Expedition To Stonehell – Part Three: Wheels Within Wheels

By Adrix of Northwind

Nearly all sages agree there are two principal energies in our universe; Chaos and Order. Chaos energy is restrained by Order to produce the world we can readily perceive. Order is, in turn, attacked by Chaos, thus enacting change. Life itself is a delicate dance between orderly and chaotic energies acting upon one another and reacting to one another, which create birth and growth as well as destructive and entropic effects.

Chaos energies do not distribute themselves equally in our Order enforced existence. Streams of energies flow, not unlike rivers and streams, unseen by men through our world. These Ley Lines of power crisscross and weave in an eternal struggle to undo order at its very seams. As such, certain sites here in Northwind are more attuned and magic friendly, such as Wyrwood, The Isle of Sigil, and the Ælvari Court, while some places are magical deserts, such as the Snjoland, stretches of the Ashland Wastes, and certain nexuses of Glazya’s Rift – where it might be noted that there, too, exists regions of Wild Magic; Chaos energy personified..

Yet all magic is a perfectly natural byproduct of this phenomenon which creates life, as life too interacts with chaotic energies. All magic is the act of imposing willpower and creative intent upon these chaos energies, giving them a semblance of orderly results. The greater ones intellect, the more capacity one has to enact with the patterns of these energies. The more creativity one exercises, all the more fantastic ones spells can become. The greater ones willpower, the more one can command these chaotic energies. It is of little wonder the gods wield magic as greatly as they do.

But being born of chaotic energies, magic can be extremely fickle from time to time. Priestly magic wielders need not worry themselves with such dangers, as their patrons, the gods themselves, channel the magic to them through prayer. The gods act as a filter for the potentially harmful effects of spellcasting. In many ways, we wizards are at the mercy of the whims of Chaos, for storing these energies directly within our minds and bodies can have detrimental effects if the stars aren’t in alignment, and occasionally, even when they are. Sometimes we have glowing eyes, and sometime our shadows don’t quite match our movements; it varies from wizard to wizard and depends greatly on what memorized spell we employ. It’s the price we pay for hidden knowledge, or perhaps it’s orderly energy’s way of resuming its rightful place in the scheme of thing. Sometimes, magic bites back at the hand that commands it; and sometimes, magic does whatever it wants.

Today, while investigating a silently enchanted tomb, Ryel ‘the Godless’ was horribly disfigured by a fiendishly trapped sarcophagus which, when disturbed, activated a mechanism which suddenly deposited a hidden Gelatinous Cube from a hollowed chamber in the ceiling upon him. He was instantly engulfed, partially dissolved, and horribly burned.

The impulsive pyromancer, Denirete Evafar, launched a flaming sphere into the quivering beast. In doing so, she tempted the forces of chaos to intervene, and meddle it did, as a Chaos Surge of Magic flooded the area, causing the fundamental laws of up and down to become null and void.

The entire plight was as surreal as anything I had witnessed in all my years, as floating swordsmen tumbled about in the eerie silence of the tomb while the cubic creature smoldered and burned; but I had little time to marvel at the bizarre spectacle. The surge of raw magic drew several straggling zombies to the outside of the chamber, where my esteemed colleague and I waited with the other spellcasters of the group, for fear of the dreaded silence within the tomb. Not having a quick offensive spell prepared, I drew steel and defended my companions while they blasted the walking dead asunder. Ryel was indeed rescued, although I wondered to myself what kind of pain and suffering he might continue to endure with the severity of his wounds in this deathtrap of a place. What was left of him was a husk of his former self, which as pleasant personalities go, frankly, wasn’t all that pleasant to start with.

Shortly thereafter, upon investigating a concealed door which led to a hallway filled with many strange, corrosive blooded, spheroid pests of maliciously vile temperament, our party had come to the unanimous conclusion that we needed rest and supplies that Stonehell refused to supply. Prometheus lead us back to the chamber where we had all come together and stowed away coffers of gold and silver coin we had recovered; as nearby, a stairway to the surface awaited us. To our exhausted disappointment however, the stairwell was blocked by an otherworldly curiosity which I had assumed was merely exaggeration and hearsay. With a clattering of metal upon the stone floors, the bizarre construct rolled between us and the exit point we so dearly needed to reach.

