So there they were…
The party, consisting of
Shadowale the halfling rogue, Turnin the human monk, Rhogar the dragonborn
fighter, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, and Kyllar the human wizard (with his
kobold manservant, Kaz), were in some of the lowest regions of the Grayflood district.
At dusk, they had repeatedly bluffed their way deep into a poverty-stricken
neighborhood, and had just uncovered and defeated a secret cache of very dry
and leathery zombies, hidden in a crudely carved-out room in the foundations of
one Sharn’s many magical towers, slightly downhill from the rest of the
neighborhood.
Rhogar had blasted the last zombie grafted with a spinal DieFi
rod with a gout of his personal fire, and Shadowale was sticking his knives
into the crumpled husks on the floor to make sure the infernal connection was
indeed severed by the deaths of the rod-equipped zombies. Kyllar magically
snuffed out the flames wrought by the dragonborn, but not before Turnin had
singed his fingers – the “cool hand wraps” he was wearing didn’t block the heat
nearly enough. Gnofulk joined the monk and together they managed to rip the rod
from the rest of the leathery corpse, with mostly-congealed blood slopping down
onto the floor.
The rods had the numbers “7” and “8” repeatedly found on them,
and were handed over to Kyllar. However, when the wizard went to place them into
the Bag of Holding, Kyllar discovered that it was missing, and cursed the
unwashed masses they had traversed earlier, vowing to get it back. Frantic
hands patted pockets and sheathes, but the only other item victim to the local
cutpurses was a small pouch of coins, constituting the party’s “walking around”
money, formerly carried by Turnin the monk, and de facto party accountant.
Turnin stepped into the entryway, and then stepped back,
excitedly warning the party that one of the hobo barrels was, well, barreling
towards the entrance. With this warning, Kyllar was able to magically
extinguish the barrel fire before any of the shriveled and dry zombies could
catch fire.
The party members take turns to peek outside into the
valley-like neighborhood, nestled between the foundations of some of Sharn’s
massive towers, and sees many of the locals, crudely armed, advancing on the
carved out room/deathtrap in which the party found themselves.
Amid a hail of poorly aimed rocks, Turnin steps out, and shouts,
trying to dissuade the mob and convince them that the party has actually saved
them from zombies. The mob is angry, scared, and unimpressed. Some of the
bolder members of the mob chastise the party, reciting again the warning to the
party to not go in there.
As the party tries to formulate a plan, in the distance, they
see their orange-clad mark, standing triumphantly on a ledge in the distance…
tucking the Bag of Holding into his stupid robes. A soft whisper breezes into
the carved-out room, and breathlessly taunts the party with claims of their
insignificance, and that the dispossessed in Grayflood are about to take much
more the party than some coins and simple magic items… and then the orange-clad
quarry is gone, and the mob begins to close in…
Kyllar is fuming. Turnin catches the wizard’s eye and a plan is
instantly hatched. After a quick warning to leave the party alone, Turnin kicks
the barrel back toward the mob, and Kyllar throws a Fire Bolt towards the
rolling barrel. But the kick is too gently, and the Bolt too quickly cast, and
it explodes before it reaches the mob. Turnin promises that the next barrel is
coming right at them! But alas neither Gnofulk nor Shadowale can find any more
barrels, nor any secret egresses in the carved-out room.
Rocks plunk incessantly but harmlessly against the magically
reinforced foundations of the tower and its thick stone walls. Kyllar conjures
a large pillar of flame in an attempt to scare the destitute locals, and the
party uses the extra time to debate just holing up and fighting a gruesome
battle of attrition. Rhogar will not hear of it, and the dragonborn sprints
from the safety of the room, and into the pillar of flame, which explodes out
towards the mob. The dragonborn uses his magical Commander’s Circlet to amplify
his voice, roaring menacingly and demanding the mob disburse and flee.
Between the pyrotechnics and the booming, commanding voice,
there is a clatter of crude weapons dropping, and the mob fleeing for their
lives.
Rhogar knows that this respite may be temporary, and urges the
rest of the party to move. As they swiftly run back through the neighborhood,
Turnin tries but fails to capture one of the unwashed locals to question, but
they are far too greasy. Kyllar runs toward the ledge where the party’s
orange-clad quarry was last seen, frantically looking for his loot.
The loot is scattered across the avenue. The locals pilfered
much of it, including all of the weapons. The shards of a dozen magical potions
lay broken nearby. Fortunately, two things had been ignored just long enough
between acquiring the bag and turning it over to the orange-clad quarry to
avoid pilfering. The first was the magical safe with the jammed lock, stolen
from the Daask. Being unable to be easily opened, it had been tossed aside for
more detailed examination later. The second was the thin scroll canister given
to the party by the dwarf blacksmith Melora from before the party had even
entered Sharn. (Session 10) The rest, however, appears to be lost for good.
