So there they were…
…with rumblings in their tummies. The party descended upon one of the common rooms in Ghallanda Hall, where the warforged known as Chef, with a few added plates of armor around his midsection, and recent hanger-on of the party, was serving up a taco bar with carnitas!
One of the party, the halfling rogue known as Shadowale, but sometimes also known as Falco, had arrived early, and was working through gods know what number of plate and drink, but was unusually, almost eerily happy. He explained his changed demeanor due to a vacation, but whether that was true or not remains a mystery – no one in the party pressed him on it, or asked if the happiness was really owed to sweet, sweet revenge.
Regardless, everyone’s favorite rogue seemed to be a changed halfling, and greeted the rest of the party warmly as they entered. Soon, Shadowale the halfling rogue, along with Kyllar the human wizard, Comfort the tiefling sorceress, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, Turnin the human monk and Rhogar the dragonborn fighter were chowing down at a fantasy taco bar.
Between bites, Turnin scratched his headband of intellect, and remembered that Chef, the warforged cook, was a warforged, and that the party had recently been having suspicions about a mysterious group of warforged from the Cogs…
The monk produces his broach from this mysterious group, and presents it to Chef, and asks what he knows about the group… or warforged in general. There wasn’t any warforged out in the monastery where Turnin was growing up.
Chef relates to the party how devastating the Last War was – 100 years of brutal conflict all over the continent. The warforged were created, imbued with skills and sentience and sent out to fight. The War ended in the mysterious cataclysm known as the Day of Mourning, a devastating magical blast that turned an entire nation into a dead and deserted wasteland, and an armistice called. The forges operated by House Cannith were turned off… and the warforged were left unemployed.
The warforged people were left to fend for themselves. Some, like Chef embraced work, and continued serving others. Some, like the thugs from the train, turned to banditry. Some, like Bulwark, turned to more ethical adventuring. No matter what they chose to do after the War, questions revolving around existence, purpose, and the meaning of life have plagued the warforged.
Some groups of individual warforged have banded together, creating differing philosophies to answer these questions. The group to which the broach belongs is one of those groups, and while their philosophy is unknown to non-members, their name has been whispered around Sharn….
The Perpetual Legion.
That…. That doesn’t sound like a friendly name.
The discussion turns to the foundry, and the party asks if any new warforged are being created. Alas, no. The secrets of giving the warforged constructs consciousness and agency are trade secrets of House Cannith, and actually part of the treaty ending the war forbids anyone from creating more warforged.
The party eventually turns to discussing what they want to do next, go after Gofer, root around for more information on the Perpetual Legion… but is interrupted by Chef, who informs the party that the Legion has left town. With more coaxing from Comfort, and a little “encouragement” from Rhogar, Chef is able to recall the recent rumor that the Perpetual Legion had boarded a decommissioned train and departed along an abandoned electric rail line into the Mournland.
Should the party wish to follow the Perpetual Legion into the wasteland, they will likely need to follow the electric rail line now known as the Ghost Train.
Swallowing the last of the carnitas, the party all agrees that that sounds like a legit adventure –
-And also a lot of work. They’ve got a potential Beholder beneath Sharn; a Lich wandering the woods; a medusa to fight; a race to win; and a false god to kill in Xen-Drik. Let’s back-burner this Perpetual Legion business for a few weeks, eh?
Kyllar reminds the party that they should visit Asmund and Blume, the paladins belonging to the Order of the Wayward Blades. The wizard notes that at the request of this tiny Order, the party had investigated the massacre of the Daask, and uncovered the meddling of the Wizened and the framing of the Daask. The holy duo would probably want to hear of the demise of the Wizened.
The party exits Ghallanda Hall, and traverses the City of Towers, winding around the spires, and down into a cluster of honeycombed apartments. Kyllar knocks, and Blume, the old white-haired elf answers in a silver tunic and sword at his hip. The elf welcomes them inside, and gestures for them to sit on pillows in the common room. The Order of the Wayward Blades is usually itinerant; this apartment is serving as a temporary living space and chapel for Blume and his mentee, Asmund, who appears to be out at the moment.
