Eberron Adventure: Twenty-Seventh Session

So there they were…

Shadowale the halfling rogue, Turnin the human monk, Rhogar the dragonborn fighter, Kyllar the human wizard, and Kyllar’s kobold manservant Kazgaroth aka “Kaz”, accompanied by a dragonborn paladin and a hired half orc guide, left one of the university’s many library nooks, having learned some things about an ancient order of monks known as the Wizened. After a few turns, the dragonborn and half orc hangers on took their leave, and the party proper wound their way down the halls toward the last major party member, Gnofulk, who had elected to not do research, and instead stay behind and watch Duran Punchitfixit, a dwarf artificer, work on opening a pilfered Daask safe that had been inadvertently jammed by the earlier fumbling lockpick attempts of Shadowale.

As the party approached Duran Punchitfixit’s office and workshop, in the basement levels of the university, they heard a loud sharp *boom* and soon a light haze of smoke began to waft out into the hall. Kyllar wriggled his hands and a soft breeze began to pull the smoke from the room and out into the hall, somewhat disbursing it.

Turnin watched their communal backs as the rest of the party shuffled into the cramped office. Large shelves covered the walls and jutted out into the office, heavily laden with gadgets and gizmos, and somewhat constraining foot traffic here. As the rest of the party entered the workshop, the saw the dwarf, a bit scorched, and with obvious and bloody holes in his tunic, sprawled out face down on the floor with Gnofulk’s concerned hand looking for but not finding a pulse.

As the gnome stood up to speak to his comrades in arms, his body twitched in a few spasms, and blood began to flow from a few new cuts.

The smoke was gone, the barest wisp of a tendril still snaking its way up from the scorched safe, and around the room, the party noticed 5 daggers slowly turning end over end and floating menacingly around the crowded room. The party tried to ready weapons.
Shadowale scampered first into the room, and fired a crossbow bolt at one of the daggers, missing it. The halfling ducked, putting one of the shelves of oddities between himself and the blades while Kyllar conjured a Mage Hand, grasping one of the hilts, but the illusion was unable to control the levitating blade.

In concert, the slowly moving blades dashed, spinning around the room. Again a few found the gnome’s flesh. Those that didn’t continued on and sliced the wizard and the dragonborn behind him as they spun to new positions in the crowded room.

As the wizard concentrated on his struggle, and winced at being made to bleed his own blood, Rhogar stepped up; shield out ready to try to cover the rogue and the wizard, and his weapon ready held over his scaly head, ready to counter strike any dagger that came too close.

The clatter of weapons had by now drawn Turnin into the office too, and seeing the floating daggers, the monk vaulted over his party, grabbing and wrestling with one of the daggers. With a grunt of effort, the monk twisted, and jammed the blade into one of the sturdy pillars of one of the wooden work shelves. The runes on the dagger winked out, and the metal ceased its struggles.

Seeing the success of the monk, Gnofulk too reached out, barely grasping one of the spinning blades, and driving it into one of the larger shelves nearby. Here too, the runes winked out, and the blade went inert.

Leaping out from the safety of being in Rhogar’s shadow, the halfling drew his poisoned blades, and struck out at the nearest levitating blade. The blades rang against one another, and the levitating one soon clattered inertly to the stone tiled floor. Kyllar still struggled via his Mage Hand against the blade, and conjured his own illusionary safe to contain the blade; dismissing his hand and throwing the summoned, faintly glowing safe towards the ground. But the blade pierced the conjuration and struggled free. It and its only remaining companion whirled about, and then made a dashing thrust towards Rhogar.

The daggers proved too quick to track, and the dragonborn’s swing missed as the blades closed however, and while one blade feinted, the other drove deep, stabbing the fighter and drawing blood before wresting itself free. Rhogar decided to go on the offensive, swinging his weapon in wide arcs and knocking the remaining daggers to the ground, where they went inert like their companions.

Believing the danger over, the party again tried and failed to revive the dwarf. Kyllar ran down the halls to try and find Professor Thorntongue, the cleric they had been researching with. The duo soon returned, but there was nothing to be done for Duran Punchitfixit.

Turnin’s flaming Skull Buddy companion, whose fires were merely “fire” colored, entered the room, and whispered to the monk. With comically raised eyebrows, Turnin nods toward the dead dwarf and at the Skull Buddy repeatedly, but the Skully Buddy shakes its head, and whispers again to the monk. The party opted to wait for the authorities to arrive.

While they waited, Shadowale determined that the safe had been compromised with a few traps – all of which took to have been triggered, meanwhile Kyllar divined that the daggers were semi-magical, semi-sentient tools. Typically tools like this would be given a simple command and they would attempt to perform the task. Usually fine to use when you just need an extra hand, but not a good choice for complicated work. As Turnin and Gnofulk pocked the daggers they personally overcame, Kyllar pocketed the rest.

Soon, the clunking of boots is heard down the hallway, and two red-clad City Watchmen put their heads in the room. The party gives them a quick rundown of what happened, but alas, the Watchemen are found to be just footsloggers – they lack the means to take an official statement… and since a dwarf is dead, one will be needed from the party.

Professor Thorntongue is released, and the party is led to the Watch’s precinct nearby, Tower 4. They are funneled in, past the desk workers and into a room, where they sit around a table, armored but unarmed, with the little legs of Gnofulk and Shadowale dangling above the floor. After waiting far too long, a busied person with soft elf-looking features and wearing long robes and a hood walks in. She thanks their party for their cooperation, and apologizes for the delay – she’s a Private Inquisitor, on loan to the Watch, covering for their usual investigator, who is on leave, “vacationing in Xen-Drik.”

She sits at the head of the table, nearest the door, and asks the party’s names and current professions – for the record.

She turns to Rhogar first, and the dragonborns redish and orange scales flex under his dull but bloodless armor as he states that he was a former soldier, and now a mercenary in the Blademarks Guild.

The human Kyllar Riverwind states that he is a “professional wizard,” but he in his adventures he has ditched the telltale robes for a shorter tunic, with his spellbook and bandoleers of reagents and bottles of potions handing about his person.

Continually adjusting the bandana wrapped around his bald head, the human Turnin states that he is a monk, opening his palms towards the Inquisitive to show off his cool handwraps, and then gesture to his robes and calloused bare feet to cement the point. He also adjusts the bandana one more time, to show off the Dragonmark on the back of his shaved head.

The halfling sighs, and adjusts his two cloaks, both of which are black. He flicks sandy blonde hair out of his eyes, and gives his name as Shadowale, a doer of odd jobs who just fell in with the party. His small stature lets him complete many jobs bigger folk could not do, he states matter-of-factly.

Before she can get Gnofulk’s information, the Inquisitive insists that Turnin rein in his childish toy, who is bobbing around the table inquiringly. Turnin is taken aback a bit. A kids toy? Would a kids toy talk? Or spout magical attacks? The Inquisitive says of course not. Some bozo from House Cannith thought it would be a good idea to create floating skulls modeled after the Demi Liches of children’s tales to use as toys for some unknown and presumably stupid reason. Turnin agrees – his certainly does none of those things – he doesn’t know how to control it much yet, but will try.

Swatting the Skull Buddy away halfheartedly, the Inquisitive turns to the gnome. Gnofulk sits up to his full but still diminutive height he scratches as his reddish beard, the only hair on his face, and adjusts the large squirrel-skull paudron. He announces that he is currently unemployed, and brushes away some dust motes from his city slacks – our barbarian left his squirrel pelt clothes at the Inn.

The basics now property recorded, the Inquisitive begins to unravel what has transpired regarding the death of Duran Punchitfixit (the Younger).

