Eberron Adventure: Thirty-Seventh Session

So there they were…

In unexpected silence. The alarms they had triggered had suddenly ceased their warnings, and Shadowale the halfling rogue, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, Turnin the human monk, Comfort the tiefling sorceress and Tiny, the imp stood tensely in the library.

Turnin quietly pocked a book on the Wizened from the library, found by his very discerning eye among hundreds of tomes. Pretense gone, Tiny spoke in common, and warned the party that someone probably knows that they are loose in the lair. How? Well, someone had to turn the alarms, amirite?

Shadowale and Gnofulk crack the library door open, looking around. While indistinct blabbering is hear echoing off the walls, no one is in sight. While defensible, the library is an inferno just waiting to happen, then they decide to creep (yeah) away, and down the hall to their immediate left.

Small doors line the left-hand side of the hallway. The first three are shut, the fourth open, the fifth open and charred from one of Comfort’s earlier attacks, and the last two closed. Crying is heard from somewhere down the hall.

Being quite thorough, the party began opening every door after getting the “no traps” sign from Shadowale. The first room is empty, with just a bed against the far wall, and a few pegs for cloaks. The second room is the same as the first. The third opens with a very noticeable creak, and opening the door reveals… a third, identical room.

The creak causes the sobs to cease momentarily. A tall elf in a dark cloak sticks her head out of the fourth room, and is immediately approached by Comfort, being true to her name and asking in sincere tones whatever could be the matter for such a pretty elf.

Gnofulk, Turnin and Shadowale see this occur, and wonder what Comfort is up to. The elf’s eyes are bone dry, and the crying is coming from someone else in that fourth room.

The elf darts quickly back into the room, and shuts the door. Comfort thinks she looks familiar, and remembers seeing her corralling two devastatingly drunk halflings out of the Legitimate Business Establishment when the party first approached it. Comfort is insistent, and knocks softly at the door while Shadowale opens the flimsy lock with a flick of his pick.

The door swings open, and Shadowale and Comfort see the elf speaking to a bleary and teary eyed halfling dressed in dark clothes. The elf urgently gestures towards the group, informing her halfling that they killed his brother!

Tiny regards the party. This is a reasonable accusation, in her estimation. The party hears the accusation, and starts mentally tallying their body count. They don’t recall killing any halfling children. But they may have to. Blades appear in the hands of this tiny halfling adolescent, and his drunkenness and sadness seem to disappear as he throws himself at Shadowale in a focused, murderous rage. “For my brother Steve!”

Blades flash with quick movements, but Shadowale is only nicked as he is driven back from the door and into the hallway. Seeing such commotion, and pretty sure the elf’s accusation is false, Turnin attempts to deescalate the situation, running up and prying the murderous halfling off of Shadowale with a series of joint locks. The drunk little rager is hefted back, his tiny feet lashing out as Turnin lifts him out and away from his comrade. With a captive audience, Turnin emphatically insists that they didn’t kill his brother, shouting louder than the elf.

Free of the halfling, Shadowale throws himself at the elf. He manages a deep cut. She retaliates with her blades, and lays the rogue low while imploring the halfling to aid her and get revenge for his brother.

Seeing his drinking buddy slump to the ground, Gnofulk steps forward, and slaps the elf in the noggin with the flat of his axe, hitting her in juuuust the right spot on her elf skull to knock her the f out. What a b.

The drunk halfling struggles as he hears Gnofulk’s victorious, uncivilized grunt, but Turnin’s grip is strong. Turnin whispers they the party has a very strict policy on families. They (apparently) kill all or none. Since this halfling is alive, obviously they didn’t kill his little brother.

Completely outnumbered, and apparently outnumbered by psychos, the halfling drops his daggers to the ground, and resumes sobbing. Turnin lets the halfling so, but shoves the kid a bit.

Comfort tries to get to the bottom of things.

The group learns that the halfling has been in a drunken stupor for weeks. Sweaty Sweeny and Steve were orphans. Maren (the elf) said she saw who killed their folks, and that’s she’d help them. About a week ago, the trio wandered off, to avenge their parents. Steve didn’t make it, but Sweeny couldn’t remember the details. Maren had been protecting them for a few weeks, and he believed her… but things just don’t make sense now.

The party deduce that this is the fate awating Shadowale, had he not the party around.

After asking Sweeny about this place, they determine he doesn’t know much, and encourage Sweeny to head upstairs into the Legitimate Drinking Establishment. Turnin tells the Sweeny to “have one for Steve,” and reflects on how many Steves have met unfortunate ends in this sad world. Tiny whispers harshly that the party is a bunch of enablers.

The party convinces Sweeny that they’ll tell Maren where he is when she wakes up. Sobbing, the halfling hugs himself and zig-zags drunkenly down the hall and down towards the exit.

Maren is then looted, bound and gagged. Gnofulk takes her longbow and quiver, and the few boring-looking blades. The gnome is now armed for just about any contingency.

