock leans on the staff to poke at her pack. (Common) "Seems like! Oh, bramblecatch, how about you?" She peers uuup at the green man.
Tartak [common]: Apart from having inhaled half the damned sea, yeah, I seem to be fine. What in the Nine Hells was that storm? Never seen anything like it.
Tartak does a quick equipment check from the gear that fortuitously washed up with him.
GM: A crab scuttles amid Tartak's personals. Anything that wasn't carefully waterproofed is soaked and cold, if not frozen solid.
Tartak curses, hoping he can later salvage the waterlogged torches.
Wickwock fusses with her pack, hand darting in to see what's too waterlogged. "Winter, it's supposed to do things like that, so I have read, do you read? Deneir will approve your reading. So you should do it."
Tartak [common]: Uh. Yeah, I can read. We should uh, see if there were any other survivors. Then get a fire going, lest we catch our death of cold. I'm Tartak. Tak is fine.
GM: Alas, Wickwock, your incense sticks are ruined. Excellent Calimshani sandalwood, too.
Wickwock: "Wickwock! I was on a mission! And this cold is not at all good for it."
Wickwock sighs at her incense and tosses it aside in a scatter in the sand.
Tartak [common]: Right. Stay close, then. You any good with that beatstick?
DM Silverdawn: Your stuff's a mess, but you should be able to salvage enough to get a fire going if you want.
Wickwock twirls the staff. "I don't know! I have only practiced at the temple. Are you any good at fires?"
Tartak [common]: Not with wet tinder and no good firewood. Let's see what we can find.
Tartak steadies himself on the staff of his halberd, then looks out over the beach.
Tartak [common]: Hello! Anyone there? Anyone alive?
Wickwock: "Anyone dead?" Wickwock joins the calls. "I can say your rites!"
GM: A quick survey of the beach reveals this: to the west, the sea, a black expanse with pale lines of churning foam. In the moonlight, you see the silhouette of the shattered ferry creaking against the waves. To your north and your south, the beach continues on past your vision.
Wickwock hops up to brace herself on the staff as it digs into the sand, peering about from this higher vantage point. She is still under Tak's eyelevel.
GM: To your east, the beach blends gradually into high reeds of dead brown. Here the ground becomes marshy and dense, interspersed with low bundles of vines and creepers.
GM: Your calls echo into the distance. Only the waves respond.
Wickwock: "We need a shelter from the wind. A rocks place."
Tartak [common]: Yeah. Let's see what we can find. Poor bastards. Hope some of them made it.
Wickwock nods, rapidly, several times, and falls in at the half-orc’s side.
Tartak heads east, inland.
DM Silverdawn: steeples fingers.
Tartak [common]: Where do you think we ended up? Trying to guess how far it is to the next settlement.
GM: The two of you begin the slow, steady journey eastward. As you walk, the sound of the ocean begins to gradually recede, and the sandy beach gives way to dense, hard soil and reeds as tall as Wickwock's shoulders.
Wickwock trots along trying to keep up. "It is hard to say without a star fix and a map. But at least we are on the mainland or we should be if north is that way." She points left.
GM: You remember enough of your journey to know roughly where you must have washed ashore. You're anywhere from 120 to 150 miles away from Neverwinter as the crow flies. This part of the Sword Coast is especially marshy, and your best chance at finding shelter is toward the east, where the landscape tends to have more craggy cliffs.
Tartak [common]: At least it's a little drier here. Let's get a fire going if we can.
Tartak tries to see if his tinderbox is dry enough on the inside to be of use here.
GM: It is.
Tartak breathes a grumbling sigh of relief. Small miracles, at least.
Wickwock [common]: "Hold on hold on hold on, let's get to the cliffs first, this is just marsh and mire."
Wickwock points ahead in the darkness. East!
DM Silverdawn: What's the plan? Eastward until shelter?
Tartak [common]: Easy for you to say, you're not the one in fifty pounds of cold mail armor.
Wickwock looks up at the half-orc, her cloth garments plastered to her and crackling with ice in spots, shakes her head, and trots east.
Wickwock [common]: "Are you extra buoyant, Tak? You should not have reached the shore in that. Maybe you were hurled. That can happen!"
Tartak [common]: The Red Knight was looking out for me, I suppose. That or I'm dead and in the Nine Hells. You know, it's been that kind of day.
Wickwock [common]: "Pretty sure that second part is wrong. The Nine Hells wouldn't smell of brine marsh. And Deneir wouldn't toss me there, I have done ALL my scribe practice RELIGIOUSLY."
Wickwock sighs. "But my writing stuff, that wasn't in my pack because I was testing penmanship in heavy seas."
GM: You march onward, and the cold follows you. The beach becomes a marsh, and the marsh grows more dense and thick with every passing mile. Still, the cold hasn't let up. If anything, it's become worse as the wind picks up, rustling through the high reeds. Your boots crunch against frozen mud, and you're beginning to the feel the cold bite into you, when...
GM: ...After your third hour of marching, you push through a curtain of dead reeds and stumble into a clearing. Almost a glade. In the summer, this place would be a wetlands, but now, ice and a thin layer of snow cakes the ground. Just on the other end of the clearing, you see a grand building of exquisite black stone, shimmering in the moonlight. A woman stands before the door, with black hair and ghostly white skin.
Tartak stops and angles the halberd across himself protectively, sinking his weight a bit.
