I have no excuse for leaving this to languish for the past year. I've been busy, true, but I have had enough free time here and there that I could have been adding to this blog. Anyway, I'm going to give it another go, with another campaign log. (The previous campaign, “The Caves of Tyǧeštai”, sort of petered out from lack of direction, so you're not missing a whole heck of a lot by me not finishing it.) In an attempt to learn from that experience, I've recently started a campaign that's less “sandbox” and more story-driven. Let's see how long I can focus on actually writing stuff down this time.
Also, if there is a particular demand that I return to the Necrocracy campaign... well, I think I still have the audio file around here somewhere.
Anyway, Chapter One...
Also, if there is a particular demand that I return to the Necrocracy campaign... well, I think I still have the audio file around here somewhere.
Anyway, Chapter One...
In Which
It is Written ⁂ A Lazarus Hat Trick is Performed ⁂ Priests are Extorted ⁂ Bork Has Learned Nothing from Dying ⁂ Brother Saros's Good News Fails to Impress ⁂ "They don't take care of their donkeys right." ⁂ Free Beer is Had
Many Years Prior
Mother Sea-Eagle, prophet and leader of the recently-founded Order of the Stagnant Lake, awoke from a dream filled with deep theological confusion. An angel of Qualmë, the order's patron god, had appeared to her and given some very strange instructions, which she dutifully began to copy down with the quill and inkpot she kept in her quarters for just this purpose. On a particular date, nearly a century in the future, the priests of her order were to raise three strangers from the dead and give them the text of the prophecy she was now copying down. Fate, apparently, would handle it from there -- making sure the priests ended up with the right three strangers and that they were in the right places at the right times.
Qualmë normally didn't approve of raising people from the dead, even among those rare priests granted that kind of power. He was the god of peaceful death, and his followers were commanded to help the dead to rest, to care for cemeteries and honor their memories -- not drag them back into the world of the living. The very idea that someone would -- as these three strangers apparently were supposed to -- die “before their time” was tantamount to heresy. Nevertheless, she did hear it directly from an angel, so she supposed it wasn't her place to comment. With a critical eye, she examined the text she had just written:
In a century’s time, the land shall be divided and the continent set upon a turning point. Seek you then three strangers who have died before their time and bring them back to our world. These souls are charged with averting the coming doom.Beware the Sharpened Beak.Satisfied it was at least legible, though not terribly comprehensible, she went to her morning prayers, thinking to ask Qualmë to grant her the miracle of raise dead -- after all, she needed to scribe some scrolls in case the order didn't have that kind of power in a hundred years.
Beware the Turning Wheel.
Beware the Feathered Scale.
Beware the Devil’s Arms.
Beware the Benthic Epilimnion.
If they succeed, they may live their lives with the knowledge that their place in the afterlife is assured.
If they fail, we shall all be devoured by the open sky.
⁂
Some Months Prior
Aster Gladehaven, wandering bard and descendant of the famed Mumblehuff the Magnificent on her mother's side1, is making a few extra coins for her family's trade caravan in a local inn with one of her increasingly-well-regarded musical performances. She climbs up on a table to perform the comic Ballad of Bartleby -- always a crowd-pleaser -- and just happens to place her foot in someone's spilled beer at exactly the wrong moment. She slips -- falls -- hits her head -- and suddenly the inn has an unexpectedly dead bard and a pending public-relations issue.
Bariarti2, a native of a forgotten amphibious species3 who live most of their lives in the deep sea, was the first of his people in many years to venture onto this part of the continent -- it was known to be inhabited by strange, warm-blooded creatures who happened to also be fairly well-armed. As it turns out, this wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, as he proceeded to offend the locals in record time. One small-but-angry mob later, the first of the snail-people to set lack-of-feet on the Foolshand Peninsula in many thousands of years was dead.
Bork4, a gnoll without a pack to call her own5, has been keeping herself fed and entertained for years now by looking for new and challenging things to steal. It turns out that the minor noble who owned that mansion she'd visited last week didn't have much of a sense of humor, however, as he is now giving her an insufferably smug look as his armed hirelings surround her. Being as they are on the road a couple days from town, and nobody who survived that encounter really cares about respecting dead gnolls, Bork ends up left to bleed out in a ditch. It's not the best way to end a criminal career, but it is one of the more popular choices.
