First time running a Dungeon Delve as written for the campaign

I'm breaking character on the blog here for a bit. Last night a ran the Level 5 Dungeon Delve for our group - in part because I was dog tired and partially burned out from the semester, in part because Jon and I had been working on a D&D sourcebook pitch that was due later that night and my energy was focused there.

I thought running a Dungeon Delve would be fun for everyone involved: there'd be lots of combat, it would be filled with balanced encounters, and would be a great way to give the PCs an opportunity to win. I'm a big fan of giving the PCs pyrrhic victories during a campaign - partial wins that create more hooks and story opportunities. I love this stuff, and so does half of my group; but half of the group isn't used to that, so I wanted to do something that was a feelgood adventure that presented an opportunity to win big and bask in the glory.

The problem we had was multifold: three encounters a night might be too much for our group to handle in general (or maybe just in this case - we were chatty and unfocused); I hadn't done as much prep on the delve as I should have; and sidetreks like this can be jarring and feel like an example of discontinuity in a plot heavy, roleplay heavy game.

I'm not sure if it's just a playstyle thing, a limitation of the Delves themselves, or just an off night for me as DM. It could be a combination of all of them. But I think in the future I'll raid the Delve structures and maps for cool locations and encounters while heavily modifying them for the game.

If any players in the game want to sound off, feel free to do so.

Designing Divinity - Indrian The Prophet, Herald of Ruin

In each installment of Designing Divinity, I'm going to turn over idea stubs of what I've written for at least one of the 22 gods who collectively make up The Arcanum - the pantheon of gods who are worshipped in The Known World. Some of the faiths are designed around the collective worship of multiple gods, some only one; I'll be passing along this stuff on a temple by temple basis. I can't promise to use every idea you post - I can't even promise to like all of the ideas you post! - but I have faith that this sort of stuff can be better if more than one person gives feedback.

Tell me stories - myths and legends, instructive parables and even hymns of praise. Tell me what you like in the idea, what you want expanded, what you think could be better - and then write something up in a comment for me to steal. Ask me questions - how does this work, what was I going for and why this is important. Show me what you want added in the game, and if you're not one of my four players tell me what would make you happy if you were. Creating a world from whole cloth is a lot harder than I thought it would be, so any feedback you give me would make my job tons easier.

Later this week I'll be putting up the legend of Indrian, and in the weeks to come I'll be putting up what we know about Ruin's high priest and previous paladins - but aside from these vague facts about Ruin we've left Ruin undefined in our campaign. This is a problem since the faith it plays an important role in our game. I figure by putting this out there we can begin to flesh things out.

So with that, I give you Indrian The Prophet, the Herald of Ruin.

Indrian The Prophet, Herald of Ruin

Indrian alone can see the end of ages. Sometimes he roams ahead of Jaryk, though no man heeds The Herald of Ruin's warnings of impending doom. When Indrian follows in Jaryk's wake only corpses see The Prophet's tears. Every man cursed with Indrian's sight for the past thousand years has promised darker days are yet to come - and promises of dust and worms are bitter gifts to offer in exchange for bread and warmth.

Ruin has no temples; worship is held in rubble and abandoned buildings.

Indrian’s priests take no vow of poverty, though they are, without exception, poor. Beggar priests offer prophecy for coppers, and drink themselves blind in the hope that they can blot out the visions of Apocalypse that burn across their eyes every time they sleep.

Priests of Ruin are often taken for madmen. In all fairness, priests of Ruin often are madmen, so there’s little harm done there.

Unlike other faiths, however, no one chooses to be a Priest of Ruin; Priests are marked out for Ruin by vivid dreams and visions that foretell the coming Apocalypse. Within three days of the visions’ onset, beggar priests arrive to take away their newest brother or sister. Ruin marks his own, and does not discriminate between young and old or man and woman.

Ivan's Worm

The dwarf called Ivan Gora Groma stared down at the writhing, bloody worm in his vomit.

"I thought I had drowned you in booze," he said.

"Come now, my pet. You knew I would never leave my favorite toy," the worm replied.

The voice was like a seductive knife, sliding across Ivan's will. Memories of the time beneath the mountain tried to surface in his mind, but he instinctively shut that line of thought. No time to weep for the dead.

"Ah yes," the worm continued, "our first dance together. What a delicious reverie. But no matter - I must thank you for awakening me once again to feed. It's been so very long since you and I have drunk so much life together."

Ivan shuddered and crushed the worm beneath his heel.

"That is least of my children, my pet," the voice whispered. "You do me a service in culling it. Now clean yourself and get back to those fools. I am hungry."

Ivan's thoughts raced. This was a voice he hoped to never hear again. When had the thing started slipping back into his thoughts? When had his control slipped? Ah, of course. There'd been no time for whiskey since that incident with the farmer and his cart. No time to drown the worm in the warm glow of a thought-dulling drunk.

Afterward, things were too hectic to return to the inn. He and Severin had visited the old scholar in the tower and learned of Zeerune's previous visit with the sage. It seemed that kid was determined to make enemies of everyone in this town.

Only later did he learn of Zeerune's attempt to poison the elf Ninaren with iron filings in his drink. If only the kid had waited, Ivan would have been happy to deliver the elf to him with a bow on. Anything to get a closer grip on the Marsden problem. Turning Marsden's apprentice into a weapon against him would be a sweet revenge for his constant humiliation.

Marsden may not know the truth about Ivan's past, but simply knowing his identity was forged was dangerous enough.

Then rushing to the tomb of a prophet of Indrian from some previous era. Very old architecture, teeming with risen corpses.

They attacked and were felled; more power for the worm.

