So we aren't able to play tomorrow; several of our troupe are scheduled to be indisposed for a time.
I'd like to get another day of games in, though. If you guys are able to do so on Saturday or Sunday, say so.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Campaign Recap - Strange Quarry
The three agents of the citadel had just before ended the short life of an abyssal hound, wrought from inky wet tendrils. A pool of black, oozing liquid silently seeps into the worked stone ground just outside the autopsy room they had investigated. Bogumil decides to stay in the autopsy room, to try to glean some new information from the rended corpse of a man on one of the stone slabs, and possibly speak with the ghosts of the place. Undamya and Bastion venture deeper into the dark, cold compound. After the lighting of a long torch, the space of the brickwork no longer shifts disorientingly, such hallucinations probably the effect of some illusion or an odorless gas leaked into the hallways.
The two spelunkers reach a fork in their path; ahead, a cylindrical shaft serving as the first of many catacombs. To the east, a cave-in hiding a secondary autopsy room and connecting natural exit. They venture down the macabre reverse tower, noting that many of the graves are empty, until the spiraling staircase terminates to a moist, algae covered floor. High above them, the ceiling has cracked from the seasons and many coiling roots piercing the vaulted halls, letting water seep in. At their feet, a small drain overflows by about half an inch, creating a puddle little over a foot across the sagging floor. Several barrels sit smelling thickly of formaldehyde and sawdust, stacked high in a small area. Directly across from them, a solitary dark doorway is flanked by a weakly lit torch. A lone candle illuminates the room beyond, casting its dim light across upturned benches, torn tapestries and a memorial alter. Two doors sit opposite one another on the eastern and western walls, one made of stone and the other of a thick, rotting wood practically falling off of the rusted metal hinges, respectively. A moldy carpet leads the eye to a large brass bowl on the alter, the wear of ages tarnishing the once brilliant metal.
Before creeping deeper into the crypts, they head back up the catacomb to investigate the room to the east. By some trick, one of the corpses has sprung to life once more. It makes no motion toward the two journeymen adventurers. Undamya fells it in a blow, letting its once again lifeless form fall to the floor. Turning once again to the cave-in, Bastion makes use of his unique ability to transport himself through materials, while Undamya must claw his way through the earthen mound of the collapsed tunnel. The room itself is simply a secondary autopsy or prepatory room, with a similar stone table as the one seen earlier. Bookshelves board the walls, lined with ancient texts bound in leather and hide. Only a few of the musty old tomes remain intact enough to be legible, the others long since deteriorated or torn apart. A low whisper of wind comes from a door beyond the limestone slab. Past the doorway is an unworked section of the caves, with a large hole in the ceiling casting a shining pillar into the middle of a frozen, foot-deep pond. Animal tracks can be seen coming from a mound of snow climbing to the natural exit, and the pair of adventures surmise that some wolves, bears or something similar must make its home here. After a cursory investigation and subsequent procurement of the texts in the room before, they head back down.
Past the western doorway lies a room filled with empty wooden caskets and a slab of limestone carved out of the earth for preparing corpses for funerary services. One of the caskets conceals a cadaver, wrapped in lordly vestments and lain with few possessions. The eastern doorway leads further into the catacombs. The next room has a gaping hole opened in the eastern wall, dug out from the brick by gnarled hands, it seems. A group of three filthy cots are lined up along the wall, in the place of several sarcophagi, the stone residences turned to rubble and strewn about the room by some unknown means. A stone doorway, mightily brushed ajar by Bastion, reveals a short hallway leading to a magnificent statue of a seated king with a blade laid cross his lap. The hallway splits to the north and south, with two fiery braziers to light the halls. The two men walk past several undisturbed sarcophagi in the middle of the halls and set into the walls, faced with beautiful reliefs of their inhabitants. They turn a corner, and spy a pair of stitched, horrific undead. These sentries of an unknown master cry out in a terrible cacophony, shaking the catacombs and unsettling thin rivers of dust. Bastion and Undamya set upon these screaming monstrosities, freezing them and lighting them ablaze.
After the short battle, a man looking to be in his middle-ages comes up from a wide, dark stair to wonder what all the fuss is about. [Editor: Embarrassing question: what did I say his name was? I lost my notes.] Bastion and Undamya press him for answers to various questions, and he reveals that he is the lone operator of an undead-fueled mining operation, using the bodies of long-dead lords and kings, in search of precious gems buried beneath the Citadel. This is an unconvincing lie, yet he remains unyielding when pressed on the matter. To keep his operation hidden from the Autarch and the ruler's aides, he offers payment of a sum of silver Stags, and a handful of rough, uncut gemstones. Our party accepts after some deliberation and pointed questions.