Bork4, a gnoll without a pack to call her own5, has been keeping herself fed and entertained for years now by looking for new and challenging things to steal. It turns out that the minor noble who owned that mansion she'd visited last week didn't have much of a sense of humor, however, as he is now giving her an insufferably smug look as his armed hirelings surround her. Being as they are on the road a couple days from town, and nobody who survived that encounter really cares about respecting dead gnolls, Bork ends up left to bleed out in a ditch. It's not the best way to end a criminal career, but it is one of the more popular choices.
⁂
Today (Oculi 11th, 211 Ravensblood)
... and then they woke up. Aster, Bariarti, and Bork all three found themselves laid on simple cots (awkwardly, in Bariarti's case) in a small stone room, the rays of the setting sun reaching through the window. There are a few other cots in the room, most of which are empty, but one of which contains a supine figure with the blankets pulled up to cover its head. A human man of perhaps fifty years, wearing a simple monk's habit, is looking at them with mild concern.
“Welcome back,” he says. “My name is Father Repose, head of the Order of the Stagnant Lake. In accordance with prophecy, you three have been brought back to the world of the living in order to perform a divine task.”
Some confused noises ensue, but Father Repose just blithely continues on. “Exactly one hundred years ago today, the prophet who founded our order received a vision telling her that three strangers would be needed to confront a threat to the world in which we live. Those three strangers were to be individuals who died before their time, brought back by our prayers. The prophet assured us that whichever three we chose would, by the necessities of fate, be the correct three -- that Qualmë would not allow it to be otherwise.”
Here Father Repose looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Of course, the very idea that someone might die before their time -- that they might need to be brought back for any reason -- is theologically worrying; we are taught that Qualmë ensures that everyone dies when they are meant to, and that to go against that is blasphemous. To be perfectly honest, your presence here is making us all very uncomfortable, and we're hoping that we can send you on your way very soon.”
Father Repose continues to steamroll over the party's attempts to ask questions. “Anyway, we found three people who we supposed could be said to have died before their time.” He gestures at Aster. "A rising talent in the musical world, who had an unfortunate fall before her skill could be fully developed.” He turns to Bariarti. “A snail-man from a heretofore unknown undersea civilization, killed by an angry mob before we could learn anything of consequence from him.” He then turns to the corpse under the blanket. “And Zalitia the Red, whose tribe hailed her as the most skilled warrior of her generation, who would surely have become a great hero had a bandit not gotten in a lucky shot. Unfortunately, Zalitia is apparently quite happy in whatever afterlife she landed in, and her soul declined to return to the land of the living6, so we had to use this gnoll we found instead.” Bork looks offended.
Having done his duty, as far as he's concerned, Father Repose gives them a copy of Mother Sea-Eagle's prophecy -- Aster starts looking over it at once -- and tells them that he's secured rooms for them at the local inn, the Exarch's Arms. Figuring fate will take care of things from there, he tries to usher them out. Bork is less than satisfied.
“Welcome back,” he says. “My name is Father Repose, head of the Order of the Stagnant Lake. In accordance with prophecy, you three have been brought back to the world of the living in order to perform a divine task.”
Some confused noises ensue, but Father Repose just blithely continues on. “Exactly one hundred years ago today, the prophet who founded our order received a vision telling her that three strangers would be needed to confront a threat to the world in which we live. Those three strangers were to be individuals who died before their time, brought back by our prayers. The prophet assured us that whichever three we chose would, by the necessities of fate, be the correct three -- that Qualmë would not allow it to be otherwise.”
Here Father Repose looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Of course, the very idea that someone might die before their time -- that they might need to be brought back for any reason -- is theologically worrying; we are taught that Qualmë ensures that everyone dies when they are meant to, and that to go against that is blasphemous. To be perfectly honest, your presence here is making us all very uncomfortable, and we're hoping that we can send you on your way very soon.”