Wickwock looks at Tak, looks at the woman, and holds her staff slantwise in front of her. But its ends tremble with her shivering.
-> Wickwock: The crypt has elements of both elven and dwarvish design, and some runes and sigils that suggest that it was once holy.
Lothuialeth slides her fingers down along the stone door, her back turned to you both. She seems somewhat oblivious to your approach for the moment. The woman wears simple dark robe, damp from being in the water, and holds no obvious weapons in her hands.
Tartak keeps his voice low. "What do you think, some kind of bog witch?"
-> Lothuialeth: The cold has been bothering you as well. The crypt promises warmth, and you sense magic from the door. But you've been unable to open it.
Lothuialeth speaks to the door in a strange tongue.
Lothuialeth [sylvan]: [translation] You will give your secrets to me, one way or the other.
[understood by: lothuialeth, wickwock]
Wickwock licks her lips. "Or a scholar. Let's see. We need to say hello." She raises her voice. "Greetings and salutations, possible madam, possible scholar, we are also interested in the secrets there but mostly in a place to be warm."
Lothuialeth continues to explore it by feeling along its surface with her fingertips.
GM: As the woman speaks, the door glows with a faint hum. An elven sigil on its front throbs, and then fades with a soft chime. There is one other sigil beneath it, which remains dormant.
Wickwock steps closer. "There's dwarf runes too. Do you know Dwarf? I know Dwarf."
Lothuialeth looks over her shoulder upon hearing the voice calling out. "Halt! Step no further!"
Tartak [common]: Are you trying to get us killed? She could put a spell on us.
Wickwock halts. "Well thornpatch."
-> Wickwock: At your feet you see a rusty arrow sticking out of the ice.
Wickwock toes at something on the ground.
-> Wickwock: And then, another, just to the left of that. And a little ways on, in the reeds, is a rusty sword. And also a spear.
Wickwock [common]: "What a battleground this was! There must be a story to know. Possible madam, tell us the tale. Over a fire. Please?"
Lothuialeth turns to face the two. She has pointed ears, and elvish features. "Let your eyes gaze upon your feet, lest you stumble and fall." She motions at the ground in front of them both.
GM: Tartak, you notice what Wickwock stopped in front of. A rusty arrow. You can see them now that you're looking for them. All over this glade, hidden in the reeds and seen in moonlight, are old weapons thrust into the earth.
GM: You were very close to stepping on an arrowhead.
Tartak [common]: Bah, what have we blundered into?
Wickwock [common]: "Falling's a way of learning, the priests say that, mostly when I am the one falling. Are you friendly, possible madam? Why aren't you cold?"
GM: Wickwock and Loth recognize this battlefield for what it is. You are in the Mere of Dead Men.
Wickwock looks somberly at the halforc. "The Mere of Dead Men," she intones.
-> Lothuialeth: The Mere of Dead Men is an ancient battlefield from 700 years ago, when Phalorm, an old kingdom of Elves and Dwarves, fought against the Horde of the Wastes and were destroyed by them here.
Lothuialeth [common]: Yes. 700 years have passed since Phalorm fell at this very place.
Wickwock perks. This elf seems not hostile and very knowledgeable.
Tartak [common]: History lesson aside -- were you on the ferry? Or are you just out here in a bog being spooky?
Wickwock looks puzzled. Why put aside a history lesson?
Lothuialeth [common]: The ferry. Yes. I sailed the seas, and then fell onto the shore.
Wickwock [common]: "So I am still wondering, about that cold and not being it, can you share your method of it? I am pretty sure hypothermia is going to grab us any moment."
Lothuialeth [common]: If it is warmth you seek, then it awaits within.
Wickwock [sylvan]: [translation] "We indeed find ourselves near frozen and we seek aid, if you have it in your hands."
[understood by: lothuialeth, wickwock]
Wickwock [common]: "And let me guess, inside just isn't opening up? Let me at it."
Wickwock trots over, avoiding rusty metal.
Tartak carefully makes his way over, keeping a wary eye on the pale elf.
Lothuialeth sweeps her arm, as if welcoming Wickwock to the door. "Test yourself against it."
Wickwock checks. The elf activated the elvish part, so let's see, these bits are in Dwarf, and they suggest ...
GM: The three of you see a great door of black stone. Embossed in this door are two elaborate...not runes so much as monograms. Twisting elvish with exquisite flourished, and beneath that, a geometric depiction of dwarvish letters.
(Wickwock): (Also, can I Insight Loth during all this chatter?)
DM Silverdawn: Sure!
Wickwock: +4 [1d20+4 = 7]
DM Silverdawn: She's a blank page.
GM: Loth, when you spoke Sylvan, the elven monogram glowed in response.
Lothuialeth tilts her head, and then speaks again.
Lothuialeth [elvish]: [translation] I am of the blood. Open, for I command it.
GM: The elven monogram glows with a soft hum.
Wickwock squints and sounds out what she can of the dwarven lettering.
Wickwock [dwarvish]: [translation] A .. that's a long a ... way too many k's ..."
GM: The dwarven monogram glows with the sound of a dull bell.
Tartak keeps an eye on their surroundings, shivering the while.
GM: The door opens with a slow grind of heavy stone.
Posted Mar 22, 19 · OP
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Tartak [Common]: Just wait, we'll find an old orc ruin and I'll get us inside.