The party starts with the safe – they were down in the Cogs, and found it after killing some of the Daask gangsters in self-defense. They couldn’t get it open themselves, so the party brought it to Duran to open it. Gnofulk was watching the dwarf work, and succeed, and then there was a magical explosion that killed the dwarf, followed by flying daggers, and that…. Brought the tale current. The Inquisitive nods, and excuses herself for a moment, calling out to the paper pushers for a Ned, and instructing him to bring the file on the Punchitfixit Clan.

Paging quickly through the file, the Inquisitive covers the basics. Duran the Elder was a soldier without a clan, that fought in the last war, keeping House Cannith’s warforged and war engines working in some early battles. He was wounded, retired, returned to Sharn, bought some levels very near the bottom in a tower, and started a family. The contingent grew, until about 20 years ago, where something dire happened. Some of the family managed to flee, warning of violence and madness within Duran’s Hold. The Watch tried to investigate, but the few Watchmen that were sent in did not come out. After a standoff of a few days, the Watch, at the insistence of the fleeing family, and with the blessings of the City Council, bricked up the entrances and entombed Duran’s Hold.

The party regards each other, and then the Inquisitive, seemingly looking for some kind of punctuation above her head. They try to gently broach the subject, asking if the Inquisitive wants the party to check out the Hold? Or something? She awkwardly asks if they’d be interested in such a task? Maybe?

The Inquisitive transitions into questions about the party. She hears they are adventurers, and have been down in the Cogs.

Cautious at first, the party quickly spouts out guesses as to what she wants to hear. Involvement with the Silver Flame Crusade? Helping a goblin set up a Soup Shop? Giving an axe to an orcish girl as a thank you gift? The Inquisitive looks on with confusion, and states that she really just wants to hear about exploring some… tunnels down there?

The party is guarded, and unsure how much to tell the Inquisitive, or what her game is. The admit that they found some secret tunnels deep in the bedrock of the Cogs beneath Sharn. There were some Daask there, and that the party was attacked, and that the party defended themselves, killing a few of the gangsters – in self-defense! – and narrowly avoiding a fight with a medusa down there.

The Inquisitive presses on the killings of the Daask, and the party admits to some low-blows, which the Inquisitive refers to as “dirty fighting” or “wifesbane” fighting. Shadowale shrugs and pleads self-defense, and that it’s not his fault that his opponents happen to be taller than him on occasion.

Through discussion, the party determines that something was lost in the telling of their tale to the barkeep middleman. They mentioned chasing the Daask out of the secret tunnels, and almost fighting a mesuda, but apparently neglected to mention that they brutally slew some gangsters along the way. When House Orien was sent to confirm that the tunnels are what the party said they were, they found the bodies, got spooked, retreated, and called the Watchmen. The bodies were recovered and an alert put out.

The Inquisitive, having gotten the party to admit to this little acts of butchery, turned her attention to other matters, asking if they had perhaps heard of any other particularly gruesome murders in Sharn recently?

Unprompted, the party launches into their knowledge of a murder of some prostitute named “Comfort” but eventually Rhogar sets the record straight: a contact of his in another precinct, let the dragonborn know about a recent murder, and warned him to be careful out there. The victim was a thuggish tiefling enforcer with the street name of Compassion, as when hits were required to be made, he was quick and professional.

At this point, the Inquisitive excuses herself again, presumably to start a query about the presumably murder prostitute Comfort, and the party takes a panicked moment to try and throw together some kind of alibi for themselves…

The Inquisitive returns, with Ned in tow, who is babbling about a Council member waiting up front and vouching for the party, insisting on their release. Apparently this Councilor Zeke was insisting that the GoFlak, Snowflake? Oh sorry, Gnofulk and his companions had been with the Councilor in the Cogs on official business when the tiefling Compassion was slain. Furthermore the party’s other… activities in question in the Cogs were in self-defense, and easily provable to be against gangsters.

The Inquisitor concedes that the link was tenuous, and that Compassion’s murder is actually in another Watch precinct’s jurisdiction.  She was trying to do good in the city, but not every lead pans out. She finally concedes that while adventuring can be violent and brutal, the crew sitting before her are not savage butchers.

Capitalizing on the turnaround, the party offers to help the Inquisitive. They admit that they have been investigating several matters themselves revolving zombies in particular, necromancy in general, and an old order of orange-clad monks. None of that rings any bells immediately for the Inquisitive, but after further discussion, she wonders if any of the missing persons cases could be tied to these caches of “sleeping” zombies the party has uncovered…

The Inquisitive agrees to discretely try to investigate the party’s claims about the zombies, and see if any of the missing persons can be tied to the sleeping caches found so far. She agrees to let the party discretely investigate Compassion’s murder – and she’ll send word to the coroner to expect them. The Inquisitor can be reached here at Tower 4; word for the party can be left at Ghallanda Hall.

The Inquisitor heads back to work; the party heads toward the doors of the precinct. As they are rearming themselves, the goblin Zeke, now the Councilor from the Cogs and with a formal little cape, greets them warmly. The party tries to thank the goblin for providing such a strong alibi, but the goblin brushes it off as no big deal. Gnofulk and the party have done good by the Cogsfolk, and Zeke wasn’t about to see local heroes caught up in anything they didn’t do. When asked how he knew of the party being brought in, Zeke subtly shoots fingerguns at Ned, and whispers that the Watchman was in on the take when Zeke and the orc Rhaaal were involved in those semi-legal street fights. It’s easier to schedule fights when you know they won’t be interrupted by the Watch.

And with that, Zeke is off to a meeting to try and make friends with some of the other Councilors. It’s hard for goblins to make friends sometimes. The party finishes arming themselves, and sets out, heading towards Ghallanda Hall.

The trip is uneventful, and the party walks swiftly over bridges between Sharn’s many towers.

They arrive, and after being plied with a large early dinner (they had missed out on lunch giving their statement), attempt to hammer their misunderstandings out with the bartender middleman. The party concedes that they didn’t explicitly mention slaying the Daask so brutally, but thought it was implied. The bartender informs them that House Orien is preparing another expedition to explore the secret tunnels more – no reward will be forthcoming until House Orien has a proper map figured out. The party finishes their meal, thanks their bartender middleman, and departs, hoping to visit the coroner before it gets to be too late.

The party winds their way down and around numerous towers, eventually arriving at the place, a little lower in Sharn than they had been at Ghallanda Hall. At this level, the towers are more crowded together, some streets are actually covered, and sunlight is never assumed. The party sees the rays slowly shift, scampering up the tower heights and heralding the coming night. Despite the hour, it is a pleasant day, and the party arrives at the office, greeted by a rather plain, slightly phosphorescent thaumaturgical sign announcing the business.

The party knocks, and then wanders in. They enter unopposed, and finding no one up front, they wander into the back where they see the plump older coroner working on a body. She looks up as the party enters, and they confirm that they are the investigative adventurers she was expecting.

The party places her accent from Karrnath, a nation on the opposite end of the continent, and after some pleasantries, the party discovers that a second mutilated corpse has turned up, but opts to start with what they came for – the tiefling known as Compassion.

As she opens the small cubby in the wall and pulls the slab out, Gertrude informs the party that they are the third group to come in to look at the body. The first was Compassion’s crew – a mixed-group smaller time enforcers, hit men, loan sharks and extortionists operating in this plateau of Sharn. They were both shaken and angry, and left once identifying the corpse by the clothes.

The second group was Compassion’s younger brother and his little “gang” of underage informers and minor cutpurses. They left just shaken.

The party examines the body with discerning eyes as Gertrude walks them through the wounds and what she knows.