It was pillar-like in its construction, paneled with hidden doors from which deadly weapon tipped extremities would emerge and attack us mercilessly. From its middle (or perhaps, torso area?) extended a hollow rod, from which plumes of flame and force would assault us, cracking stone pillars and walls with every misdirected blast. Crowning its cylindrical form was a glowing domed head, which sputter with sparks and lightning when Fandral the Fear leaped upon it and fiercely stabbed at it with his dagger. It was clearly capable of speech and shouted constant warnings at us in a cold hollow voice that spoke in the common trade language of Northwind. It shouted a single word over and over as it belched fire and steam, attacking us with whiling circular blades that sliced through armor and sword alike: “EXTERMINATE!”

My esteemed colleague and I determined this ancient monstrosity was a Gizmog, but how the Dwœgari came into its possession was a mystery to us. Defeated and destroyed, the precious metals that made up its form and adorned it made it extremely valuable beyond any of our wildest imagining. Grimm and Prometheus attempted to further dismantle the mechanical monster, but to no avail. Grimm stated that blacksmithing tools, used with considerable skill, would be required to salvage the gold, silver, and mythril components from the beast, as its construction was more advanced than anything he’d ever seen among the Dwœgari. After careful consideration and to Grimm’s considerable disappointment, we decided the weight of the Gizmog would be far too much for us to carry up the long stairway to the surface, and because of that, it probably wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. We would return to Stonehell with a blacksmith to claim our prizes.

A.

Expedition to Stonehell -- Part Two: The Ecology of the Ghul

by Adrix of Northwind

My apologies for the abrupt end of my last entry, but the phenomenon lasted the most of the night. While no one was harmed, nearly all were shaken by the chill in the air, the unearthly mists, and the peculiar sounds of an evening spent in Stonehell.

In the interest of preserving knowledge, I impart upon you, the reader of this journal, a brief update upon our current status in this chambers of horror:

Irony has been a constant and bitter companion, for we chose to be in this God forsaken place. More than a day or so has passed since I last paid heed to my compulsive need to record the findings and events of this expedition. Sadly, but not unexpectedly, death has pulled back her shroud and gazed upon two of our numbers. We were vastly overrun by more necromantic fiends and the dim swordsman, Gru, fell prey to brain devouring zombies. The heartfelt anguish of his companion, Gungho, was intensely moving – it took both Prometheus and Ben’Adar to pull the dull-witted barbarian to the safety of our sanctuary where we could lick our wounds and prepare for another day in hell. Gungho was utterly inconsolable and lost without his dear friend. Horrifyingly, they were reunited as we emerged from our resting place, as Gru had been infected by the vile creature and had risen as a zombie. Gungho, the dim fool that he was, had thought Gru had somehow survived and rushed to embrace his friend, only to be bitten to death and devoured by the hungry dead man. Prometheus dosed both of them with a tossed flask of oil and set the two ablaze, in hopes that the curse of the undead would spread no further among us.

Many of the cells of this subterranean mausoleum are much the same, in that one crypt of long dead Dwœgari is very much like the next. Prometheus seems like a keen tactician in that each chamber has been equally treated as the gravest of threats, no matter how morbidly mundane its contents might be. Astute and careful attention has been given to each door we have come across, and to his credit, we have sustained fewer unexpected surprises.

While listening in the stillness at the heavy wooden door of a particular cell, what started as a slight and hushed giggle from within erupted into a full blown cackle of throaty evil. As per our procedure, we lined up in a semicircle before the door while Prometheus pulled it open. Takimatsu’s torch would be tossed into the room as soon as it was flung open, thereby illuminating the room and whoever might be in it. But to Takimatsu’s astonishment, there was no one inside that could be seen from the hallway, and the laughter not only persisted but became a gravely, but distinctly crone-like voice.