And after the scuffle, rescuing Enneas Thel. What a useless academic. So this is what the Acadamy's prodigal has been doing, scrounging in the tomb as if it were his father's study. Do these people have any idea what can be unleashed? What seals and wards are placed over the old places?

Perhaps it was when we secured another of those onyx skulls that the worm's voice stirred? So hard to remember now. This Kalarel fool had taken the other skull. Both would need to be secured and destroyed now that their arcane matrix had been disturbed.

Each extra day would lead to more necrothaumic leakage, more risen dead. A disaster in the making. Fools!

And another of those onyx skulls Marsden is so obsessed with; and place for another missing skull. Zeerune insisted on removing the last skull and taking it with them. Better than leaving it here, exposed to any fool excavator who comes along.

"Ah, that's when I made my worst mistake," Ivan thought. "I didn't get drunk that night at the inn. No time, too many plans, and that blasted Severin keeping the purse strings closed like some worried mother hen. I should have drowned the worm in a river of booze last night, nevermind I wouldn't have been fit to walk this morning, much less fight."

Most recently, the parlay with the kobold bandits. The only thing left to convince them to return with the Zobeckians and stop this raiding nonsense was to kill some goblin named Irontooth. ("What is a goblin doing so far this side of the mountains, anyway?" Ivan wondered.)

The kobolds seemed convinced tlife in the mines would be preferable to being under the thumb of this Irontooth fellow. Considering that their taskmasters would likely be humans or dwarves and not the Duergar foremen of Ivan's youth, they were probably right. Few of these surface folk would survive a day under the mountains. "A life of virtue is a life of toil without end."

"Enough muttering to yourself, my puppet," the worm whispered. "We are going to burn down this world together and dance in the ashes of history."

Ivan unstoppered his wineskin and drank the entire skin. He wiped his mouth and muttered, "Shut up."

He returned to his companions. Severin could smell the wine on his breath and a look of disappointment passed over his face. Pretending not to notice, Ivan walked to his horse, found his second wineskin and downed it as well. He would be rid of the worm's voice, damn the consequences.

The ensuing battle was a blur. Ivan nearly burned his companion Brandomir to death twice. Whether that was the work of the goblin's protection charms or Ivan's own stupor, he couldn't say. Finally, he fell to Brandomir's axe and Zeerune's sorceries.

The worm was pleased.

The PCs received an interesting letter tonight...

Excerpt: A Conjurie of Heroes

"Ah, Zobeck!" Severin exclaimed, refreshed from his morning prayer.

But when Severin the peaceful looked up from his prayer beads he saw the most curious sight - a page from his Master, Holy Zhrang of Concordance, awaiting his regard. "Come to the Temple," the page told him "and bring your friends."

"The city needs heroes," the page added.

Severin left with alacrity. I do not need to tell you, dear readers, of the bustle of Zobeck's streets, the shouts and cries that populate our fair city's aural landscape. You know what sights and sounds greeted young Severin - and you can imagine how one so devoted to prayer would flinch away from the sinful ways of common man.

But Severin persevered - and as he traveled to The Grey Friar (and every man knows The Grey Friar is the finest inn in the city!) he was shocked to find his good friend Ivan Gora Groma, Master Builder, slowly strolling down the scenic highways of our fair city.

"Severin!" cried Ivan, smoothing his hair and fine doublet. "I'm so glad to see you! I'm just about to embark upon a trip - the University has at long last granted me leave to journey to the Ironcrag mountains so that I might continue my research there. As you well know, Severin, I've long dreamed of being able to spend some time in the mountains so that I might better the city with my erudite learnings!"

"That is truly great news, Ivan," Severin replied, "but my Holy master has just summoned me to the temple and asked me to gather my friends. They say the city needs heroes. Do tell me you will come."

Now, I know not all of our readers have had the privilege of meeting the Master Builder - but I assure you he cuts a most striking figure. A stolid dwarf so humble he refuses to wear his heritage on his face, Gora Groma is clean-shaven and tidy. Sadly, a bout of sickness struck the dwarf on his adventures to the city, and to this day he walks with a limp that speaks to his braveness and indefatigable will.

"Well, Severin," Gora Groma replied, "never have I refused the call of honor!" And so they went off together, hoping against hope they would encounter their dearest friend Brandomir the Gentle.

Encounter Brandomir they did! The peace-loving knight was engaged in a rousing theological discussion with Messrs. M- and F- in the market square, explaining to the merchants the pressing need of charity. Severin and the Master Builder apprised Brandomir of what was needful, and without hesistation Brandomir agreed to accompany Severin and Ivan to the temple. As he left, Brandomir warned the gentlemen with whom he was conversing that extra care must be paid to the schismatics and madmen who wander the city - and that he would be very cross to find they had treated those poor unfortunates with anything less than civility.

Our heroes arrived at the temple of Concordance bathed in a nimbus of light, and were ushered straight away to Holy Zhrang's private study. There, they were surprised to see Zhrang joined by our fair city's former Mayor Marsden One-Hand and a young half-elf who looked at Marsden as a son looks at his father.

Dear readers, before I continue this tale I must confess the great admiration and esteem with which I regard our former Mayor - all right-thinking citizens would do well to follow Zeerune Half-Elven's example and look to noble Marsden as a protector and benefactor. There are few enough men in this city who put Zobeck's needs before his own - and every citizen should count their blessings that Marsden did his part to keep Zobeck a free city.