She has so far been unable to determine what killed the tiefling. The skull has been smashed from at least one vicious blow, and the cranial horns are now bent out at odd angles. Additionally the throat was slashed to the point of being mostly missing. Both would be fatal wounds, but she’s not sure which one would have happened first. There were no defensive wounds on the body, nor signs of binding or of a real struggle. The guy was killed unawares, then mutilated; face slashed with blades beyond recognition – that’s why the gangs had to ID based on clothes.

The party can’t pick up anything the plump older human hasn’t already uncovered. She’s been thorough.

Gertrude returns Compassion to his spot within the wall, and then gestures the party to another hatch, which the coroner opens and extracts a Jane Doe corpse. She looks to be an elf, though her longer ears have been sliced to ribbons. She was apparently found speared to a wall – a story corroborated by the see-through puncture in her abdomen. Once pinned, she was exsanguinated, Gertrude pointing to the deep cuts near major arteries on her arms and legs, and her face was also slashed by blades. She has what looks to be some kind of... tattoo on her hip, but the party is unable to determine what it is supposed to be a tattoo of.

The unknown victim is pushed back into her slot. The party learns that she was just found this morning, and no one has stepped up to ID her, not has the coroner received anything from the Watch regarding a missing persons filing related to such a person.

The party asks to rifle through her things, looking for clues, and Gertrude produces a box. They find typical utilitarian clothes, boots, leather armor, and some daggers. Shadowale eyes the daggers appraisingly, and recognizes them as being small awards for low-level operatives for House Tarkanan - and the halfling confesses that he knows this because he has done things for the House. Only little things though. With this new information, the party also deduces that the elf's presumed tattoo is actually an Aberrant Dragonmark - a mark of unpredictable genetic power associated with House Tarkanan. It usually manifests in a unique way - which is why the party could not determine what it was.

The party asks Gertrude if there is anything else she has seen that could help track down this killer, and the coroner responds with rumors. Word around town is that these small league gangsters are being offed pretty regularly now. Most of the time, murders like that aren't reported; the gangs just retaliate. However, both these bodies were found by Watch patrols, so were brought into the more beurocratic aspects of Sharn.

The party thanks Gertrude, and asks her to forward anything else she hears to them at Ghallanda Hall.  The party exits to the last vestiges of daylight, and decides to investigate the site of Compassion's murder before they call it a night.

They pick their way through these already dark levels in lower Sharn, and eventually find themselves looking down a dark and wet alley, snaking it's way between the bulging lower sections of the towers. A short way down the alley, the party comes across the telltale white outline of a murder scene, which has been partially washed away. Pipework  criss crosses overhead all the way down the alley, a few dripping occasionally.

Looking up, Shadowale notices a nice perching spot on the pipes, and Kyllar boosts him up for a better view. The party looks closely the outline. Compassion appears to have landed on his back for the elbows and knees to end up in such a position. The tieflings black blood is spread all over the alley still. From the sheer amount of dried blood around, the party is led to believe that the head wound came first, followed by the throat slash. Shadowale looks and the angled, and thinks the attacker struck from his perch, lending credence to the party's idea of their head-than-throat order of violence.

Kyllar casts Detect Magic, and is surprised to find a small ring in the alleyway detris nearby; a gold band and an inlaid green gem. Brazingly placing it on his finger and starts experimenting, and finds that it turns all his conjurations green.

The last traces of daylight long gone, the party retires to more well-traveled levels, and makes their way back to Ghallanda hall without incident.

Eberron Adventure: Twenty-Sixth Session

So there they were…

The party, consisting of Shadowale the halfling rogue, Turnin the human monk, Rhogar the dragonborn fighter, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, and Kyllar the human wizard (with his kobold manservant, Kaz), were in some of the lowest regions of the Grayflood district. At dusk, they had repeatedly bluffed their way deep into a poverty-stricken neighborhood, and had just uncovered and defeated a secret cache of very dry and leathery zombies, hidden in a crudely carved-out room in the foundations of one Sharn’s many magical towers, slightly downhill from the rest of the neighborhood.

Rhogar had blasted the last zombie grafted with a spinal DieFi rod with a gout of his personal fire, and Shadowale was sticking his knives into the crumpled husks on the floor to make sure the infernal connection was indeed severed by the deaths of the rod-equipped zombies. Kyllar magically snuffed out the flames wrought by the dragonborn, but not before Turnin had singed his fingers – the “cool hand wraps” he was wearing didn’t block the heat nearly enough. Gnofulk joined the monk and together they managed to rip the rod from the rest of the leathery corpse, with mostly-congealed blood slopping down onto the floor.

The rods had the numbers “7” and “8” repeatedly found on them, and were handed over to Kyllar. However, when the wizard went to place them into the Bag of Holding, Kyllar discovered that it was missing, and cursed the unwashed masses they had traversed earlier, vowing to get it back. Frantic hands patted pockets and sheathes, but the only other item victim to the local cutpurses was a small pouch of coins, constituting the party’s “walking around” money, formerly carried by Turnin the monk, and de facto party accountant.

Turnin stepped into the entryway, and then stepped back, excitedly warning the party that one of the hobo barrels was, well, barreling towards the entrance. With this warning, Kyllar was able to magically extinguish the barrel fire before any of the shriveled and dry zombies could catch fire.

The party members take turns to peek outside into the valley-like neighborhood, nestled between the foundations of some of Sharn’s massive towers, and sees many of the locals, crudely armed, advancing on the carved out room/deathtrap in which the party found themselves.

Amid a hail of poorly aimed rocks, Turnin steps out, and shouts, trying to dissuade the mob and convince them that the party has actually saved them from zombies. The mob is angry, scared, and unimpressed. Some of the bolder members of the mob chastise the party, reciting again the warning to the party to not go in there.

As the party tries to formulate a plan, in the distance, they see their orange-clad mark, standing triumphantly on a ledge in the distance… tucking the Bag of Holding into his stupid robes. A soft whisper breezes into the carved-out room, and breathlessly taunts the party with claims of their insignificance, and that the dispossessed in Grayflood are about to take much more the party than some coins and simple magic items… and then the orange-clad quarry is gone, and the mob begins to close in…

Kyllar is fuming. Turnin catches the wizard’s eye and a plan is instantly hatched. After a quick warning to leave the party alone, Turnin kicks the barrel back toward the mob, and Kyllar throws a Fire Bolt towards the rolling barrel. But the kick is too gently, and the Bolt too quickly cast, and it explodes before it reaches the mob. Turnin promises that the next barrel is coming right at them! But alas neither Gnofulk nor Shadowale can find any more barrels, nor any secret egresses in the carved-out room.

Rocks plunk incessantly but harmlessly against the magically reinforced foundations of the tower and its thick stone walls. Kyllar conjures a large pillar of flame in an attempt to scare the destitute locals, and the party uses the extra time to debate just holing up and fighting a gruesome battle of attrition. Rhogar will not hear of it, and the dragonborn sprints from the safety of the room, and into the pillar of flame, which explodes out towards the mob. The dragonborn uses his magical Commander’s Circlet to amplify his voice, roaring menacingly and demanding the mob disburse and flee.

Between the pyrotechnics and the booming, commanding voice, there is a clatter of crude weapons dropping, and the mob fleeing for their lives.

Rhogar knows that this respite may be temporary, and urges the rest of the party to move. As they swiftly run back through the neighborhood, Turnin tries but fails to capture one of the unwashed locals to question, but they are far too greasy. Kyllar runs toward the ledge where the party’s orange-clad quarry was last seen, frantically looking for his loot.

The loot is scattered across the avenue. The locals pilfered much of it, including all of the weapons. The shards of a dozen magical potions lay broken nearby. Fortunately, two things had been ignored just long enough between acquiring the bag and turning it over to the orange-clad quarry to avoid pilfering. The first was the magical safe with the jammed lock, stolen from the Daask. Being unable to be easily opened, it had been tossed aside for more detailed examination later. The second was the thin scroll canister given to the party by the dwarf blacksmith Melora from before the party had even entered Sharn. (Session 10) The rest, however, appears to be lost for good.

