Eberron Adventure: Forty-Second Session

So there they were…

On a wonderful afternoon, scarfing delicious beef wellington as prepared by Chef, the warforged cook in Ghallanda Hall. Comfort the tiefling sorceress, Shadowale the halfling rogue, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, Rhogar the red dragonborn fighter, Kyllar the human wizard and Turnin the human monk were enjoying themselves and their full bellies and hearing about Gnofulk’s flying squirrel mount for the Race of the Eight Winds (Nutasha), when a teen human boy burst into the hall, eyes sweeping across the room until they landed on the party.

The kid is dressed in a not-quite-fitting brown speed suit with “Jake – House Orien Courier” on the nametag. He awkwardly approached and explained -aww geez- that the party was needed per their um, signed contract with House Orien. The party got rewards for finding secret spaces, and a retainer fee to clear out any ruffians or monsters that wormed their way – and they are needed now by his supervisor.

Kyllar, who was expecting trouble today, hands out part of his Puzzle Box to Comfort and Turnin; each of the pieces of the box contains the spell Mage Armor; just shake and blow into the box bit to activate! The party should be pretty tanky now.

After some teasing and taunting of poor Jake, the party follows the young courier out of Ghallanda Hall on to the platform and ramp outside the hall, where Jake has a magical, if boring ride waiting. It is a platform with standing room only. Jake posts up behind a podium and starts turning gears and switches, and cranks a level, imploring the party to hop in and hang on. A guard rail provides the illusion of safety as the party walks on. Another few gear twists, and the platform moves past the edge, and begins rapidly descending into the depths of Sharn.

Full of delicious beef wellington, this is not a forgiving maneuver. Rhogar, afraid of heights unless he is driving, closes his scaly eyelids and pretends it is a windy day. Comfort dry heaves once. Kyllar is jostled once too much, and vomits off the back of the ride, though who knows where it land. Gnofulk, Turnin and Shadowale are unfazed, perhaps even enjoying the ride by the time it comes to a halt, deep in the lower parts of Sharn.

Jake lands the platform just outside a rocky area cordoned off with red and black tape, and points toward and elf dressed in brown – Pamir, his supervisor, who is chatting with a gruff dwarf dressed in red, someone from the City Watch. Jake tells the party that this is, like, as far as he can go, and they should go talk to the elf.

Lower Sharn is generally sparsely populated, but this region is better than most. There is a street, and among the foundations of the towers are actual shops and apartments. The cordon separates them from the rocky area that is your destination.

Loitering Watchmen lift up the cordons, allowing the party entrance, and Pamir the elf greets, them, and introduces them to Lumarum, captain of the City Watch in this district before jumping into business. House Orien is interested in building a rail system in Sharn, and was looking for secret spaces within the City to lay potential lightning nodes or stations. This is a potential station site, and House Orien hired two surveyors to go in and get a more accurate map of the area. One was delayed in his descent into the space, saw his partner shot with arrows, and noped right on out.

The party immediately want to question the survivor, but Pamir refuses as the man has had a tough day, and already been questioned by the City Watch and the House. He and Lumarum should be able to answer any questions. The party are concerned with the quality of arrow the man was shot with, as they think the level of craftsmanship could infer the kind of opponent they are facing. Lumarum replies that the survivor did say that the arrows flew straight and true when he described his partner being shot. So… the arrows are probably well made? Cheap arrows don’t fly straight.

Pamir gestures behind him a bit, towards a semi-secluded section among the foundations of the towers – the area further secluded by the cordons of the City Watch. A hole sits nearby, barely large enough for two to fit through if they were standing up, and a flat rock sits nearby. A hefty metal tripod stands over the hole, pulleys and ropes hanging from the apex and nearby Watchmen tied up and ready to belay the party down.

Shadowale asks for Pamir to clarify what it is they need to do here, exactly. Scout? Conquer? The elf replies that this low in Sharn… he’ll give the party a free hand. Scout, destroy, whatever, just make this place safe for the surveyors and workers – this would be a really nice spot for a rail station.

The party seem to like this freedom, and ready their weapons as they approach the hole, and all the ropes and all the Watchmen ready belay them down.

Instead, they all pile in, and fall down the hole together, with Kyllar casting Feather Fall on all but Turnin, who, given his monk-skillz, could reach the ground easily.

The party descends down into the subterranean caverns, into a room with two exits. Rhogar is the first to reach the bottom, and several well-made arrows whiz by. The dragonborn can’t see who shot at them, but is able to discern that the arrows came from the two exits, and the fighter charges the nearest exit (on the left) as the rest of the party reaches the rocky ground.

…Rhogar reaches the end of his charge, but still hasn’t seen anything resembling an enemy yet. He ends his movement near a crude rocky barricade, and suddenly, he’s hit! Small war cries ring out, and sharp somethings hack at his scaled flesh and draw blood. The dragonborn roars that the rocks are attacking him!

Kyllar thinks this statement is quite dubious, and runs up near the dragonborn. Movement catches the wizard’s eye, and he releases a Fire Bolt, which scorches into the darkness. While he missed, the wizard does illuminate the attackers… some kind of reddish goblinoid dressed in armor.

