So there they were…
Still messing about with hats, for the most part.
Mid-day had arrived in the ruined, odd little village of Dankmire. Floating hats continued to mill about their business, as if it was market day. However, the village sat in the Mournland, a once-vibrant nation magically scoured of life in one cataclysmic moment. The cataclysm was about five years past, but time had taken a toll on the village. Its small well/fountain sat dry, and all the dozen or so buildings were crumbling. No bodies lay about here; just floating hats.
The Mournland was a barren place. Dead Gray Mist bordered the Mournland on all sides, frustrating travel and obscuring the sky at all hours. The land existed in a dead haze, even at midday.
Turnin the human monk was still fascinated with this hat puzzle. He wonders aloud what happens at night, and convinces the party to wait it out. No one objects. The last night was rough, what with the Rays of Frost, and the party could use some downtime. They spend the rest of the day milling about the odd town.
Comfort wonders if there would be a way to see into this oddball realm, perhaps to see the people beneath the hats. The best she has is her little compact pocket mirror. The tiefling unclasps and flips it open peering inside. She gazes upon the village in the mirror…
…and see’s it from a new perspective that can only be described as “reversed.” Drat.
Ula starts building a pyre near one of the homes, practicing her survival skills or something. However, the half-orc leaves it unlit. Gnofulk continues searching through the rubble for trinkets. He finds a mummified goblin hand, and a pair of old socks. I guess that’s a win, though the tiny barbarian is a bit confused by the socks. Does a gnome even wear socks? Does a barbarian?
Dusk falls. The hats continue to float about their business, but slower. In time, the hats seem to be disbursing. Turnin eyes a nice-looking bowler (*ahem* bohler). hat, and follows it after seeing other hats being set on hat racks or the remains of tables and desks in collapsed buildings. It is places on a tilted hat rack, and the monk immediately snatches it up.
Surprisingly without any protest or repercussions. The monk has scored a pretty nice hat. The barbarians are intrigued by these… “hats,” now that they are lootable. Ula finds and swipes grabs a big floppy sun hat. Gnofulk searches for, but is ultimately unable to find a deerstalker hat. Well, two hats for a day’s work. Worth it, I guess.
Before they depart, Francis insists on a prayer, which culminates with a Sacred Flame being cast on Ula’s pyre; a symbol of the cleansing and purifying fire of the Silver Flame. The party departs this odd little village.
The party returns to the idling airship, and the fire uh… starts to spread. Distorted screams of terror are slowly carried on the wind, though as before, the party isn’t exactly sure where the sounds are coming from. Oh well.
The night shift has taken over, and Ruth is at the helm as the skiff is secured, with two goblin deckhands maintaining the ship. The party eats, but it is a little early to call it a night. The continue to rest, and instruct Ruth to get them back to the lightning rail, so that they may follow it east to Kalazart, the old sprawling merchant city.
Night in the Mournland is well, spooky. Enshrouded by the Dead Gray Mist, Eberron’s many moons are obscured, and the moonlight is dully reflected through the haze. According to their own design, patches of mist continue to manifest, swirl and then disappear as the lone fiery airship meanders back towards the lightning rail.
As the party chats, a solitary tune is heard, slowly getting louder as it gets closer. The party take to the deck rails, and soon, the source is seen several hundred feet away, an armored, shambling host emerges from one of the swirling patches of mist.
The party can’t discern too much, but infers that with the shambling.. they may be undead. The tune is the same as the one heard while Francis was scrying the other day, and totally warrants some investigating. They won’t intercept the path of the airship, so Ruth halts the ship, and the skiff is prepared and launched, with all the party members hanging on as they approach.
The party skirts closer to the host, and sees eight more typical looking skeletons, and one brute, towering head and shoulders over the others and clad in menacing plate. One of the smaller skeletons is dooting, trumpet-like object in hand, and all are clad in the armor and colors of Karrnathi undead.