As Severin sat, he could not help but notice that Zeerune's demeanor is one of humble resolution to do whatever needs to be done - and Severin hoped quite keenly that he can follow Zeerune's example.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice," Holy Zhrang began. "Forgive me my brevity, but I am beginning to feel my age - I am but a priest and scholar. The city is threatened, and I have the wisdom to step aside for those who have the vigor and strength to defend fair Zobeck from her enemies both mundane and magical"

With that, Holy Zhrang sat and motioned for our benefactor to begin the meeting proper.

Forgive me, citizens, if I do not attempt to recount the One-Hand's speech. Every man of the city knows the One-Hand's eloquence, and I should not beggar my talents trying to repeat it. Suffice to say that the One-Hand told our heroes a tale of infamy. Diabolists and fell magics from the distant past conspired to do unto the world what was done to Vineyard Roads, and to destroy the fell artifacts threatening our city noble Marsden and Zhrang, his helper, required purest silver. And as we all know here today, there is something of a silver shortage in the city.

Someone had to go to Winterhaven - one of our city's staunchest allies - and discover why the silverships are empty.

Our four heroes volunteered immediately. The Master Builder remarked that he was prepared to beggar himself on behalf the city - though Marsden declared that Gora Groma should keep his savings and trust Marsden to do what needs be done. Severin protested that he is too weak for the task and feared for the city - but Marsden looked Severin in the eye and reminded him that no citizen of Zobeck is ever weak. Brandomir regretted that he must leave his brothers in piety behind and take up his axe for the good of the city - yet Marsden reminded Brandomir that every true citizen would do the same if called to serve, and that no man knew more of service to Zobeck than Marsden himself. Zeerune, his eyes alight with youthful enthusiasm, remarked that he would be most pleased to do his best for Marsden.

Without hesitation, Marsden struck Zeerune as a father strikes his son. The room fell silent, no one more surprised than Zeerune himself.

"Never," said Marsden, "value me more than the city I love, Zeerune. Your esteem means the world to me, friend, but everything I am is because of Zobeck."

Zeerune, chastened, apologized to Marsden - and in his heart, apologized to each and every citizen of Zobeck for his uncharacteristic selfishness.

It was with a heavy heart that Marsden and Zhrang begged our heroes to leave at once - and though no citizens were there to witness our heroes' departure, it is this author's fondest wish that all the city will be thronged about the docks three weeks hence to give them a heroes' welcome.

Their ship was called "The Painted Lady," and if ships were heroes it would have its own song. Stout and sturdy, it allowed our heroes to fend off the ungentle dead who wait beneath the river near Courlandia, to evade the serpents who swim near Pelinor's Ruin and saw them through a meeting with the Whispering Lady of the Fey Wood unscathed.

But that, dear friends, is another story - and one I hope you'll be so good as to read next week.

D. Darkfyre, W.S.
Excerpt, A Conjurie of Heroes
Zobeck: Blackiron & Sons, 4043 A.C.

The Free City of Zobeck: Guide to Government

The Free City of Zobeck is one of the few cities of The Known World that does not answer to a feudal lord. The Revolt almost 80 years past led to the death or exile of the former ruling family of House Stross and the imprisonment and impoverishment of many of its followers and sycophants.

The aristocracy raged against the revolt, but neighboring nations found the idea of an independent Zobeck very useful and supported the small city-state. An unspoken agreement made it plain that so long as Zobeck remained neutral in the affairs of its neighbors and "betters," the city would be permitted to live on sufferance.

This was their great mistake.

In a few years, the merchants, the arcanists and the priests of the Arcanum built their sleepy backwater into a trading power with mercantile clout that extended far beyond its borders. Though the aristocracy is dead and buried, the ruling class of Zobeck lives on; though the Mayor and councilmen are elected for 10 years at a time, they can be removed from office for incompetence, for treachery or diabolism.

The University students often quip that politicians do not die in Zobeck. "After all," they say, "graveyards last only a few centuries. As best as anyone can tell, the ceremonial offices and sinecures will still be drawing pensions long after marble and granite turn to dust.

-Wolfram Baur, Esq.
Preface, Zobeck Gazetteer
Zobeck: Blackiron & Sons, 4031 A.C.

Welcome to Zobeck, guys. This is where our game began, and where our adventures will be set for the next few months. As readers of this blog will no doubt learn, Zobeck has many names - the city on the river, the free city, and the republic are only a few of the city's appellations (and certainly the names most fit for mixed company).

The players of the campaign have asked for a sort of mini players' guidge to the city - a reasonable request since their characters are all Zobeck natives or residents - and this post is going to be the first of several such posts fleshing out our Zobeck.

This the first in a series of posts detailing different aspects of the free city in preparation for the next game. This piece, as you can tell from the title, is a brief primer on the political reality of the city.

The city is jointly ruled by the Mayor (the city's chief executive), and the Ruling Consuls. The Consuls are essentially the legislators of Zobeck - they have a Lower House which consists of those individuals wealthy enough, popular enough or important enough to win the city-wide elections held every 10 years (these elections are not held concurrently with the Mayor's race) and an Upper House whose membership is made up of the various religious and guild leaders ratified in the city's Charter. To date, the Charter is amended by vote of the Consul pending approval by the Mayor.

Currently, the following guilds and organizations are guaranteed representation on the Upper Consul: The Steamworkers Guild; the Merchants Guild (the heads of Houses Marick, Slyglass and Arbandi currently rotate voting rights annually); the Cartographers Guild; the Order of Weavers; the Arcane Collegium; the Brotherhood of Town Criers; The Captain of the City Watch; the Kobold King; and the high priests of Concordance, Winter, the Sanctuary, the Forge, the Pleasure House, and the Hall of Whispers.

When next we game, the PCs will have learned that it's election season in Zobeck - and because of the PCs heroic actions in the Winterhaven Incident, the kid gloves have come off.