As the Fire Bolt zips by, Gnofulk flies into a rage, and flings himself at the other exit (on the right), trusting in his darkvision to find targets. Wielding his axe and scimitar, he does indeed find his foes, and strikes out at the red goblins.

Following the barbarian, Comfort also heads towards the exit on the right, and twin-casts a Witch Bolt at the cluster of gerblins, bloodying one.

Seeing slashing and magic on either exit, Shadowale decides to assist Rhogar and Kyllar on the left. The rogue has apparently not fallen out of practice. He slashes at one, and eyeing a weak join in the armor, cleaves the hobgoblin in two before skewering another.

Turnin was the last to land on the ground, with an appropriate landing. From what he has glimpsed from the magical attacks and heard from the shouts of his comrades, he knows that it is not rocks they right, but hobgoblins! Bigger, redder, and far more martially competent than their green-skinned evolutionary cousins.

The monk decides to take advantage of his inordinate speed and rushes the far exit. Unfortunately, being underground, it is quite dark, and the after-images of the magical attacks have faded by the time monk arrives at the little barricade and the baddies. Whirling his cool quarterstaff, Turnin swings once, twice… and connects with nothing. The monk remembers goblins are short, and lashes out with a kick, and finds nothing. Channeling some Ki, Turnin kicks once more at the darkness… and hurts his foot on the rocky wall. It is far too dark for the monk to see properly.

The hobgoblins have no such deficiencies, and in formation, those that remain begin to strike out with small pole-arms, screaming as they strike out with their sharp weapons. Turnin is struck hard by a sharp pole arm. More sweep at Gnofulk with accompanying small screams, but the hobgoblins are apparently unused to picking on someone their own size, and can’t land a blow at the raging barbarian.

On the left, the hobgoblins are equally organized, but it goes far worse for them. The pole-arms sweep out, but Rhogar’s fighter skills has taken over, and he knows his adversaries. As one chopping blade moves towards Shadowale, Rhogar interposes himself, and strikes out at the wielder, smashing the hobgoblin in the face as the other pole-arms bounce harmless off the armor of the dragonborn. Rhogar presses the attack, and delivers crushing blows to the remaining hobgoblins at the left exit before charging off alone deeper into the cavern. The dragonborn spies a few more entrances to other rooms, but keeps to his right. The sounds of battle echo off the cave walls, and the fighter posts up behind the other hobgoblins fighting his comrades and cutting off their escape route.

The dragonborn neededn’t have bothered. Three hobgoblins remain; though one is bloodied by Comfort’s Witch Bolt, the energies of which still crackle in the air with menace.

Gnofulk angrily strikes out at his unbloodied opponents, eyeing the defenses of each with an amazingly critical eye, his axe and scimitar cleaving through his unwary opponents with ease. Comfort glares at the last hobgoblin, and with a frown, the tiefling ends its life with a sizzle from the still-active Witch Bolt.

The sounds of battle die down, and the party lights a torch for Turnin and Kyllar and wanders deeper. Ahead they see paths to two more caverns, and in a small recess in the cave wall, Rhogar points to a corpse, and the party crowds around to investigate.

The corpse is that of a satyr with Daask gang markings, its arms and legs bound and its body covered in bruises and cuts and its jaw slack. The party finds no loot near the corpse. Torch in hand, the party decides to venture further into the cave. They eschew the right passageway, and prepare to explore the one on the left. Kyllar summons his familiar and sends the awkward-looking bird forward, seeing through its eyes-

-where it is quickly ended by arrows. The wizard gasps as the bird thing falls, and more shrieks go up and more hobgoblins charge out from the other room.

Rhogar catches one in his face with the dragonborn’s mace, ending his life quickly. We can call Gnofulk butter cuz he is on a roll, once again critically appraising the defenses of his opponents and quickly landing a powerful blow against the tiny being. Kyllar releases a Fire Bolt at one of the remaining hobgoblins, before withdrawing to a much safer distance. Out of the corner of his eye though he spots beady eyes glinting in the darkness, peering at the party from the path they decided not to take. The wizard shrieks.

Comfort falls back to join Kyllar, and calmly summons lightning from within. The air around the tiefling cracking with energy before it is released, arcing into the darkness.

The first hobgoblin in formation see what is about to go down, and successfully gets out of the way of the blast, or so he thought. The lightning arcs out with devastating ferocity, electrifying the entire corridor. Little electrified hobgoblin skeletons are seen glowing momentarily from beneath their armor before they all collapse, dead.

Before Shadowale or Turnin can strike at the last surviving goblin barring the intended path of the party, another hobgoblin runs up shouting in common and waving for his soldier to stand down. The soldier hobgoblin backs away, and the party demands the hobgoblins throw down their weapons.