Wickwock [Common]: "Summer sun, that's a neat trick!"
GM: Warm, stale air pours out over you.
Wickwock peers in. Yay darkvision!
Lothuialeth [Common]: Phalorm was a kingdom rare indeed. Elves and dwarves lived in harmony together, only to die and fade into shadow. This place carries their memory.
DM Silverdawn: You hear very very faint voices from within.
Wickwock [Common]: "Maybe they still do, because someone's talking in there."
Lothuialeth [Common]: You would do well to not heed the voices you hear within.
Lothuialeth [Common]: They are likely shadows, and will whisper darkness into your ear.
Tartak [Common]: Wait, if this door was sealed, how did they get-- oh.
Wickwock [Common]: "I'll heed anything that offers warmth. Tak, you have that cold mail to make into warm mail and that really big blade, you go first!"
Tartak [Common]: Great. Well, if the choice is to freeze to death out here or warm up fighting inside, I'll take the second option.
Tartak [Common]: Before we get into a situation where battle might happen, what do you two know about fighting?
Tartak [Common]: Tactics, you know.
Wickwock [Common]: "I have read about them!"
Lothuialeth [Common]: I have known blood and death. I seek neither.
Wickwock [Common]: I will not recite the Five Tactics of Master Stronghand right now though.
Tartak [Common]: Right. I hit stuff. Shocker, I know. You get hurt, I can patch you up a little. Either of you two need light?
Wickwock [Common]: Light is what puts color in our lives but need is a strong word.
Tartak [Common]: You talk like my uncle. All right, I'll take point.
Tartak heads inside.
Wickwock follows on his heels. He must have a wise uncle. But she seals her lips because it is time to lightfoot.
GM: Tartak's footfalls are heavy against the stone ground. The three of you enter into crypt. The air is cold and dry, and mercifully still. Without the wind battering against your skin, you feel the first hint of relief since you'd arrived here. No sooner do you take five steps does the door shudder, scrape, and close shut behind you. A booming echo rattles the ground as the door comes together.
GM: You hear voices in the silence that follows.
Mature Voice: What in the nine hells?
Wickwock subvocalizes an exclamation.
Tartak [Orc]: [Translation] Gut-feasting gremlins!
Tartak silences himself after his surprised outburst.
Mature Voice: What was that?
High-Pitched Voice: I dunno. Earthquake?
Mature Voice: Don't be a moron. Go and check.
High-Pitched Voice: Hey! I heard orcish!
GM: There are rapid footfalls. A pair of goblins scrabble across the hallways. They stop the moment they see you and shriek in terror. Behind them, a man follows carrying a torch as he rounds a corner. He sees you, swears, and draws a sword.
Tartak advances and readies his halberd to receive the attackers.
Tartak [Common]: Come on then!
Human Leader: You blithering idiots! You told me no one was following us!
Goblin shrieks a battlecry and plunges forth. It whips a sling around and looses a stone at Tartak. The shot ricochets off your chainmail.
Goblin follows suit, flinging a stone at Tartak with deadly accuracy.
GM: The sling finds a weak point in your armor and crushes against bone.
Tartak staggers as he is hit in the head.
Lothuialeth [Goblin]: [Translation] Flee, or die for my mistress. I care not either way.
Goblin 's eyes widen in sheer, gibbering terror. Why is an elf shouting threats in Goblin?
Lothuialeth raises her hand, and launches a blast of ghostly energy at one of the goblins.
GM: Your blast grazes one of the goblin's shoulders.
Wickwock scowls. This is not hospitable. She trots forward, blowing on her fingers to warm them, then dips to a pouch and flicks out a dart at the right hand goblin.
GM: Your dart cuts into its leather armor. It shrieks in pain.
Human Leader advances, torch in hand, sword in the other.
Tartak calls out to the Red Knight to give him strength, then advances on the enemy, trading halberd for maul as he goes.
GM: The Blessing of the Red Knight stitches your wounds. You're bruised, but no longer wounded.
GM: Daggers come out, thrusting at your armor and finding no purchase.
Lothuialeth launches a second blast, this one finding its mark.
GM: A blast of dark energy slams into one of the goblins, dropping it into a crumpled heap.
Lothuialeth [Goblin]: [Translation] "You belong to my mistress now."
Lothuialeth turns her eyes on the other goblin.
Wickwock charges, legs pumping, another dart preceding her.
GM: Your dart strikes the goblin with perfect accuracy. Its head snaps backward, followed by its body.
Human Leader scowls in contempt as his two goblin companions fall to the ground. He spins his scimitar in his wrist. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"
Human Leader scores a slash against Tartak.
Wickwock [Common]: Points for curiosity!
Tartak [Common]: We used the door, dead man!
Human Leader raises his scimitar, barely defending himself from Tartak’s blow. The sheer force of your maul slams past his guard, rattling him.
Goblin expires unceremoniously.
Lothuialeth whips her hand in the air, flicking another ethereal blast of magic, this time at the human.
GM: Your blast shatters bone. His scream is cut short, and he drops.
Lothuialeth [Common]: They came in search of treasure, and left with less than they came.
Tartak grunts and takes stock of his injuries. Uncle would be unimpressed.
Wickwock [Common]: You said you were a good patcher. You should start there.
Wickwock points at the massive bruise on Tak's face.
Tartak [Common]: Already had to use what I could do. Little blighter got me good.