We make our way back to the Citadel, coin in hand and plans to reveal everything to the Autarch. The motionless ruler suggests one simple solution for keeping the excavator's undead from attacking anyone again; bury him and his horde.
___
Think about a new spell for your characters. When we play again, I can work with you guys on the mechanics. If you want suggestions or examples, I'd be happy to oblige.
The two spelunkers reach a fork in their path; ahead, a cylindrical shaft serving as the first of many catacombs. To the east, a cave-in hiding a secondary autopsy room and connecting natural exit. They venture down the macabre reverse tower, noting that many of the graves are empty, until the spiraling staircase terminates to a moist, algae covered floor. High above them, the ceiling has cracked from the seasons and many coiling roots piercing the vaulted halls, letting water seep in. At their feet, a small drain overflows by about half an inch, creating a puddle little over a foot across the sagging floor. Several barrels sit smelling thickly of formaldehyde and sawdust, stacked high in a small area. Directly across from them, a solitary dark doorway is flanked by a weakly lit torch. A lone candle illuminates the room beyond, casting its dim light across upturned benches, torn tapestries and a memorial alter. Two doors sit opposite one another on the eastern and western walls, one made of stone and the other of a thick, rotting wood practically falling off of the rusted metal hinges, respectively. A moldy carpet leads the eye to a large brass bowl on the alter, the wear of ages tarnishing the once brilliant metal.
Before creeping deeper into the crypts, they head back up the catacomb to investigate the room to the east. By some trick, one of the corpses has sprung to life once more. It makes no motion toward the two journeymen adventurers. Undamya fells it in a blow, letting its once again lifeless form fall to the floor. Turning once again to the cave-in, Bastion makes use of his unique ability to transport himself through materials, while Undamya must claw his way through the earthen mound of the collapsed tunnel. The room itself is simply a secondary autopsy or prepatory room, with a similar stone table as the one seen earlier. Bookshelves board the walls, lined with ancient texts bound in leather and hide. Only a few of the musty old tomes remain intact enough to be legible, the others long since deteriorated or torn apart. A low whisper of wind comes from a door beyond the limestone slab. Past the doorway is an unworked section of the caves, with a large hole in the ceiling casting a shining pillar into the middle of a frozen, foot-deep pond. Animal tracks can be seen coming from a mound of snow climbing to the natural exit, and the pair of adventures surmise that some wolves, bears or something similar must make its home here. After a cursory investigation and subsequent procurement of the texts in the room before, they head back down.
Past the western doorway lies a room filled with empty wooden caskets and a slab of limestone carved out of the earth for preparing corpses for funerary services. One of the caskets conceals a cadaver, wrapped in lordly vestments and lain with few possessions. The eastern doorway leads further into the catacombs. The next room has a gaping hole opened in the eastern wall, dug out from the brick by gnarled hands, it seems. A group of three filthy cots are lined up along the wall, in the place of several sarcophagi, the stone residences turned to rubble and strewn about the room by some unknown means. A stone doorway, mightily brushed ajar by Bastion, reveals a short hallway leading to a magnificent statue of a seated king with a blade laid cross his lap. The hallway splits to the north and south, with two fiery braziers to light the halls. The two men walk past several undisturbed sarcophagi in the middle of the halls and set into the walls, faced with beautiful reliefs of their inhabitants. They turn a corner, and spy a pair of stitched, horrific undead. These sentries of an unknown master cry out in a terrible cacophony, shaking the catacombs and unsettling thin rivers of dust. Bastion and Undamya set upon these screaming monstrosities, freezing them and lighting them ablaze.
After the short battle, a man looking to be in his middle-ages comes up from a wide, dark stair to wonder what all the fuss is about. [Editor: Embarrassing question: what did I say his name was? I lost my notes.] Bastion and Undamya press him for answers to various questions, and he reveals that he is the lone operator of an undead-fueled mining operation, using the bodies of long-dead lords and kings, in search of precious gems buried beneath the Citadel. This is an unconvincing lie, yet he remains unyielding when pressed on the matter. To keep his operation hidden from the Autarch and the ruler's aides, he offers payment of a sum of silver Stags, and a handful of rough, uncut gemstones. Our party accepts after some deliberation and pointed questions.