Father Repose continues to steamroll over the party's attempts to ask questions. “Anyway, we found three people who we supposed could be said to have died before their time.” He gestures at Aster. "A rising talent in the musical world, who had an unfortunate fall before her skill could be fully developed.” He turns to Bariarti. “A snail-man from a heretofore unknown undersea civilization, killed by an angry mob before we could learn anything of consequence from him.” He then turns to the corpse under the blanket. “And Zalitia the Red, whose tribe hailed her as the most skilled warrior of her generation, who would surely have become a great hero had a bandit not gotten in a lucky shot. Unfortunately, Zalitia is apparently quite happy in whatever afterlife she landed in, and her soul declined to return to the land of the living6, so we had to use this gnoll we found instead.” Bork looks offended.
Having done his duty, as far as he's concerned, Father Repose gives them a copy of Mother Sea-Eagle's prophecy -- Aster starts looking over it at once -- and tells them that he's secured rooms for them at the local inn, the Exarch's Arms. Figuring fate will take care of things from there, he tries to usher them out. Bork is less than satisfied.
Bork: So are you at least going to pay for our rooms?He finally gets the three of them to leave, and goes to pray. This has been an unsettling day.
Father Repose: Yes, of course.
Bork: For how long?
Father Repose: I'll pay for a full week.
Bork: Two weeks.
Father Repose: Fine, two weeks, now go save the world.
Bork: Three weeks.
Father Repose: We already agreed on two weeks.
Bork: I mean, you dragged us back from the afterlife, I think you owe us at least three weeks.
Father Repose: Okay, we'll pay for three weeks. My order isn't wealthy, you know.
Bork: And we need something to eat. Coming back from the dead makes me hungry.
Father Repose: I am certain there is dinner at the inn.
⁂
The Exarch's Arms is hard to miss; there just aren't many buildings in Stagnant Lake7, and only a couple are anything but personal homes. Other than the monastery, the only other public buildings they pass are a shabby-looking place with a statue of a shedu out front (probably a library), a noisy establishment with an unsettling-looking painting of a lamprey on a hanging sign, and a two-story structure with the following sign staked out front:
 |
| The “Exarch" in question is Count Malacaster, who rules the fiefdom of Stagnant Lake. The above is his coat of arms: Argent, a fess nebuly sable, between five cicadas volant gules. When the current count's grandfather was granted this fiefdom, he was also given the right to display his arms with a coronet of rank and supporters; the eels urinant azure were chosen because Stagnant Lake is best known in the court of Capra for its uncommonly large and tasty eels. |
“Welcome!" Kozzory exclaims. “You must be the people from the monastery. Dinner has already begun; the dining room is through that door there." Bork immediately starts demanding large amounts of meat, and the others also chime in regarding their dietary preferences. Kozzory, smile fading just a little, cuts them off. “It's buffet-style. All the food we have available is on a table in the dining room. You can choose what you like." The party go through the door.
The dining room takes up most of the first story of the inn. It's a fairly plain room: there are a few windows, but the only real decoration is another painting of the Malacaster arms. This one is also flanked by two smaller coats of arms:
 |
| Left: Argent goutty-de-sang, a raven rising displayed reguardant proper. Right: Sable, an eel ondoyant or, a chief rayonny vert, on the chief three roundels argent, and over all an orle tenny. |
As they head towards the food, they are blocked by a cheerful human in a robe of undyed cloth and a rather ridiculous-looking wide-brimmed hat. He seems fascinated by the group, and blatantly stares at Bariarti. “Have you heard the good news?" he asks. They have not. “The cycle continues!" he exclaims. “It turns and changes, as it always has and always will! Everything is new!"
The party is not impressed, and continue towards the food, though Aster continues talking to the strange man in the hat as they walk. “Is this a religion?" Aster asks.
“Yes! May I introduce you... to myself! I am Brother Saros, of the Church of the Eternal Cycle, here to proselytize to the, um, ignorant. No offense."
Aster: I mean, that's kind of a harsh way of putting it, wouldn't you say?Brushing this off, Saros turns and indicates a handful of other diners, who are less... personally intrusive, but all of whom are openly staring at the newcomers. (Practically everyone the PCs meet is openly staring at them, since Bariarti is so... unique-looking.) “Allow me to introduce you to the other patrons of this fine establishment. I have also been telling them the good news, and have heard many interesting things from them."