The party zip in front of the skeletons, giving them a little space. They shouting at them, but the skeletons keep marching on. Kylar attempts to swipe the trumpet with his Mage Hand, but the spell cannot contest the feeble skeletal resistance. With the attempt, the skeletons become hostile.
The barbarians of the party are ready. At the first sign of trouble, Ula hurls a javelin at the brute and Gnofulk rages and hops down. As the javelin strikes, the gnome is in the thick of it; axe swinging at the brute and Zyn’s scimitar slashing at one of the other skeletons.
The hostile skeletons strike back, though aten’t as skilled as the barbarians. The plated brute strikes several times against the angry gnome, but the longsword finds purchase only once. Several skeletons in the front move up to engage Gnofulk, but none of their shortswords can find the gnome.
The back ranks of skeletons backpedal and draw their shortbows, loosing a volley at the skiff.. but none of the nearly half-dozen shafts find flesh. Having parked the skiff, Francis draws divine power to shoo the skeletons away. Go on. Get!
Amazingly, most of the host holds. One skeleton turns to flee, and is utterly destroyed. The brute turns as well, and while not destroyed outright, he is turned, and compelled to flee.
The cleric also decides to shield the gnome with a spell. Unfortunately, the magic struggles against the cleric, and as the benevolent benediction is finished, both the gnome and the dwarf wink out of existence.
Kylar is momentarily confused, but quickly settles on a massive fireball into the skeletal ranks, now that the gnome is... well, out of the way. Fortune smiles upon the wizard in multiple respects. While the magic did fight him, the spell goes off with no ill effects. Additionally, while the skeletons proved to be incredibly stalwart against the divine turning, all but the trumpeter fail to avoid the massive fireball, and are obliterated. Charred almost beyond recognition, the lone skeleton continues to doot, angrily, the sweet song still filling the air.
The music is getting to Turnin. In a good way. The monk has a small drum, and joins in the jam, not wanting to harm the skeleton.
Comfort is also intrigued by the dooting, and chooses to Firebolt the still-fleeing brute. Dented and charred, the brute continues fleeing, spooked but undefeated so far.
The music is getting to Ula. In a less good way. The half-orc readies another javelin, and abolishes the dooting skeleton; javelin piercing the horn, pushing through and decapitating the boney warrior. The magic sputters out of the horn in a breathless glissando.
Kylar and Comfort sling additional Firebolts at the fleeing skeleton, and the sorceress is the one to end it; it’s armored head popping like a kernel.
The monk pilots the skiff down, and the party begins to search. The trumpet is ruined, but Comfort sets about some starting magical mending repairs.
About a minute after touchdown, Gnofulk and Francis wink back into existence. Still raging the gnome quickly surveys the scene, and concludes that he blacked out and struck with such force the skeletons were incinerated. You go little guy.
Francis winks back into existence in the air, back where the skiff was. He falls to the ground, landing hard, and his dignity is hurt a little. Neither party member can recall anything of the last minute. They just simple vanished and then reappeared a minute later.
Kylar casts detect magic, but finds naught but the fading necromancy of the skeletons and enchantment of the instrument. The wizard runs out to check on the plated brute. No DieFi rod there, and he doesn’t have any kind of special pouch for orders or anything. He’s just “muscle” for the undead skeletons, so- to-speak. After several tries to drag the towering skeleton, the wizard just shoves him into the Bag of Holding. Further study may prove beneficial.
The rest of the party picks their way through the undead weapons. They are basically serviceable, but mundane and in ill repair. Nothing worth salvaging from the Karrnathi ranks. Comfort finishes with the horn repair, though the magic is long gone. Still, Turnin puts it to his lips and tries his best. The monk does surprisingly ok. The party may have found a bugler!
The party returns to the airship, and again asks Ruth to find the lightning rail line and then follow it east. Most decide to retire in earnest this time around; Ula to her skiff, Kylar to his study, Francis and Comfort to their bunks, Gnofulk to his small hold with Nutasha.