Mayor Karillian Gluck - ruler of the city for the past ten years - was cruising to certain victory in his re-election but a few days ago (in campaign time). Unfortunately, the PCs' resounding success in restoring the city's supply of silver has given an challenger sufficient room to mount an insurgent campaign against the Lord Mayor.

Marsden One-Hand - the man defeated by Gluck 10 years prior and given a University appointment as Master Binder - declared his candidacy for Mayor at the last open meeting of the Upper Consul. One-Hand claimed to be the patron of the adventurers who so recently brought back silver to the city. One-Hand was promptly and publically endorsed by the Arcane Collegium, the high priests of Concordance and the Forge, and the head of the Brotherhood of Town Criers.

Thus far, it seems the adventurers' notoriety has had quite an effect on the city. The publisher Blackiron & Sons has, at the behest of the Collegium's Regent Masters, been publishing a series of penny dreadfuls authored by the esteemed D. Darkfyre that describe in lurid detail the general heroics of the Silver Men of Zobeck. Freemen and women of Zobeck have been following the adventures of the Silver Men (as related to the University through the One-Hand's arcane servants - for the past 3 months.

The chapbooks have been a resounding success - the names and good character of the men who restored silver to the city are known throughout the city. Coincidentally, the books have also restored Marsden One-Hand's esteem in the city. The One-Hand's status as the patron of the Silver Men - and his well-known love for the Master Builder and fatherly pride in his former student Zeerune Tenebrae - has completely overshadowed exactly why Marsden was defeated by Gluck ten years ago. At the end of the day, Zobeck's silver trade is far more important than the torture and execution of alleged traitors to the free city 11 years ago.

As things now stand, there are three distinct factions among the ruling classes: those loyal to Mayor Gluck, those standing beside the One-Hand, and those who have yet to declare support.

Mayor Gluck counts the high priest of the Pleasure House, the City Watch, and the Kobold King among his firmest supporters in the Upper Consul. Marsden One-Hand has the backing of the Brotherhood of Town Criers, the Arcane Collegium, and the High Priests of Concordance and the Forge among his partisans. Those yet to declare: The Order of Weavers; the Guilds of Merchants, Cartographers, and Steamworkers; and the High Priests of the Sanctuary and Winter.

Thus far, foreign dignitaries have yet to weigh in: the ambassadors from Courlandia and Ralidor have been quite silent. The Sidhe ambassador has made no sudden moves. And the city underworld has yet to get involved - though with the amounts of money being thrown around this early in the election, it's quite certain they're involved somewhere.

Up next: The Underworld of Zobeck.

Errata: Why This Blog Hasn't Been Updated

I was in the hospital last week, then heavily medicated until today, really.

Blogging will resume soon - as will editing - just give me time to recover.

-neal

Session 3 Summary (February 21, 2009)

Once in town Severin questions Sister Lenora, the ranking priestess of Illista at the Temple of Concordance, as well as the High Smith Thair Coldstriker at the Forge, which is both a temple to Moradin and Barnaxas as well as an actual forge; both religion and guild.

From these conversations, Severin's vast knowledge in Religion leads him to suspect a heretical death cult has arisen and he fears that the magical obsidian skull is causing heretics be "re-born" as fell undead. Unfortunately he gets no useful knowledge of what might have happened to Enneas Thel, the original Zobeckian university professor who had been dispatched to Winterhaven to determine what is going on.

Given the weakened state of the clerical orders since the last failed Crusade, Severin is filled with dread. How can a novice battle cleric and his friends put down widespread heresy strong enough to wield obsidian skulls that raise the very dead? How can he get the pure silver needed to destroy the skulls when the very miners are the very ones who have joined the cult?

He is suddenly much more glad that the party have access to Zeerune's magical abilities. History teaches true gods have made instruments of the sinful (Zeerune), weak (himself), haunted (Ivan) and insane (Brandomir) in past crusades, and he prays this is happening now.

But at the same time the true gods' sinful instrument is in the process of getting fleeced by a Sidhe named Ninarin in the local bar, Pelinor's Folly. Zeerune pays 60 gold pieces for a map to some caves that everyone in town knows about. If he had condescended to humbly ask the human bartender Sevara Raffin - that is, prior to infuriating her with his supercilious ways - or any of the humans in the bar where the cave was, he would have gotten the information gratis. Still, Severin has learned that Ninarin claims to be fast friends with Enneas Thel, but before he can ask any more Ninarin claims to have to use the outhouse and does not return.

Luckily, while this is transpiring Ivan has bought three rounds for the entire bar, spending two gold pieces to Severin's 60. He is in that early stage of a drunk where he's hit his sweet spot, the only time he feels that genuine joy that other dwarves feel after discovering a promising new vein of some mineral deep in a mountain.

When Ivan gets himself in that space in between, that is in between the normal excruciating peeled-raw sobriety and the falling down, pissing himself, incoherent shamble, then his joy is actually infectious. It is infectious now and his banter leads people to start buying him drinks. Some deep part of his Dwarven mind reasons that he has an obligation to drink as much as possible, so as to make up for the two gold pieces he's lost. But: that much booze would kill even a dwarf of his constitution, and the drunker he gets the more likely suffer some combination of massive gambling loss, robbery, forgetting his purse and tearfully giving all his money to someone he imagines more wretched than himself - such as his prostitute friend in Zobeck.

But now, while in that sweet spot, people are talking to him. They say a lot. Not only does he learn that Kobold shamans have been seen near the cave, he learns where the cave is, and he learns that Enneas Thel spent much time in the tumbled-down tower just west of town owned by an eccentric sage.