GM: The man's torch falls to the ground, its flame guttering.
Lothuialeth [Common]: The air is warm, the shadows dark.
Tartak stoops to check what they had.
Wickwock tsks and tsks. She scoops up the torch before it can go out.
Lothuialeth [Common]: Rest if you cannot continue. The dark ahead will wait.
GM: Tartak finds the following: Six gold pieces, two slings, fourteen bullets, a healer's kit, receipts for a gambling pool, a deck of cards, a small pouch of tobacco.
Wickwock [Common]: "Let us see, was this man a scholar? Was he in here to learn?"
Wickwock squints at Tak's findings. "No research paraphernalia at ALL."
Lothuialeth [Common]: The door was sealed, and not breached by them. They carried not the blood, nor the skill of tongue to see it opened. Their feet carried them through a different door.
Tartak leaves the slings and sling bullets where they lay and gathers up the rest, flicking two gold pieces each to the elf and gnome. "Fair's fair on the splitting of loot."
Wickwock [Common]: Well-watered roots, you're a thinker, possible madam!
Wickwock snatches the gold from the air rather nimbly.
Tartak [Common]: Let's see what they found and where they came in, then. Maybe there's another way out.
Wickwock also takes a sling and some bullets.
Tartak pushes himself back to his feet, grunts, and starts forward.
Wickwock [Common]: I am Apprentice Wickwock and it is a pleasure to have you helping against these uncouths!
Wickwock beams at the elf and waits for a name.
Tartak [Common]: Yeah. Tartak. Just Tak is fine. Sorry I called you a bog witch.
Lothuialeth [Common]: I am Lothuialeth.
Wickwock mouths that to herself.
Wickwock [Common]: Lothuialeth, a pretty name, cognate feminine, so definite madam.
GM: With the bodies of two goblins and an armed man lying on the ground behind you, the three of you press on. The sound of your footsteps carries down black stone corridors with fluted pillars along the walls. Here and there, you find friezes carved into the walls depicting elves and dwarves, stylized, in battle against swarms of goblinoid creatures. The fading light of the fallen torch lends these freizes an eerie, lifelike quality.
GM: The passageway proceeds about a hundred more feet before curving to the south, becoming a flight of stairs that curves up and around, ending in a door. Someone has blasted the hinges, and it hangs on its side.
Tartak [Common]: So who built this place? I'm not up on my history in this part of the world.
-> Lothuialeth: All you know is that this crypt was built to honor and mourn the loss of both dwarves and elves in that terrible battle against the goblin races. It bears the hallmark of dwarf and elven stonework. You don't know who built it. There have been stories of restless dead, however.
Lothuialeth [Common]: The door was sealed by elvish and dwarvish mark. Those who built it mourn the loss of Phalorm. The dead interred within are restless.
Wickwock frowns at the vandalism.
Tartak regards the door. "I don't think that dead man and his goblins did this on their own."
-> Tartak: Even without using your Divine Sense, you know there's something restless and angry beyond that door. Desecration seems to pour through the edges of the door.
Tartak peels back his lips in a disdainful sneer.
Wickwock sniffs at the blasted hinges. Any scent impressions?
Tartak [Common]: Something's wrong here. Whole thing reeks of something unnatural.
-> Wickwock: Someone definitely used alchemical explosives on the hinges on this side to blow this door open. Recently, too.
Wickwock [Common]: Well no matter how unnatural the place itself may be, and that's sad, a place of harmony going maybe bad, this was very natural alchemy here. Of the boom kind! They just did it, too!
Tartak [Common]: I don't think whatever's in there is going to be friendly. You ready for another round?
Wickwock [Common]: They did it from this side, so either we missed a door or ... we must have missed a door! Because I wager -- which I should not do, odds are not good to chance - that those uncouths were the culprits.
Wickwock tamps her staff's butt on the floor. "Let us discover what they could not!"
Tartak [Common]: That or something woke up after they barged through and filled the passage behind them. Like a windy rothe.
Lothuialeth [Common]: We will discover nothing without opening the door, and stepping through.
Tartak steps in.
Wickwock follows!
GM: You see a remarkably well-lit mausoleum with a great, almost box-shaped sarcophagus of heavy marble at the very center. This mausoleum, strangely enough, resembles a workshop, complete with an atelier, an old forge, an anvil, and several stone niches. Or, at least, it would, under normal circumstances.
(Tartak): What's lighting it? Some kind of ambient magic?
GM: Because what you see in front of you when you step inside is, in fact, an old workshop...several feet off the ground and floating about. Old bottles hover in the air. Tables and chairs of solid stone twist and turn in the air as if they were suspended by invisible strings. And the source of light is none other than a spectral dwarf standing on top of the sarcophagus, looking utterly raw with pure fury. He's screaming something at the top of his lungs, but the words sound like distant echoes of scraping stone and rumbling rocks, which somehow sounds vaguely dwarven.
Posted Mar 22, 19 · OP
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Tartak tightens his grip on the maul's haft.
Spectral Dwarf [Dwarvish]: [Translation] May the Morndinsamman grind your bones to dust! You miserable, wretched, misbegotten goblin-spawn!
[understood by: Wickwock]
Spectral Dwarf [Dwarvish]: [Translation] Give me my damn tools back! Give them back!
Give me my damn tools back! Give them back!
