Eberron Adventure: Twenty-Sixth Session

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…