Eberron Adventure: Thirty-Fifth Session

So there they were…

The dragonborn fighter Rhogar, the gnome druid Whudyalookadah, and the human wizard Kyllar were breakfasting in Ghallanda Hall after a restful night, discussing now how best to follow up their pursuit of the Wizened, a near apocryphal order of monks, who had apparently taken up residence in Sharn, as well as in interest in necromancy.

Their previous leads had led them to believe that the Wizened were few in number; and were doing interesting things with necromancy, like actively preserving the zombie corpses and thus prolonging their usefulness,  as well as using the DieFi rods to exert some modicum of control over a larger group (quantity of undead servants over quality) via Command-style spells. The group also learned that the DieFi rod will glow when in the general area of necromantic magic, and flash as the spells it was designed to relay and amplify are cast.

The previous evening, the group was leaning towards returning to the Grayflood district, when they first encountered the zombies, which apparently didn’t sit well with the elf cleric Professor Thorntongue. She traveled back to her office at Morgrave University, leaving the trio to investigate without her.

Over a hearty breakfast, Rhogar again outlined the various places the party had encountered the Wizened, either directly or indirectly.

·         Agor, Turnin’s “Arm’s Dealer”

·         Unknown spire rooftop (where a monk received the SMS)

·         The Chapel of the Silver Flame (cleric massacre)

·         Street Urchin Neighborhood

·         Merfolk Neighborhood

·         The District of Grayflood

The trio had decided unanimously on visiting Grayflood, but presently caught the eye of Buddy Miller.

Buddy was their usual bartender at Ghallanda Hall, and he walked over to their little table. Kyllar was interested to see if there was any word yet on the compensation due the party for finding secret places in Sharn, and Buddy started a story. Yes, in fact! He and his superiors in the House were worried that their contact was taking so long to get back to them, and had taken some precautions. Fortunately, their contact had gotten back to them, and there was a deposit dropped off in Turnin’s room this morning and-

-and the party didn’t care. They had been illiquid for weeks, according to their party accountant, the human monk Turnin. The absconded immediately towards Turnin’s room, clattering utensils and plats bouncing on the table at the speed of their departure.

Turnin shared a two-bedroom suite with Kyllar, and Kaz. The trio worked their way through the little shared common area, past the little shared bathroom, and opened the door to Turnin’s room. There was a bed, a desk covered in ledgers and assorted papers, and, on the floor, a large sack of coins as well as a small scroll case.

The windfall was pillaged; 1/3 for Rhogar, 1/3 for Kyllar, and 1/3 left for Turnin to account for. With snickering from Whudyalookadah, Kyllar left the accursed Bag of Devouring on Turnin’s desk. Knocking aside a stack of papers, he also uncovered Turnin’s rolodex, and after flipping through nearly a dozen entries for the various “Steves,” encountered by the party, managed to get to the beginning of the alphabet, and find the entry for Agor, the graverobber and “arms’s dealer,” who had done business with both the party and the Wizened previously. On each card, Turnin had scrawled “WHO ARE THEY WORKING FOR” in red ink, with some suggestions. Agor’s stated that he could be working for the Wizened… but it was probably just a business arrangement, not a full-fledged alliance. Agor was probably in business for himself.

The trio examines the scroll case. It is cracked open, and the contents shaken out: a key, and a deed to an apartment in Grayflood. The trio is bamboozled by this discovery, and has no idea what to make of it. After careful consideration, they pocked the deed, the key and Agor’s card.

They return to the bar, and talk over Buddy Miller, who attempted to continue his update for the party. With a host of questions on the table, Buddy is eventually allowed to continue.

So, the party had been keeping an eye out for secret passageways in Sharn. One of the entities interested in that knowledge was House Orien; the dragonmarked house that did work with overland travel and the delivery of messages and goods (like via the electric rail). They were slow to respond to the inquiries of recompense to the party… and Ghallanda Hall had started to worry that House Orien might be planning to double-cross the party (which would reflect poorly on House Ghallanda), and so had secretly taken steps recently to protect the five-strong party (Turnin, Rhogar, Kyllar, Gnofulk and Shadowale). The politics was a little above the comprehension of the party.