[understood by: Wickwock]
Spectral Dwarf stops and whirls in step, or tries to. You see the dwarf try to step off his sarcophagus, but he's yanked back by an invisible force.
Spectral Dwarf , enraged, launches a vase at Tartak, who happens to be first in line.
Tartak [Common]: Whoa!
GM: Tartak deftly dodges the vase. It smashes against the wall. Ashes scatter everywhere.
Wickwock [Dwarvish]: [Translation] Hey now, tool-man, we are not the goblins! Hold yer britches! Talk sense and we'll find the tools and there'll be nary a bone ground.
Wickwock [Common]: He's mad about his stolen tools! Which he should be!
-> Tartak: When you duck the vase, your head dips low enough to catch sight of, beyond the sarcophagus, on the opposite end of the room, a dead goblin. Its skull has been crushed in by an anvil dropped from some height.
GM: Wickwock, the dwarf pauses to consider your words--and then decides, apparently, that it doesn't like your tone and launches a stone pestle at you. You dodge. The pestle smacks against the wall.
Tartak [Common]: Well, tell him we didn't take them!
Lothuialeth [Common]: Tools that the man and his goblins did not carry.
Wickwock [Common]: I told him! Plainly stated!
Tartak [Common]: Quit throwing things, you stunted spectral git! We didn't take your tools, we're just trying to get out of here!
(Tartak): Is there another exit from the room?
Spectral Dwarf regards Tartak cautiously, then narrows his eyes.
Wickwock [Common]: Point of order, we're trying to get warm.
DM Silverdawn: Yes, on the opposite end of the room, near the thing you saw.
Tartak braces for another object being thrown.
Lothuialeth [Common]: What we seek lies in the room beyond. We can help neither ourselves nor the restless dead without crossing through it.
Spectral Dwarf speaks in a florid, ancient version of Common. "I see your light, paladin. Hasn't your god taught you any manners? Why can't you speak to me in a civilized tongue?"
Wickwock [Dwarvish]: [Translation] As to the poxed goblins, they are feeding their blood to the hallway floor, along with the human they had roping them along.
Spectral Dwarf: "You see? The halfling speaks fluently, her barbaric accent notwithstanding."
Tartak [Common]: Yeah, well. The clerics of Tempus aren't much for florid prose.
Wickwock winces at the accent remark. She never could get that back-of-throat rumble.
Wickwock [Common]: Er, gnome. Very different taxonomy.
Spectral Dwarf: "Don't correct me! I'm not!"
GM: Something flies across the room.
Spectral Dwarf: "In the mood!"
Tartak [Common]: Look, I get that you're upset about your tools. I would be too. But it looks like we're in a mutual situation and we might be able to help each other.
Wickwock [Common]: "Sorry sorry sorry! It's just Deneir hates inaccuracy and so I get carried away with fixing it. I like to fix things that aren't right. Like your missing tools."
Spectral Dwarf: "Hear me, paladin. A dwarf's tools are his greatest treasure. Do you know what it feels like to have a goblin's filthy hands prying around in your workshop? It's a disgrace. It's a violation. I won't suffer it."
Lothuialeth [Elvish]: [Translation] Two goblins have been slain, their hands shall never again touch any of your works.
Spectral Dwarf eyes Lothuialeth and grumbles.
Tartak [Common]: What'd you tell him?
Lothuialeth [Common]: Of death.
Wickwock [Common]: I think he's pretty aware of it.
Lothuialeth [Common]: Not his.
Tartak [Common]: Listen, we fought a couple goblins and some grave robber back that way, but they didn't have any tools with them that I noticed. Were there others that came through?
Wickwock [Common]: Oh! Right. I told him too. That's when he called me civilized.
Spectral Dwarf: "One of those misbegotten creatures wandered in through here not an hour ago."
Tartak [Common]: And not that one, yeah?
Spectral Dwarf: "I...may have killed it. Or scared it away. I don't know! I can't sense the fire of its life anymore."
Tartak points to the one whose head is squashed by an anvil over on the side.
Spectral Dwarf turns. "Which one? I don't see anything."
Tartak goes over to it.
Tartak [Common]: Saw it when you threw that urn at my head.
GM: Tartak sees a dead goblin with an anvil where its head should be.
Wickwock follows, face wavering between disgust and fascination.
GM: It carries a backpack and several scattered belongings.
Tartak stoops to check.
Spectral Dwarf mutters. "So I did get it."
Wickwock helps. Tools?
Tartak [Common]: Yeah, you got him. Nice aim.
GM: Tartak, you find various alchemical sundry, some vials, and an exquisite warhammer crafted from stone black as night. Something cold touches your hand, and beside the hammer, you see a skull of purest silver.
Tartak [Common]: Got a hammer here, some reagents, and some kind of silver skull? That what you're missing?
Spectral Dwarf: Silver skull? No, that must be Iniarv's. I couldn't give less of a damn about that bag of bones. You said you found a hammer.
Tartak [Common]: Yeah.
Tartak passes his open hand over the objects and considers.
Wickwock [Common]: Yep, weapons grade, black stone.
GM: The object radiates power. It's been blessed by Moradin, and carries spiritual strength behind its swing.
Spectral Dwarf: Oh sweet merciful Angarradh, thank you. Don't stand there gawking. Place it back on the altar by the wall.
Tartak [Common]: Might be better if you touch this thing, Wickwock. Moradin probably wouldn't like someone with orc blood touching his stuff.