The newly-arrived hobgoblin commander orders his soldier to do so, and soon a halberd, a sword, a dagger, and a short crossbow are at his feet. Rhogar grapples the soldier, hoisting him over his shoulder, while the rest of the party warily investigates the nearby portions of the cave while keeping watch on the commander. In the area the commander was in, they find bedrolls and supplies for the hobgoblin soldiers, and a few small notebooks. In the other room, beyond the lightning-charred remains, the party finds another bound (and dead) captive, a heavyset fish-man with tiny ears, large eyes, bulbous lips and scaly skin. Entirely different from the slim merfolk encountered previously.

Content that there are no more hobgoblins lurking about, and there are no other means of egress from the cavers other than they was the party entered, the party reconvene to… chat with the commander.

The party learn that the commander is Krunk, of the Death’s Noggin Clan – a group of hobgoblins that have called Sharn home for countless generations, going to any means necessary to remove threats to themselves and to Sharn. They moved the stone and came down here a few days ago to follow up on some leads via interrogation. This place was nice and secluded and they were just about to pack up when some deranged human repelled down. They shot him – life is cheap in Sharn’s low places ya’know – and they continued preparations to depart. Then the party showed up, and well, things took a turn for the worse.

Commander Krunk admits that he is not used to being outnumbered, and also that if he weren’t outnumbered, he’d probably try to fight the party. He acknowledges that he and his las surviving soldier are at the mercy of the party. Shadowale barely masks the fact that he couldn’t care less about any of this, and plays with his blades while eyeing the hobgoblins.

The party agrees to sit and talk civilly, and asks about each of the persons being interrogated. Commander Krunk starts with the Daask captive, stating that the Death’s Noggin Clan has known for some time that Feral Fawcett, lead instigator of the Daask in Sharn is planning something big. The Clan still doesn’t know exactly what yet. This gangster didn’t know anything besides being told to make himself available the same day as the Race of the Eight Winds. She could be planning something with the racers, fixing the race… who knows.

The party then ask about the fish-man, and the goblin grins a little. This is largely the opposite of the previously story – here the hobgoblin knows just about everything but zero hour. It’s a good thing they’re sitting, because this story is a little more involved.

Years and years ago, the Death’s Noggin Clan got wise to the machinations of a cabal of warlocks doing the insidious bidding of their patron. The captured a small clan of dragonborn outside of Sharn and embarked on a breeding program to create a new strain of dragonborn, blacker than the blackest black times infinity. On par with the elf/drow dichotomy.

Before the Death’s Noggin Clan could act, a group of nature-worshipping clerics intervened, freeing the captives. However, they were actually too late. Broods had already hatched and the Darkborn (or Drakborn) were loose in the work. While all the hatchlings have martial tendencies, Commander Krunk warns about the pureblooded Darkborn.

You see, the Darkborn were but a means to an end, and magic resides in the veins of purebloods.

When the last Darkborn dies… the spilling of its blood will complete the spell, a portal will open, and a another servant of the patron of these warlocks known only as Leviathan will be summoned. Commander Krunk thinks that will be a bad day.

Fortunately, that day is probably a ways off. Were the Last War still in full-swing, Leviathan would probably be here by now – the Darkborn drawn into the bloody conflict. However, with the end of the war marked by the Day of Mourning… the Darkborn’s access to death is slightly constricted, limited to bar fights, intrigue and adventuring, like the dragonborn in the party.

Rhogar almost blushes, though it is hard to tell with the red scales, and he confesses quietly to the party that he was a hatchling of that captive brood. Not a pureblood Darkborn, but apparently linked to them. He had no idea about Leviathan.

This is all Commander Krunk has to offer the party, and he asks for mercy. Battling Leviathan is a ways off, and who knows where it will be summoned, but if the party spares him, Krunk believes the resources of the Death’s Noggin Clan may be able to help the party stop Feral Fawcett and her plans for the Race of the Eight Winds.

The party minus Shadowale likes being owed a favor, and agree to spare Commander Krunk. Rhogar puts down the soldier, and the party starts getting ready to head back up to the surface, but Commander Krunk insists that they find a way to hide him and his last soldier. Krunk knows the City Watch are up above. If they are seen, they will be detained.

The party frets a bit. Could they Dimension Door the hobgoblins to safety? Do they have a long trench coat to hide them beneath? One hobgoblin should be able to survive 10 minutes in a Bag of Holding, but would two hobgoblins have enough air? Shadowale has had enough, and quietly slits the throat of the soldier. Problem solved! He beams as he grabs a rope and starts climbing up.

Commander Krunk is a little disconcerted, but concedes that the soldier’s job is to die, and continues to acknowledge that he is at the mercy of the party. The rest of the Clan doesn’t know what he learned from the interrohops into the Bag of Holding, and the party make their way back up to the surface. The notify the elf Pamir of House Orien and the dwarf Lumarum of the City Watch that there are bodies down there that will need to be cleaned up, but the area should be safe for future surveyors.  

The party departs the scene, and releases Commander Krunk in an alleyway out of sight. Shadowale continues to play with his blades while the hobgoblin thanks the party for not killing him, and before the hobgoblin disappears back into the low, shadowy places of Sharn, he promises to send anything he hears about the Daask and the Race of the Eight Winds to the party.