However, they understand the gist. House Orien is interested in opening up a kind of tram or subway around Sharn, to allow speedier travel among the lower levels, and with the findings of the party, are sure they can do it. The gold is a hefty sum, and constitutes both payment from House Orien for exploring, and the first payment of a retainer’s fee; calling for the party to make themselves available, should House Orien need them to forcefully clear out any ancient crypt or den of monsters as their project gets underway.

The party also understands that House Ghallanda had been looking out for them; and had assigned a Blink Dog from their House kennels to each member of the five-strong party. The dogs are intelligent, loyal, and most importantly, have the ability to repeatedly teleport short distances, allowing for brutal and unsuspecting pack attacks, should anyone wish the party harm.

The trio is impressed, but curious how long they’ve been being tailed, exactly. The thought of being followed unnerves them a bit. Through further conversation, they deduce that the hounds attempted to find them the night of the storm and the showdown with Zyn but couldn’t enter the Fey Wild. The hounds picked up the trail again, and have followed their respective charge the last few days. Furthermore, while the dogs can understand some humanoid languages, communication is not a two-way street. The dogs are protectors; not spies.

The trio questions Buddy Miller about the deed, but the bartender knows nothing specific; just that Turnin received several things recently: the bag of coins and a small scroll case.

The party convinces Buddy to tell Turnin about the Bag of Holding they found on their sojourns, and to make sure the monk knows that they left it on his desk, and then prepare to get on with it.

Kyllar swings back up to his room, and rouses Kaz the Kobold, who immediately takes a dislike to Whudyalookadah. The feeling is entirely mutual. Daggers are stared back and forth. Attempting to intimidate Kaz, the gnome conjures the image of a dead kobold, pointing at Kaz. As the gnome prepares to jump on the image and drive the point home, Kyllar conjures a wall to block his scaled manservant from seeing anything. For better or worse, Kyllar succeeds, and Kaz doesn’t see Whudyalookadah slip and fall on his little gnomish face. Kaz is given the DieFi rod, with instructions to notify the group when and if it glows or flashes, and Kyllar does his best to convince the kobold to ignore Whudyalookadah and “be good,” despite the naturally lawful evil inclinations of the species.

Rhogar is ridiculed for returning the skiff to his friend, and the trio resort to walking, like chumps, down towards the waterfront district of Grayflood.

And boy has it changed.

The party had first come here in the dead of night, during a major public scare. It was almost entirely abandoned. That is far from the case this time.

The trio heads south into the district of Grayflood. On their left are the varied shops, bars, brothels, and avenues snaking deeper into Sharn and the residential sections of this district. On their right, they see the massive warehouses. On the levels below them, large cranes are seen extending out from the towers and pulling up cargo from the ships anchored along the Dagger River far below. Levels above the trio have small platforms for skiffs to transport cargo to the more distant Sharn districts. At their current level in the city, there is a very broad street, crammed with cargo, sailors, porters, and passengers, all shuffling about towards a myriad of destinations.

In short, it is a very busy place these days.

The trio walks down the broad street, moving in and out of crowds. They recognize “Half the Time Shipping” and Rhogar relates the party’s almost-run in with the halfling mafia when the party was investigating the disappearances.

They continue on, and wander into “The Naked Dwarf” – the bar named in memory of the current owner’s late husband, a drunk dwarf that usually got rather naked, and eventually did so on a fateful evening and fell to his presumed death. The trio walk in, and find the place is quite busy. Still, they are able to find the owner, the elderly but stately dwarf Elmora, washing glasses behind the bar.

