Eberron Adventure: Session Fifty

So there they were…

Clambering on top of an idling lightning rail train. The human monk Turnin dragging their bound and unconscious warforged prisoner by the ankles. The dwarf cleric Francis, the human wizard Kylar, the gnome barbarian/ranger Gnofulk and the half-orc barbarian Ula all tend to the skiff that (most of) the party had used to frantically board the fleeing train. In their scuffle with the warforged, the tiefling sorceress Comfort was hit by a crossbow bolt, and she nurses the wound as the party congregates on the roof of one trains boxcars.

Captain Rhorgar brings the ship up and over the final small crest of the hill, the fiery ring of the airship still hovering mere feet above the ground. The name Taint Tickler greets the party as Rhogar comes alongside to pick up the skiff and the party. Ula snickers.

The party ascends on the skiff, Francis in the back articulating the magical prop. Once aboard, with the help of the cleric, Comfort starts tending to her wound, the dwarf slowly cleaning, stitching and covering the puncture from the bolt. Turnin calls for the warforged Chef to meet the party on deck, to discuss their captive.

While they wait, Turnin is regards the cleric, and the warforged, and Comfort’s wound, and again the cleric. Kylar knows what the monk is thinking, and informs him that it doesn’t work that way. Being made of wood and metal and magic, warforged heal differently than your typical adventurer. Cure Wounds and the like has a reduced effect on them.

Chef makes his way out of the galley and onto the deck, adjusting his appropriate hat, apron and additional bulky armor plates (he heard no one trusts a skinny chef). The party’s cooking companion confirms Kylar’s statement. Heal spells don’t always work as well on warforged, though there is usually some effect. However, they do have other ways to effectively heal, through field repair kits. After some more discussion, Chef convinces the party that warforged can’t self-destruct, and agrees to repair the captive a bit, in the hopes of reviving it.

Chef adjusts his apron, squats by the bound warforged, and produces a small kit. A few clacks of a wrench, a few more twists of a screwdriver, and some squirts from an old timey oil squirter and the damage inflicted by the monk is patched enough. An odd “bonging” some issues from the bound warforged before the faint glow of his eyes returns.

This warforged looks different than the others defeated on the train. More… customized. The chest armor is black, with small silver lines of spikes covering it. He’s a bit of a punk-rock warforged, though he unfortunately lacks a mohawk.

Turnin plies the captive with questions. The monk (and party) learn precious little however. He snidely confirms that “fleshings” can’t heal here in the Mournland. His name is Dirk, and from the bits and bobs on him, he is affiliated with the Perpetual Legion. He can’t or won’t tell the party where the Legion is though, and insists that he and the defeated trio were going on a beer run back to Breland.

While a beer run piques the interest of about half the party, the more they think it over… warforged don’t need to eat or drink, and they don’t know how hard warforged usually party, or if warforged can even suffer the effects (or benefits!) of alcohol. The party steps away to confer. Theories abound.

Maybe it is just a beer run? Maybe it’s a half-truth, and it’s a supply run for the Legion? Maybe the conductor stones aren’t actually busted, and the train goes further into the Mournland to help the Legion?

Rhogar pulls the fiery airship away from the lightning rail, puttering back towards the end of the line, while a duo of goblin deckhands futz with things about the ship. Chef returns to the galley, and Montgomery Dwarf and Ruth remain below, the latter sleeping and awaiting her shift at the helm. Newly stitched up, Comfort nurses her wound and her drink, thinking, while the rest of the party prepare a skiff to investigate the conductor stones.

Being a dwarf, Francis knows a thing or two about stones. However, that proves to be of little help here, and the cleric’s knowledge falters. Each conductor stone consists of a large stone block housing a smaller pyramid-shaped magical focus that deals – nay conducts – the lightning from the lightning rail, keeping it grounded and on track as it moves. The dwarf can tell the next dozen stones beyond are indeed broken, but can’t tell exactly how. (Destroyed by magic? Brute force?)

Kylar tries to detect magic, to rule out illusionary brokenness, and although he succeeds (the stones are indeed broken), the magic fights him, and his voice is altered for a time. As the wizard squeakily imparts his wisdom, the barbarians poke around.

The half-orc Ula hefts her massive tower shield as she walks. There are a surprising number of footprints around, from a variety of races. However, things don’t decay in the Mournland, and she is hard-pressed to say when these were made.

Watching Ula, Gnofulklooks around to help, and realizes that he is actually in a large footprint himself. The track is about 15’ across, and the depression is rather angular, one may surmise that it was caused by something artificial. Calling Turnin over, the monk paces it out, and while scratching his headband and reflecting on his own physique, believes the tracks to be of something obviously large, but moving quite slow and ponderous.

They decide to return to the ship. Dirk will only sarcastically answer the party’s questions about the large tracks, and eventually Ula has enough, and chucks the bound warforged off the deck of the fiery airship, where he crashes into the ground and goes inert again. No one objects, of moves to stop the half-orc. Dirk… kinda has it coming.