Kyllar pockets the scroll canister and Turnin leans forward, carrying the safe on his back. At least momentarily. Rhogar also grabs hold of the safe, hefting it up and holding it out before him, and Turnin’s feet move comically in the air.

Incensed, Kyllar runs searches for any clues to the party’s quarry, but can find none. Kaz the Kobold tugs worryingly at his master’s robes; the locals are starting to regroup.

Kyllar leads the party back to the main entrance to this secluded neighborhood: that platform. Instead of withdrawing and regrouping, the wizard presses on, the rest of the party in tow, departing one destitute and secluded neighborhood in Sharn for another, searching for some scrap of a clue.

This neighborhood is distinctly damper, being near the Dagger River, and even some of the small avenues appear flooded. This low in Sharn, at night, the neighborhood is black as pitch; the only light being provided by Turnin’s newfound levitating, fiery skull following him around.

The party ventures into the shadow-draped neighborhood, Rhogar and Gnofulk clattering noisily as they checked their weapons. They hear the mob reforming and entering the dank neighborhood, and they slink into an alley. Kyllar conjures a wall to shield them from sight, and Shadowale manages to keep the party and their assorted armor and weapons silent. Breathlessly, the party watches the mob enter, cautiously poke around, and retreat to the safety of their turf.

Rather than slink away, the party presses on into their damp, dark surroundings. The soft sloshes of water demonstrate that the neighborhood is inhabited, and party members with darkvision can discern small, slender merfolk ducking into secluded spots – often underwater – in attempts to avoid the heavily-armed party.

Shadowale scurries ahead, and stealthily approaches one of the gilled-creatures, striking up a conversation. While the halfling isn’t able to convince the merfolk that the party comes here often, he is able to charmingly stall one of the creatures long enough for the party to catch up.

The party convinces “Bubbles” to chat a bit, and after a barrage of inquiries, the party learns that this neighborhood is much the same as the other one. Their orange-clad quarry arrived, broke the skulls of the dissenters, and laid claim to a small area of the neighborhood.

Unlike the first neighborhood, however, the merfolk here are no longer protecting anything. Many weeks ago, the orange-clad humanoid returned, and personally destroyed his abode here, and in the process, submerged most of the rubble. A different arrangement was then struck.

The merfolk here are “traders in found goods” – and living so close to the shipping of the Dagger River, they scrounge the riverbed for things to salvage and sell. Now, they pile up scrounged metal (weapons, utensils, etc) on a nearby “altar.” While he hasn’t seen the orange-clad person in a long time, occasionally, the metal disappears, and often some food or something is left in its place, per the new arrangement.

Kyllar inquires if they might be able to open the jammed safe, but they are ill equipped for such things.

The party regards “Bubbles” with suspicion. The merfolk insists that he hasn’t seen their quarry in weeks, and as long as the metal is offered up and the arrangement held up, he has no qualms telling the party.

The party is shown the altar; a small slab of stone sticking a foot above the damp, rocky ground surrounding it; a small collection of waterlogged and rusty forks and small blades piled in the center. “Bubbles” points them in the direction of the collapsed abode, and will not accompany them further, as it’s not a pleasant place in the neighborhood. The party cautiously parts company.

The party explores, and soon finds their prize at the end of a sunken avenue, as expected. If the party could be considered to be at ground level, a crude building looks to have been collapsed into its own flooded basement, the rubble barely breaching the surface of the calm, dark water. By the light of Turnin’s fiery skull buddy, the party attempts to formulate a plan.

Kyllar recasts his familiar in the form of an eel, but the familiar is unable to deduce much anything new for the party, or find a way in. The rubble is packed tight, and the metal door rusted shut, and repulses Kyllar’s attempts to detect any magic within...

No one wants to brave the frigid, dark water themselves. Rhogar is wearing far too much armor and Gnofulk barely any at all. Eventually Turnin is convinced investigate more.

Hoping off the safe, which is still held aloft by Rhogar, he stretches and then vaults over out to the top of the rubble pile to investigate. He dips the end of his cool staff into the water, and stirs. The monk doesn’t notice any change. He taps the door, and hears an echo, confirming that there is, in fact, a space beyond the rusted door. He strikes the door with the cool staff, and after a dozen or so blows, has contorted a small section to the breaking point. Using his staff for leverage, he is able to create a small hole, through which Kyllar’s familiar can slip through.

Kyllar sees through his familiar’s eyes, and beholds a grim spectacle. Scraps of flesh seem to hover, suspended in the stagnant waters. A hand or two just out from odd angles of the rubble, fingers slowly undulating with the wake of the passing eel. And a few bloated corpses – merfolk by the looks of things – bob gently along, flesh and scales stretched nearly to a bursting point. Via the familiar, Kyllar is able to discern an enchanted rod grafted to one of the merfolk corpses, similar to those found before.

The zombies here are in no condition to ever rise up again… most have disintegrated with waterlog, and the few remaining ones are so bloated that gravity would destroy them should the ever somehow make their way out of this submerged ruin. The party weighs their options, and decides to retire for the night. They have lost their quarry's trail again, and will need to regroup.

The party returns to Ghallanda Hall, and rests.

The party reconvenes for a working breakfast to plan their next moves. While they were out, Rhogar had received word from one of his contacts in the Watch. Another area of Sharn was starting to notice citizens go missing. However, these weren’t dock workers; they were minor gangsters in the district, and have not been reported missing. The only body that has been found so far was from a one-eyed tiefling known on the streets as “Compassion” – he will kill you, but it will be a quick death. It could be a lead, and the party agrees to follow up on that soon.

During their working breakfast, the party finds themselves sitting near an orc and a dragonborn, and listening to their conversation. The dragonborn is discovered to be a paladin of the Order of the Wayward Blades - the same small sect to which Asmund and his master Blume belong. The party learn that he was summoned to Sharn, like Asmund, but was not able to make it to the city in time to help. Given the generally skeptic nature of the Order, the dragonborn is attempting to verify the official story about the jerk Silver Flame paladin Steve and his failed crusade. The half-orc is assigned to guard the paladin via the Blademarks Guild (to which Rhogar belongs), given the higher levels of tension between the Silver Flame and much of Sharn's population.

The party starts to bring these two newcomers up to speed on the intricacies they have uncovered so far, but their usual middleman/bartender catches their eye; and the brief retelling of the failed crusade dovetails into the outlining the secret Daask tunnels and talk of almost run-in Feral Fawcett, the brutal gorgon architect of most of the gang's activities in the city of Sharn. The middleman for House Ghallanda is impressed, even before the party gets to the bit about the tunnel beneath the Dagger River to other side, and the bits about the hollow, flyer-friendly shafts in several of the towers. The middleman is impressed, and will relay the information so it can be verified. When asked, the party was confident that exploring the tunnels would be safe now; all the threats should have been dealt with - even that tricksy Mimic chest.

The party has done well, and the bartender middleman offers his assistance and advice to their current endeavors.

The party brings their bartender up to speed on (most of) their current dealings. Investigating rumors of illicit necromancy; and trying to track down the orange-clad person the party believes is responsible for not only the presumed necromancy, but also the more important dastardly deed of stealing the party's treasured Bag of Holding. Kyllar makes it known that they are gunning for this orange-clad fool... once they can figure out who it is... what it is... how to track it... 

The bartender suggests the party visit Morgrave University. While these days much of the university is dedicated to exploring the dark continent of Xen-Drik, it is an institution of renown in many fields, and a repository of untold amounts of knowledge. People travel the continent to research and study within its hallowed halls. Someone there is bound to know something about necromancy, or could deduce something about the quarry of the party. As the party gears up, the bartender also mentions that the University may also have someone who could help with the safe Rhogar (and Turnin) are preparing to carry again.