We make our way back to the Citadel, coin in hand and plans to reveal everything to the Autarch. The motionless ruler suggests one simple solution for keeping the excavator's undead from attacking anyone again; bury him and his horde.
___
Think about a new spell for your characters. When we play again, I can work with you guys on the mechanics. If you want suggestions or examples, I'd be happy to oblige.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Setting Focus - Undead
It might be a bit before our next game session; let me know whenever you guys are free. Until then, I'll try to give out some more information about the setting, specifically concerning the undead. You can skip to the bolded parts for the actual information. (Excuse any typos. There really isn't an excuse, but my keyboard is in an awkward position, making for a lot of backtracking and missed mistakes.)
From a heavily bound tome found deep within a long-forgotten library:
"A long time ago, when age had not taken my strength and swiftness, I was of mind to foolishly venture into the wildernesses, into the earth and over waters in search of various creatures of such terror and malice I might prove my courage by felling them. I gathered many trophies and many scars in such days, too many to count, and when time came that I wished to cease my brazen hunts I bought my place in my King's court with tales of bravery and the skull of a great wyvern, being granted lordship of the Black Tower. It was more reward than a hunter as myself could ask for, but as time went on I realised why I was given possession of the lonely halls. In my time as master of that mountain keep, I was tested by a greater threat than any wyvern or bog lurk.
It began with the murder of the stableboy, Miloch. We found him twisted and maimed among the muck and hay, suspecting a rabid wolf or monstrous thing from the mountains. It wasn't until the baker and his wife were found dead, with a third, unknown body amongst their broken home, that my squire and I began suspecting something more sinister.
We'd seen these kinds of wounds once before, in the ruined township of Jarod's Landing. It had been victim to a plague of undeath, infesting the land with ghosts and walking bones. It was something of a terror to walk into that fog-ridden, dead village; a place where naught a sound could be heard but the baying of black hounds in the distance and the howl of the wind. Not even the scavengers of the forest set foot or wing toward the stead.
All of the bodies began to rise as we came near, drawn to the warmth of our life blood. We had eight in our party of hunters then, and by the time we rid the town of the Restless we were cut down to three. The nights were never quiet, even in the homes we barred to keep the dead out.
Since then, I became aware of the signs, of the makings of undeath. Something about the town and my Keep had poisoned the land beneath it. When we investigated the Lonely Spire at the top of my mountain home, we discovered scores of Restless locked in a long-forgotten crypt. They were the ancestors of the family that had once ruled the Black Tower, forever cursed to rise once more after death. What we found upon further searching of the musty graves chills my bones still. In the depths of the Black Tower, the crypt connected by a series of water-filled chambers, and there were more of the walking dead than I had ever seen, driven back to life by our presence. In the throngs of undead, there were several of a variety I had never witnessed, with glowing eyes and black boils covering their dry, leathery skin. In time, we encountered the first Lord of the Tower.
His was not the undeath of the others, indeed he was fully aware of his actions, and spoke in a long-dead tongue of mountain lords. But madness had taken him, being surrounded by the ghosts and spirits of his own ancestors and descendants for so many years of torment. His chest was burst open, with a great glowing fire where his heart had been. His very soul was burning out of his body, and he screamed with a pain greater than any he had felt in life. We could not send him to the grave a second time, so we struggled to make our escape. Again, only three of us would see the light of the sun again.
I saw good men die in those days of our delving, only to come back to meet our blades. The experience has haunted me ever since, such that I have not slept through the night once in the time past. In my dreams I am hounded by the ghosts of my men, and by those who we met with steel in those dark times. I know that, when my time is come, I will join them in angered undeath. I pray only that my end is far off..."
The Restless
The restless is a catch-all term for the undead, as often times through sorcery or a trick of nature the bodies of the dead will rise up for a new (often short) life. The process of forcing corpses to move again is known by a few secret orders, but full reanimation is still outside of the meddling of magic. Often times, a "zombie" is simply a carcass that has been pumped full of elemental magic, with mana replacing blood, oxygen, and food as its sustaining force. Skeletons are created by a similar process, with their bones held together by thin tendrils of magic like pins. Ghosts are the souls of the dead left with imprints of a powerful will or a mere thought of someone who died in an area saturated with natural magic. The area has to be of a particularly high concentration of magic, otherwise it is lacking the essential force that allows the ghost to keep itself together. Variations of undead such as the Bone Lantern or Burning Soul are often result of experimentation or oddities in process.