The seething Zeerune, having just returned from searching through all the outhouses in the city block for Ninarin, mis-hears this; he assumes any sage who chooses to live in a tower in the middle of nowhere who's made the acquaintance of Enneas Thel is necessarily also a master alchemist. Zeerune's rage prevents him from reasoning that perhaps these inferences are irrational.

Rage and embarrassment determine a plot in his mind. He rushes out, brushing by the returning Severin. Zeerune will ask the alchemist about Thel. Severin, Ivan, and Brandimir will go ask the Lord-Mayor of Winterhaven, a young Lord Padraig, for troops to help with their quest. With all the free drinks going around, Brandomir has emptied the equivalent of two bottles of brandy into the potted plant by the door. He too, seems uncharacteristically full of joy.

The two tables nearest him have emptied of all customers.

At the town fort and administrative building, Padraig receives them haughtily. He has no troops to spare and cannot believe the people in Zobeck sent four parvenus instead of experienced professors and battle clerics. Padraig says the kobold problem is on its way to a solution because he has raised the bounty on their ears. But his troops are needed to guard the town and cannot be expected to do Zobeck's job for it. If Zobeck wants its silver they can send an appropriate force.

Brandomir laughs. Ivan's great drunk is turning into an all-too-sober headache and he just holds his head in his hands muttering, "innappropriate." Severin is angry, and gets angrier when Padraig runs his hands through a giant bowl of dried Kobold ears, many of them clearly children's.

Severin claims that this is heresy, and for his correction receives a speech about the quant worries of spoiled Zobekians. The irony of a wealthy young lord calling the three of them - a penniless and homeless Paladin, a graduate of Zobeck's finest institutions for the bastard young, and a dwarf banished from all mountains with a death sentence on his head - "spoiled" is not lost on them.

Ivan laughs, remarking, "Oh I'm spoiled all right. You should have seen me when I was fresh off the tree. For a while there I was ripe too. I'm spoiled now all right. Look at me damn peel, all rotten and oozy. I've been rotten for seven years now." He can't stop laughing, but Severin turns red and steps forward with his hand on flail, only to be grapped by Brandomir and literally tossed out of the room. After walking out he holds up his hands apologetically and says, "it is foretold." They can hear Padraig's laughter, he calls out, "Tell them to send some real soldiers next time."

While walking back, they pass Zeerune, who claims the old "alchemist" was not at home.

They decide that tomorrow they will investigate the mines. Severin buys only two bottles of brandy and gets Ivan to lock himself in their room. Ivan jokes about that usually being his whore's job, but he looks so sad that nobody laughs.

The next morning they have just left the step of Pelinor's Folly when a young boy rides in on a horse screaming that his "da's being killed dogmen!" The town guards do nothing.

Brandomir springs into action, putting the boy on the ground and himself jumping on the horse. "Follow, damnit!" Zeerune and Ivan jump into the party's cart and Severin rides the carthorse behind Brandomir, who unerringly rides out of town towards the incipient slaughter.

A great battle ensues. This time the kobolds attack Brandomir like dogs. He is surrounded by five of them. More shoot arrows from the woods. Zeerune and Ivan cast spells from the cart. The boy's father has a great axe and stands in his own cart. Severin runs forward to help Brandomir but is waylaid by a Kobold shaman spitting acid in his face.

This time everything works. Even burned, Severin finds himself doing the forms. His body is a blur of movement and his flail an extension of him who is now an extension of his god. All rage, all pain, all worry is gone as the drills beaten into his body during battle training become transformed for the first time into a deadly ballet.

One Kobold dies so quickly that Severin later will not be able to remember what happened. Then, as his flail harshly connects with the Kobold Shaman's head a holy fire erupts and the Kobold himself begins to burn. While he burns and screams, Severin reaches into the flames and chokes the life out of him while beating his head against a tree.

The ballet has ended in this: "Why!" Bang! "Won't!" Bang! "You!" Bang "Die!" He keeps doing this until Ivan runs up, "He's dead. Stop it, Sev."

The road is littered with corpses. Between Ivan and Zeerune's magic and Brandomir's sword arm, eight Kobolds in all lay dead and one barely conscious. Severin heals the Kobold and uses the healing to convert him to the faith of Concordance.

A plan is forming.

Session 2 Summary (February 14, 2009)

Severin is summoned to the main temple to meet with Exarch Zhrang, but is told to collect Ivan and Brandomir first. He finds Ivan on the street in front of the Worn Prayer - making all due haste toward the nearest city gate carrying a filthy bundle of clothing. Ivan does not want to come with him, but is convinced there might be some money in it.

Brandomir shows up unsummoned, appearing where the whispers tell him to be.

Back at the temple they are surprised to see Zhrang with two other visitors: Marsden the One -Handed and his apprentice, the half-elven wizard Zeerune Tenebrae.

Severin finds Zeerune even more irritating than Marsden. Zeerune habitually wears a condescending sneer and refuses to sit up straight in his chair.

It is as if the Temple of Concordance is beneath him.

Zhrang and Marsden explain that they cannot destroy the skull without pure silver from Winterhaven - a mining town far to the northwest - but the last two ships from there have been empty. Recent dispatches from both Winterhaven's House of Concordance and Forge claim farmers and miners have not been attending temple or working, and help is urgently requested.

Severin and Zeerune are dispatched to discover what is going on - the last agent sent by the University to Winterhaven has not responded to magical sendings in some time. No matter the outcome, though, Severin and Zeerune must do all within their power to bring some silver back. Monetary rewards are promised, and Brandomir and Ivan are offered the chance to go with them.