Kyllar soon delves into business, and brings Blume up to speed: the Wizened is dead. …but that’s about all the party knows. They were “unable” to question him. It’s not like talking is a free action or anything. Blume chides the party a bit, reminding them of their part in the failed Crusade, where they refused to take Blume’s “stand down” orders as part of the paladin’s plan to stop it… the party’s refusal to take and distribute the orders led to a good number of unnecessary deaths of Silver Flame soldiers, who zealously fought in the streets to the last man. Blume knows the big picture isn’t foremost in the minds of adventurers. So long as they learned something though, Blume is forgiving – his Order exists to help others learn from the mistakes of others.
The party and Blume talk, trying to piece together more of the big puzzle.
The party expands a bit on the Legion in the Cogs, and Blume sits up a little straighter, and asks if the party remembers their early run in with Blume and then the Daask when the party was first poking around the Cogs. The party does.
Asmund was sent by Blume to investigate the Cogs, as Blume, as a result of his paladin training, had felt an evil presence there. All involved had assumed that it was the vicious Daask the elf sensed… but even after the failed crusade, that sense of foreboding pressed on the mind of the elf. Suddenly, a few days ago, the weight lifted… departed almost. Blume had sent Asmund down to investigate… but apparently the party has solved that little mystery for the old paladin.
The Perpetual Legion packed up and left the Cogs a few days ago, and left for the Mournland.
Blume notes that the creation of life (new warforged) isn’t necessarily evil though – it must be other actions and motivations of the group that triggered his paladin senses.
The group try to view the big picture again.
The Wizened and the Perpetual Legion were in cahoots to some extent; working with a combination of zombies and new warforged bodies.
The Wizened and his zombies in disguise massacred the Silver Flame clerics and framed the Daask. Steven Carlsburg von Brighthammer Jr. responded in the Silver Flames usual, zealous and retributive way, and while the crusade failed, they managed to clear out the Daask from around the warforged foundry-
The dragonborn fighter Rhogar interrupts. What about the armory vault in the cleric’s chapel from the investigation of the massacre? It was locked; and only holy magic could unlock it. Did the Wizened take the loot? He’s no cleric…
Blume admits that the holy armaments are still missing, but doesn’t think the Wizened would have taken them. As far as Blume can recall, Steve was jonesing for a chance to prove himself in battle for as long as the elf can remember. The Daask had always been a threat. Steve probably acquired the armaments himself in preparation, and the massacre was simply the spark hitting the tinderbox. Steve was suplexed off the dam into lava. There’s no way to know for sure, but if Blume was a betting man, the holy armaments are slag at the bottom of the lava river in the Cogs.
Kyllar again curses at the party’s chance at phat lewt, despite having neither a cleric nor a paladin in the party.
The discussion again returns to the bigger picture, with Turnin scratching his headband of intellect again. The monk’s eyes go wide as he drops a surprisingly nuanced take on the situation.
The crusade benefitted the Wizened and the Perpetual Legion, who were working together. While the crusade failed, it did rid the Wizened and the Perpetual Legion of the nearby Daask, and the fallout from it preserved the secrecy of what they were working on, namely zombies and warforged, until just recently.
The party still thinks it best to learn more before charging into the Mournland, though when the party is ready to do so, Blume will likely send Asmund with them. The elf is getting too old for serious adventuring, but the young goliath paladin would probably be useful to the party.
Talk turns to Blume and the Silver Flame. The elf is glad to be replaced – the Silver Flame is too zealous for him. While their goal of resisting, fighting, and eradicating evil is commendable, their “ends justify the means” world view is too much for the old elf. He is much happier leading and mentoring his little Order.
Day-to-day affairs have already been transitioned over to Blume’s replacement; a human known as Reginald the Redeemer. As far as Silver Flame leaders and preachers go, Blume thinks his replacement is more thoughtful and considerate that most, but it is still the Silver Flame. Reginald would think longer than most, but would still not hesitate to burn down a village and all its inhabitants to end the life of one monster.