As Rhogar prepares to depart, Turnin decides to retrieve Dirk. The monk isn’t done with the warforged yet. The monk tosses down a rope and hauls the now unconscious captive back up to the ship.

The party bicker a bit about where to keep him – the ship wasn’t built with an explicit brig – and in the end, decide to leave him with Chef, though even there, there is some debate. What if Dirk convinces Chef to let him go? Or poison the crew? Or, or worse? And what’s the deal with galleys and galleons? Boats and places to eat? Boats and coins? What gives, words?

In a moment of clarity, Turnin decides to more intrusively search their captive, and between him, Kylar and Kaz the Kobold, they determine the Dirk has sweet, sweet arm blades concealed in his forearms.

Turnin hauls Dirk down below deck, and asks Chef to ignore the new dents. Chef agrees to let Dirk stay in the galley for a while, inert. Turnin reties the warforged so that if the arm blades do come out, Dirk will poke himself in the head. All in all, it’s a terribly morbid situation the more you think about it.

The airship presses on, following both a set of giant tracks and the conductor stones, both moving towards the east. After an hour or so, the tracks veer south, and the party decide to follow them, as best they can.

Dusk descends. The Dead Gray Mist encasing the Mournland deadens the sun anyways. At night, the malevolent fog rolls around, only occasionally illuminated by the reflective light of Eberron’s moons. It is a spooky place, this Mournland.

Kylar withdraws to his room. Gnofolk retires to his bunk with the flying squirrel Nutasha. Ula returns to her little shanty nest on the second skiff. Turnin sets up a small hammock on deck as Ruth and two fresh goblin deckhands start their long shift. And… for some reason, despite having an extra room, the cleric Francis and the sorceress Comfort are bunking together. Literally bunking. Like, with the bunk beds. Having deadened the pain of the crossbow bolt, the tiefling is up top, snoring. The dwarf, for some unknowable reason, got the lower bunk, and begins his lengthy evening prayers.

As few hours pass. One of the goblin deckhands is up front, keeping a lookout for the tracks, and signaling up to Ruth for minor course corrections. Another wanders about the ship, quietly making sure things are in order.

Well… quiet for a little bit. Off in the distance, the goblin deckhand Chester sees some funky twinkling blue lights, undulating out in the foggy distance. He decides to wake the monk, dozing in his hammock.

Turnin is roused, and groggily takes stock of the situation. No, he tells Chester, he hasn’t seen that before. No, he doesn’t know what they are.  

But the monk is intrigued. Ruth shrugs; it is the monk’s call. The lights don’t look to be getting any closer. Turnin decides to give chase, and Ruth wheels the fiery airship ship after the lights.

After a few minutes, the lights seem to notice the pursuit. In the indeterminate distance, they wobble and seem to wheel to face the oncoming airship, bobbing closer and closer. Turnin decides to rouse the crew by sounding the alarm: Chester.

The goblin starts belting “Oogaah!” at the top of his little lungs, and running around, making sure everyone is aware. Ula rouses herself from her skiff, pulling her huge shield along and standing near Ruth and Turnin at the helm. Francis and Comfort leave their bunks and come to the middle of the main deck and are soon joined by Kylar. Gnofulk and Nutasha scramble to the front of the ship, looking to make use of their above-average senses.

It is evidently a little too dark for Gnofulk, but Nutasha is able to discern a little about the shapes as they come closer, and she describes them as flying pancakes, and there is a kind of a cold spicy aroma on the wind.

The trio of flying pancakes come into view; undulating towards the ship quite speedily as the fiery airship itself presses on. They look like nautical rays or skates, except they are covered with innumerable fangs and eyes, and have a faint light surrounding them; icy particles shaken loose from their movements.

In mere seconds, the ships and monsters will meet.

Gnofulk readies his sling, and with a raging primal yell, flings two of the “screaming,” fear-causing stones at the oncoming creatures. Both stones impact, but the creatures are unafraid. Kylar readies his magic, and casts a hypnotizing pattern in the path of the undulating rays. The many eyes of one of the trio is entirely transfixed on the pattern, and the ray simply glides, content and mesmerized towards the ground. The two other rays shake off the effect, and continue, reaching the bow of the fiery airship.

Gnofulk is buffeted by wings and fangs of one of the rays, icy bits piercing the tiny barbarian. An intense aura surrounds the ray too, and the barbarian and his mount are blasted with intense cold this close to the ray.

With both remaining rays in striking distance, Turnin springs forth. His cool staff and wraps land blow after blow on the ray not fighting Gnofulk, but the cool weapons don’t seem to be as damaging to the creatures as the monk hoped. Ula too jumps down from the raised section of the helm, but is slower than the monk, and is unable to get a swing in.