Turnin approaches the roguish pilot, and chats her up. She is hanging in there, but exhausted. Someone needs to be flying the airship basically every moment, and it’s taking a bit of a toll on Rhogar and herself. Twelve hours a day of near-constant struggle would do that.
The monk wonders if he might be able to pick up a shift now and then… but no. Hands on the wheel, the monk’s will proves insufficient to command the elemental caged within. The bottom strut, that supports the burning ring of fire, digs into the ground and the ship lurches as Ruth regains control to right it. A few things tumble about, and Comfort unfortunately tumbles out of the top bunk and smacks her head.
Comfort asks Francis to scooch over; she can’t really make it back to the top bunk with a bump on the noggin. The cleric refuses. He is chaste. He’s got big metal locked underwear and everything. And it is chaffing.
Comfort does have thieves tools, and powder and offers to help. The powder helps, but the tiefling only manages to jam two now-broken lockpicks into the lock on the dwarf’s belt. Francis sighs and begins his evening prayers.
Turnin is up early, and visits their warforged prisoner, Dirk, in the airship’s galley. Chef gives them a moment while the fantasy coffee finishes brewing, and steps out.
Dirk has cleverly concealed arm blades that pop right now, so the monk has taken precautions to nullify those in the restraints. The warforged is tied up to a post, arms pointed right at his head. If the warforged activates the blades he’ll lobotomize himself. Or whatever the warforged equivalent is. Turnin taunts the warforged a bit, and Dirk refuses to cooperate and divulge any information about Kalazart or the Perpetual Legion, their specific location or their activities. Turnin shrugs. The monk has no problem leaving Dirk as-is.
Dawn comes, hazy as usual; the sun obscured by the Dead Gray Mist. Ruth has done well in the night though. The lightning rail was found, and Kalazart should be just a few miles ahead and over the horizon. The potent smells of fantasy coffee wafts through the ship, rousing the party for another day of adventuring. Very likely in Kalazart...
Still messing about with hats, for the most part.
Mid-day had arrived in the ruined, odd little village of Dankmire. Floating hats continued to mill about their business, as if it was market day. However, the village sat in the Mournland, a once-vibrant nation magically scoured of life in one cataclysmic moment. The cataclysm was about five years past, but time had taken a toll on the village. Its small well/fountain sat dry, and all the dozen or so buildings were crumbling. No bodies lay about here; just floating hats.
The Mournland was a barren place. Dead Gray Mist bordered the Mournland on all sides, frustrating travel and obscuring the sky at all hours. The land existed in a dead haze, even at midday.
Turnin the human monk was still fascinated with this hat puzzle. He wonders aloud what happens at night, and convinces the party to wait it out. No one objects. The last night was rough, what with the Rays of Frost, and the party could use some downtime. They spend the rest of the day milling about the odd town.
Comfort wonders if there would be a way to see into this oddball realm, perhaps to see the people beneath the hats. The best she has is her little compact pocket mirror. The tiefling unclasps and flips it open peering inside. She gazes upon the village in the mirror…
…and see’s it from a new perspective that can only be described as “reversed.” Drat.
Ula starts building a pyre near one of the homes, practicing her survival skills or something. However, the half-orc leaves it unlit. Gnofulk continues searching through the rubble for trinkets. He finds a mummified goblin hand, and a pair of old socks. I guess that’s a win, though the tiny barbarian is a bit confused by the socks. Does a gnome even wear socks? Does a barbarian?
Dusk falls. The hats continue to float about their business, but slower. In time, the hats seem to be disbursing. Turnin eyes a nice-looking bowler (*ahem* bohler). hat, and follows it after seeing other hats being set on hat racks or the remains of tables and desks in collapsed buildings. It is places on a tilted hat rack, and the monk immediately snatches it up.