Saros: There's not really another word that encapsulates people who don't know thi-
Aster: “Untaught"?
Saros: [pause] That's better.
Aster: Glad I could help.
Saros: As am I!
Bork: Did you help, though?
Aster: I don't know, but at least it makes me feel like I'm useful.
Bork: That wasn't directed at you. [indicates Saros]
“What sort of interesting things?" Bork interjects.
Aster OOC: Gather Information.Saros, who is apparently unhealthily interested in other people's business, immediately begins pointing to the other patrons and rattling off information. The party find an empty table, and eat as Saros chatters.
Saros: This fellow over here, the one in the nice clothing -- his name is Elgin Lichefield. [highly-audible whisper] He's here for a family tragedy. Don't talk about it too loudly.Bork has started ignoring Saros, and is interested in the ambassador. Bork's player confirms with the GM that the ambassador is well-dressed, with nice jewelry.
Bork: He's here for a family tragedy? Like, planning it?
Saros: No, because it happened.
Bork: [disappointed] Oh.
Saros: [returning to normal volume] And this goblin woman over here is an ambassador. She's travelling all the way --
Bork: Oh, an ambassador?
Saros: Yes! She's going all the way to the furthest northwest to speak to the Iron Magos10. Very exciting.
Bariarti: Are we sure this is the inn, not the asylum?
Saros: The asylum's down the street.
Aster: It doesn't have as nice of a sign, I'm sure.
Saros: [highly-audible whisper] I learned that from Elgin. When he was telling me about his family tragedy.
Bork OOC: I think I might go introduce myself.The ambassador -- one Fluryka Tribe Slime-Dread -- currently mostly looks unnerved to be pointed at by strange little humans in funny hats.
GM: Go for it.
Bork OOC: By which I mean I will watch her from a distance.
Aster: It's not nice to point, you know.
Saros: I --
Bork: No, let him point.
Saros: I will try and introduce without pointing. This very small fellow -- the little one -- over there -- [he gestures with his head]
Aster: Oh, fine, go back to what you were doing.
Saros: -- is a travelling peddler. [Saros seems just as intrigued by this entirely mundane occupation as he was by the ambassador and the “family tragedy".] Very exciting.
Bork: Does he peddle anything interesting?
Saros: As far as I know, just odds and ends. Useful tools.
Aster's player suspects that another travelling halfling merchant might be someone known to her character. A roll of the dice indicates that yes, this is someone she's met several times. His name is Hickory Summersky, and he's a peddler of modest means. (Bork immediately loses all interest in him at that last tidbit.) The last time she saw him was just -- wait.
Aster OOC: I should have asked how long I've been dead.
She gets today's date from Brother Saros -- she's missed about five weeks.11 (Presumably the monks had access to gentle repose to maintain their monastery's olfactory sanctity.) This is fairly stressful to her.
Aster: Oh, no, the caravan will be all the way there by now. How am I going to get a message to my da? Oh -- my birthday's coming up. That'll be bad. But it'll be so funny if I show up.Bork: Why would it be bad?Aster: Halflings do a “final birthday" for those who have passed on12. We have a big party and... give away... all their... stuff... hm.Bork: Cool. Let's go to your deathday party.Aster: Oh my goodness, the look on their faces if I show up.Bork: Are they actually going to be cool with you being a zombie?Aster: I'm not a zombie. I've got a brain and all. Well, as much as I ever did, anyway.Bork: I don't think bards have brains.Aster: Oh. More room for stories, then.
There's a bit of a pause, and they turn back to Brother Saros, who is still standing there with a broad smile. “And allow me to introduce you to our final dining companion," he says, as if there had not just been an entire conversation. “Over here is -- well, she won't really talk to me, but they call her Fritha Threefingers. On account of her three fingers." He holds up his left hand with the little and ring fingers folded down, and then gestures at a heavily-scarred, dour-looking human in dark clothes.
Bork: How many fingers does she have?
Saros: Well, eight, total.
Aster: Or six, if you don't count the thumbs.
Saros: But she won't tell me why she's here, which I find very antisocial. [pause] Anyway. Why don't you tell me about yourselves?Aster: Well... so I am Aster Gladehaven, traveling performer, at your service.