The party finishes the last of their breakfast, and invites the dragonborn paladin and the orc mercenary along as well; they can finish the story of the failed crusade and get to know one another more during the day.

The story is told, and talk turns to first personal stories and then to a topic long-ignored by the party: that someone is interested in keeping tabs on a halfling known as Falco that looks and awful lot like Shadowale. Shadowale admits that he is Falco. The dead dwarf from the train seemed to have been keeping tabs on Shadowale/Falco. Shadowale tells the party that Falco is his code name on the proverbial streets – an alias he uses when he is going to be doing illegal things. The party believes him, though no one questions why exactly the halfling would choose to introduce himself as Falco to these newcomers.

The party hoofs it, marching through districts, slowly ascending to the strata known as the Upper City; higher than they have ever been before. Wind whips as their cloaks as they proceed along bridges and walkways to the University.

The grounds are picturesque. This high up, Sharn’s towers start to spread out a bit. The strata is home to many wealthy and influential persons and institutions – the University being one of them, a turreted estate transplanted grounds and all atop an incredibly tall tower.

The throng of adventurers shuffle into the entrance, and are greeted by a half orc in robes and a pince-nez, known to most as Shh, as he enforces a regal solemnity in his vicinity.

Kyllar has been to Morgrave University before; to drop off (some of the) Xen-Drik artifacts acquired during the Electric Rail mishaps as the party was traveling to Sharn. Shh recognizes the wizard, and gruffly greets him. Within a few moments, the succinct orc has pointed the party to an artificer and tinkerer which may be able to help them with the Daask safe, and towards the religious and magical studies hall, where they may be able to uncover some information relating to the affiliation and abilities of their quarry.

While Turnin declares that the safe is surprisingly light, Rhogar is starting to look a little strained. The party decides to offload the safe first.

They shuffle past lecture halls and into so narrow corridors. At the end of the hall whirs, clatters, bangs, and curt shouts emanate from a nebulous point within the workshop/office. A knock goes unanswered, and the party cautiously ventures in to find the man they were searching for: a stout old dwarf by the name of Duran Punchitfixit – a small clan known for having a knack for fixing things in improbably ways.

The dwarf is wailing on… something with a wrench when the party peers around a tiered rack cluttered with gizmos, gadgets, and widgets.

Rhogar sets down Turnin and the safe, and the monk then sets down the safe at the dwarf’s feet. Kyllar explains that this is totally their safe, they inherited it, they just lost the key. And so they tried to pick it, but jammed it. The dwarf doesn’t seem to care where it’s from or why, and agrees to open it. He thinks it’ll take him only a few hours to unjam and open it. Gnofulk has had enough of walking for one day, and the barbarian decides to stay and watch the whirligigs and the dwarf do their things, lest the aging artificer get any ideas related to thievery. Kyllar expresses an interest in this line of work, and Duran Punchitfixit agrees to talk more about it later. The party departs, wandering quietly towards Morgrave University’s religious and magical studies departments.

After ascending some smaller towers; descending others; and all-in-all wandering mostly aimlessly (they had directions to the department from the entrance; not from the workshop, after all), they stumble past a few spacious and empty libraries and almost bowl over an elf woman, who fires off a few profanities.

Embarrassed, the party realizes that this is Professor Merglam Thorntongue. They take seats in one of the empty libraries nearby to discuss what the party is there for.

Professor Thorntongue dissuades the party from focusing too much on the perceived magical abilities of their quarry. Even if the party could compile a list of their quarries abilities and confirm them… magic items abound, and that might not be a good use of time.

They discuss necromancy for a time; the missing persons in Grayflood and other lower regions and districts of Sharn… and the Professor is profanely happy she doesn’t have to go down there. While necromancy is a lead, there’s not much she can do there. It’s an entire school of magic… and doesn’t necessarily narrow much down yet, since these DieFi rods are in play. The party will need to investigate the rods and necromancy elsewhere.

The party wonders if perhaps the colored robes could be a clue? A link to their quarry’s personal past or past affiliations? This is more the Professor’s area of expertise… though she’s drawing a blank. While many groups use color to set them apart, like the red-wearing Sharn Watchmen, or the white & silver of the Silver Flame zealots… orange is not a common group color these days.

Under the Professor’s eye, tomes, scrolls and children’s picture books are retrieved from the shelves and perused. Over several hours, indexes are referenced, and knowledge is slowly gleaned.

The most prominent groups affiliated with the color orange was an old, essentially mythical order of secluded monks. They were stereotypically contemplative, concerned with life and death, and were considered wise in the tales.

More information is found. Being described as “wise” may be a misnomer. They were referenced in another work, and referred to as “The Wizened” – meaning to be shriveled or wrinkled with age. In this tale, they were more concerned with “death” in their philosophies than “life” it seems.

One final work is found, referencing the Wizened – and in its pages, second-hand rumors infer that the group actually became “enlightened” – and allegedly found answers to their questions on death.

It’s not an actual lead, but it’s a something. With it being early afternoon now, the party thanks the professor, and begins walking back to retrieve Gnofulk and the safe’s contents and be off to grab a late lunch.

Gnofulk hears the telltale clattering of arms and armor as Duran gives the safe one final whack. Their timing is good. The barbarian’s ears hear something click into place, and the dwarf grins, proclaiming the safe has been fixed, patting it gently and setting aside his wrench. Duran Punchitfixit adjusts the safe’s latch and throws open the door –

- And a flash of teal fire and resounding boom erupts from the safe, hitting the artificer full in his bearded face.  The dwarf is flung backward and his now-lifeless body bounces off one of the cluttered racks of gadgets, and crumples onto the cool stone floor, blood beginning to pool…

Eberron Adventure: Twenty-Fifth Session

So there they were, Rhogar the dragonborn fighter; Gnofulk the gnomish barbarian; Shadowale the halfling rogue; Turnin the human monk; and Kyllar the human wizard with his kobold manservant, at the start of Ghallanda Hall’s “Hour of Merriment.” The large bar hall was sparsely populated, and only a few other patrons were scattered around the hall; everyone besides the party focusing mostly on their drinks.

While the party had their own drinks, they were there with more of a purpose. Phat Loot. Kyllar had spent the last few days identifying the items appropriated from the crates that the party had blasted out of the air way down in the secret Daask-held passages of the Cogs, and it was time to divvy up the spoils.

Each item was presented by the wizard as the party caught up with one another. Shadowale says he hasn’t left the hall since their return and is pretty drunk; Rhogar moves to pass along some rumors from the City Watch, by the dragonborn was shut down by Turnin, who informs the party that his keen financial eyes have noticed that apples and raw metals are starting to disappear in Sharn. The monk, unused to alcohol, eyes the other party members warily, scratches his headband, and returns to his drink. In between item presentations, Kyllar eyes his kobold with suspicion as the server brings a few apples over to the table, per the wizard’s request. Kaz had taken a liking to apples recently… could the kobold be to blame? Surely his scaly companion couldn’t impact the apple supply of an entire city?

As Kyllar finished his presentation, most of the party realized that they had not been paying close attention. Gnofulk, however, had, and while informing the party that Rhaal (the orc) and Zeke (the goblin) still did not know the extent of their civic appointment, but were recovering well in the Cogs, invoked the ancient custom of dibsing an item, and soon found himself with a Low Paladin’s Ring, probably stolen by the Daask from a slain Silver Flame soldier. (The ring would let the gnome cast True Strike once a day.)

With the first piece of loot out of the communal running, drinking was postponed and all eyes turned to the shiny things on the table.