She remembers the fighter and the wizard, and the trio learn that business is great. The disappearances stopped, business returned, and things are generally back to a hectic normalcy. A light lunch is ordered, and Rhogar and Kyllar introduce the elderly dwarf to spry gnome, which proves detrimental to their appetites. Elmora credits the sea breeze for her wonderful, radiant skin – thanks for noticing Whudya; and Whudyalookadah discretely credits moisturizing lotion, occasionally a few times a day, with why his hands are so darn soft. Battling a little nausea, the fighter and wizard attempt to separate the short, flirtatious couple and get back on with their business.

The party pays, tips well, and departs, continuing south through the district and towards Turnin’s apparent acquisition, which was laughed at by Elmora. It’s apparently not a great place. As they approach, Kaz tugs at Kyllar’s robes – the DieFi rod has started to faintly glow. As they each the apartment building, it flashes twice.

Whudyalookadah swears, and scoffs at the situation. It’s gotta be a trap or something.

Attention back on the strange gnome, Kaz growls angrily. Kyllar attempts to distract his manservant with an apple – which the kobold will only get if he knocks it off. Right. Now. Kaz licks his lips. Kyllar turns back, and the trio attempts to formulate a plan. However, Kyllar soon hears a quiet, almost secretive munching sound, and the wizard turns to find Kaz eating the apple, apparently stolen the wizard’s very pocket.

Mage Hand fails to steal the apple back, and triumphant but found out, Kaz goes full Mr. Peepers on that apple.

Dismayed, Kyllar attempts to get the kobold to release the rod, but the green conjured imitation doesn’t interest the kobold. The wizard resigns to having a bad day with Kaz, and lets him attempt to lead the way, tugging at Rhogar’s gauntleted hand.

The apartment building is organized like a bulbous octagon, two units on each edge, and largely boarded up. The kobold isn’t the brightest, and while the main entrance is unlocked, the kobold is unable to get his bearings, leading them first down into the “basement” levels of the apartment complex, then back to 1, up to 3, then 6, then 2, then 5, and then back down to 1, where the party sees an old man, in a white, tight and stained sleeveless shirt and spacious shorts, shuffling back to his room with his morning paper.

The party accosts him.

The trio learns that the building is set to be condemned soon, that this old man fought in the Last War, has been living here for “too long” and plans to move in with a war buddy down the street when he gets kicked out and renovations happen in a few weeks. However, he has seen a guy in orange coming and going at odd hours, though has never spoken with him, nor knows where he lives, exactly.

The party leaves the old man to his day.

Kyllar pulls out the deed, and guesses that Turnin’s Apartment 316 is on the third floor, and the party returns to that floor, Kaz’s DieFi rod flashing occasionally. As they go to stick the key in the lock to Turnin’s Apartment, Rhogar stops them. He hears something in Apartment 315.

The party walks up to the door of 315, and Rhogar knocks. The shuffling around inside the apartment stops. Rhogar knocks again. And from within, the whispery voice of an old man tells them to go away. Kyllar shouts through the door, asking the old man where he plans on moving too when the place gets condemned, but receives no response. Kyllar sends his familiar outside, but can see nothing through the boarded windows.

Rhogar tries to kick open the door, and while it is bows a bit under his strong legs, it remains both on its hinges and locked. The DieFi rod flashes again, and then Rhogar’s mace shatters the knob, and the battered door swings open.

The common room inside is filled with zombies. Whudyalookadah, peering around the dragonborn notices that the zombies have not only been preserved with their dry desiccated flesh, but that they appear to be being augmented with pieces of metal. Knives have been stitched to hands, and used to splint some broken bones, and to reinforce others. The lifeless eyes of these flesh and metal abominations regard the party.

Kyllar, peering over Rhogar’s shoulder, gets a good look at this stupid monk. The robes are indeed orange, and the monk appears to be carrying a short sword and satchel. His wrinkled ashen skin looks surprisingly taut; the wrinkles not actually loose flappy skin but rather folds vacuum-sealed against the lean, wiry body underneath. A pointy black beard juts from the lean skull, and while the hood of the robe is up, Kyllar thinks that the monk was once human.