The fifth room is inspected. Comfort’s magic had ignited the bed, and the room is charred. Well done!

With Tiny in tow, the group presses on. The bathroom at the end of the hall is uninteresting, though the group notices that someone didn’t flush. They enter a small crossroads with a candelabra on the only wall. They turn into the small kitchen, where the find tables, and a bar. Behind the bar is a dumbwaiter (probably leading up into the Legitimate Drinking Establishment) with scraps. Even the barbarian turns his nose up at such fare. He’s no scavenger.

The party hears the rise and fall of a drunkard’s voice, apparently coming from the main hall.

Comfort decides to peep (yeah) inside. The hall looks much the same as when they last recall seeing it, though the wizard, presumed dead, has been removed. The golem sits inactive against a wall, the brush propped up against it. A complete red and black banner hands from the high ceiling, and the paints and additional banners sit on the ground, mostly furled up.

At the far end, propped up against the statue of Lord Tarkanan, Comfort  sees Sandar Fancybrook leaning against the statue, large glass of brandy in one hand, rather drunk. The half elf is in turn, shouting for an update because it’s been literally forever, admiring his cloak, swirling his brandy, wondering why this room isn’t redecorated yet, shouting for a minion to top him off, and wondering where everyone else got to.

The tiefling slinks back to the group, and informs them that Sandar is up ahead, alone.

Shadowale whispers “dibsonfirstblood” and sneaks (yeah) through the banquet/war room, ready to enter the hall from another angle.

Clad in pilfered dark leather armor and armed to the teeth, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian creeps (yeah) up to the far end of the hall, nocks an arrow on his 6’ longbow, and holding it awkwardly due to his tiny size and arm span, takes aim at Sandar-

-who in sudden a moment of clarity, locks eyes with the Gnome, who releases. The arrow bounces harmlessly off the tall statue. The half elf wails in fright, and drops his large glass of brandy in surprise, which precipitates more wailing.

Battle is joined.

Driven be terror, Sandar is first to act, and draws an odd looking blade as he stumbles away. He points the pommel at Gnofulk, which appears to be a large eye. Gnofulk collapses to the ground, asleep.

Shadowale bursts into the room, and moves quickly around the statue, coming up behind his prey. A dagger is driven into Sandar’s back, followed with a brief exposition on revenge for Shadowale’s slain wife, Mirabella. Sandar wails again, looking behind him to see Shadowale as well as the halfling’s dagger in his back. Blood is getting all over his wonderful clothes! If only Shadowale had been brought to heel like so many other halflings!

Turnin foregoes entering the fray, and passes the columns to the great hall, and looks down the hallway with the entrances to HR, accounting and the armory, and stretches, preparing to head off any reinforcements.

Comfort gives the gnome the briefest of nudges as she walks by. Apparently unable to rouse him, she presses, leaving him to his gentle snoring and flings a lightning bolt towards the far end of the room. It arcs, striking both Sandar and his brandy, wounding the former and igniting the latter for a few seconds.

Tiny thinks Comfort didn’t try hard enough, and starts slapping the gnome across the face, back and forth, until Gnofulk is roused. Cheeks smarting, he groggily staggers to his feet, and attempts to nock more arrows and loose them at Sandar, though his volley is largely ineffective, the only damage caused merely a nick against the half elf caused by a ricochet. This… displeases the barbarian.

Sandar continues to wail, trying to draw the attention of his minions, and turns around to face Shadowale. The half elf’s blade and his insults are ineffective… as are Shadowale’s strikes. Sandar declares that he is drunk. What’s Falco’s excuse? If only there had been time to housebreak this halfling…

Shadowale slurs his speech, and convinces Sandar that he too is drunk and that this is a totally fair duel, though a firebolt from Comfort suggests evidence to the contrary.

Turnin sneaks (yeah) up the door to the treasury, waiting for Sandar’s reinforcements to come pouring out of the armory.

The monk does not have to wait much longer. As sounds of fizzling magic and the whiffing of blades come from the grand hall, the HR drow and lady dwarf armorer run out of the armory, weapons drawn.

Turnin shouts down the hall, and draws the ire of the dwarf. Bruised and furious, she gestures with her shield for the drow to help their dumb drunk boss and with mace aflame, charges down the hall at the monk. She has a score to settle.

She rounds the corner into the accounting area, but Turnin is (almost) ready for her. He swings, but it is a little high, and his staff whooshes by her head. A few punches are thrown, but the dwarf shrugs off the bulk of the blows. Turnin qickly scampers around and into the armor via the connecting hallway with accounting.

Abandoning his longbow, Gnofulk draws Squirrellenbane and charges Sandar in a rage, getting in two decent chops against Sandar as the drow enters the room.