“Who has come to visit old Myrt? Who has come for supper?” the creaking voice beckoned, continuing her mocking laughter.

Prometheus cautiously peered into the room, where dancing shadows played upon the long dead dwarves lying in their alcoves amid the flickering torchlight. Their earthly remains appeared torn and recently ravaged, and crumbs of their nearly mummified corpses were dusted on the floor. It was with a blood curdling scream Old Myrt then dove down from the ceiling and savaged Prometheus with a ferocity I have yet to have seen equaled by man or beast!

Myrt was an ancient being, which could be discerned from her wild grayed hair and wizened appearance. She was unnaturally slender, except for her swollen potbelly, totally nude and covered in filth and grime, from her wrinkled face to freely sagging breasts. From her head sprang gnarled and twisted horns, which bore a twisted compliment to her cloven hoofed goat-like legs and altogether made for a most unsettling appearance. Her movements were inhumanly swift and precise and the creature’s eyes shone with an orange, hellish glow that flickered and twinkled with glee at every drop of blood she spilled. As if none of this were shocking or jarring enough, three of her vile sisters hastily crawled from crypts adjacent from the one before us, like filthy white spiders along the stony walls.

I knew from my apprenticeship in the Great Library of Bartel, these beasts were Ghuls; demonic fiends that spread disease and corruption to everything they could touch, and Myrt was clearly an Elder Ghul. Ghuls subsist on a diet of meat, preferably freshly killed, but they are also commonly known to scavenge upon corpses of considerable age. It is surmised that Ghuls prefer the taste of fear in their meat, which seems probable to me, as they certainly go out of their way to taunt and terrify their victims. We were fortunate in the sense that they were famished and weakened, for a well fed Ghul is a terrible foe, indeed; capable of blindingly furious physical attacks and a deceitful array of unnatural abilities.

Ghul’s can cling to walls and ceiling, even by their cloven hooves alone. The bite of these demons is said to spread a necrotic disease that will eventually spread, fester, and rot until the inflicted becomes a zombie, to be controlled by the whiles and whims of these unholy beasts. Elder Ghuls have learned to manipulate the minds of men with illusions of both sight and sound, often to enhance the terror of their victims, as their cruelty and pettiness knows no bounds.

Ghuls, like lesser things demonic, can be turned by the sign of a cross wielded by the clergy of the Church of Northwind, but I have already lamented the fact that no cross bearing priests were or are in our company. Ghuls also are weakened in sunlight, and rarely seen in the red light of day.

While Myrt and her sisters were dispatched, we found that Stonehell is literally crawling with the fiends; which, in and of itself, seems strange. Ghuls are simply not so common in such numbers. I suspect they have been here since the fall of the dwarven settlement that has become Stonehell, and for decades, perhaps centuries, they have been dormant. Patiently, they have slept and waited, stalking what prey wandered in from time to time. Now that the Dwœgari have pulled their resources northward due to the Church enforced 'Elftruce', and the sudden interest the Men of Northwind have shown to the site, these demons have become awakened and frenzied. This, coupled with the distressing tales I have heard from the southern City State of Corpsewatch – where the undead amass in great waves of relentless attack, bears ill omen for Northwind and all her peoples.

Perhaps the Dwœgari intentionally prepared this outpost as a deathtrap for elves? The constant squabbling between Grimm and Denirete suggests the wounds between their kin are deep and still freshly made to these long lived beings. Could it be, in their arrogance, the dwarves dabbled in things best left alone; as the old adage goes – ‘they delved too deep’?

‘Tis all speculation on the part of this old sage. Mayhaps, the Dwarves were wise to vacate these halls and rename them Stonehell, as a warning to all foolish enough to enter here; and we fools, also called adventurers, have chosen to press onward, into the gaping maw of damnation itself.

A.