The wizard launches into a tirade, chastising the monk for stealing such a sweet Bag of Holding. The monk mockingly gestures to a bag, peeking out from his satchel. Apparently the monk agrees. That was a pretty sweet Bag of Holding. The monk brags about his wonderfully written taunting notes… and the group calls him an idiot for giving the notes to a merfolk. All the ink ran off and the notes were illegible. The monk insists that they were fantastically written, deeply cutting words.

Given such a heads up, the monk is prepared for this incursion, and after this verbal back-and-forth, immediately ducks out of the common room, to somewhere down the hall. Kyllar lobs a fireball into the room, and the zombies, while not felled, are immolated, and they lurch, burning, towards the hallway. They paw ineffectually at the fighter, who fills the doorway, and bats away one flaming zombie with his shield before whacking a larger one (with a DieFi rod) a few times until it falls.

Whudyalookadah, still peering around Rhogar, casts Thunderwave into the common area of the room. The zombies shrug off the boom momentarily, before crumbling; their bodies devastated by fire and percussive force.

The party hears a smash, and Kyllar, through the eyes of his familiar sees the monk launch himself out of a hallway window, and attempt to tuck-and-roll while landing three stories down in the wide street below, shards of glass pattering against the stone street.

Kyllar prepares Feather Fall as the group runs down the hallway, ignoring the small bedrooms with still-burning zombies, and casts it as the group throw themselves from the hallway down towards the monk. The monk is up and running as the group floats down slowly and safely to the street below, immediately attempting to give chase.

As they give chase, the party sees a familiar-looking group of goblins with a large, familiar looking cauldron with familiar looking heraldry on the side. Good for Zoop! It looks like Zoop Soups has started to deliver, or set up a food cart or some-such.  Unfortunately, these look to be low-level workers, not Zoop himself. Also, unfortunately, the crash has startled them, and they have tipped their cauldron over spilling hot and slippery soup (it looks like the “not meat” variety) onto the street.

The monk springs over the spill, as does Kyllar, who fires a Frostbolt, but it goes wide. But Rhogar, Kaz and Whudyalookadah slip, with Whudya also failing a cast of Entangle near the monk’s landing site. Rhogar is able to recover and gain some ground with a surge of effort.

The monk continues to run ahead, winding his way through a dense crowd, with Kyllar not far behind, and with Kaz and Whudyalookadah following in Kyllar’s path. Kyllar’s Frostbolt again goes wide, striking a random passerby, and Whudyalookadah Rhogar attempted to shout a way through the crowd, but is apparently winded, and his urgent wheezes prove ineffective.

Hindered, the monk skids to a stop, whirling to face the party. Kyllar closes, and manages to land a Frostbolt against the monk. Rhogar also closes, and attempts to grapple the monk, with whispers and a orange robes flapping, the efforts of the dragonborn are slapped away. Whudyalookadah, angry, calls forth lighting, which proceeds to snap from the sky and crackle near the monk. Miraculously the lightning avoids both Rhogar and all nearby bystanders, though the monk is able to avoid much of the electrical discharge.

The Wizened monk strikes Rhogar twice with open fists while whispering to himself, and the Dragonborn spasms and falls over. The monk again flees.

A large stained glass window with a Silver Flame had entered the street, pushed on a floating disc and tended to by several workmen, moving it slowly through the crowds. The monk ducks, and slides beneath it, orange robes whipping behind him, though despite the fancy footwork, he catches a Frostbolt from Kyllar for his trouble.

The party continues to chase, with Kaz scampering behind as best he can.

The workmen were startled by the dash of the monk, and Kyllar attempts to slide under the stained glass wall too. Unfortunately, the wizard miscalculates, and catches his head on the bottom edge, knocking himself over, and probably giving him a nasty concussion. Even the adversary of organized religion, Rhogar roars after being helped up by Kaz, and attempts to throw himself spectacularly through the stained glass. The dragonborn is only partially successful. He slips, and loses a great deal of what little momentum he has, and only just manages to stumble through the glass, to the horrific disbelief of the workers. Kaz lingers near these too, while Whudyalookadah shapeshifts into a teacup boar again, easily charging under what remains of the frame of stained glass, though he is not able to gore the monk.