Wickwock eyes the thing. Can she even lift it?
DM Silverdawn: It's a warhammer, so yes.
Wickwock [Common]: I can do that! I have led several rites. Officially!
Lothuialeth [Common]: Be not afraid. The spirit in whose hand this once belonged is watching, and waiting.
Wickwock hefts the warhammer. "Well, that did not calm me down. I was fine until there was an audience, branchsnags!" She steps with solemnity towards the altar and gently, with a sense of ceremony ... checks if she can reach the altar top.
Wickwock is 3.5 feet tall.
GM: You can. The altar is dwarf-sized, so you just need to lean up a bit. It's not so much an altar as a solid block of stone with a depression at the center, into which the hammer neatly fits. The dwarf seems to slump in relief when the hammer returns to its rightful place. Rage evaporates from his features.
GM: There is a clatter as every suspended object falls to the ground.
Wickwock [Common]: Right, what's next? Tools plural means more than one.
Tartak [Common]: I guess a hammer is a bunch of tools in one, if you really think about it.
Spectral Dwarf: Thank you.
Wickwock [Common]: A wise point, Tak, very wise.
Spectral Dwarf: If you were here to rob us, you would have made off with my hammer. Why are you here?
Wickwock bows to the ghost. "You are welcome, toolworker."
Lothuialeth [Common]: The air is cold, and from the sea we came. Shelter we came seeking, but looters we found.
Wickwock [Common]: We are here because we got ferry-wrecked and it's a harsh winter, which probably doesn't impinge on you in here, and looking for shelter got us to this place which is much finer than a random cave.
Wickwock gives Loth an admiring look. Damn but elves just ooze poetry.
Tartak [Common]: Yeah, what they said.
Spectral Dwarf: I wouldn't rest here, if I were you. Those who defiled our crypt are still here, hunting.
Tartak [Common]: Don't you worry about that. We'll be on our way, and with any luck, fell a few more goblins on our way.
Wickwock [Common]: Suppose Iniarve wants that skull back?
Spectral Dwarf is already fading as Tartak speaks. In moments, the ghost is gone, and a stillness falls on this room.
Wickwock [Common]: Also, do you have that life sense working to tell us where the goblins ar-- triproots.
Lothuialeth [Common]: He returns to his rest, a dark and silent sleep. Let us not wake him from it.
Tartak [Common]: Agreed. Come on, let's get out of here.
Tartak heads for the opposite exit.
GM: You step gingerly around dead goblin.
Wickwock follows. The half-orc does a great job of meatshielding.
Posted Mar 22, 19 · OP
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GM: The exit leads down a wide, broad flight of stone stairs, continuing straight down a good three hundred feet or so. Here, the halls are broad. Every ten feet, you see a statue of an armored elf, sword pointed to the earth, along the left wall. Along the right wall, an adjoining statue of a dwarven warrior, axe resting against the earth.
Lothuialeth [Common]: A sight this world may never see again, elf and dwarf honored equally with one another.
GM: Eventually, you reach the end of the hall. A massive, buttressed arch opens into the nave of what looks like a huge temple of some sort. The floors are tiled with elven leaves and dwarven hammers. Pillars three times the breadth of Tartak reach up toward a high ceiling.
Tartak [Common]: Wow.
Wickwock tries to memorize it all. The temple will be so happy about this.
GM: Goblins are scrounging about the shadows, as if searching for something. At the end of this temple is a man in a hooded robe, staring at a door.
Hooded Figure [Sylvan]: [Translation] Open, curse you.
[understood by: Lothuialeth, Wickwock]
Hooded Figure [Dwarvish]: [Translation] By all the gods. What do I have to say?
[understood by: Wickwock]
GM: None of them have seen you.
Wickwock whispers to Tartak, "He's trying to open it same way the outside door got open."
Hooded Figure calls out to one of the goblins.
Tartak makes a quieting gesture. "Yeah, makes sense. How you two want to play this?"
Hooded Figure: "Any sign of the skull?"
Wickwock hides against a wall. Oh dear.
Lothuialeth lowers her voice.
(Wickwock): How many goblins does it seem to be?
Lothuialeth [Common]: It is death that should meet them. Let them be welcomed into its embrace.
DM Silverdawn: You see three goblins. Two small ones with daggers. One with studded leather armor and a helmet.
Wickwock whispers, "Tak on studs, me on daggers, Lothuialeth on hood?"
Tartak [Common]: I was going to say I'll distract all the goblins while you two focus on the hooded man, but given what condition I'm in that might not go well. Either way, I think Loth should do what she can to burn him down where he stands.
Lothuialeth [Common]: There are more subtle methods.
(lots of ooc planning here, cut for space)
(Wickwock): I could sneak in to the right and hide so they don't know I'm there, maybe. Then you louder folk do stuff?
Lothuialeth [Common]: There may be no need. The darkness can embrace them. The lone goblin will be left to you.
Wickwock nods and slips inside, sneaky sneaky.
Tartak [Common]: Do it, then. I'll go on your mark.
Lothuialeth will start casting her spell as Wickwock slips away.
GM: Wickwock kicks a loose rock as she slips away. The rock tumbles down, loudly, echoing through the temple.
Hooded Figure: "What was that?"
Hooded Figure: "I told you, I'm trying to concentr--"
Tartak [Orc]: [Translation] Shit.