Saros: Wonderful! And where are you traveling to?
Aster: Don't rightly know at the moment.
Bork: Back from the dead?
Aster: But, always up for a new adventure, and eventually I'll catch up with my caravan... the Tumbleweeds -- you might have heard of them?
Saros: Perhaps in passing! I am not familiar with the ways of the traveling caravans.
Bork: My name is Bork.
Saros: [pause] Is it now? What a strange name.
Bork: You calling me strange?
Saros: I would never! [points at Bariarti] I might call him strange.
Bork: That's fair.
Aster: You don't even know him!
Bork/Saros: [in chorus] He's a snail.
Aster: So?
Saros: That's strange.
Aster: I've seen snails before.
Bork: Have you seen sentient snails before? Wait -- is he sentient? [to Bariarti] Are you sentient?Aster: He's talked to me.
Bariarti: I think, therefore I am.
Aster: I didn't actually catch your name.
Bariarti: Call me “Bariarti".
Aster: Bariarti, Bork... and Aster. I feel like I should take a “B" name just to fit. “Belladonna"? Well, I might actually just add that13. We'll find out. [pause] So what do you do for fun around here?Saros: Well, I contemplate the mysteries of the Eternal Cycle.
[an uncomfortable silence follows]
Bork: She said “fun".
Saros: That is fun!
Aster: So I'm getting it's kind of a quiet town.
Saros: I believe so.
Aster: Oh, you're just passing through? You seem awfully well-informed for someone just passing through.Saros: Well, I am a very social person. I like to find out as much as possible about the people I'm sharing an inn with.Aster: I suppose that's prudent.
Saros: But yes, I'm just waiting for a caravan to pass by so I can travel with them14. It's safer that way.Aster: Yeah, in general, especially if you find a good one. What's the caravan you're joining?Saros: Whichever one comes through next.
Aster: Oh, all right. But you've got to be careful about them Grumblehooks.
Saros: I will remember that.
Bork: “Grumblehooks"?
Aster: They don't take care of their donkeys right.
At this point, there is a pause wherein the others try to think of the right response to that. There is some generalized mumbling about how frightful that sounds, and explanations from Aster about how important good donkey care is. Bork tires of Brother Saros's company, and takes her beer over to the ambassador's table. While there, she shifts her mannerisms noticeably, acting shy and polite in a way that she didn't even slightly bother with when talking to Saros; it's somewhat disarming.
Bork: Hello, ambassador?Some small talk on the subject follows, in which Fluryka explains the concept of archaeology to Bork, and Bork finds out that Fluryka has no idea what the magic items do, just that they detect as magic. Bork eventually asks Fluryka if she knows anywhere in town that has better beer, and this leads to the pair of them heading down the road to the Leering Lamprey -- the noisy building they passed on the way here, which is apparently a dockside tavern, and the only other place in town that serves food and drink. For an ambassador, Fluryka is pretty crappy at Sense Motive... or Bork is really good at fast-talking. Bork also gets a circumstance modifier for this little gem:
Fluryka: Who are you?
Bork: My name is Bork.
Fluryka: Hello, Bork. Are you... someone I should know in a professional capacity? I'm afraid I don't recognize you.
Bork: I just came back from the dead. Just wanted to see what you knew about this town.
[there's a brief pause, wherein Fluryka's diplomatic aplomb apparently tells her not to pry into the “dead" thing]
Fluryka: Well, it's very small.
Bork: Just passing through?
Fluryka: Yes, I believe most of us here are just waiting for a caravan.
Bork: Where are you going?
Fluryka: I'm traveling up to the town of Aglaitiraup, very far in the northwest.
Bork: What for?
Fluryka: I wish to speak to the Iron Magos on behalf of my people.
Bork: What's an Iron Magos?
Fluryka: He is the ruler of that particular corner of the world.
Bork: Why do you want to talk to him?
Fluryka: I think he can help us. We're suffering from... a plague.
Bork: You know, when I talk to people to try and convince them to do something for me, I usually bring them an offering of some sort. Did you do anything like that? It might be a good idea.
[another pause, where Fluryka fails a Sense Motive check]
Fluryka: Well, I did bring a pair of magical items that we recently found in our town.