Surprisingly without any protest or repercussions. The monk has scored a pretty nice hat. The barbarians are intrigued by these… “hats,” now that they are lootable. Ula finds and swipes grabs a big floppy sun hat. Gnofulk searches for, but is ultimately unable to find a deerstalker hat. Well, two hats for a day’s work. Worth it, I guess.
Before they depart, Francis insists on a prayer, which culminates with a Sacred Flame being cast on Ula’s pyre; a symbol of the cleansing and purifying fire of the Silver Flame. The party departs this odd little village.
The party returns to the idling airship, and the fire uh… starts to spread. Distorted screams of terror are slowly carried on the wind, though as before, the party isn’t exactly sure where the sounds are coming from. Oh well.
The night shift has taken over, and Ruth is at the helm as the skiff is secured, with two goblin deckhands maintaining the ship. The party eats, but it is a little early to call it a night. The continue to rest, and instruct Ruth to get them back to the lightning rail, so that they may follow it east to Kalazart, the old sprawling merchant city.
Night in the Mournland is well, spooky. Enshrouded by the Dead Gray Mist, Eberron’s many moons are obscured, and the moonlight is dully reflected through the haze. According to their own design, patches of mist continue to manifest, swirl and then disappear as the lone fiery airship meanders back towards the lightning rail.
As the party chats, a solitary tune is heard, slowly getting louder as it gets closer. The party take to the deck rails, and soon, the source is seen several hundred feet away, an armored, shambling host emerges from one of the swirling patches of mist.
The party can’t discern too much, but infers that with the shambling.. they may be undead. The tune is the same as the one heard while Francis was scrying the other day, and totally warrants some investigating. They won’t intercept the path of the airship, so Ruth halts the ship, and the skiff is prepared and launched, with all the party members hanging on as they approach.
The party skirts closer to the host, and sees eight more typical looking skeletons, and one brute, towering head and shoulders over the others and clad in menacing plate. One of the smaller skeletons is dooting, trumpet-like object in hand, and all are clad in the armor and colors of Karrnathi undead.
The party zip in front of the skeletons, giving them a little space. They shouting at them, but the skeletons keep marching on. Kylar attempts to swipe the trumpet with his Mage Hand, but the spell cannot contest the feeble skeletal resistance. With the attempt, the skeletons become hostile.
The barbarians of the party are ready. At the first sign of trouble, Ula hurls a javelin at the brute and Gnofulk rages and hops down. As the javelin strikes, the gnome is in the thick of it; axe swinging at the brute and Zyn’s scimitar slashing at one of the other skeletons.
The hostile skeletons strike back, though aten’t as skilled as the barbarians. The plated brute strikes several times against the angry gnome, but the longsword finds purchase only once. Several skeletons in the front move up to engage Gnofulk, but none of their shortswords can find the gnome.
The back ranks of skeletons backpedal and draw their shortbows, loosing a volley at the skiff.. but none of the nearly half-dozen shafts find flesh. Having parked the skiff, Francis draws divine power to shoo the skeletons away. Go on. Get!
Amazingly, most of the host holds. One skeleton turns to flee, and is utterly destroyed. The brute turns as well, and while not destroyed outright, he is turned, and compelled to flee.
The cleric also decides to shield the gnome with a spell. Unfortunately, the magic struggles against the cleric, and as the benevolent benediction is finished, both the gnome and the dwarf wink out of existence.
Kylar is momentarily confused, but quickly settles on a massive fireball into the skeletal ranks, now that the gnome is... well, out of the way. Fortune smiles upon the wizard in multiple respects. While the magic did fight him, the spell goes off with no ill effects. Additionally, while the skeletons proved to be incredibly stalwart against the divine turning, all but the trumpeter fail to avoid the massive fireball, and are obliterated. Charred almost beyond recognition, the lone skeleton continues to doot, angrily, the sweet song still filling the air.
The music is getting to Turnin. In a good way. The monk has a small drum, and joins in the jam, not wanting to harm the skeleton.