Kyllar pockets the scroll canister and Turnin leans forward, carrying
the safe on his back. At least momentarily. Rhogar also grabs hold of the safe,
hefting it up and holding it out before him, and Turnin’s feet move comically
in the air.
Incensed, Kyllar runs
searches for any clues to the party’s quarry, but can find none. Kaz the Kobold
tugs worryingly at his master’s robes; the locals are starting to regroup.
Kyllar leads the party back to the main entrance to this
secluded neighborhood: that platform. Instead of withdrawing and regrouping,
the wizard presses on, the rest of the party in tow, departing one destitute
and secluded neighborhood in Sharn for another, searching for some scrap of a
clue.
This neighborhood is distinctly damper, being near the Dagger
River, and even some of the small avenues appear flooded. This low in Sharn, at
night, the neighborhood is black as pitch; the only light being provided by
Turnin’s newfound levitating, fiery skull following him around.
The party ventures into the shadow-draped neighborhood, Rhogar
and Gnofulk clattering noisily as they checked their weapons. They hear the mob
reforming and entering the dank neighborhood, and they slink into an alley.
Kyllar conjures a wall to shield them from sight, and Shadowale manages to keep
the party and their assorted armor and weapons silent. Breathlessly, the party
watches the mob enter, cautiously poke around, and retreat to the safety of
their turf.
Rather than slink away, the party presses on into their damp,
dark surroundings. The soft sloshes of water demonstrate that the neighborhood
is inhabited, and party members with darkvision can discern small, slender
merfolk ducking into secluded spots – often underwater – in attempts to avoid
the heavily-armed party.
Shadowale scurries ahead, and stealthily approaches one of the
gilled-creatures, striking up a conversation. While the halfling isn’t able to
convince the merfolk that the party comes here often, he is able to charmingly
stall one of the creatures long enough for the party to catch up.
The party convinces “Bubbles” to chat a bit, and after a barrage
of inquiries, the party learns that this neighborhood is much the same as the
other one. Their orange-clad quarry arrived, broke the skulls of the
dissenters, and laid claim to a small area of the neighborhood.
Unlike the first neighborhood, however, the merfolk here are no
longer protecting anything. Many weeks ago, the orange-clad humanoid returned,
and personally destroyed his abode here, and in the process, submerged most of
the rubble. A different arrangement was then struck.
The merfolk here are “traders in found goods” – and living so
close to the shipping of the Dagger River, they scrounge the riverbed for
things to salvage and sell. Now, they pile up scrounged metal (weapons,
utensils, etc) on a nearby “altar.” While he hasn’t seen the orange-clad person
in a long time, occasionally, the metal disappears, and often some food or
something is left in its place, per the new arrangement.
Kyllar inquires if they might be able to open the jammed safe,
but they are ill equipped for such things.
The party regards “Bubbles” with suspicion. The merfolk insists
that he hasn’t seen their quarry in weeks, and as long as the metal is offered
up and the arrangement held up, he has no qualms telling the party.
The party is shown the altar; a small slab of stone sticking a
foot above the damp, rocky ground surrounding it; a small collection of
waterlogged and rusty forks and small blades piled in the center. “Bubbles”
points them in the direction of the collapsed abode, and will not accompany
them further, as it’s not a pleasant place in the neighborhood. The party
cautiously parts company.
The party explores, and soon finds their prize at the end of a
sunken avenue, as expected. If the party could be considered to be at ground
level, a crude building looks to have been collapsed into its own flooded
basement, the rubble barely breaching the surface of the calm, dark water. By
the light of Turnin’s fiery skull buddy, the party attempts to formulate a
plan.
Kyllar recasts his familiar in the form of an eel, but the
familiar is unable to deduce much anything new for the party, or find a way in.
The rubble is packed tight, and the metal door rusted shut, and repulses
Kyllar’s attempts to detect any magic within...
No one wants to brave the frigid, dark water themselves. Rhogar
is wearing far too much armor and Gnofulk barely any at all. Eventually Turnin
is convinced investigate more.
Hoping off the safe,
which is still held aloft by Rhogar, he stretches and then vaults over out to
the top of the rubble pile to investigate. He dips the end of his cool staff
into the water, and stirs. The monk doesn’t notice any change. He taps the
door, and hears an echo, confirming that there is, in fact, a space beyond the
rusted door. He strikes the door with the cool staff, and after a dozen or so
blows, has contorted a small section to the breaking point. Using his staff for
leverage, he is able to create a small hole, through which Kyllar’s familiar
can slip through.