Ivan agrees to the task but insists the expenses will be much higher; Marsden increases the amount of money. Brandomir stares in rapture at the crown molding along the ceiling. It makes him smile.

Severin says that he is too weak for the task, and claims his clerical incompetence almost got the party destroyed in Vineyard Rows. But the good news is that the citizens of Vineyard Rows have asked him to be their village priest. He will gladly renounce magic if he can leave the clerical order.

Zhrang says, "Once a cleric, always a cleric. Do not ask this again." During all of this Zeerune snorts and laughs.

Severin agrees to remain a cleric but begs Zhrang and Marsden not to send Zeerune with him.While arguing that Zeerune's arrogance will make it difficult to get country folk to share information, Zeerune says, "It doesn't matter; they are bumpkins and humans to boot. What they don't give, we take."

This gives Zhrang pause, though Marsden is less bothered by Zeerune's arrogance until the young wizard presumes to haggle with his former master; the slap Marsden delivers to Zeerune's face failed to chasten him, though Marsden's reminder that Zeerune hadn't earned his name til a fortnight past seemed to convince him to hold his tongue (at least temporarily).

Despite Zeerune's boorishness, Ivan strangely argues that Zeerune should be in the party.

Severin is implacable until Brandomir stares down from the crown molding and stares into his eyes and says, "The half-elf wizard comes with us. It is foretold."

The party then travels upriver on the venerable "Painted Lady," unfortunately going through the Fey Woods on the way.

During one of the afternoons in the Woods, fog descends and voices emanate from the water, offering the crew and party promises of their fondest desire being granted if they merely join the lady beneath the waves. Resisting seemed almost unbearable, and many sailors have to be restrained.

As the whispers gets worse, Zeerune solves the problem by cutting the hand of one of the sailors and holding it out to bleed into the water. Severin attempts to prevent him from doing so, but is foiled when Zeerune uses his fell magic to make it sound as if someone has fallen overboard on the other side of the ship, at which point Severin runs to the other side to try to help.

As soon as the poor sailor's blood hits the water the fog lifts and the unholy sound stops. The sailor is in what appears to be an uncurable catatonic state. Many of the sailors are not happy with the party at that point, who wisely decide to stay in their cabin for the remainder of the journey, with a guard posted at all times.

The docks are about two miles from the city of Winterhaven, which is about a mile from the mining settlement.

On the way to Winterhaven a horse is obtained from a deranged farmer who is convinced the horse is demonically possessed - the farmer dies of a heart attack while being ministered to by Severin - and then the party is attacked by kobold brigands. Four of the brigands are dispatched; three escape.

Severin grudgingly notes the adventurers probably would have died it were it not for Zeerune's aptitude with magic. Severin found this, his second battle, to be equally traumatizing as the first.

As they walk towards town he realizes that they have not buried the Kobolds. He tries to say the appropriate prayers for them but can't remember them in his numbed state.

He hates being a cleric.

Important NPCs

Exarch Zhrang is a priest of Chal. Walks with a pronounced limp and hunched over back from injuries taken when beaten while feeding and ministering to striking dockworkers during the great Republican riots. Has steadily ascended the ranks through the House of Concordance and now serves as the de facto head of the temple in Zobeck. Gave the young Severin a job in the kitchen and has been his spiritual mentor ever since. Zhrang hoped Severin would follow him into the priesthood of Chal, and is sad that Severin dedicated himself to Hemah-Everborn. Is uncomfortable that Severin still associates with Orghay.

Taxonomy of Languages: The Known World

To study language is to commit an act of hubris. I thank the gods that universities and publishers have no patience for humble men.

Matthias Yronwood
Preface, On Language
Zobeck: Blackiron & Sons, 4026 A.S.

World-Building relay:

The Sidhe were kicked out of The Known World around 4,000 years before the start of the game. In that time, the worship of the 22 gods of the Arcanum was formalized, crusades came and went, empires rose and fell and all that jazz.

But what actually happened in the Age of man? All I have are a few events: The Doom of Pelinor, The Ritual of the Devouring Worm that ended in mass suicide on the slopes of Mount Khai, Hellfever plague and, well, that's a wrap (I'll be posting about each of these events in the next week or so).

Here's my request: list three things that you think should have happened in this world after the Sidhe left in the comments of this post. Before everything that is holy, I hereby swear to use at least one of those things (if not more than one). Jon, Billy, Skylar and Chris - this is your chance to make your move. Mark, this is your chance to send your guardians over to cause a ruckus (at least, the ones who are following this blog).

Two provisos: First, stick with dark fantasy-themed submissions because I don't want to genre mix. For example: I love Oriental Adventures as much as the next guy, but I'm not going to include Wu Jen or samurai in the game. And, though Star Wars is awesome, light sabers and stuff don't really work in this game.

Second, I reserve the right to ask you for more detail on your suggestions. Don't come with that weak-ass world-building shit and think I'm not going to ask questions about your ideas. The goal of this is to democratize the world-building process a bit more (I recognize that I have a control problem and am starting to say "no" to player suggestions instead of "Yes, and...") and save me a lot of work. So, to maximize this, I want to pick your brains, too.

Game recognizes game. Here's two helpful background pieces to read to get an idea of what's going on in the campaign world: Campaign Mission Statement; The Sidhe arrival in The Known World.

What we're doing; Or, our campaign in a single post

There's a thread on RPG.net called "My World In One Line," where D&D GMs and players are encouraged to summarize their current campaign (or dream campaign) in one sentence. Billy suggested we do this for our campaign, and I agreed with one caveat: that whatever we do be longer than one sentence.