The official ceremony – officially handing off duties and reopening and rededicating the chapel post-massacre – was delayed due to the shattering of an ornate piece of stained glass down near the docks in Greyflood…
Blume also has a bit of general advice to impart to the party. The Silver Flame has arranged for two of their most zealous champions to keep a watchful eye on the ceremony, known as Censers, so named for their holy, magical war mauls, with hollow areas to burn incense.
During the Last War, the Silver Flame sent out a number of missionaries into the barbarous, nomadic tribes of the hulking peoples known as goliaths. Blume found Asmund, and tempered the lad’s strength with patience and wisdom. Many other tribesfolk were not so lucky. These two twins in particular were really enamored with the retributive and violent tendencies of the Silver Flame, and quickly became two of the religions most effective – albeit ruthless - Censers. They would probably not get along with the party too well, and with the Silver Flame being a dominant religion… crossing them would likely get the party in serious hot water, if not killed. So yeah, best to avoid them, if at all possible.
Kyllar stopped listening at magical war mauls, and the wizard winks at Blume as the party moves to depart. Suuuure. The party totally won’t try to acquire any of that sweet sweet Censer loot. Slack-jawed in disbelief, Blume stammers as the party exits the little apartment.
Back on the street, the party ponders what to do next, and decides to focus on the Race of the Eight Winds for the time being. Gnofulk is slated to represent the Cogs, and the rest of the party ready to act as the supporting Wind Guard… but their jockey still needs a mount.
The unusually cheery Shadowale starts to slip into his old dour self. There has been a lot of inane prattling tonight… let’s get Gnofulk a flying mount and be on to the exciting, action-filled bits already!
The party begins brainstorming. Where could they find and/or steal a flying mount? And what mounts would be acceptable? Halfway into a harebrained scheme, level-headed Comfort asks about that old wizard lady. Doesn’t she owe the party a favor for saving her chimera mount? She could be a resource.
Kyllar, apparently still shook up from that experience, can’t recall the details exactly. Maybe? All he remembers from that ordeal was bleeding his own blood and using Spider Climb to cower under a sky bridge.
Still, it’s the best lead the party has, so off they go, climbing higher and higher among Sharn’s mighty towers.
The soon arrive at, well, near to Winnifred the Wizard’s not-so-humble abode.
Several tall levels of towers are being used by Winnifred for her sanctum and her aerie, enclosed in large panes of magical glass. The party stands on a ledge where the sky road ends, and forty feet away is Winnifred’s landing platform. Two massive doors stand, allowing access to the aerie, and next to them, a manor house sits; almost like a castle in a bottle; the structure within the tower, but a wall of the house merged with the wall of the tower.
Facing yet another small chasm of an obstacle… most of the party hesitates and begins to postulate how to cross. Dimension Door? Benign Transposition?
Not Shadowale and Turnin though.
Turnin jumps across the spawn with ease, and the rogue tosses him a rope. Knots are attempted, and the rogue makes ready to jump across too when suddenly the manor door swings open and an old wizarding woman with immaculate robes and a tight grey bun wanders out onto the platform, a sturdy stick leveled like a shotgun.
She soon recognizes Kyllar however, waves, and readies a small sky skiff. She pushes it over, and it floats across the chasm. After some finagling, the party ferries themselves over.
The old woman is elated to see the party again, all these wonderful adventurers that rescued her precious chimera mount. She conjures milk and cookies for the party, and Shadowale starts gorging himself on sweets.
Winnifred inquires about Kyllar’s feat in artifice, and the party wizard replies that it is going well, and he is learning to inscribe spells into his Puzzle Box. Mostly utility spells for now. The old woman glows when the party hesitatingly mentions they are here on business related to the Race of the Eight Winds, and needing a replacement mount for Gnofulk, who is representing the Cogs. She enthusiastically herds the party into the manor house, through a spacious hall with a huge portrait of Winnifred slightly younger, and out a back door into the Aerie.
