quote:

Wandering aimlessly, we passed down the Old South Road and turned off onto a side road quite at random. We found ourselves on a street of craftsmen and shops and as we dove into the depths of the Merchants Quarter we saw a shop being ransacked by a pair of scruffy individuals. As we approached we saw a man rush up to the store and started yelling for the two to stop. It took only one swing from a cudgel to take the proprietor of the store down. As he lay bleeding from a gash in his forehead he saw us watching and beseeched us for help.

Snakeeyes looked at me, shrugged and walked over, hands open and empty by his side with his sword still in scabbard. I readied my staff and followed his play.

“What’s going on here?” says Snakeeyes.

“Nothing that concerns you. Your shirt is neither Black nor Brown.” Says one of the thugs.

“This gentleman bleeding on the ground made it otherwise.” Says Snakeeyes.

And then it’s on. Clubs and fists and daggers flash and the two of them are quickly unconscious and bleeding on the ground as I help up the proprietor, a man named Theldrat. Without so much as a thank you, he wobbles into his shop and immediately begins a panicked search for something.

Snakeeyes and I drag the two thugs off the street and tie them up in the back of the shop and wake them up not too gently. After questioning the thugs and Theldrat himself, we discover that Theldrat has a magical key that has helped him with his success as a locksmith. However the thugs know nothing about a key, and were in fact told to loot the place by a half-orc named Irontusk. Theldrat does not want the corrupt Blackshirts, the city watch, nor the overworked but far more capable citizen’s watch, the Brownshirts, involved with the search for the key and begged us to help him, offering silver. Being basically broke and with no other prospects looming, Snakeeyes and I took Theldrat up on his offer, demanding partial payment up front to help with our day to day living expenses.

We dragged the thugs out back and Snakeeyes roughed them up with a brutal efficiency. They revealed to us that they were part of a gang calling themselves the Scarred Shadows and that the half-orc can be found in Barge End, a crowded and treacherous shantytown sprawling on the riverbank on the east end of Thalos. Finished with them, I stabbed them both in the heart for being the bullies and thugs they are while Snakeeyes looked on with a casual disinterest.

Heading down to Barge End, we made our way along the wharf looking for Irontusk. However, Irontusk is somehow tipped off to our approach and makes a run for it across a number of gypsy river barges, knocking boatmen aside and putting on quite a show of dexterity and acrobatics. Snakeeyes finally catches up to him and wounds him in the leg with his katana, dropping him to the deck.

Immediately Irontusk sues for clemency, offering all that he knows for his life and some spare coin to flee town. We learn that he had stolen the key from Theldrat's store and then told the Scarred Shadows that the store was ripe for the picking. His intention was to use their ransacking of the place to cover up his theft. He then sold the key to a gang of criminals thick with some wasting illness and he gives us the location of the hideout of the Green Dagger Gang. Snakeeyes roughly bandages up his leg and gives Irontusk some silver and we depart for the location of the Green Daggers.

We head down though the twisting narrow back alley streets of Thalos to get to their base of operations. After braving a number of simple traps and various guards, we murder enough of the diseased thieves that the rest of them tell us of a mysterious cleric of Boccob named Veltargo who offered healing in exchange for the key. And it turns out none of the gang have yet recovered despite drinking the entire cure. We avail ourselves of the emergency funds of the Green Dagger Gang, assuming that there shortly wouldn’t be any living Green Dagger Gang left alive.

Ilor posted:

Wait - if Irontusk already had the key (which he sold to the Green Daggers, with you so far), why did he hire the two thugs to toss the locksmith's shop?

habituallyred posted:

Perhaps because the locksmith can no longer trade the use of his key for protection?

CzarChasm posted:

And also, if snakeeyes gave up the last of his silver in the previous summary to get them in the town, how did he have any to give to iron tusk? Or did the shop keep pay in advance?

Agrikk posted:

Thanks for the questions y’all. I’m writing this story from notes I took from this campaign and my writing might show gaps like this.

Agrikk posted:

Thanks for the questions y’all. I’m writing this story from notes I took from this campaign and my writing might show gaps like this.

Yawgmoth posted:

I am enjoying your story and wish I could write half as well as you do.

My current D&D game has had some definite amazing poo poo happen but I feel like I don't really convey it well in posting the events here which is why I haven't.

Yawgmoth posted:

I am enjoying your story and wish I could write half as well as you do.