Kyllar sees through his familiar’s eyes, and beholds a grim
spectacle. Scraps of flesh seem to hover, suspended in the stagnant waters. A
hand or two just out from odd angles of the rubble, fingers slowly undulating
with the wake of the passing eel. And a few bloated corpses – merfolk by the
looks of things – bob gently along, flesh and scales stretched nearly to a
bursting point. Via the familiar, Kyllar is able to discern an enchanted rod
grafted to one of the merfolk corpses, similar to those found before.
The zombies here are in no condition to ever rise up again… most
have disintegrated with waterlog, and the few remaining ones are so bloated
that gravity would destroy them should the ever somehow make their way out of
this submerged ruin. The party weighs their options, and decides to retire for
the night. They have lost their quarry's trail again, and will need to regroup.
The party returns to Ghallanda Hall, and rests.
The party reconvenes for a working breakfast to plan their next moves.
While they were out, Rhogar had received word from one of his contacts in the
Watch. Another area of Sharn was starting to notice citizens go missing.
However, these weren’t dock workers; they were minor gangsters in the district,
and have not been reported missing. The only body that has been found so far
was from a one-eyed tiefling known on the streets as “Compassion” – he will
kill you, but it will be a quick death. It could be a lead, and the party
agrees to follow up on that soon.
During their working
breakfast, the party finds themselves sitting near an orc and a dragonborn, and
listening to their conversation. The dragonborn is discovered to be a paladin
of the Order of the Wayward Blades - the same small sect to which Asmund and his
master Blume belong. The party learn that he was summoned to Sharn, like
Asmund, but was not able to make it to the city in time to help. Given the
generally skeptic nature of the Order, the dragonborn is attempting to verify
the official story about the jerk Silver Flame paladin Steve and his failed
crusade. The half-orc is assigned to guard the paladin via the Blademarks Guild
(to which Rhogar belongs), given the higher levels of tension between the
Silver Flame and much of Sharn's population.
The party starts to bring these two newcomers up to speed on the
intricacies they have uncovered so far, but their usual middleman/bartender
catches their eye; and the brief retelling of the failed crusade dovetails into
the outlining the secret Daask tunnels and talk of almost run-in Feral Fawcett,
the brutal gorgon architect of most of the gang's activities in the city of
Sharn. The middleman for House Ghallanda is impressed, even before the party
gets to the bit about the tunnel beneath the Dagger River to other side, and
the bits about the hollow, flyer-friendly shafts in several of the towers. The
middleman is impressed, and will relay the information so it can be verified.
When asked, the party was confident that exploring the tunnels would be safe
now; all the threats should have been dealt with - even that tricksy Mimic
chest.
The party has done well, and the bartender middleman offers his
assistance and advice to their current endeavors.
The party brings their bartender up to speed on (most of) their current
dealings. Investigating rumors of illicit necromancy; and trying to track down
the orange-clad person the party believes is responsible for not only the presumed
necromancy, but also the more important dastardly deed of stealing the party's
treasured Bag of Holding. Kyllar makes it known that they are gunning for this
orange-clad fool... once they can figure out who it is... what it is... how to
track it...
The bartender suggests the party visit Morgrave University.
While these days much of the university is dedicated to exploring the dark
continent of Xen-Drik, it is an institution of renown in many fields, and a repository
of untold amounts of knowledge. People travel the continent to research and
study within its hallowed halls. Someone there is bound to know something about
necromancy, or could deduce something about the quarry of the party. As the party
gears up, the bartender also mentions that the University may also have someone
who could help with the safe Rhogar (and Turnin) are preparing to carry again.
The party finishes the
last of their breakfast, and invites the dragonborn paladin and the orc
mercenary along as well; they can finish the story of the failed crusade and
get to know one another more during the day.
The story is told, and talk
turns to first personal stories and then to a topic long-ignored by the party:
that someone is interested in keeping tabs on a halfling known as Falco that looks and awful lot like Shadowale. Shadowale
admits that he is Falco. The dead dwarf
from the train seemed to have been keeping tabs on Shadowale/Falco. Shadowale tells
the party that Falco is his code name on the proverbial streets – an alias he
uses when he is going to be doing illegal things. The party believes him,
though no one questions why exactly the halfling would choose to introduce himself
as Falco to these newcomers.
The party hoofs it, marching through districts, slowly
ascending to the strata known as the Upper City; higher than they have ever
been before. Wind whips as their cloaks as they proceed along bridges and
walkways to the University.
The grounds are picturesque. This high up, Sharn’s towers
start to spread out a bit. The strata is home to many wealthy and influential persons
and institutions – the University being one of them, a turreted estate
transplanted grounds and all atop an incredibly tall tower.
