"The Story So Far" is an ongoing
series recapping the details of a Dungeons & Dragons campaign
that I've been running since 2002. Links to the previous entries can be found
here:
Prologue
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14
I've "fictionalized" the session reports in a likely-vain attempt to make them more "entertaining."
***
When we last left our heroes, they'd liberated the nearby logging camp from the curse of a Schaden Dämon. This required an overnight stay in the camp so we pick things up on:
Starday, Earthlife 4'th, 1492
By the time the group lugged the comatose Giran Oakenshield back to the lumber camp, the sun was beaming down directly overhead. With the Schaden Dämon now vanquished, a palpable feeling of hope and tranquility had fallen over the environs. This was further underscored when Vestine's sweet song of beckoning once again lured the unicorn out of its secret glade.
As if compelled to eliminate the distasteful presence of blight, the majestic creature snorted, shook its mane and pranced over to the inert form of Giran Oakenshield with unearthly elegance. As the ethereal creature approached, Roman urged his companions to back away.
The unicorn then performed what could only be described as an equine curtsy, bending at the knee to gingerly tap the unconscious form with its spiraled horn. The dwarf immediately gasped to life, as if narrowly saved from drowning.
"MORADIN'S BEARD!" he roared and immediately began to buck and struggle against the bonds of the stretcher. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THAT??? WHERE AM I??? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU PEOPLE?!? WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?"
In reaction to this unexpected chaotic energy, the mythical creature pawed at the ground with its cloven hoofs, backed away from the scene and then melted into the dense forest as if summoned back to its natural plane of existence.
Roman eventually screwed up enough courage to loosen Giran's bonds and then convince him to put down the ax he'd torn from a nearby tree stump. All of this occurred under a constant chorus of "OooOooo's" and "Ahhhs" from the small crowd of slack-jawed gawkers that had gathered. Clearly this was high entertainment to a bunch of sheltered sheltered woodsmen.
After Lorelei and Kerbin both laid claim to pets that Beren the foreman promised to every member of the group (namely Riley the dog and Toothy the wolf), the group set off to Castebridge with the newly-revitalized Giran in tow.
"I don't know what venom those mongrels dipped their arrows in, but it's left my blood permanently aflame for revenge," Oakenshield growled. "I need to get back to Kiras Toth immediately."
Hesitant to further stoke the dwarf's ire, Roman chose his words carefully.
"If it puts your mind at ease, the fortress was secure when we left."
Giran looked up at Roman with a sheepish glance and then suddenly stopped in his tracks.
"I'm sorry, my friends," he said. "Waking up from that cursed slumber was like being thrown into an icy lake while in a dead sleep. If even half what you said is true, I own you all a debt that can scarce be repaid."
Bria suddenly cleared her throat and stepped to the forefront.
"Funny you should mention that 'cuz this guy named Ulfgar said that he'd make us some masterwork weapons and deliver 'em to us, sooooo...should I, like, tell you what I want or will it be, like, a random thing?"
The dwarf laughed heartily and shoved the thief. The gesture was meant to be playful but Bria reflexively found herself reflexively palming the pommel of her rapier in its sheathe.
"Well, lad..."
"Um...I'm not a 'lad'..."
"...you have until we reach the northern road to tell me what you all want from my forge. Because, as soon as I get home, I'm going instruct Ulfgar to craft the weapon of your dreams and then see them delivered right into your resilient little mitts."
Giran then worked his way through the crowd, slapping Roman alarmingly low on the back, fist-bumping Pol, picking up an incredulous Kirbin, hugging and kissing a flabbergasted Korrick and then coming toa dead stop in front of Lorelei, clearly deterred by her crossed arms and "don't-even-think-about-it" facial expression. With that, he spun on his heel and resumed his course towards Castebridge, kicking small rocks off the cobble road as he went.
"Um, Mister Oakeysheild...," a red-faced Korrick ventured as he struggled to catch up to his kin, "I'd bedder go with you on your trip, 'cuz that road's pretty dangerous right now."
"Nonsense, boy," Giran thundered. "I've traveled that trail more times than you've had hot meals. I'll be fine."
Roman trotted on just ahead of him.
"Respectfully, sir, byt I think Korrick is right. We encountered a lot of enemies: worgs, goblins, orcs, giant spiders...dragons."
Upon hearing this, Giran stopped dead in his tracks. As the group coalesced around, they noticed that the dwarf's complexion was even more waxen than when he was poisoned.
"Dragons?" he parroted.
"Yes," Pol thundered. "Well, one particularly nasty bastard. Likely the same one that destroyed your watchtower. Frankly it's a miracle that we're all not dead."