My current D&D game has had some definite amazing poo poo happen but I feel like I don't really convey it well in posting the events here which is why I haven't.

JUST MAKING CHILI posted:

quote:

With our newfound funds and the day getting away from us, we head back to the Old South Road, looking for an inn or flophouse that could house us. We ended up at a worn but solid-looking establishment back by the Northwest Gate called the Red Axe Inn, run by one Thadjzi Orc-Slayer. It was presumably his battle axe hung over the bar and the crust on the blade was probably not rust. We got a pair of rooms upstairs and headed down to the common room for a bite, a sip and the word. After sitting down over plates of cheese and meat, Snakeeyes with a pipe full of some black leaf and I with a cup of something red, a Yaghannish vintage judging by the exquisite finish.

“You are handy with that blade, my brother,“ I said over my cup. “And that hand-wavy thing you do when you fight empty-handed. What is that?”

“My father taught me armed combat with my katana and unarmed kata. It is a style of fighting used in distant lands to the south,” Snakeeyes replied, packing his pipe with a second bowl of the black leaves. The oily smoke spilling out of his mouth as he spoke and dropping straight to the floor.

“What, south as in the Oeridian Empire?”

“Further than that. Past the Oeridian Sea and its islands there is a great land sprawling many thousands of miles. There is a people there with skin darker than ours who fight with these weapons and these,” he said holding up the blades of his hands.

“Your father must travel quite a bit to have seen a land past the Oeridian Empire. He would be well into his years upon his return. No?”

“He travels, yes.”

We sat in silence. Snakeeyes silently puffing on his pipe behind the slotted wooden optics he wore when in public to cover his eyes, and I sipped my wine as we listened to the news sweeping the common room- apparently a brash theft at the Sage’s Guild Library by a cleric of Boccob.

“Excuse me, Boccob?” said Snakeeyes to the blond Sulouise man talking to his comrade at the table nearby.

“Aye, t’was what I said. Some priest o’ Boccob walks into the Sage’s Guild. Right t’rou the door he goes and over a couple-tree acolytes and makes off wit’ some book or other. Seems a big deal.”

A cleric of Boccob dealing with an upstart den of thieves is one thing, but two priests of Boccob up to no good seemed too much of a coincidence. “Perhaps Veltargo is responsible for the theft of the book.” I mumbled into my cup and Snakeeyes nodded.

quote:

The next morning we got directions to the Sage’s Guild, deciding to follow Veltargo through the debris of his passing. Sitting on the edge of the open market in the center of the City, just outside the square surrounding the Overlord’s Keep, is an old building with the aspect of a weathered fortress. Large stone columns support a heavy stone lintel over an entry flanked by weathered stone statues of scholars holding open books before them in praise. A grand stone staircase rises up from the street to the level of the statues with guards out front with arms folded and gazes set.

We climb the stairs and are immediately braced by the guards. “Library is closed until further notice.”

Snakeeyes does his shrug and puts his hand on his sword. Putting my hand gently on his chest, I step between Snakeeyes and the guards. “We come with news about the theft and murders. Someone will want to speak with us.”

One of the guards is Geraal Wistroan, a young scholar positioned here by the head librarian, Iquander, to keep visitors out. Past him inside, the library swarms with black-shirted officers of the city watch looking for clues to the robbery.

I say, “I think we have seen your Priest of Boccob. We have had dealings with those who have had dealings with him.”

It turns out that the valuable book was stolen just before the library opened. The only witness, a young scholar who had been up all night, reports seeing a cleric dressed in the vestments of Boccob leaving the library at a dead run with the missing book clutched to his chest. This tome has long lurked in one of the rare book rooms of the library, its pages a mystery to all for its clasp is held by a magic lock that defies all attempts to open it. Unfortunately, the scholar did not get a direct look at the thief. After fighting his way into an office and diving out an open window, the thief ran off into the city and has not been seen since.

We thank Geraal for his time and promise to return the book if we come across it, and the black-shirted Watch thanks us for information about the Scarred Shadows and the Green Daggers.

quote:

Located deep within Thalos’ Temple District, a bustling quarter of universities, boarding houses, and cathedrals, the Temple of Boccob is a stately structure of clean marble and simple decoration. Emblazoned above the main entry is a faintly glowing blue eye contained within a pentagram, the All-Seeing Eye of Boccob the Uncaring, god of magic.