Bork: Oh, fascinating. Where did you find magical items in your town?
Bork: Want some free beer? The people who brought me back from the dead are picking up my tab.
Fluryka: What, everywhere?
Bork: Of course. You can't just bring someone back from the dead and not pick up their tab everywhere.
Meanwhile, Aster -- in true hobbit fashion -- is going back for a second helping of the mediocre dinner. She makes a quick Diplomacy15 check on the way to see what she can glean from the conversations in the room. First, and most obviously, she notices Bork has just lured the ambassador out of the room. Aster is concerned that it “put a damper on things" if Bork gets them run out of town before they use their three weeks of free room and board.
1. Due to some house rules in my campaign world, “half-elf” and “half-orc” are not the only common hybrids, as I always thought that was a bit silly. Aster is gnomish on her mother's side and halfling on her father's. She was raised in her father's trade caravan, on account of her mother's home not being an especially safe place for a child. (Her mother is a sorcerer who enjoys experimenting with magic and doesn't enjoy safety precautions.)
2. According to the player, this name is pronounced “like you might call a barometer that torments a famous detective.”
3. The species in question is the Zif, which I had never even heard of until Bariarti's player asked if he could be one.
4. My setting document indicated that a good way to get a gnoll name is to just transcribe sounds your dog makes. Gnolls aren't actually canids -- they're hyaenids -- but they're closer to canid than hominid, so it's good enough. So, based on my own dog's noises, my gnolls tend to be named things like “Airourrorr”. It wasn't until well after Bork's player introduced her character that I remembered dogs on the internet say “bork”.
5. She's not exiled or anything; mostly she just thinks other gnolls are assholes.
6. One of the initial players dropped out shortly before character creation, and was replaced by Bariarti's player. I decided there should be an in-universe acknowledgement of this.
7. Stagnant Lake is a relatively small body of water, called that because there are no rivers, streams, etc. leading in or out of it. The fiefdom, the monastery, and the small fishing village on its shores are all named after the lake. That's not confusing or anything, right?
8. Not entirely dissimilar to the Byzantine use of the term.
9. “Scum-Stone” is the closest translation of the name of the goblin tribe who originally established this village. All of the local goblins -- the majority of the fiefdom's population -- are from this tribe.
10. From the setting document:
A figure known as the Iron Magos dwells in a tower by the coast, in the town of Aglaitiraup. He/she/it/they have no public life, interact with nobody, and in general live like a recluse. What is known, however, is that the Iron Magos offers protection to any tribe that performs a certain rite of allegiance and whose leader signs their name, in blood, on the surface of a great iron monolith that stands outside the Magos’s tower, and on which is engraved the legal code of the land. Those tribes and towns who have sworn themselves to the Iron Law find themselves defended from outside attack by arcane intervention, generally presumed to be the magic of the Iron Magos. The price, of course, is that the same power is turned against any who violate the law within those tribes. Within the Iron Law, the penalty for any crime is immediate capital punishment, and it is whispered that the Magos uses the life force of these criminals to power the magic of the land.
11. I rolled a d6. “Asking the dice” is my standard practice whenever I don't have an answer immediately prepared. An otherwise-unremarkable halfling happening to be a former acquaintance of Aster's was a 10 on a d10.
12. Players making up cultural details out of thin air is just about my favorite thing. I always make them canon, and I always encourage it. Except maybe for that one time when it involved a choker and a were-fox figuring out how to have sex. That was just... wrong.
13. Being gnomish on her mother's side, Aster has a flexible approach to her own name.
14. This is a pretty standard strategy among people who need to travel through the Waste Lands, the region where the PCs are. Find a caravan going in roughly the right direction, and stick with them. (For a nominal fee, you can usually even ride in their wagons.) If the caravan's route doesn't match up with your eventual destination, ride with them for as long as it makes sense, then stop at a roadside inn. Wait there until a caravan comes through that's going the right direction. Repeat. It's incredibly inefficient -- like a bus route where you don't know whether the next bus is coming in an hour or a month -- but you're much less likely to get eaten by something.
15. The lack of Gather Information as a separate skill is one of my only complaints regarding Pathfinder. I'm tempted to house-rule it back in.
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