My reason is pretty simple. Though my foray into journalism taught me the importance of brevity and precision in word selection, I'd rather not do what lots of people in that thread did - write ungainly, ungrammatical compound sentences to adhere to the arbitrary requirement of the thread.

This summary is a good idea. There are people reading this blog who aren't actually playing in the game, so expecting readers to understand what the game's about is becoming a kind of perverse thing where they're expected to read a bunch of world-building posts and infer what we're actually doing from there.

So here's my best go - I'm aiming for what would appear on the dustjacket of the novelization of this game, just a few short paragraphs.

In a world on the brink of oblivion, the past is never past. The Sidhe wait in their parasite world dreaming of long-gone glories while humanity - once their slaves - have forgotten humility in the millennia since emancipation. The Duergar keep their vigil guarding the ebon gates of creation buried beneath The Known World from those that lurk Outside; the Dwarves have lost their way, trading duty for human vices.

The beggar-priests of Ruin throng city markets, their visions of dust and worms met with scorn and derision.

Laughter cannot avert Armageddon. Creation's gates have been breached; Grieving Wrath, unrepentant seneschal of all the worlds that never were, infects a Duergar outcast. Ruin sends his Mortal Sword to prepare the world for the coming darkness. A young priest with a heart of fire dreams a world where the mighty are humbled and every farmer turns his ploughshare into a sword. And Armageddon's heir plots to rip the heavens asunder.

The end is nigh.

Apologies for the radio silence, readers!

Yeah, sorry about the week without posting - I got knocked down by migraines on Monday and Wednesday, and I've had a couple of nagging book reviews to do for Kobold Quarterly as well as some editing of last-minute submissions. I'll be editing the last post and coming up with new stuff this week once I get caught up in Kobold-land.

For those who were curious, the One Shot went surprisingly well - I screwed up and didn't start things off with an explosion, but once the explosion hit everyone seemed to have fun. It was basically D&D does Resident Evil 5, only without the racial unpleasantness. The PCs fought off zombies while ascending the Skycrypts of Illias By The Sea, trying to steal the Half-Divine's Throne (think the Throne of St. Peter). The PCs were leaping rooftop to rooftop while killing zombies with bat wings stitched to their corpses.

It was all fun and games until they dropped the zombie abomination - think five zombies chained together into an undead rat king, with one body for each arm and leg and a fifth stitched into place as the head - and began to celebrate. Once they turned their backs it promptly GOT BACK UP AGAIN and almost killed the bard.

It was a lot of fun, and we'll be playing those characters' further adventures again whenever the whole group can't get together.

Dreams of Empire & Promises of Steel

"Citizens, you know our fair Illias By The Sea bears many names.

"The Joyful City. The Jewel of the Ruby Sea. The Shining City. King's Port. The Ever-Shifting City. The Winter Republic.

"These names aren't simply beautiful; they're nothing less than simple truth.

"But there's one name that the scholars of Zobeck can't call Illias. It's a name the idealogues in Ralidor throw about but never understand. And it's a name that the men and women of Darkmotte - may they rest in peace - never got the chance to utter once they chose annihiliation rather than peaceful annexation at the then-mortal hand of our fair King, soon may He return!

"Home.

"Home, good citizens. Home.

"Let Zobeck keep her Mayor and council of petty merchants and grocers; The citizens of Illias By The Sea know our constitution will endure far longer than the dreams of revolutionaries and idealists! Lest we forget, good citizens, a revolution created the Free City of Zobeck, in fire and blood. And it gives me no joy to remind you, brothers and sisters, that The Known World has proven time and time again that fire spreads and blood stains.

"Verily, Illias alone has learned the lesson of history, and staked its prosperity to the words that govern our Eternal Republic: "We, the people."

"Though many men claim freedom throughout The Known World, in Illias alone does the light of democracy shine brightly; The people of Illias bow to no King save The King of Winter, true ruler of The Winter Republic.

"And that is why your trust in me on this day, in this election and at this moment is so important. You have chosen to write my name across the book of history. I, Celeborn; the son of a soldier, grandson of a farmer. Every district of our Republic spoke my name today, to my pleasure and amazement.

"But there is a name they did not speak today. It is a name that I, to my sorrow, did not speak today. The name of our King, The King of Winter. The name of the man whose trust and promise I, most unworthy vessel that I am, will strive every day to fulfill.

"But my hopes and dreams matter not. My sorrow - our sorrow - that we know not the name of our rightful King matters not. Our King cast aside His name when He assumed godhead. To conquer death, The King of Winter sacrificed mortality to win the Winter Throne - and what is a name to that?

"After all, the Valde Consensio still stands behind me in this Plaza, now unsigned, yet writ large enough for all the world to see.

"Today, Illians, you selected young Celeborn to lead the High Lords' Council and the House of Commons, to join the men and women who have jointly held our city in trust until our rightful King's return. These men and women have lived and died for the prosperity and wealth of Illias' citizens. Though we are not the King, we hold to the agreement He made with each citizen of this city before He left his home.

"And there's that word again. Home.

"We live in a city of wonders, citizens. Imagine how a traveler must feel to walk through our fair city.

"Illias has strange customs, true. In no other city is it a capital offense to harm a raven. No other city in The Known World builds towers to honor their dead, and the Skycrypts of Illias that adorn the three small islands just outside our city's sea wall remain a great source of pride for us; What once was heresy is now holy through the King of Winter's earthly origins.

"And of course no other city in The Known World celebrates the King's Revel. How would you explain it to an outsider?