After some discussion, Kyllar received an small, glowing Orb of investigation (+2 to Investigation Checks) and Shadowale quickly cinched on a Belt of Suspicion (3 Charges of Alarm) and slipped his halfling fingers into The Master’s Gloves of Diplomacy (a few charges each of Comprehend Languages and Unseen Servant). Stoic Rhogar received the Blade-Bane Bracer (Blade Ward once a day as a Reaction) and the Commander’s Circlet (clear voice amplification up to 300 feet). Turnin received a “Skull Buddy,” a familiar in the form of a flaming skull (providing colorful, mobile illumination and a few charges each of Fire Bolt and Acid Splash).

Enthused by the loot, the party tables the second reason for their meeting; planning for their upcoming meeting with Agor, the literal arms dealer, and embarks on a drinking contest, won handily by the monk, who also finishes Kyllar’s drink as the wizard only sipped. The loser of the contest was, surprisingly, Shadowale. If he was to be believed though, a day or so of near constant drinking may have taken its toll on the abilities of the halfling…

Agor, the shifty hunch-backed peddler of unsavory things, soon arrives at Ghallanda Hall and after hobbling to the table occupied by the party, helps himself to a drink as all begin to plan.

The party learns from Agor that the arrangement with his other “usual buyer” has been going on for a few months. The exchange usually starts with Agor sending a message to his buyer via Sharn’s SMS (Stone Messenger Service –flying gargoyles) system. Agor then usually walks down into the lower areas of Grayflood (the district where the party investigated the disappearances previously), where he is intercepted by the buyer. The buyer hands over a pouch of coins, and Agor deposits the “merchandise” in a small bag held by the buyer… and then they part ways.

The party debates their plan of attack for a while. Follow the gargoyle and risk tipping off the buyer? Ambush the buyer? Simply observe? Show up arm-in-arm with Agor to the exchange? …drink more?

Agor starts to get cold feet helping the party when Turnin insists on searching for a pulse on the peddler. Is this group for real? How do they not have a plan? The shifty merchant offers to come back and they can try this again another day, when the party is less drunk and more prepared… but the party focuses up.

Kyllar will turn his familiar invisible and will attempt to trail the gargoyle courier, hopefully finding the buyer’s dwelling in Sharn. Shadowale will tail Agor to the exchange; Rhogar and Kyllar and Gnofulk and Turnin will also pair up, wandering along parallel paths in the depths. If a fight breaks out, intra-party support should hopefully be quick to come.

Soon the group is off, walking the skyways of Sharn to one of the SMS hubs.

The group approaches the SMS hub; an amphitheater of sorts, open to the air atop a small tower in the Upper City. At a distance, Kyllar summons his familiar and then turns the avian invisible, with commands to follow whichever gargoyle Agor gives the note to, and then patrol the Grayflood district (at which point familiar and wizard should be reunited).

Agor approaches a cracked and disheveled-looking gargoyle, wearing a twisted orange cord around its neck, and a typical SMS courier jersey. A note is passed; and the gargoyle departs, unaware of the invisible familiar tailing it. Kyllar sees through his familiar’s eyes briefly, but it is soon out of range.

Kyllar shrugs. The tail worked, but it will be some time before the connection is reestablished and any useful information is learned. Agor shuffles back to rejoin the party, and soon the group is picking their way through the crowds returning home from a day’s labor; winding their way through and down Sharn’s innumerable spires towards the Greyflood’s lower and deeper sections…

Along the way, the party breaks off into their parings; communication maintained as best they can via Kyllar’s “Message” spell. Shadowale, while keeping relatively close to Agor the whole time, disguises himself as a dirty street urchin. Rhogar smears grime and mud on himself in an attempt to blend in as well. Shadowale’s efforts are by far more convincing.

The party walks through some of the Lower neighborhoods in Grayflood; sparse shops, ramshackle homes, and a handful of dingy inns catering to the dock workers and visiting sailors lifting goods off of ships in the nearby Dagger River. After a fair amount of wandering, a figure clad in long orange robes steps around a corner, and in a matter of seconds the exchange with Agor has been made.

The orange-clad figure spins about, and is gone, with Shadowale scurrying between piles of city detritus in an attempt to catch him. Relieved, the shady merchant hobbles back the way he came, giving a quick thumbs-up to Turnin.

Shadowale reaches the corner around which the orange-clad figure turned, but is too slow to catch even a glimpse of his mark. The path continues, winding its way around this tower, stretching out towards another… but never comes close to spanning the gap, instead crumbling in disrepair only a few feet away from the support of the nearest tower.

The party soon catches up with Shadowale and is itself joined by Kyllar’s still invisible familiar. While the party traverses the path, looking for possible exits, the avian sweeps high and low; everyone searching for some sign – any sign – of their mark, but finding nothing.

From the crumbling ledge, the party cautiously determines (with help from the familiar) that several hundred feet down, some of the sloped tower bases start to merge together in the Depths of Grayflood, and there appears to be a platform down there. Could the orange-clad figure have jumped?

Kyllar consults his familiar, and learns that the SMS gargoyle delivered the message to an orange-clad figure high up in Sharn… who proceeded to jump off his perch and plummet towards the lower portions of the city. Precedent set and assuming that their mark did have access to Feather Fall, the party determines that yes, that this jump down could be a viable path their mark took. Having found no exits along the path, and having no reason to think their mark could fly… they decide that this is probably the path taken by their mark, and ready themselves to descend.

However, lacking any source of Feather Fall themselves, the party is forced to walk, like chumps, down the winding sky bridges and spire paths, winding ever so slowly down into some of the lowest levels in Grayflood.

One of the paths they reach eventually leads them to the “landing,” which they discover connects to two lowly, unknown neighborhoods. This low in Sharn, the innumerable tower bases have begun to meld together, forming shadow-filled valleys in which these ramshackle neighborhoods sit. One neighborhood slithers out toward the Dagger River, and the party ignores that one in favor of the neighborhood that worms its way towards the city center.

Hovels are precipitously balanced against one another, and dirt and grime vie for dominance over the inhabitants’ clothing. Shadowale, still in disguise, fits right in, and charmingly persuades a local named Ralph talk a bit about the neighborhood, as the halfling has been away a while, digging through other dumpsters.

The party learns that the locals have dealt with someone clad in orange before – but not recently. It’s been several days since they last saw him. This individual literally dropped in, killed the most belligerent among the locals – a poor soul named Fred – and then offered the remaining locals a deal. The orange-clad interloper gets a small spot for himself down here, which the locals will not visit, and will dissuade anyone else from visiting, and the orange-clad individual will largely leave them be. Aside from offing Fred – who was never seen again – the locals have had no trouble. Ralph insists that Shadowale and his entourage not visit the abode of the orange-clad interloper at the far end of the neighborhood.

Ralph goes back to his business and the party adventurers further into the neighborhood. Shadowale deflects the polite questions of the other local inhabitants, and promises each one that they’ll avoid the abode, while getting closer to it with each lie.

The locals have given it a wide berth, and the party is eventually able to slip around the “corner” of a tower and out of sight of the locals. The bases of several towers have created a kind of alley down here, and at the end of it, stands the abode. What looks like windows and a door have been carved into the stonework foundation; each covered in thick dark cloth and boarded up to prevent voyeuristic visits.

The party huddles up, discussing what to do. Turnin takes it upon himself to knock, but Rhogar deftly plucks him up, cartoon-style, so the monk is walking in place while the rest of the party discusses it. Kyllar argues for a fireball right through the front door. Eventually Shadowale creeps forward, and hearing nothing from within, the party opts for a gentlemanly knock against the boards, and Rhogar sets Turnin down.

The monk walks up and knocks.

Nothing is heard from within.