Comfort is also intrigued by the dooting, and chooses to Firebolt the still-fleeing brute. Dented and charred, the brute continues fleeing, spooked but undefeated so far.
The music is getting to Ula. In a less good way. The half-orc readies another javelin, and abolishes the dooting skeleton; javelin piercing the horn, pushing through and decapitating the boney warrior. The magic sputters out of the horn in a breathless glissando.
Kylar and Comfort sling additional Firebolts at the fleeing skeleton, and the sorceress is the one to end it; it’s armored head popping like a kernel.
The monk pilots the skiff down, and the party begins to search. The trumpet is ruined, but Comfort sets about some starting magical mending repairs.
About a minute after touchdown, Gnofulk and Francis wink back into existence. Still raging the gnome quickly surveys the scene, and concludes that he blacked out and struck with such force the skeletons were incinerated. You go little guy.
Francis winks back into existence in the air, back where the skiff was. He falls to the ground, landing hard, and his dignity is hurt a little. Neither party member can recall anything of the last minute. They just simple vanished and then reappeared a minute later.
Kylar casts detect magic, but finds naught but the fading necromancy of the skeletons and enchantment of the instrument. The wizard runs out to check on the plated brute. No DieFi rod there, and he doesn’t have any kind of special pouch for orders or anything. He’s just “muscle” for the undead skeletons, so- to-speak. After several tries to drag the towering skeleton, the wizard just shoves him into the Bag of Holding. Further study may prove beneficial.
The rest of the party picks their way through the undead weapons. They are basically serviceable, but mundane and in ill repair. Nothing worth salvaging from the Karrnathi ranks. Comfort finishes with the horn repair, though the magic is long gone. Still, Turnin puts it to his lips and tries his best. The monk does surprisingly ok. The party may have found a bugler!
The party returns to the airship, and again asks Ruth to find the lightning rail line and then follow it east. Most decide to retire in earnest this time around; Ula to her skiff, Kylar to his study, Francis and Comfort to their bunks, Gnofulk to his small hold with Nutasha.
Turnin approaches the roguish pilot, and chats her up. She is hanging in there, but exhausted. Someone needs to be flying the airship basically every moment, and it’s taking a bit of a toll on Rhogar and herself. Twelve hours a day of near-constant struggle would do that.
The monk wonders if he might be able to pick up a shift now and then… but no. Hands on the wheel, the monk’s will proves insufficient to command the elemental caged within. The bottom strut, that supports the burning ring of fire, digs into the ground and the ship lurches as Ruth regains control to right it. A few things tumble about, and Comfort unfortunately tumbles out of the top bunk and smacks her head.
Comfort asks Francis to scooch over; she can’t really make it back to the top bunk with a bump on the noggin. The cleric refuses. He is chaste. He’s got big metal locked underwear and everything. And it is chaffing.
Comfort does have thieves tools, and powder and offers to help. The powder helps, but the tiefling only manages to jam two now-broken lockpicks into the lock on the dwarf’s belt. Francis sighs and begins his evening prayers.
Turnin is up early, and visits their warforged prisoner, Dirk, in the airship’s galley. Chef gives them a moment while the fantasy coffee finishes brewing, and steps out.
Dirk has cleverly concealed arm blades that pop right now, so the monk has taken precautions to nullify those in the restraints. The warforged is tied up to a post, arms pointed right at his head. If the warforged activates the blades he’ll lobotomize himself. Or whatever the warforged equivalent is. Turnin taunts the warforged a bit, and Dirk refuses to cooperate and divulge any information about Kalazart or the Perpetual Legion, their specific location or their activities. Turnin shrugs. The monk has no problem leaving Dirk as-is.
Dawn comes, hazy as usual; the sun obscured by the Dead Gray Mist. Ruth has done well in the night though. The lightning rail was found, and Kalazart should be just a few miles ahead and over the horizon. The potent smells of fantasy coffee wafts through the ship, rousing the party for another day of adventuring. Very likely in Kalazart...
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