Expedition to Stonehell -- Part One: The Dead Know Not

by Adrix of Northwind

As I scribe this journal in the flickering lantern light of a long forgotten and decrepit tomb of Dwœgari artisans, I cannot help but recall days of my youth stealing into The Horn of the Bard, the stately troubadour’s college of Northwind. Children of my tender years were not permitted to attend the feast halls past a certain hour, for the tales sung about therein by Venturing Guildsmen were of a more lurid and grizzly sort. Though not nearly as skillful at being a sneak as I thought I was at the time, I was a curious child and the allure of adventuring tales told by the men and women that had survived them was too tantalizing a treat to resist. Ballads of the gallant fighting in the northern hills were common, as the war between the Ælvari and Dwœgari still raged in those days, and even today the embers of those fires still smolder. Sonnets to the fallen dead stirred my soul, swelling me with pride, remorse, and sometimes bitterness that those great warriors might have been taken all too soon. Drinking shanties -- sung poorly in chorus by those drinking greatly -- regaling the exploits of the great Gnœmish ‘venturer, Gax, are clever melodies that I carry with me to this day. None of those, however, gave me heed of anything like the abject horrors stalking these thrice damned halls here in the Dwarf-made ruins of Stonehell.

Be it fate, destiny or just poor planning, my esteemed colleague of the arcane arts and longtime friend, ‘G’, and I sought secrets too long kept by races older than men. We had hired an expeditionary troupe of no less than eight footmen and trekked into the forbidding Dwœgarhome Mountains in search of the abandoned outpost infamously renowned as Stonehell. It was a monumental oversight born of our own relative inexperience in such endeavors, our aloofness to the rumors spread by wagging tongues in the Market Ward of Northwind, and, ultimately, our own arrogant and foolish pride, that we assumed we alone would, or could, quest to uncover the lost heirlooms of Dwarven magical power.

Within a mere hour’s time amid the shadows and stone of the underground, our brave retainers lay dead in tombs not of their own and my esteemed colleague and I found ourselves in the company of fellow explorers, survivors, and madmen. Among those huddled in the darkness stood Prometheus, a proud swordsman claiming to be a leader of men; flanking him, a bald spiritual fighting man, Takimatsu, and a raven haired pagan priestess called Branwen, who both had been rescued from armored Serpentmen earlier that day. The odor of rude pipe weeds wafted from the bowls of an odd pair of cutthroats, a rugged and crass man with the audacity of calling himself Ryel ‘the Godless’ and the dwarf Grimm of Clan Grindstone. A Snjolandic Godar calling himself Irwen Ben’adar eyed us warily, keeping council with his addled minded Ælvari companion, Denirete Evafar, an elf pyromancer, who was both as enchanting to behold as she was enchanted by flames. Two oafish brutes babbled incoherently about cheese and ducks in the darkness; they were Gungho and Gru. At first I suspected we’d met a kindred spirit in the fair haired yet mysteriously cloaked mage, Fandral the Feared, but he glowered at all who met his gaze in utter contempt.

In that hour’s time since our descent into the carved and moldering hell in the mountains, sixteen men lie dead, felled by the rusty blades, teeth, and claws of things that should not be. Crumbling and creaking dwarven skeletons, undoubtedly animated by the black necromantic kiss of the Bitch-Goddess, Glazya, plagued us almost continuously. Wraiths of decayed dust and cloth stalked us through the gloomy halls; their charge, either to guard these tombs or to feed upon warm blood, I cannot say. But it was the terrible bone thing that rendered our numbers to the mere handful barricaded behind a spiked shut door in the night. While not a particularly religious man, I have found myself wishing for the comforting sight of a cross, if only to keep these horrors at bay; for not one of the pious among us are clergy of the Church of Northwind, being pagans one and all.

My esteemed colleague studies his spell book as I scrawl this and I, too, must relent to arcane commitment, although the edge of my blade seems a better place to exercise such vigilance. The rigors of memorization might be too challenging at the moment, as curious and mysterious sounds echo in the corridors behind the door of our sanctuary. Perhaps my senses have utterly failed me, for the pounding of waves can clearly be heard here under the mountains. The madness must be contagious, as other look to one another in bewilderment and denial, while misty tendrils creep mockingly under the door …

A.