The dwarven lord swallowed hard and started walking again, casting a wary eye skyward.
"Yes, well...point well taken," he intoned. "Um, perhaps we should pick up the pace. I'm keen on a hot meal and a sleep that's not involuntary."
The rest of the way home, Bria babbled about her dream rapiercrossbowbattlestaff to anyone within earshot that seemed tolerant.
***
“BROTHER ROMAN!”
The priest winced. He'd just escorted Giran Oakenshield to the refectory for a meal and was hoping to sneak off to his cell for a quick nap before tackling the group's next action item. For the umpteenth time, he cursed the guard-dog-like attributes of Malachan, the abbey's Almoner. Before turning to face the shady-looking priest, Roman took a second to wipe the pained grimace off his face and replace it with a look of vague civility.
"Yes, Brother Malachan, how can I help you?"
The Almoner's dark, piercing eyes probed Roman's haggard countenance in such a lingering manner that it felt transgressive.
"You have been in absentia quite a bit lately, Brother Roman," Malachan droned. "This trend is growing increasingly...worrisome."
A month ago, this thinly-veiled accusation would have sent Roman slinking away like a cowed dog. But the compounding horrors he'd witnessed over the past few weeks rendered such chain-rattling completely toothless.
"Moira is fully aware of my charges, Brother Malachan. If you have questions about my comings and goings, I suggest you speak with her."
With that, Roman turned to leave but - like a snakebite - the Almoner's gaunt hand shot out and seized the cleric by his tunic.
"Abbess Moira is relinquishing her duties, Brother," Malachan hissed. "As such, I will be assuming her station and you will be tasked to distribute alms...in addition to your regular service schedule and whatever the Master of Novices requires of you. These new duties are to begin immediately."
Out of the corner of his eye Roman saw a slight, back-lit figure round a corner in the cellarium, witness this tense scene and then immediately melt back into the gloom. Irritated by the lack of attention, Malachan gave him a shake.
"Do I make myself clear, Brother Roman?" the Almoner said in a tone of voice that did not invite debate.
Roman tore himself away with a bit more force than he intended.
"Yeah, I understand," he heard himself say as he straightened his tabbard.
Malachan's pallid, goateed face leaned in, those sunken eyes boring holes into his young ward's face.
"Good. I suggest you check in with Brother Regis...he likely has some long-neglected tasks for you can finally see to."
Roman waited until the swish of the Almoner's robe on the flagstone floor faded before he breathed a sigh of relief and took off his helmet.
He was mere strides away from his cell when he realized that he was being followed. He rounded the corner, ducked behind a pillar and then leapt out to snare his pursuer. Immediately he was mortified to realize that he'd grabbed Alissa - the young Cellarer prodigy - in a tight embrace. He released her so quickly he had to steady her on her feet.
"Sister! Pelor's Mercy...I'm so sorry, I had no idea..."
Allisa put a finger up to her pursed lips and Roman instantly fell silent.
"I'm the one who should apologize, Brother Roman," she whispered. "I tried to find you earlier but I couldn't get away. There's something terribly wrong with Abbess Moira!"
Roman suddenly felt an icy grip on his innards. After everything he'd been through lately, the last thing he needed was for the one stabilizing force in his life to be in jeopardy.
"What's going on, Sister?" Roman pursued.
Alissa peeked out around the column, continuing only when she was convinced that the coast was clear.
"I'm not sure. She's been gone a lot lately. When I saw her leave early this morning I'm pretty sure she was...crying."
Crying? If asked who was the toughest person in all the Realm, Roman would have nominated the Abbess without a second thought, so the implications of this chilled him to the bone.
"Don't worry, Sister," Roman said, steering Alissa back down the echoey hall. "I'll talk to her and find out what's going on."
"Please do," Alissa replied. "If she's not here to keep things...stable, I don't know what we'll do."
Roman nodded with acute awareness, bade her farewell, headed to his cell, changed into his robes and then went looking for the Master of Novices.
Once again, rest would have to wait.
***
True to form, Regis had a veritable back-log of chores for Roman to perform: sweeping, splitting firewood, cleaning out the chicken coop and attending to a seemingly endless parade of ministrations for the locals. All important tasks, but performed under a pall of distraction and worry.
When his last task was done for the day, Roman returned to his cell. He kept his door ajar, waiting for the audible clues signaling Moira's return. Late in the afternoon he heard footsteps approach her office and the creak of the door opening and coming to. After predicting that "oil hinges" would be added to his future task queue, he gave Moira a few minutes to settle in, then crossed the hall and rapped on her door. At first there was no answer.