Unlike the heat of the Cogs, which is brutal, dry, and menacing, the heat situation here is balmy and inviting, with the windows creating a kind of green house. The twittering of birds is heard as the party surveys their surroundings.
Glass encases the Aerie, with tall stone pillars joining floor to ceiling. Several roosts are seen, either built into the pillars or spell shaped into the boughs of trees.
Winnifred waxes on about the Race. Aerial creatures are fascinating to her, and she is housing three of the district mounts here already, including the Owl, the Eagle and the Hawk. She states that as a traditional event, no mounts may be duplicated, but she has a number of creatures in her menagerie that would be suitable substitutes for Gnofulk, and would adhere to the spirit of the event. Each one would have unique abilities in the race. She has large, suitable creatures like; undulating flying snakes; bats; flying mobulas (rays); flying winged fish; flying frogs (with big webbed hands); a huge wasp; a “koopa paratroopa” flying turtle; and a flying squirrel.
…and of course Gnofulk’s barbarian eyes light up at the chance to race with his totemic kin. Winnifred produces two large acorns to help lure the animal; one is snatched up by Gnofulk, the other by Shadowale. Kyllar conjures a third, green acorn to try his luck too.
As they wander the forested enclosure, and around a small artificial pond while looking for the flying squirrel, Winnifred continues to explain the race… how each mount is unique and no spells or weapons (other than the ceremonial sporting crossbow) are allowed, and how it is a time of tourism and commerce for Sharn.
She also brings up the hidden costs of championing a district. You see, riding a mount is one thing, but feeding and caring for it is another. She’ll let the party use the mount, but they’ll need to –
-and a gold coin bounces off Winnifred’s forehead as Turnin commits on the follow through.
She admits that the party could pay her for boarding the animal, but that they might want to spend their gold gambling. She has some errands that need running, and would like to barter. One errand for room and board. The second, and she would again owe the party a favor.
Gnofulk spies the flying squirrel, high up in the trees, and starts chittering, displaying the large acorn before him.
Shadowale holds his high above his head, scampering about.
Kyllar’s extends his arm, displaying the green-tinged conjured nut.
So far, the flying squirrel seems most interested in Shadowale, and parachutes down a few branches towards the party.
Winnifred continues with her proposals. The first potential task is the most simple. The Race of the Eight Winds is not just a race, but also a time for comradery in your district, boasting between districts… and an avenue for both legitimate commerce and underhanded bribes. Winnifred wants to make a “donation” to the Hawk – the niece of one of her old friends is the rider this year – and cememnt that bond of friendship, but because she is linked to the care of several other mounts… she herself cannot make this… donation. Winnifred summons a sealed envelope, and presents it to the party. The old wizard would like the party to deliver it to Boris, a bookie associated with Clan Boromar. If the party wants, that can make their own donations then as well… or place bets many aspects of the race, from who the winner is to who the griffon will gore this year.
The second potential task is more complicated. Winnifred would like the party to acquire something for her. The magical aristocrats in Sharn steal a trophy – the Conjurer’s Cup – back and forth for bragging rights. A no-good warlock and probable harlot named Beatrice Marsh stole it from Winnifred a few years ago, and the old wizard has tracked the trophy to a pocket dimension used by Beatrice. She’ll open a portal, and the party can run in, grab it, and head back out. Winnifred can’t grab it herself since she needs to maintain the portal; and she can’t send a typical hireling or servant, as the pocket dimension may be dangerous. She needs brave adventurers to do this for her.
The party quickly agree to perform both tasks, reasoning that it is nice to be owed a favor. Though they almost immediately start discussing, in hushed tones of course, whether or not they will ever receive this owed favor. Winnifred is old, guys.
As they start debating when to run these errands, the flying squirrel swoops down to land near Gnofulk, who has been chittering sweet entreats to the furry animal. It warily approaches, taking the acorn and letting the gnome scratch it behind the ears.
Achievement unlocked: Mount Acquired!
No comments:
Post a Comment