A squad of Blackshirts is here, questioning the clerics of Boccob individually about the theft at the Sage's Guild Great Library. Letting ourselves in, we are asked to wait in a rather lavish sitting room for about an hour before Altamaic the Calm, a junior member of the clergy, comes to speak with us.

We describe the Priest of Boccob to this man and Altamaic grows pale. He confides to us that he was robbed on his way back to the temple about a month ago. Although his coin purse was not taken, the ruffian demanded his vestments, holy symbol, and robes. The robber was thin, balding, with crooked teeth and a foul stench.

"Veltargo for sure." Says Snakeeyes.

"There's more," says Altamaic. "During the struggle, I ripped a stone pendant from around the neck of my attacker. I reported this to the Blackshirts, but they paid me no mind since it seemed to have nothing to do with the book's theft. One can't really expect much from the Blackshirts but I had to do what I could."

"Well it seems that you've been though much, with your attack and this inquisition going on around here now," I say, commiserating with him. "What makes this book so important?"

Altamaic rubbed his face. "I have no idea what is in this book. What is important here is that books are sacred and the Great Library is open to all. Stealing books is a blight against society and a mote in the Eye of Law."

Snakeeyes picks up the thread of the conversation and says, "Well, we are hunting this man and perhaps this stone pendant is a link. Can we see it?"

He reaches into a pouch on his belt and pulls out a small amulet. It is made of blood red marble in the shape of a clenched fist squeezing out a drop of blood. On the back of the pendant is a series of small irregular bumps. "This is a cairn charm, I think. But I have not had time to investigate more. I didn't trust the Blackshirts with this, but if you promise to bring the villain to justice and return the book to the Library I will give it to you."

He says there are a scattering of cairns to the east of the city in the Bone Hills near Victory Bridge, so it looks like an overland trip is in our future. Snakeeyes sets out to acquire supplies and I head back to Geraal at the Sage’s Guild to further identify this charm. With a bit of research with the aid of the sages, we learn learn that the pendant is indeed a cairn charm, coming from the Bone Hills. This particular pendant's unique design pegs it to only one place, the Tomb of Blood Everflowing, an ancient abandoned sepulcher deep within the Cairn Hills.

Ilor posted:

My current Apocalypse World game also has some amazing poo poo going on right now, but I don't know how well it would be suited to fictionalized form.

Remiel Lightbranch posted:

Tirmazand. Westernmost of the Great Cities that dominated Kalde, the cosmopolitan Empire of Man, the whole of it seemed to spill out from the hilltop fortress like a wave of gray upon the evergreen forest surrounding. Steep cliffs served as its rear defense, calling to mind the vigilance of a lord commander preparing for battle. As his carriage drew nearer to the city gates, the finely-dressed elfin man could not help but admire the view.

His name was Remiel Lightbranch, for now. He had grown attached to it after the success of his last job; the coin purse weighing fatly against his fine silken robes certainly aided the appeal. He had been a wandering shaman then, a spirit-talker dispatched by the Empire to aid the ailing citizens with their otherworldly woes. He had performed his duties with the usual aplomb, and been handsomely rewarded days before the officer officially dispatched was scheduled to arrive. It would do more good in his pocket than in the Emperor's coffers, as he often said. But today he was a shaman no longer. Today, Remiel Lightbranch was a traveling nobleman, half-blooded son of some minor house far to the South. Fifth-born son of Lord Lightbranch, one of the Empire's recent acquisitions from their desertborn elvish neighbors. News had been spreading of skirmishes along the border, and the usual trading of land that accompanied them, and the time was ripe to turn those rumors into assets.

As he passed beneath the heavy stone archway that led into the city proper, Remiel took stock of what he knew. Unlike his last job, he came to Tirmazand not for coin, but for knowledge. The information he sought could be found in the library of the city's high lord, Altair Mazandaran. A known eccentric, Mazandaran expressed openly his belief in rumors of the secret city of the elves, Abess-kylsor, and had made it his life's goal to uncover the city's location. As it happened, this goal aligned with Remiel's own, though perhaps for different reasons. In order to get close to the high lord, he would require the patronage of one of the lesser noble houses of the city. Of the 53 houses, three stood out above the rest:

House Hardcastle. Ruled by Hendrick Hardcastle, much of the house's wealth had been made in weapons manufacturing, and they maintained a militant image befitting their name. Remiel's sources mentioned Hendrick's son, Josef, as a potential suitor for the high lord's daughter. In that case, Hardcastle might be one to avoid; assuming Hendrick was fool enough to believe a foreign also-ran might present a challenge to his son's courtship, attempting to fall upon the man's good graces might land him in hot water.