"Moira? It's Roman," he whispered to the closed portal, keeping furtive watch on the cellarium hallway. "Are you in there? Do you have a moment?"
There was no response for what felt like an eternity. Eventually the door opened, forcing Roman to stand upright or tumble face first into the room. As soon as he laid eyes on the Abbess, his fears were confirmed. She looked worried sick, to the point where Roman felt guilty for disturbing her.
Wordlessly she offered a wan smile, gestured for him to enter and then sealed the door behind them.
***
"So, when's the last time you saw him?"
Moira poured an incremental amount of sherry into her glass; a self-deluding gesture since a multitude of similar pours had preceded it.
"Five days ago," she sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "I've scoured all his usual haunts - the Marketplace, the Lost Souls and the Rogue - but no-one has seen hide nor hair of him."
Roman digested this and begged off a proffered drink.
"Has Aiden ever been out of your sight for this long?"
"No," she croaked, swirling the dark liquid around in her glass. “Well, at least not until recently."
The cleric's brow furrowed in reaction to this.
"Why? What happened?"
"A few months ago he found out that the deity of our people is St. Cuthbert and not Pelor," Moira sniffed. "Well, as soon as he heard that, he went completely foolish. One day he just up and announced that he was convertin’ and - as you can well imagine - that caused quite the row between us, especially in light of my personal history with that crowd..."
Noting the puzzled look on Roman's face, the Abbess winced and looked away.
"Just suffice to say that a priest of St. Cuthbert helped me once, but his motivations were less than honorable."
The priest acknowledged this with a simple nod. Rumors about young Moira's trials and tribulations were rampant in town and Roman wasn't about to exploit this moment to satiate his own curiosity.
"I understand," he prompted. "Go on..."
"As you well know, most of the folks in Castebridge are Belgic, so Aiden's been tryin’ to establish a parish dedicated to St. Cuthbert for the past few months now."
Roman's brow furrowed.
"How I'm I just hearing about this now?"
"Well, it's been pretty hard goin’ for him," Moira replied. "They may be Belgic but they're also completely devoted to Pelor, so his efforts have barely made a ripple. Hasn’t slowed him down one bit, though...bless his heart."
Roman smiled and shifted his weight against the desk he was leaning on.
"Sounds like he inherited his mum's determination."
Moira chuckled and wiped at her puffy red eyes.
"'Pig-headedness', you mean," and laughed in spite of herself. "It's a shame, too, 'cause things were finally goin' pretty good between us...until he started askin' me for money to help start up this church. Can you imagine how much that would set the tongues in town a-waggin' if I did that?”
Now that the crisis stood revealed, Roman felt a modicum of relief, but the situation still troubled him. People disappeared from Castebridge all the time...but very rarely would they turn up alive again.
"Okay, leave it with me," he announced, pushing himself upright.
"Oh, no, no, no," Moira said, looking genuinely pained. "This isn't your burden. You have your own responsibilities to the town...to the parish..."
"Yeah, so Denneth and Malachan like to remind me," Roman growled. "The difference is that I don't owe them my life."
The Abbess waveringly rose to her feet and took her young protegee by the hand.
"You don't owe me a thing, lad."
"I respectfully disagree," Roman countered. He embraced her, then turned, paused at the threshold and fixed the Abbess with a determined stare.
"We'll find your son, Moira," he said. "I promise you that."
When the door came to, she finally cracked. But this time the tears sprung from a renewed sense of hope instead of rank despair.
***
"So, any leads at the market?"
Lorelei came to attention, leaned back in her chair and tried to raise her voice over the din of the suppertime rabble.
"Well, it's not Starday so there weren't a lot of vendors there."
"Understood. Did you talk to anyone?"
"Of course!" the druid replied, making a face. "A couple of the local farmers and food-related merchants were still there. One described Aiden as 'annoying but harmless' and that he was 'always standing up on some box somewhere' ranting about some 'pagan foolishness'.”
Lorelei turned towards Kerbin. Distracted by a tempting mutton sandwich destined for another table, the ranger finally wrenched his attention back to the conversation at hand.
"Oh, yes...they said he was preaching at the market about two weeks ago," he recounted. "I guess the crowd was pretty rough: they jeered him, threw things at him and told him to 'shove off'. He hasn't been seen there since."
Roman cleared his throat and took a healthy quaff of ale.
"Yeah, I spoke to some of the patrons here and the few who recognized him also said that they haven't seen him in awhile."
"Wait," Pol quizzed. "Didn't the tavern owner recognize him?"
Roman nodded.
"Yeah, Devin said that Aiden was a 'persistent pest' who annoyed patrons so badly that Falstaff barred him from the place two or three weeks ago."