"One part celebration, one part religious service and one part funeral, the King's Revel beggars description. Each year, pilgrims from around The Known World flock to our fair city in time for the Winter Solstice, the beginning of our month-long Revel celebrating the King's life, mourning His absence from his city and praising His recent exaltation to godhead. We know our King is not the first King of Winter, but nonetheless we pray He will not be our last.

"Our city boasts the finest fencers in The Known World; a fencing master who earned his credentials in The Shining City commands triple the price of most other masters, if masters they can be called. Our silver interests in the colonies overseas and our silversmiths are in especial demand to forge the masks worn by all Priests of Winter. Our poets and musicians are unequalled among mortals for their ability to compose dirges, fugues and courantes.

"I am a humble man; If it were not for our Republic's fencers, for her silversmiths, for her poets, lyrists and musicians I would not stand before you today! In what other city can a group of merchants, priests and good, hardworking men and women stand together, united in purpose, to elevate a man such as me - a man who is no more patriotic than any other standing in the Plaza today - to the head of the High Lords' Council?

"Citizens, you used your voices today - and, if our King smiles upon us, your shout will echo throughout The Known World.

"As I spoke to you, fair citizens, now allow me to speak on your behalf to the tyrants and despots throughout The Known World who fear your voices. We are proud The Jewel of the Ruby Sea boasts an empty throne. But we Illians know the throne will not be empty forever - and it is our duty to ensure our King comes home an Emperor."

Celeborn Mattineos
King's Hand and Holy Seneschal, Illias By The Sea
Inaugural Address and Victory Speech

Ceroth Runeblade, First Sword of Ralidor

"Shit," Ceroth Runeblade muttered. "Shit. Shit. Shit."

There were four of them: two at each end of the alley, knives sharp and eyes dull. They were young - younger than Ceroth, at least - and they looked desperate.

Could be they want gold, Ceroth thought. It's worth a try, at least. I should have known the King's Revel would bring out an army of cutpurses.

"Settle down, boys," Ceroth said. "I'm just gonna reach for my purse, nice and slow, and maybe we can work something out that we can all live with."

"Nobody has to get hurt," he added, hopefully.

One of the men snickered. The others were quick to follow suit.

"Shit," Ceroth said.

"We don't want your gold, Runeblade," a voice called out from behind Ceroth. "We're here for your life. The city watch is supposed to be a haven for the fat and the stupid, not a retirement home for former adventurers and men who can do their sums."

Ceroth drew his rapier and pushed his back against the closest building, trying to give himself a clear view. The four thugs were still advancing, and behind the two on his left he saw a woman in a cloak of blue, holding a foil in her left hand like she knows how to use it.

"I didn't think you were an assassin, Marilla Threepenny," Ceroth called out, giving her hired goons the hairy eyeball. They're getting two close for comfort.

"I'm not, Ceroth," Marilla replied. "I pay people for that. Though after what you did to my brother, my boys might save me the coup de grace. Speaking of, boys, what are you waiting for? I'm not getting any younger."

Things happened fast.

Ceroth lunged at the thug to his right; His rapier punctured the unfortunate's windpipe, the man's flesh less resistant than water. A pivot left and another thug falls, Ceroth's sword glowing with green fire. Ceroth paused for two heartbeats then leaped straight up, dodging both the remaining thugs high and low cuts.

"I'm coming for you, Marilla," Ceroth shouted. Out of the corner of his eye he spots movement on the rooftops, and the telltale thwack of a machine catching.

"Shit," Ceroth muttered. "Crossbows."

I survived the Golden Khan's Ascension raids, Ceroth thought. I stole Aelf's Foil from the watery grave of the Whispering Lady. I was The Strix's Champion, beloved of Ralidor. Am I really going to die in a fucking alley?

If anyone up there's listening, Ceroth added, a miracle would come in handy. Nothing too big - I'll make do with a small one.

A scream from above turns into a wet gurgle, and the bolts stop. Ceroth's blade feints and pricks, creating distance between himself, Marilla and her thugs. The thwang of a crossbow going off is mere prelude to another scream.

In history books and religious scrolls, miracles often arrive in the form of rains of toads and miraculous healing. Sudden reversals are accompanied by bursts of sunlight, flocks of butterflies forming a nimbus of light around the head of the blessed. So perhaps it is fitting that Ceroth Runeblade - First Sword of Ralidor (Retired), scourge of the Golden Khans, sometimes called 'The Quick' - was given a rain of corpses.

If not a rain, then at least a drizzle. Marilla and her thugs were so startled by Ceroth's divine provenance that they didn't quite catch the grey shadow dropping from the rooftops behind them.

The Pox's greatsword cleaved one of thugs in two. Ceroth's rapier proved that, though the fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, the fastest way to his brain is through his eye.

That left two to one, and Marilla didn't like those odds. Without a word, she turned and fled. The Pox's eyes flashed, and he took off in pursuit, a running start giving him the momentum he needs to run along the side of the building on Ceroth's left and cut off Marilla. The Pox's leap into Marilla's path would have been far more impressive is Marilla's foil hadn't pierced the sole of his foot, turning his acrobatic landing into a rather less impressive crash.

Perhaps Marilla celebrated in that moment. Perhaps Marilla swore to avenge her small-time crook of a brother another day. Perhaps Marilla decided in that moment to follow a different path, to settle down and find a nice boy.

Ceroth would never know for sure. Aelf's Foil pierced her heart from behind.

"Good distraction, Pox," Ceroth said. "Just like the old days, huh?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm off duty, and I don't have to get back to the Watch until tomorrow night," Ceroth said. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"No. You can follow me to Lasslar's whorehouse," The Pox rasped. "Retirement's over."

"Shit," Ceroth muttered.

So much for that miracle.