House Bluestone. With the passing of her husband, Donatela Bluestone had taken the reins of this house, best known for the control it wielded over the region's mining operations. Like Hendrick, she had her eyes on the prize: it seemed she aimed to propose her husband's oldest daughter, Belinda, for marriage to the high lord's oldest son. Though not related by blood, Donatela wielded considerable influence over her daughter's attitudes and actions, having become like a second mother to the girl. This was a more promising lead; if Remiel sought an audience with the lord through Donatella under the pretense of inquiring after his daughter's hand, the woman might see it as an opportunity both to secure her influence over the city's governance and to oust Hendrick, a dangerous rival. However, Donatela had a reputation as a shrewd woman. Slow to trust and difficult to deceive, there was a chance she might see through him and end the job before it even began. Not the most attractive option, but if it was all he had...

House Longfellow. Ignacius Longfellow was the patriarch of this family, the merchant head of a shipping company. The Longfellows were likely the wealthiest of the three, having interests spread wide across the Empire. Ignacius, it seemed, was content to manage his own mercantile affairs and keep his nose out of politics. He had two daughters himself, but Remiel had heard of no intentions on pairing either with the young lordling. Further, Ignacius was supposedly well-traveled, frequently treating with clients from across, and even outside, the Empire. He might be more willing than the others to trust in a man of elvish lineage. Lacking better options, Longfellow at least seemed to be a good place to start.

Arriving at the wealthy district, Remiel chose to take the remainder of his voyage by foot. A quick tip to the driver, and he was off. Several brief inquisitions brought him to the townhouse of Longfellow. Even the grounds before the entrance were lavish; it immediately occurred to Remiel that the master of the house was an extravagant sort, determined to assure anyone and everyone that he was, in fact, the wealthiest man in the city. As he approached, two house guards crossed spears before him.

"State your business," spoke the first. Head upturned, chest held out, Remiel responded.

"Inform Lord Longfellow that Remiel, Fifth Son of House Lightbranch of Andelhazd, wishes to intrude brielfy upon his hospitality, that we may discuss matters of finance," he said. It sounded arrogant enough. Apparently the guards felt the same way, as after a brief request that he wait patiently, one of them headed inside. Several minutes passed, as Remiel felt the unseen gaze of some distant observer wash over him, after which the guard returned to usher Remiel into the house. It would seem he had passed the first test.

If the grounds outside could be called lavish, the interior was nothing less than ostentatious. Silk tapestries hung about life-size portraits, complementing nicely the fine silver candelabras which sat upon masterwork wood furniture. The halls which stretched all ways into the distance were spacious, and strategically placed windows- set with real glass, of course- served to blanket the foyer in warm, natural light at all hours of the day. As his gaze followed the soft red carpet across the marble floor and up the twin staircase opposite the entrance, he spied a figure staring down at him from the balcony. It was a tallish man, balding on top, draped in robes that made Remiel's own look like beggar's rags. He was thin, too, so that it seemed the robes were trying (with some success) to swallow him whole.

This was Ignacius Longfellow. He welcomed Remiel into his home, and when introductions were concluded, immediately bombarded him with questions. His heritage, the state of his home, the nature of his family's holdings; though delicate at first, it was not long before Longfellow was prying, somewhat rudely, into matters one might consider more personal than should be expected of a conversation with a relative stranger. But Remiel was practiced in precisely this sort of dialogue, and happily answered where he saw it was appropriate. Several hours passed as the spoke, making arrangements for a deal Remiel knew would never come to fruition. Still, he expected little repercussion to disappointing Longfellow's expectations. Remiel insinuated that he was "merely an envoy," a means by which to assess Longfellow's value to his noble father, and no money would change hands until a deal could be finalized. So long as no papers were signed and no money changed hands, Longfellow would assume Lord Lightbranch's lack of response was the result of poor business sense, and that would be the end of it. In the meantime, Remiel would rely upon Longfellow's good graces to find an opportunity to meet with the High Lord.