Hooded Figure looks over his shoulder and freezes.
Wickwock mutters, "Icesnap."
Hooded Figure: "Intruders! Where in the hells is my patrol when I need them?"
Wickwock squeaks, "Fifth Tactic time!" She falls back into the hallway and takes cover, staff ready to whap anything that gets in range.
GM: A sling stone flies across the temple and strikes against Wick.
Lothuialeth finished casting her spell, with a soft whisper in sylvan.
Lothuialeth [Sylvan]: [Translation] Let the darkness take you, into the realm of nightmares. Sleep...
[understood by: Lothuialeth, Wickwock]
GM: There is a general surge of violence and energy as all four enemies rush to their feet and--
GM: --then stop, and drop, and curl up.
GM: Snoring happens.
Lothuialeth nods at Tartak. "Do your bloody work."
Tartak blinks as everything sort of just... sags and dozes off.
Tartak [Common]: Huh. Nice work.
Tartak applies his own multipurpose tool for this situation.
Wickwock rubs at the ache from that sling stone. Which is most of her.
Tartak will dispatch the goblins quickly and cleanly, no sense being overly violent about it. He'll pause at the hooded man.
Lothuialeth [Common]: I with him, if you wish to learn.
Tartak [Common]: Any sense keeping him alive?
Hooded Figure lies asleep on the ground. He was carrying a dagger, which falls to the floor with him, and also some kind of holy symbol.
Wickwock examines the holy symbol.
Wickwock [Common]: "Depends, always depends. Speak softly."
DM Silverdawn: The symbol depicts a laughing, crowned skull on a solid black hexagon. It is made of lacquered wood and painted. It's the symbol of Velsharoon, Lord of Necromancy.
Tartak hogties the hooded man with his length of rope and makes sure he is gagged.
Wickwock [Common]: This is a terrible god and this man is terrible for following Him.
GM: His hood drops off as you move him about. His head is shaven and tattooed.
Lothuialeth [Common]: Soon he will be in a dark embrace. But first, he must wake.
Tartak [Common]: He won't be going anywhere. We should bring him to wherever the law is around here, if there is any.
Thayan Cleric stirs awake. He snorts and grunts a bit, not unlike a schoolboy resisting the beginning of a new day. Then his eyes snap open and he screams in rage into the gag. He writhes uselessly.
Lothuialeth places her hand gently against his cheek, and gazes into his eyes with a gentle smile.
Wickwock tells him sternly, "You've only yourself to blame."
Thayan Cleric looks at Loth with what is at first contempt, then anger, then slow, steady terror. And then he relaxes, giggling in his gag.
Lothuialeth [Sylvan]: [Translation] Yes, that's it. All is well...
[understood by: Lothuialeth, Wickwock]
Thayan Cleric: Mmhmmmmmm.
Lothuialeth ungags the man.
Thayan Cleric: Yes. All is quite well, mistress. And may I say what an honor it is to be brought low at your feet.
Lothuialeth [Common]: Of course it is. And you are welcome here. Tell me, what is your name?
Thayan Cleric: "Mistmyr, your grace."
Lothuialeth [Common]: Mistmyr. Yes. You have done well to make it this far. What did you seek beyond those doors?
Mistmyr: "Only the vault of Iniarv, which holds untold treasure and unspeakable power."
Lothuialeth [Common]: And you sought this power for yourself, not knowing what it was?
Mistmyr: "Well...that is...yes?"
Lothuialeth [Common]: You were missing a key, were you not? A silver skull.
Mistmyr: "Yessss. A silver skull. The skull of Iniarv. Miserable stone-skulled goblins. I can't rely on them for anything."
Lothuialeth [Common]: Shhh. They are dead now, punished for their failure. With the skull, you need only speak words of dwarvish and elvish to open the way, then?
Mistmyr: "Exactly. Exactly! You're so brilliant, mistress."
Lothuialeth [Common]: Of course. You have done well Mistmyr. Now close your eyes, and go to your rest. My Queen awaits you.
Lothuialeth leans in and presses her lips against his forehead, and then cuts his throat with a dagger.
Mistmyr 's expression never changes, even as his blood gushes from his throat. His head sags.
Tartak [Common]: Hey! What gives? He was helpless!
Lothuialeth [Common]: He was smiling. He accepted his fate.
Wickwock looks askance at Loth. And steps back from the spilling blood. "That is very cold of you and I hope you remember that we two here are not ready for death because, well, we're not."
Lothuialeth [Common]: Death will not visit you this day. It came for him.
Tartak bites back further comment and turns to the door.
Tartak [Common]: So what now?
Lothuialeth [Common]: We open the door.
GM: As Tartak approaches the door with the skull in his bag, runes and glyphs glow upon its surface in three languages. Common, Dwarvish, and Elvish.
Tartak [Common]: I think you two are up.
GM: The glyphs read: "Pale death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings."
Lothuialeth [Elvish]: [Translation] And so death beats upon this door tonight.
Wickwock [Dwarvish]: [Translation] Right, let's get this keg tapping. And hold the pale death, please."
Tartak [Common]: "Pale death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings?" What's that supposed to mean?
Lothuialeth [Common]: That death comes to all, no matter who they are in life. There is no escaping it.
Wickwock [Common]: And if this is a shrine to the one that carries it, well, we'd best put it to rights.