"Dead end," Korrick remotely lamented, staring blankly into the idle fireplace.
"Hold up a second," the cleric said, waving at Gwenned in an effort to flag her down.
"Your food should be coming up soon," the veteran barmaid declared as she stacked a platoon of empty mugs on her hip-supported tray. "Anyone want another drink?"
Ignoring the flurry of skyward hands, Roman pressed on.
"Gwenned, do you remember an annoying kid being in here a little while back? Wearing red and white priest robes and maybe a starburst necklace with red gems on it?"
Without missing a beat, the server wiped down a nearby table and dispensed her knowledge like beer from a tap.
"No, but I do remember a bunch of Lost Souls regulars infesting this place about four or five days ago. That is until we told them to slither back into the decrepit hole they crawled out of."
"Aaaaaand, I can help with that!" Bria enthused as Gwenned whisked away to a presumably-less-nosy destination.
"You went to that dump this afternoon?" Lorelei quizzed, looking vaguely repulsed.
"'Dump'? Hey, that's my normal Starday night hang out!"
"So, what did you find out?" Roman asked with a pleading hand gesture.
Clearly delighted to have the floor, Bria leaned back and linked her fingers in her hair.
"Well, the few patrons there didn't have a lot to say."
"Dead end," Korrick muttered, trying to pick a bubble out of his glass of milk.
"You would think so!" the thief enthused. "But I managed to bend the ear of Klien, the tavern's owner. Oh, by the way, I need twenty Crowns from petty cash to cover a few - let's say - incidentals..."
"Get on with it!" Lorelei shouted.
Startled, the footpad picked up her mug of hot cocoa ghava and promptly buried her face in it.
"Please, Bria, ignore the mean ol' half-orc at the table," Roman offered, shooting a dirty look at Lorelei.
Hearing this, the rogue immediately brought her mug slamming back onto the table, sending a random rivulet of liquid unnaturally high into the air. Miraculously it all landed right back into the glass without spilling a drop. Bria took a deep breath and then babbled the rest of her story at a juggernaut pace.
"WELL...Klein said Aiden was in there a few days ago, annoying people with his 'ramblings about St. Eggbert'. But then he struck up a conversation with this posh-looking fellow who seemed really upset about something. This caught the attention of three other patrons: a Galadrian thief, a Southron fighter and some 'weird-looking guy in a robe'. Eventually they all left together."
The group fell into silence as they wrestled with their collective thoughts.
"Okay, so who was the rich guy? And how do we find him?" Pol finally inquired.
Bria suddenly looked crestfallen.
"All Klein knew was that he was some random big shot from Footholde."
The renewed gulf of quiet contemplation was interrupted by Korrick muttering something barely audible.
"Rich people like staying at nice places."
That's when the realization dawned on Roman.
"Korrick, I could kiss you!" he said as he leapt up in search of Falstaff.
The dwarf pursed his lips and closed his eyes as everyone else fell into ranks behind the priest. He stayed like this until Pol went back to to the table and pulled him to his feet.
"Sorry, buddy," she growled. "You've hit your limit of one random smooch per week!"
"Hey! Can't this wait until we eat?" Kerbin asked as he reluctantly drifted after his new friends.
***
Just as Roman was about to knock on the door, Falstaff's wife Heleine approached with a tray bearing a mutton shank, creamed potatoes with gravy and a fist-sized biscuit. Kerbin had to make a concerted effort not to grab it and dash off with it.
"Pardon," she said as she squeezed through the scrum and leaned close to the door. "Lord Welland...I have your dinner here!"
"Well, it's about time!" came the stern reply. "Enter!"
Heleine rolled her eyes at the group and let Bria open the door for her.
"Thanks," she sheepishly replied as she maneuvered her way into the room. The cutpurse shrugged at her fellow adventurers and they all piled in after her.
The first offence to the group's communal senses were olfactory: the room smelled of stale food and body odor. As they crowded through the door frame they noticed a host of disused cups and soiled plates scattered about on every level surface. Laying prostrate on the bed was an obese bearded man in opulent but food-stained raiments. As if to escape his presence as quickly as possible, Heleine handed him the tray, turned tail and made a bee-line for the exit.
"Wench!" Welland bellowed, gesturing to the motley crew still lingering around the room. "Your help need not service the room at this time. I wish to be alone!"
Heleine turned back, wringing her hands in consternation. Inspired by the pleading looks from the adventurers, she came up with a quick improvisation.
"Oh, Lord Welland," she began tentatively. "These aren't my staff; they're the Mayor's special agents...just back from their latest assignment! He wanted them to check in with you...to see if they could help you find your missing items!"