As their discussions neared a close, Longfellow invited Remiel to take a meal with him in the dining hall. He explained that it had been some time since he had entertained a proper guest, muttering some thinly-veiled vitriol directed at his two rival houses. Feigning trepidation, Remiel reluctantly accepted the invitation, and the two made for the dining table. Several members of the household were present as well, including the lord's wife, his oldest daughter and her husband, and a younger daughter as well. The younger appeared to be of similar age to Remiel himself, and as he entered her eyes met his with a casual disinterest.

Dinner proceeded apace, Remiel taking special care to recall the various niceties he had learned were an expectation of the nobility. In vain, it seemed, as the oldest daughter's husband began to attack his meal all the delicacy of a dog upon a bone. In an effort to distract from the spectacle, the lady chose to strike up casual conversation with Remiel.

"It is a rare thing indeed, that we are treated to so fine a dinner guest as you, my lord," she spoke over the sound of gnashing teeth, "We are thrice graced to entertain a man of such apparent noble breeding."

Noble breeding indeed, he thought coolly. I wonder what she would say, if only she knew.

"You flatter me, my lady," he responded. "In truth, my family has only recently joined the Empire; I must confess, I am still only beginning to grasp the intricacies of life at court."

A measured laugh, a bit of banter. Copious compliments. Simple questions with noncommittal answers. This was how nobles spoke with one another, and they could go at it for hours on end, never really saying or doing anything of meaning. It was part of what Remiel hated about them, even as he realized the hypocrisy. He was more than willing to play the game if it got him what he needed.

Time rolled on, and dinner came to a close. As serving folk emerged to remove the despoiled remains of their meal, Longfellow turned to Remiel.

"You say that you... are still attempting to grasp life at court," he stated inquisitively. "Perhaps you would enjoy an opportunity to experience a bit of courtly rivalry firsthand?"

Something about his statement seemed to have a particular effect on his younger daughter, whose eyes went immediately wide. "Father, no," she said. Ignoring her, he continued.

"As it happens, the eldest son of His Grace Lord Mazandaran, long may he prosper, intends to host a ball at his private estate. My daughter Celia has expressed a desire to partake in the festivities, and I had thought to deny her request..."

He shot the girl a look heavy with meaning, to which she responded by pouting, arms crossed, in her chair.

"However," he continued, "were she to attend under the supervision of a chaperone, I might be inclined to reconsider."

Without thinking, Remiel let out a short chuckle. Recovering quickly, he expressed his emphatic approval of this suggestion, swearing to uphold his duties as the young lady's guardian to the utmost of his ability. He would be her vigilant overseer, never far from her side, as his kin has served to oversee the desert wasteland for millennia or some such nonsense. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

Just like that, he was in.

CeallaSo posted:

I'm not sure how, as a DM, you can get that far into a game that's going that poorly and not start throwing out some heavy-handed hints. Like, how was the DM not just as miserable as the players by the 3 hour mark?

MelvinBison posted:

F: You said you were looking at it. You didn’t say you were reading any of it.

Robindaybird posted:

I honestly think it's not that tabletop games break people, it just reveals a lot of poo poo that's otherwise kept hidden, much like how wine loosens the tongue.

PurpleXVI posted:

I also have to wonder why breaking the Godbox is considered an "ideal" solution. It just seems to ruin the lives of a bunch of troglodytes who aren't hurting anyone, so you can go through a door without having to give up a piece of iron. If anything being pointlessly destructive like that seems like the less ideal solution, at least to any party that isn't Chaotic Evil.

Zorak of Michigan posted:

My only question is why anyone is committed enough to get to in-game "I lie down and wait to die," instead of getting to out of game, "This sucks, GM, what the hell are you trying to do here?", or a straightforward, "Hey, I stopped having fun about an hour ago, I think I'm going to go home."

PurpleXVI posted:

I also have to wonder why breaking the Godbox is considered an "ideal" solution. It just seems to ruin the lives of a bunch of troglodytes who aren't hurting anyone, so you can go through a door without having to give up a piece of iron. If anything being pointlessly destructive like that seems like the less ideal solution, at least to any party that isn't Chaotic Evil.

senrath posted:

Because everything about Emerald Spire is even worse than usual Pathfinder stuff (including a water based floor where you can manage to aggro the entire floor from the first room), and the Godhome level is made even worse in PFS mode because to get the best rewards you have to murder them and disable the Godbox, I assume because otherwise you could get a full module done in about an hour at most and we can't have that.