Sandar disengages and as he runs past the drow, but turns his pommel towards Shadowale, who drowsily collapses in a heap against the statue. The half elf tries to activate his dragonmark, but is unable to harness the torrent within. Instead of a devastating deluge, the air merely grows thick, and it begins to rain heavily throughout the lair, the water rapidly accumulating on the stone floors.

Turnin waits in the hallway door to the armory, preparing himself to lead the dwarf on an exhausting (for her), circular chase, and is surprised to see Sander exiting the grand hall and also rain coming down indoors. He is also surprised to see the dwarf reach into a pouch and lob odd looking trinket at his feet. Flipping out of harm’s way, a small cataclysm of lightning consumes the space he just occupied.

Comfort, oblivious to her surrounds, blasts the drow with magic, her flames bypassing the orbiting blade silhouettes, as he lunges towards Gnofulk. As the blow lands, the blade turns white and dissolves, and the drow’s eyes go wide. Gnofulk grins, congratulating himself on both stealing and donning the armor, and would swear in the days to come that the white motes, floating away from the former blade were miniscule doves.

The gnome swings at the drow with his axe, the latter, however, is still ensorcelled by the Blade Ward granted by his dragonmark, and the small flat pink dagger silhouettes rotate around his dark-skinned and dark-armored body, reducing the potency of these attacks. Not fond of this tit-for-tat, the gnome seethes.

Tiny scampers past Comfort, picking up a piece of now wet parchment, and flings it up, draping it over the tiefling’s extended arm. It appears to be a page ripped from the spell book of Naman Fireslinger, an artistic template left on the floor for the painted banners to be hung from the grand hall’s ceiling.

The imp continues scampering forward, and seeing their quarry getting away, lobs a firebolt at Shadowale in an attempt to wake the halfling. It works, and the rogue stumbles backwards, waking up and only lightly crisped.

Shaking away his grogginess, and seeing the object of his revenge fleeing, the halfling throws himself at the fleeing form of Sandar, plunging more knives  into the half elf’s back. Sandar gasps in surprise, and expires mid-sentence. Shadowale stabs his quarry a few more times, to insure his demise, and begins looting the body, procuring two keys, a small stone, and the weird blade.

Tiny leaps atop the arcane golem while Comfort releases a devastating blast of lighting at the drow… zapping him dead. Unfortunately, in a foot and a half of water, this was not the best choice of spell, and both Comfort and Gnofulk are zapped as well as lightning arcs down through the water. Gnofulk unclips the drows bandolier of daggers, tossing them over his shoulder.

Seeing Sandar fall dead nearby, Turnin pivots to confront the surly dwarf, and with a flurry of blows, manages to knock her prone. She forces herself to her feet, and smashes the monk with her hefty flaming mace.

However, with Shadowale appearing as well… and holding Sandar’s weapon… the duo convince the dwarf to surrender, and leave. Pushing herself up out of the water, she extinguishes her mace and throws it aside with flooosh, and then starts booking it out of the flooding lair.

The flooding, now almost two feet deep, does not deter the group however, and armed with the two keys, Shadowale swims over to the treasury vault door, which is glowing and gilded, and is soon joined by the rest of the group, with Tiny riding on Comfort’s shoulders. The alarm is triggered again, but the door is opened, revealing some rolled up parchment, and pouches of gems and coins, all greedily stuffed into pockets by the adventurers.

They make their way over to the armory, but the second key does not work. Shadowale and Turnin deduce that the second key must have been to Sandar’s private broom closet vault, which they had already broken into. They also realize that the dwarf they let go (twice) probably had the key.

After a failed attempt at picking the armory lock, Gnofulk has an idea. He uncorks a nearly forgotten potion, and his barbarian arms ripple with even more muscle. He eyes the door angrily, and Comfort casts Embiggen on the gnome, who begins to grow. Get gets taller and taller, growing to a towering 5’1” and roars with fury as he batters down the armor door.

The metal bows and the thick wood splinters, revealing a breastplate with clips, hooks and many small pockets, a bandolier of 1-shot wands, and a case of scrolls. The party grabs it all and starts to make their way to the exit. While the rain is lessoning due to the death of Sandar Fancybrook, the water is still raising.

Sopping wet, they reach the exit and depart, dripping up towards the Legitimate Drinking Establishment. They totally forgot about Maren the manipulative elf.

They slosh into the storage room of the Legitimate Drinking Establishment, and exit into the kitchen, where the find Chef, the warforged cook, sharpening his knives. He asks Comfort if she remembered to bring him the onions he asked for.

The tiefling did not.

Chef assumes that Sandar Fancybrook is dead, which is confirmed by the party. Rolling up his cookware, he asks if they might have use of a cook. He appears to be out of the job. Not seeing any dragonmarks, Comfort tells the warforged he’ll be back cooking again soon. Follow them!

They all depart through the back door. Shadowale has had his revenge, but will this newcomer cut into the profits of the party-loved Zoop’s Soups??