The throng of adventurers shuffle into the entrance, and
are greeted by a half orc in robes and a pince-nez, known to most as Shh, as he
enforces a regal solemnity in his vicinity.
Kyllar has been to Morgrave University before; to drop
off (some of the) Xen-Drik artifacts acquired during the Electric Rail mishaps as
the party was traveling to Sharn. Shh recognizes the wizard, and gruffly greets
him. Within a few moments, the succinct orc has pointed the party to an
artificer and tinkerer which may be able to help them with the Daask safe, and
towards the religious and magical studies hall, where they may be able to
uncover some information relating to the affiliation and abilities of their
quarry.
While Turnin declares that the safe is surprisingly light,
Rhogar is starting to look a little strained. The party decides to offload the
safe first.
They shuffle past lecture halls and into so narrow corridors.
At the end of the hall whirs, clatters, bangs, and curt shouts emanate from a
nebulous point within the workshop/office. A knock goes unanswered, and the
party cautiously ventures in to find the man they were searching for: a stout old
dwarf by the name of Duran Punchitfixit – a small clan known for having a knack
for fixing things in improbably ways.
The dwarf is wailing on… something with a wrench when the
party peers around a tiered rack cluttered with gizmos, gadgets, and widgets.
Rhogar sets down Turnin and the safe, and the monk then
sets down the safe at the dwarf’s feet. Kyllar explains that this is totally
their safe, they inherited it, they just lost the key. And so they tried to
pick it, but jammed it. The dwarf doesn’t seem to care where it’s from or why,
and agrees to open it. He thinks it’ll take him only a few hours to unjam and
open it. Gnofulk has had enough of walking for one day, and the barbarian decides
to stay and watch the whirligigs and the dwarf do their things, lest the aging artificer
get any ideas related to thievery. Kyllar expresses an interest in this line of
work, and Duran Punchitfixit agrees to talk more about it later. The party
departs, wandering quietly towards Morgrave University’s religious and magical
studies departments.
After ascending some smaller towers; descending others;
and all-in-all wandering mostly aimlessly (they had directions to the
department from the entrance; not from the workshop, after all), they stumble
past a few spacious and empty libraries and almost bowl over an elf woman, who
fires off a few profanities.
Embarrassed, the party realizes that this is Professor
Merglam Thorntongue. They take seats in one of the empty libraries nearby to
discuss what the party is there for.
Professor Thorntongue dissuades the party from focusing
too much on the perceived magical abilities of their quarry. Even if the party
could compile a list of their quarries abilities and confirm them… magic items
abound, and that might not be a good use of time.
They discuss necromancy for a time; the missing persons
in Grayflood and other lower regions and districts of Sharn… and the Professor
is profanely happy she doesn’t have to go down there. While necromancy is a
lead, there’s not much she can do there. It’s an entire school of magic… and
doesn’t necessarily narrow much down yet, since these DieFi rods are in play.
The party will need to investigate the rods and necromancy elsewhere.
The party wonders if perhaps the colored robes could be a
clue? A link to their quarry’s personal past or past affiliations? This is more
the Professor’s area of expertise… though she’s drawing a blank. While many
groups use color to set them apart, like the red-wearing Sharn Watchmen, or the
white & silver of the Silver Flame zealots… orange is not a common group
color these days.
Under the Professor’s eye, tomes, scrolls and children’s
picture books are retrieved from the shelves and perused. Over several hours, indexes
are referenced, and knowledge is slowly gleaned.
The most prominent groups affiliated with the color
orange was an old, essentially mythical order of secluded monks. They were stereotypically
contemplative, concerned with life and death, and were considered wise in the
tales.
More information is found. Being described as “wise” may be
a misnomer. They were referenced in another work, and referred to as “The
Wizened” – meaning to be shriveled or wrinkled with age. In this tale, they
were more concerned with “death” in their philosophies than “life” it seems.
One final work is found, referencing the Wizened – and in
its pages, second-hand rumors infer that the group actually became “enlightened”
– and allegedly found answers to their questions on death.
It’s not an actual lead, but it’s a something. With it
being early afternoon now, the party thanks the professor, and begins walking
back to retrieve Gnofulk and the safe’s contents and be off to grab a late
lunch.
Gnofulk hears the telltale clattering of arms and armor
as Duran gives the safe one final whack. Their timing is good. The barbarian’s
ears hear something click into place, and the dwarf grins, proclaiming the safe
has been fixed, patting it gently and setting aside his wrench. Duran
Punchitfixit adjusts the safe’s latch and throws open the door –
- And a flash of teal fire and resounding boom erupts
from the safe, hitting the artificer full in his bearded face. The dwarf is flung backward and his now-lifeless
body bounces off one of the cluttered racks of gadgets, and crumples onto the
cool stone floor, blood beginning to pool…