The door is boarded up from the outside; not to keep any one person out, but rather keep everyone out. Turnin moves to kick the door open, fails, and decides to take a step back. Rhogar charges past the monk, bursting through the wood and rags.

The party creeps in through the dragonborn-shaped hole, and finds themselves in a sparse room. Over two dozen leathery zombies are sitting cross-legged on the floor in close ranks and files, filling most of the room hidden within the tower’s foundation. Gnofulk is second into the room, and he joins Rhogar in wading through the contemplative-looking corpses and examining them.

As the rest of the party enters, and investigates the desiccated zombies for themselves, Gnogulk and Rhogar find that two of the inanimate corpses in the back of the room have what appears to be DieFi rods, similar to the ones found in Grayflood previously, implanted along their spines. Gnofulk and Rhogar set about ripping the rod out of the one nearer to them.

Mid-yank, the rod clicks to life, a small faceted jewel glowing with a nauseating green tinge, and the zombies begin to rise up.

With a sickening pop, the rod is ripped from the zombie’s dry flesh. The jewel’s glow first falters then fails and the zombies on that side of the room collapse before they can really stand up. Shadowale, in the front of the room, leaves Kyllar and Turnin, and begins stabbing and slicing his way through the struggling rank and file.

Gnofulk scrambles past the grasping hands of the partially upright zombies, and strikes a solid blow against the last rod-bearing zombie, though he is unable to cleave through the body. Rhogar abandons the grisly rod and now re-inanimate corpse, and moves to join his small companion, also weathering the pats and pokes of an almost ambulatory zombie horde. Hacks are ineffectual, and the dragonborn moves to belch fire. Gnofulk sees Rhogar draw breath, and avoids the worst of it, though several other zombies, including the one with the DieFi rod are truly crisped…

Eberron Adventure: Twenty-Fourth Session

So there they were, resting briefly in the charred remains of the Daask bunk room, deep below Sharn, exploring a network of secret tunnels near the Cogs: Kyllar the human wizard and his kobold manservant Kaz, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, Shadowale the halfling rogue, Rhogar the dragonborn fighter, and Turnin the human monk, now sporting a very academic-looking bandana, which keeps slipping down to cover one of his eyes. No, not that eye. His other one.

A little over an hour passes without incident or interruption and resting in the dark, the party regains a little of their strength and courage, but soon, a distant cacophonous sound like rolling thunder breaks their calm respite; the rumbling reverberating down the corridor. After a brief pause, another, closer rumble is heard, and then another, the third being very close indeed.

Turnin’s keen ears let him know that the sounds are not from an animal, and were three distinct events. As the party rearms themselves, Kyllar, every-wary of physical harm, cracks open the door out of the charred bunk room, and releases his familiar down the tunnel, while Shadowale and Gnofulk exit to stalk the hallways as well.

The familiar and the two shortest members of the party soon discover that the corridor has collapsed; dust motes float through the air, and masonry is broken around the edge of the collapse. A pile of dirt and rubble blocks the path ahead. As the familiar returns to Kyllar, the halfling Shadowale kicks at the rubble – ignoring the possibility of further caving in the corridor.

Fortunately, the tunnel collapse was an illusion, and Shadowale’s foot passes through harmlessly. The short, deadly duo are surprised by but a moment, and immediately charge through the conjuration, with Shadowale passing through and coming face to face with a small, very surprised satyr; his furry face quickly passing from scrunched concentration to surprise to utter terror to inert lolling slack as the halfling and his new, poisoned blades gleefully eviscerated the satyr, staining the furry beast’s tiny robes with blood as Gnofulk looked on. The satyr expired before the gnome could swing.

The rest of the party arrived, with Rhogar and Kaz the kobold guiding the two humans through the dark. Shadowale proudly and confidently announces to Turnin that the halfling just slew, like, a legit army Daask. Unable to see in the dark, the monk absolutely believes his fellow party member. Shadowale boastfully suggests that he could probably handle everything all on his own, and might not even need the rest of the party, particularly “can’t-even-see-in-the-dark-Turnin.” The boast is delivered with a little wavering in the voice however, and while Turnin knows that the halfling can’t possibly do everything with no help at all, he does start to consider whether he himself is needed. For a monk used to and looking for a community, it is an unsettling thought.

The rest of the party ignores the tormenting of monk by the rogue, and they slowly press on down the corridor, Kyllar’s owl-like familiar scouting the way for the party with its night-vision. They soon hear voices ahead, and Kyllar casts Comprehend Languages, and sends his own trotting up to peek around the corner.

In the darkness, Kyllar, via his owl familiar, sees an orc and two satyr brutes moving barrels and crates in a partially obscured room, and hears them discussing moving “the goods” and “the stash” other locations for the time being. The owl retreats.

Kyllar whispers about the three Daask he saw, and the party quickly decides to charge in for a surprise attack.

Unfortunately, Turnin is still fumbling around in the darkness. The party sets up around the final corner, and charges. A little speedier than the rest of the party, Turnin, still a human, and still blind in the dark, manages to get ahead of his peers. Hearing a surprised grunt ahead of him, he skids to a halt and lights a torch with a strike.

The room is larger than Kyllar thought; and far more populated. In addition to the three gangsters Kyllar saw, the room also has two of the smaller satyr bowmen struggling with a crate, and a veritable air force consisting of two gargoyles and a harpy, all in process of shouldering burdens in crates and barrels.

Turnin, lit torch now in hand, decides to play it safe, and simply readies himself to dodge any incoming attacks, while Gnofulk, surly but too cautious to give into his rage, charges around the monk the take some swings at the nearest satyr brute. Kyllar casts a resounding Shatter spell near the back corner of the room, catching a gargoyle, satyr bowman and the harpy, though oddly enough, the stony gargoyle weathers the blast best.

Loot in hand, the gargoyles take flight, gaining altitude with ascending circles, one holding a barrel; one with a crate. One brute charges Turnin, and lands a blow against the monk. Apparently his eyes were still getting used to the light. The other, along with the orc and the grievously wounded (and enraged) harpy counter attack Gnofulk, landing a number of blows against the still-cautious gnome barbarian.

Rhogar comes to aid Gnofulk, and fells the wounded harpy. Shadowale comes to assist too, but is evidently too busy yelling for someone to attack the fleeing gargoyles to land a blow himself. Kaz the kobold, wary of fighting, takes up position behind the party, on the watch for any attacks from behind.

Turnin, torch held high, retaliates against his bestial assailant, as does Gnofulk against his mob of adversaries. Kyllar eyes the fleeing  gargoyles and launches a Magic Missile up into the darkness at them; one bolt apiece for the fliers, and one for… the barrel, which is grazed. Caught off guard, the barrel is also dropped by the gargoyle porter, and it begins tumbling back down towards the party.

Rhogar again swings to aid Gnofulk, as the barrel, leaking potent alcohols, crashes between Shadowale, Gnofulk and Turnin; the monks torch momentarily igniting the liquid, injuring the halfling, the gnome, and several of the Daask, though the monk is miraculously able to avoid the damage.

As the flames burn themselves out, Shadowale readies his bow and takes a shot at the still fleeing, crate-porting gargoyle, and lands a near impossible hit, startling this porter to drop his cargo as well, and start it tumbling down toward the party now as well…

The scrum continues as the crate lands with a crash, exploring coins and items everywhere. Turnin, Shadowale and Gnofulk start to focus on the orc leader, and Rhogar runs off to deal with the satyr bowmen, who have been ineffectually firing at the party.

Turnin lans a few blows against the orc, and is able to knock him prone. Gnofulk take the opportunity to embed his enchanted axe into the orc’s chest, ending him, as Rhogar smashes the skull of the last bowman.