The portly guest licked his lips and appraised the group with a skeptical eye.
"A rather aberrant and irregular-looking bunch, are they not?" he wheezed. "I should think that Denneth would choose more uniform and regimented operatives to represent him."
Weary of the low key abuse, Roman stepped to the forefront.
"I assure you, Lord Welland, we've been authorized by the Castebridge town council to deal with any affronts to both residents and visitors."
"Good luck," Heleine whispered to Lorelei as she retreated from the room.
Roman acknowledged her departure, sealed the door and turned back to see Welland struggling to sit upright in the bed. After exhibiting the same level of effort a turtle flipped on its back might require to right itself, he proceeded to assault the tray of food with strategic precision. That's when the heroes noticed that his forearms were covered with abrasions and there was a sizable greenish bruise on his temple.
"Falstaff, the owner of the inn, told me that you checked in back on the 28'th? Is that correct?"
Welland's expression seemed permanently frozen in a look of suspicion.
"Yes, why?"
"He says that you and your entourage were the victim of theft?"
The man picked at his teeth with the nail of his little finger and tongued the same spot for a moment before answering.
"Yes, we were out hunting when we were set upon by a horde of these terrifying dog-like creatures."
"What happened?" Pol demanded.
Whether it be her physical presence or the authoritative delivery of the question, the last vestiges of Welland's reticence seemed to melt away.
"We put up a brave fight but they outnumbered us four to one. They swarmed us, stole my possessions and scrambled off."
"Did you report this to the town guards?" Kerbin asked.
Welland scoffed so dramatically a residual piece of mutton flew out of his mouth. Without missing a beat he put the wayward fragment back where it came from and continued on.
"Of course I did, you dolt! The captain of guard gave me some pathetic excuse about their ranks suffering a recent loss and they couldn't spare the manpower to recover my items. Ridiculous....why, that would mean that the entire town is completely undefended!"
The adventurers shared a web of sheepish looks as Welland obliviously barreled onward, apparently relishing this unexpected opportunity to complain.
"With precious little help forthcoming, I was forced to take matters into my own hands," he said, spiritedly licking his fingers. "First I checked the pub next door to see if I could retain a few brave adventuring types, but the place was populated with slack-jawed waifs and simpletons."
Welland appraised his plate, clearly gauging his next move.
"After learning that there was another tavern in town, we took a trip over to the Lost Souls and found the sort of desperate, pathetic lot that we needed. There was a youngster there begging for money, so I hired him to locate my goods - particularly my signet ring - for three-hundred crowns."
As the nobleman brought a clenched fist up to his mouth, belched and took a deep sip of ale, Roman alighted in a chair set close to bed. He immediately felt a pang of regret since the stench in the room was more pronounced at this proximity.
"So that was four days ago?"
Welland stopped munching for a second and his features twisted in a look of calculation.
"Wait...what's today?"
"Earthlife the fourth," Bria offered helpfully.
"Well, yes, then...I suppose that's right."
As Pol sidled up to Roman, she instinctively put the back of her hand up to her nose in a vain attempt to mitigate the stench.
"Any you haven't heard from them since then?"
A shaken head was all she got in reply.
"Lord Welland, these people are clearly overdue...have you informed the authorities?" she demanded.
"What authorities?" Welland guffawed, launching a few new food particles. "Besides, the pup didn't go alone: he had three others with him, including an absolute beast from Mata Loreta. I'm sure they'll get back any moment now!"
Roman hung his head in his hands and heaved a world-weary sigh. Any semblance of his optimism had melted away.
"Can you show us where you were attacked?" Kerbin asked. Unwilling to go any closer, he relayed the map to Pol who then handed it on to the nobleman.
At the last second Welland realized how greasy his hands were brutally molested a hitherto-ignored napkin before taking the scroll case. After popping the seal he removed the document inside, unfurled it and fell into examination.
"Yes, well, it was just about here," he concluded, pointing a stubby digit at a spot along the southern trail. "After the bastards swarmed us and took my belongings, they vanished over the bank close to the lake...just a bit further past the abandoned cart and the canyon entrance."
Pol raised up to her full stature and put her hands on her hips.
"I know exactly where it is," she declared. "I had to sneak past their lair when I first got to Castebridge. It's not far!"
Hearing this, Roman immediately perked up.
"Really? Okay, then...let's go!"
The cleric leapt to his feet, snatched the map back and then quickly ushered his allies out of the room.
The tumult of humanity was half way down the steps before a though occurred to Welland and he called after them:
"It's three-hundred Crowns total not each, by the way!"