Brutal

While it's taken a few sessions to develop a rhythm, our '74 D&D game is coming into it's own now, I think. In an attempt to capture 'lightning in a bottle', I suggested we all re-rolled up what I like to call our 'classic' characters ... the ones we all started with some 20-25 years ago. It's all very nostalgic and has been a real hoot to revisit these 'old friends' once again. I've also been using EGG's house rules from his home campaign, particularly, the one which allowed for beginning the game at third level. I have tweaked that rule a bit, allowing characters to start at third level, but they also start with zero experience points -- requiring them to earn their three levels they start with before any forward advancement can be made. This, of course, has improved the durability of characters somewhat, but the dice do fall where they may.

After reading the previous post here at CotD, it could be said that I am a Killer DM, but I would disagree (of course). I could accept accusations of being a Brutal DM, though. I rarely fudge dice rolls and really go out of my way to challenge the players at my table. I'm not a huge 'Trap DM', like someone else I could think of ... (I'm looking at you, Anti-Human), but when I do use traps, they are on the fiendish side. Most of my players are real veterans, and they keep me on my toes quite a bit, too. I am really very grateful for that. It makes being a DM all that more rewarding.

However ... I don't believe in coddling players and/or their characters by limiting encounters based on whatever experience level they are. Such hand holding simply doesn't make sense to me. That seems less like adventure and more like a guided tour.

For instance, if I wander into the woods and run across a bear (that clearly has more 'hit dice' than I do), I'm screwed unless I saw it first and evaded the encounter. If he saw me first and decided to eat me, I most certainly would object that the encounter wasn't fair -- but such is, or rather was, life. That's an unfortunate, yet fairly believable, encounter type to me; as the world doesn't care what level I am and goes on just as it would, whether I stepped into the woods (or dungeon) or not. Choices are what the game is about, and you, as a player, don't have to feel compelled to choose to fight something that completely outmatches you.

But sometimes you might have little choice (especially if the bear had surprise or saw you first ...) and may have to face an unbalanced encounter. (As would be the case for the scenario "JM vs Bear" ... JM is beating feet in the opposite direction as fast as he can with soiled trousers. There is no shame in that choice, I tell you. None. I like being alive!)

Sure, running away is not exactly heroic, but neither are your characters by default. Heroism is the result of actions taken by individuals in difficult and challenging situations. Without a difficult challenge, there can be no heroics.

Had the bear above been attacking my son, then heroics might have resulted, as I would have been clearly thrust into a position where I'd have to act, even though I'd be fairly certain we'd both end up as bear chow -- barring a well placed bullet or twelve.

Now, none of this is to say every encounter any of my player's characters experience is an unbalanced one. If I make a random encounters table for first level characters of twenty possible results, one or maybe two of them are going to completely outclass a single first level character - possibly even a group of four to six first level characters.

Why?

Not because I'm a killer DM who takes egotistical delight in TPKs or watching characters do their best Sir Robin impersonations; but because Bilbo was completely outclassed by Smaug, T'sian was outclassed by Mazirian, and Ulysses was outclassed by Polyphemus. All of those encounters were not only interesting and entertaining, but challenging occurrences where lesser skilled players/characters certainly would not have prevailed (even though the price was decidedly high in T'sian's case, she was successful).

"But this is a game, not real life or some novel. In order for it to be fair, balanced encounters are necessary for -- no, crucial to -- the games enjoyment."

I dunno about that hypothetical statement. It seems like an obvious rebuttal to my examples and comparisons above, but it just doesn't hold water with me. I've played games such as these for quite some time, and for me, the best ones had a little something called immersion about them. If I feel like the game world I'm in is catering to me by limiting what I might run into, then that is jarring to me and pulls me out of that world quite a bit. When the game world feels 'less real' to me and encounters feel more like a pre-chosen and approved process and less like a challenge, very soon my first level guy goes hunting for bears, trolls, dragons, powerful wizards, cyclopes or anything else just to get back to an immersive (i.e. realistically challenging?) state of play.

But, then again, I might be something of a mutant.

:/

JM.