Souls
Many magic arts make use of souls, or the natural mana inside a living creature. Mana is altered in a nearly infinite number of ways as the soul of a being, creating an equally infinite variety of magics. Soul Magic is erratic, wild and unwieldy, but those who master it are possessed of an arsenal of unknowable attacks, fueled by the will of their captive souls. Soul Magic is the foundation of necromancy, as this manipulation of raw magical power is essential in the creation of undead.
From a heavily bound tome found deep within a long-forgotten library:
"A long time ago, when age had not taken my strength and swiftness, I was of mind to foolishly venture into the wildernesses, into the earth and over waters in search of various creatures of such terror and malice I might prove my courage by felling them. I gathered many trophies and many scars in such days, too many to count, and when time came that I wished to cease my brazen hunts I bought my place in my King's court with tales of bravery and the skull of a great wyvern, being granted lordship of the Black Tower. It was more reward than a hunter as myself could ask for, but as time went on I realised why I was given possession of the lonely halls. In my time as master of that mountain keep, I was tested by a greater threat than any wyvern or bog lurk.
It began with the murder of the stableboy, Miloch. We found him twisted and maimed among the muck and hay, suspecting a rabid wolf or monstrous thing from the mountains. It wasn't until the baker and his wife were found dead, with a third, unknown body amongst their broken home, that my squire and I began suspecting something more sinister.
We'd seen these kinds of wounds once before, in the ruined township of Jarod's Landing. It had been victim to a plague of undeath, infesting the land with ghosts and walking bones. It was something of a terror to walk into that fog-ridden, dead village; a place where naught a sound could be heard but the baying of black hounds in the distance and the howl of the wind. Not even the scavengers of the forest set foot or wing toward the stead.
All of the bodies began to rise as we came near, drawn to the warmth of our life blood. We had eight in our party of hunters then, and by the time we rid the town of the Restless we were cut down to three. The nights were never quiet, even in the homes we barred to keep the dead out.
Since then, I became aware of the signs, of the makings of undeath. Something about the town and my Keep had poisoned the land beneath it. When we investigated the Lonely Spire at the top of my mountain home, we discovered scores of Restless locked in a long-forgotten crypt. They were the ancestors of the family that had once ruled the Black Tower, forever cursed to rise once more after death. What we found upon further searching of the musty graves chills my bones still. In the depths of the Black Tower, the crypt connected by a series of water-filled chambers, and there were more of the walking dead than I had ever seen, driven back to life by our presence. In the throngs of undead, there were several of a variety I had never witnessed, with glowing eyes and black boils covering their dry, leathery skin. In time, we encountered the first Lord of the Tower.
His was not the undeath of the others, indeed he was fully aware of his actions, and spoke in a long-dead tongue of mountain lords. But madness had taken him, being surrounded by the ghosts and spirits of his own ancestors and descendants for so many years of torment. His chest was burst open, with a great glowing fire where his heart had been. His very soul was burning out of his body, and he screamed with a pain greater than any he had felt in life. We could not send him to the grave a second time, so we struggled to make our escape. Again, only three of us would see the light of the sun again.
I saw good men die in those days of our delving, only to come back to meet our blades. The experience has haunted me ever since, such that I have not slept through the night once in the time past. In my dreams I am hounded by the ghosts of my men, and by those who we met with steel in those dark times. I know that, when my time is come, I will join them in angered undeath. I pray only that my end is far off..."
The Restless
The restless is a catch-all term for the undead, as often times through sorcery or a trick of nature the bodies of the dead will rise up for a new (often short) life. The process of forcing corpses to move again is known by a few secret orders, but full reanimation is still outside of the meddling of magic. Often times, a "zombie" is simply a carcass that has been pumped full of elemental magic, with mana replacing blood, oxygen, and food as its sustaining force. Skeletons are created by a similar process, with their bones held together by thin tendrils of magic like pins. Ghosts are the souls of the dead left with imprints of a powerful will or a mere thought of someone who died in an area saturated with natural magic. The area has to be of a particularly high concentration of magic, otherwise it is lacking the essential force that allows the ghost to keep itself together. Variations of undead such as the Bone Lantern or Burning Soul are often result of experimentation or oddities in process.
Souls
Many magic arts make use of souls, or the natural mana inside a living creature. Mana is altered in a nearly infinite number of ways as the soul of a being, creating an equally infinite variety of magics. Soul Magic is erratic, wild and unwieldy, but those who master it are possessed of an arsenal of unknowable attacks, fueled by the will of their captive souls. Soul Magic is the foundation of necromancy, as this manipulation of raw magical power is essential in the creation of undead.
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