Francis observes this, and casts Shield of Faith and his favorite monk, to protect his dear “Angelwings” as well as releases *ahem* a Scorching Ray blast against the attacking *ahem* rays. Three arcs of flame fly from the cleric’s hand, one burning into the ray by Angelwings, and two arcing over to pierce the frosty hide of the one by Gnofulk. Fire is apparently super-effective here, and the two rays are toast.

The cleric wrestles with the magic just released, and while he senses something odd has happened, the dwarf cannot determine what the extra effect was.

Still a little shy after getting shot with the warforged crossbow on the train, Comfort simply watches the battle unfold and end; over before she needed to act. The last hypnotized ray lazily glides into the hull, and continues its’ gently descent into the ground below, and the goblin Chester stops his “Aoogah”ing.

Gnofulk tries to tend to Nutasha’s wounds from the frost aura, and ever curious, Kylar examines the bodies of the rays before Turnin kicks them over the side. The wizard deduces that these are Rays of Frost – living spells brought into being by the chaotic and mysterious Mournland. The wizard wonders what other deviant horrors await the party in this dead land…

It is the middle of the night; no rest has really been had, and most of the crew is now too amped up to rest. Francis does decide to try and get some shuteye, though his rest is truncated as he begins his evening prayers anew. They rest of the party decide to continue following the tracks as best they can, and after another hour or so in the air, come across the ruins of a small village.

The party wants to investigate the village but are wary. They decide to wait a few hours until morning. Chef maneuvers around the still mercilessly incapacitated prisoner Dirk, to supply the party with some fresh fantasy coffee. After a nice cup (and the conclusion of Francis’ morning prayers), the party disembarks, all hopping into the skiff and puttering down into the village.

Maybe a dozen or so buildings used to constitute the village. It’s hard to say now. Roofs have collapsed, and a few years has taken a toll on the walls. Rubble and debris soften every hard angle. As the party approaches on their skiff, the smell of bacon wafts up, and the sounds of children playing and soft discussion slip into their ears, though turn as they do, they cannot fixate on an actual source for any of these sensory occurrences.

The party sets down in what appears to be a fountain in the center of the village. As they look around, a curious sight greets them; dozens of floating hats, all bobbing around, as if dozens of invisible people are milling about on the start of a festival or market day.

The party is intrigued and sit around the skiff and dried up fountain to observe. Hats of all styles continue to float around, occasionally tipping one another as they pass.

The half orc Ula comes to recognize this place as the tiny village of Dankmire and recalls an old watering hole here… the Taint Tickler, if she recalls correctly. She conscripts Comfort and Gnofulk to help her find the old bar.

Meanwhile, the monk, wizard and cleric attempt to unravel this alleged hat puzzle. The hats ignore greetings, questions and insults. They float right past

Kylar determines that some kind of enchantment magic is in the in the error. Or is it the school of illusion? It’s harder to discern here in the Mournland.

Mage Hand tries to wrest control of a hat, but the green conjured hand proves unable to win a tug-of-war. The wizard hears a harrumph from somewhere.

Francis starts trailing a hat lower to the ground, and the dwarf pops his head in. It works for a handful of steps, but then slips off, with the hat going in its own desired direction.

Turnin is the most intrigued by these wandering hats. He has the wizard conjure one up for him, and the monk tips the green conjuration towards an approaching hat. The hat responds in kind but immediately continues on its way.

The monk then tries to uh, “borrow” a hat. He seems to succeed for a moment, but he hears panicked screams come from somewhere nearby, and the hat is dragged back into place, and then it hustles off.

The drunkards eventually find the Taint Tickler bar and begin poking around. After half an hour gingerly sifting through debris, they are rewarded with a trio of fine Cyrean brandy. Since there is no more Cyre and no more brandy production… these are valuable bottles. Comfort pops one open to celebrate the find. It tastes delicious.

The monk is still occupied, so Kylar begins sifting around as well. Detect Magic has not pinged any items here, so the wizard is searching mundanely. He climbs into one of the collapsed buildings, and finds a small desk with book. The wizard pages through it, to read the secrets of a girl named Gloria. The last entry was on the day of the Mourning event; the cataclysm that transformed Cyre into the Mournland. In the entry she relates that she has gotten a new hat, and is excited to go live with her uncle in Sharn.

All the while Turnin is still trying to figure out these darn hats. The monk jumps on one, squatting down and holding onto the brim. With his good monk balance, Turnin is able to float around on the hat without any real issue.

After a few minutes riding the hat around, the monk wonders if this place under is under a magical curse. Utilizing his dragonmark, the monk reaches down to where the invisible, incorporeal person under the hat would be, and releases his magic.

No curse is lifted, and instead a fireball is detonated. Amazingly, the monk and the hat are unharmed.

The rest of the party hear the boom, and turn to see the mushrooming cloud nearby, and the monk give a wobbly thumbs up as the hat rights itself.

Golly. What a crazy hat puzzle.