Posted Mar 22, 19 · OP
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GM: The doors shudder, groan, and creak open with a screech of stone against iron. They swing inward, into a small room. A chamber of stone. Unadorned. Featureless. But for a single throne at the center, and upon the throne, a skeleton in rotted robes, missing a head.
Wickwock [Common]: ... I am not so sure restoring that thing is right though.
Tartak blinks at the skeleton.
Lothuialeth [Common]: Tartak, you carry it in your hands. Return it to whom it belongs.
Tartak [Common]: Hold on a moment...
Wickwock [Common]: I mean, maybe it means pale death beats at anyone that wakes that up.
Tartak grips his holy symbol in his left hand.
Wickwock skirts to the side. Just in case.
GM: Curiously enough, Tartak, this area has not been desecrated. But you do sense the presence of undead. Specifically, you sense it upon the skull you carry.
Tartak [Common]: I've got a bad feeling about this.
Lothuialeth [Common]: Iniarv was an elvish mystic. Restore to him what he has lost, so that he may rest.
Tartak grunts and fishes out the silver skull.
Wickwock dithers. Creepy elf death dealer here, possibly likes necromancy, but she's right about a lot of things.
Tartak advances to the seated skeleton and places the skull atop the neck. He backs the hell up after that.
GM: The skull fits into place. For a moment, there is nothing. Then a pulse of magic flows through the skeleton, and it shudders. A pale, spectral light gleams in its eyes.
Iniarv: ...Oh, by Rillifane's hoary beard. What year is it?
Wickwock [Common]: "Um. It's 1357."
Iniarv: "Thirteen fifty seven?! It's thirteen fif--oh, blow me to Maztica."
Iniarv: "I was hoping for at least nine, ten thousand. Ugh."
Iniarv straightens his skull. He eyes Tartak. So to speak. "You have very rough hands." He creaks to his feet.
Tartak [Common]: Thank you.
Wickwock [Common]: Can't you go back to sleep then, sir? I mean we are very sorry to disturb you but it seems there have been robbers trying to loot you and there are some busted doors so it may not be so very safe here now.
Tartak [Common]: And yeah, what she said. This place is falling apart and you had a goblin infestation.
Wickwock [Common]: Past tense but possibly future tense too.
Iniarv: "I suppose I'd better get up, then. Arm some traps, perhaps. Maybe create a golem guardian if I have the time."
Wickwock raises a finger. "We'd like to leave first. Well maybe not this moment. We're barely dry and it's deathly cold out there for us flesh types."
Iniarv: "You know, when Phalorm fell and my kind and the dwarf-kind died by the thousands to *goblins,* I told myself...I don't want to live on Faerun anymore. I'm going to come back ten thousand years from now when all the goblins have bred themselves out of existence."
Iniarv pauses and looks at Wickwock. "Oh."
Wickwock [Common]: Point of order, sir? Goblins breed lots more goblins. That was a disgusting class.
Lothuialeth [Common]: The air is cold, and we came seeking shelter. It is looters we found, and looters we slew. One came seeking an artifact of power that rests in your chamber.
Iniarv: "I'm the only thing that rests in my chamber, my dear, although I agree that I am, in fact, powerful."
Wickwock nods rapidly.
Iniarv: "Where were you going?"
Tartak [Common]: Neverwinter.
Wickwock [Common]: To Neverwinter. To the temple.
Iniarv: "Neverwinter. Neverwinter....that little fishing village? I can have you there in a heartbeat."
Lothuialeth [Common]: A fishing village it is no longer.
Iniarv: "...Oh. Right."
Wickwock [Common]: Sweetberries! You can? You would?
Iniarv: "Of course I can. I'm only Iniarv, not some backwater hedge-mage. It's the least I can do for you, after you cleaned this place of its goblin problem."
Wickwock beams.
Lothuialeth [Common]: And what will you do, while you wait for the ages to pass?
Iniarv doesn't so much sigh as...try to.
Iniarv: "I don't know yet."
Iniarv: "Build some kind of menacing tower, perhaps."
Iniarv: "Have you all your belongings, then?"
Tartak does a quick check before nodding.
Tartak [Common]: Can't believe we're about to do this...
Wickwock [Common]: Do you have books of olden lore? The temple and you could trade. A lending sharing program.
Wickwock makes sure all her stuff is in hand and gathers close.
Iniarv: "Hah! No. Not if I ever expect to get my books back. Well then, farewell to you."
Iniarv snaps his fingerbones.
GM: There is a strange warmth, and a swirl of light. A brightness fills your eyes, and then a feeling of weightlessness, and profound speed. After a moment of disorientation, you arrive...a few feet off the ground and crash, face first, into a rug of exquisite Calimshani make, to the screams of shock and surprise as several people hurry away from you. Someone was playing music before it stopped abruptly, and one or two wine bottles shatter. When you come to your senses, you realize three things: First, it's deliciously warm and indoors where you are; second, you are surrounded by several wealthy looking people, some of whom are dressed in the fine silks and jewelry of courtesans, and third--for those of you passingly familiar with Neverwinter--you've been dropped into one of the many boudoirs of the Moonstone Mask.
GM: But at least you're out of the cold.
Posted Mar 22, 19 · OP
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<3 Issa. Thank you.
"Now, my bright lance, precede me, and lead me to his head."

-Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1942
Posted Mar 23, 19