The party breathes a sigh of relief. Kyllar’s familiar tries to track the gargoyles, and seeing through high owl familiar’s eyes, finds and relates to the party that the room is actually a large shaft, stretching up into Sharn itself; likely into a part of one of the cities innumerable towers far above the party. A few ledges are seen far above, via the owl familiar, and they are deduced by the party to be either resting spots or possibly starts to exits from the main shaft. As Kyllar is relaying this revelation, the rest of the party sets to examining the other whisky barrels and doing some quality control, picking up some of the coins that exploded around the room, busting open the other crate, and in general, just reveling in the loot they found.

The party doesn’t think they can safely fit the barrels of Ghallanda Hall whisky in their bag of holding, so they leave it for now, mentally retracing their steps. This dead-end to those stuck on the ground was one of three main avenues stemming from the entrance. A second had taken them beneath the Dagger River, and to several hidden entrances around its steep, rocky banks. The third had been partially explored, and contained the amphitheater with what sounded like a “boss lady” issuing commands that the party had... tactfully chosen to avoid previously. They steeled themselves, and set out down this path.

They soon found their way blocked by a second cave in. Having realized that the first was a trick, Kyllar assumes that this one is an illusion as well, and shoves an unsuspecting Turnin towards the rubble pile.

Stumbling, Turnin disappears into the conjuration of rubble, and moment later it disappears, revealing Turnin holding a pint-sized goblin dressed in robes in a headlock, the small green-skinned feet dangling in the air.

Turnin attempts to scare the goblin wizard into talking, but he isn’t able to get much out of the small green man. Opting to play the “good cop” Turnin turns the goblin to face the party, and insists that the goblin would like the monk’s approach better than the rogue’s. Unfortunately, Shadowale sneezes a dainty, almost elf-maiden-like sneeze mid-threat. Attempting to cover for his diminutive brother-in-arms, Gnofulk, mostly fluent in Gobbledygook but lacking some of the hurtful specifics, flubs an insult at the goblin’s mother.

Sick of the bumbling, Rhogar leans over the two short stacks and shows the party how it’s done. Sharp fangs illuminated by the fiery breath building in the back of his throat, and tendrils of smoke rising from his nostrils, he hungrily eyes the goblin, who, much to Turnin’s dismay, appears to pee himself a little bit. Turnin uncomfortable squirms a bit as the goblin begins spilling his secrets.

The party learns that the Daask here are taking orders from one Feral Fawcett, a medusa with a very distinctive haircut, even for medusas. The gangsters have been using these tunnels for some time to smuggle fellow gangsters and all manners of loot in and out of Sharn. The party thinks on this, and then begins to consider what to do with the goblin. When asked directly what he will do if let go, the goblin, oblivious to the unstated implications of the question, recites a Daask slogan and tries to spit at the feet of Kyllar. In a headlock though, the spittle doesn’t go far, and it drips down onto Turnin’s arm, who is officially grossed out and done with this goblin, and drops him to the floor.

Shadowale is immediately on the unfortunate goblin, viciously skewering him. The party eyes each other with a bit of unease, but says nothing.

As they walk back towards the amphitheater, Turnin, his powers of reasoning boosted by the bandana starts to piece things together, deducing that Feral probably had a hand in “creating” the statues found by the party near the entrance to this tunnel network, and that she’s probably dangerous. This deduction is supported by Rhogar’s experience, who has heard reports of medusas turning people to stone, and knows that they generally call the shots, and Kyllar, who recalls that eye contact with a medusa is generally encouraged to be avoided, if one values longevity.

The party makes their way down this avenue, past the dead ends, into the cavern room, over the bridge spanning the lava floe, and back to the entrance to the amphitheater. They pause, and hearing nothing but eerie quiet, Kyllar commands his familiar to scout ahead. Nothing threatening is found, and Turnin, trying to prove his worth to the party, ventures forth.

He scrambles up a column to a ledge of the second level, and cautiously pulls himself up, keeping his eyes closed or downward.

The amphitheater seems abandoned.

The party cautiously investigate, and find a noticeable-chiseled statue of a goblin on a thrown with a crown on the second level. Kyllar casts Detect Magic, and discovers a pile of dusty gray rubble, twisted up with a long raggedy-looking piece of cloth – the latter of which is tripping the detection spell.

Kyllar conjures his Mage Hand, and attempts to extricate the cloth from the rubble. As he does so, it is discovered that the cloth is a cloak, and the party notices that some of the rubble looks humanoid…

The cloak is dusted off as best the Mage Hand can do, and Kyllar starts to pat it down in preparation to identify the source of the item’s magic. In the folds of the cloak, a scrap of paper is discovered. It’s a message written in a cipher that Kyllar doesn’t know, and the party begins to pass it around as the wizard prepares the ritual spellcasting.

Always eager for new duds, Shadowale dons the cloak, which is about twice the size of the halfling, and pools around his feet, though he doesn’t feel any different. Eventually the cipher is passed to Shadowale, who declares that it is in a code used by the group of assassins under House Tarkanan, and informs the party that cloak was a gift to one Sonya (presumably the rubble intertwined with the cloak), from the House, which was meant to aid her in assassinating one Feral Fawcett. He tosses the note aside, and declares that it was super easy to translate. He’s kind of “in” with that group of assassins – but don’t tell anyone.

Shadowale takes a sip from a flask and continues to regard himself in the new cloak. Meanwhile, the rest of the party, eye each other warily once again. Should they ask about this Falco Burrows guy?

As the spell finishes, the rest of the party, shooting furtive glances towards Shadowale, realizes that he’s a little harder to focus on… and Kyllar declares that the cloak magical properties allow the wearer to become stealthier and better at hiding.

Feral Fawcett has eluded the party, but this return to the Cogs had gained them a good deal of insight on the Daask operations, some sweet loot, and more information about the secret spaces in Sharn.

The party departed the tunnel network back into the Cogs neighborhood, where they found Grrrrrrra and the kids still romping around. Kyllar reached into his bags and procured the small goblin axe he had been saving for her. Grinning wildly, the orc child thanked the wizard and scampered off, chasing the other kids (playfully). Still, the party made an expedited departure from the Cogs towards Ghallanda Hall.

Along the way, Turnin heard his name mentioned by a bystander on one of the ubiquitous walkways spanning the towers, and inquiring after who said it, turned to face Agor, a scruffy-looking, hunchbacked “arms dealer” the monk had contracted with earlier for “cool monk fighting gear” and “some good strong arms.”

Agor declared that he had both types of items, but acquiring more arms would take some time. He procured the “odd requests” first: a wad of arm wraps and a new staff, both with a slight blue hue to them. While Turnin was examining the cool monk gear, the party looked on in confusion, then disgust as Agor got to the “more usual stuff,” and pulled open his cloak to reveal several arms dangling from the interior of the hunchback’s cloak.

The rest of the party quickly surrounded Turnin and Agor, their bodies hopefully blocking the transaction from the view of any passersby.

The party realizes the grotesque misunderstanding that lead to this deal, and also learn that because Turnin had paid so generously and up front for the merchandise, Agor had snubbed one of his new regular buyers; probably some kind of necromancer, he thinks.

Kyllar is quick to offer a generous new deal. He wants to scope out this other buyer more than he wants these arms, and convinces Agor to sell this…. Merchandise to this alleged necromancer, and let the party observe the transaction. After a good amount of gold changes hands, Agor agrees.

The party continues their upward trek back to Ghallanda Hall, with Turnin itching at his bandana, finally understanding homophones, and suddenly a little worried about his dealings with that shaggy-looking hedge fund manager… after some more scratching at his bandana, and some mental math, the monk figured that mistake could probably be written off as a “charitable donation” come tax time and the party’s finances would come out strong. Where would the party be without him?