Ahead, the shattered glass has drawn the eyes of much of the passersby, and the party sees a most unwanted sight: a dumb gnome named Mort. Mort is excitedly leading a contingent of stately-looking elves through the crowd when he spies his friends from the other day. With unfettered enthusiasm, he stops mid-speech to tug at the robes of the elves and point to the group. Holy owlbear, those guys are great – except that forest gnome, wherever he is, and you elves just have to meet them!

Rhogar bellows something at Mort, but it is lost in the din. Meanwhile, Kaz helps Kyllar now to his feet, and the two scamper away from the shocked workers before their disbelief departs and their wits return.  Whudyalookadah, gaining speed as he bolts through the crowds, eyes that stupid city gnome.

Lowering his shapeshifted shoulder, the boar bowls into Mort, sending the city gnome flying violently away. With a satisfied grunt, the rampage continues as the boar catches the monk. The monk however, is able to recover, and lashes back at the gnome with kicks and whispers. The boar is injured, but shrugs off the pummeling, attempting to keep pace as the monk procures a small item from his satchel, throwing it hard into the ground.

With a *pop* smoke momentarily fills the air. From his diminutive vantage point, Whudyalookadah loses his quarry. A ways behind, so does Rhogar. Kaz was just following everyone else. Only Kyllar, and only on account of his familiar, is able to see the monk absconding through the crowd a ways away, dashing with unbelievable speed. They’d lost him.

The group catches each other’s eyes and ducks into a nearby alley, aiming to circle back while avoiding the now surly workmen or other injured bystanders.

Slowly they make their way back to the apartment building, and back up to the apartment units. The fires smolder against the stone walls and floors. Among the ash, the part is able to recover Rods 15 and 16, and Rod 17 from one of the bedrooms, along with a pile of unburned, inactive, but preserved corpses. Kyllar turns these undamaged and unmodified corpses to ash as well as the party investigates.

The group discerns that the Wizened have been working here for a while – it would have taken quite a while to move the bodies in here, and graft the DieFi rods to the spines, and then augment and repair the corpses with metal… and that’s all without even known how the corpses had been dried out and preserved. The monk’s work has been interrupted, though his motives still unknown, for the group had not deigned to ask who the Wizened were working for on behalf of their curious monk.

The monk had slipped through their grasp, but was still on the run. With more DieFi rods, and hopefully a reunion with the rest of the party soon at hand, the group trudged, exhausted, back towards Ghallanda Hall. They were closing in. It was only a matter of time before they caught up with the Wizened. 

Eberron Adventure: Thirty-Fourth Session

So there they were…

In the City of the Dead, just northeast of Sharn. The group, consisting of the dragonborn fighter Rhogar, the elf cleric Professor Thorntongue, the forest gnome druid Whudyalookadah, and the human wizard Kyllar, had traveled just northeast of Sharn, to a sprawling cemetery of sorts in the rocky plateaus surrounding the city, in search of information on their orange-clad monks who were possibly-interested-in-necromancy.

After wandering around the grounds, a scuffle with skeletons, and a minor historical revelation, the afternoon was waning. The group learns of an ancient lich, Ujix the Despoiler, wandering in the unkempt sections of this sprawling cemetery, unwarded, and overgrown. They were in the company of the caretaker of these grounds, the Holy Warden Isabella, who on account of the coming night, offered them sanctuary in her abode; a polished looking white pillar on the grounds.

Intrigued, the party agrees. The tower, with no visible entrances had perplexed them when they had encountered it earlier in the afternoon.

Isabella leads them across the grounds and back to the tower. After regarding it for a moment, she pushes her arm into it, her gloves and armor disappearing. The paladin waves them in. Kyllar, sticks his hand in and then draws it out… just in case. There are no ill effects, and soon, the party tromps inside.

On either side of the door there are 3 cubby nooks, with small stands for armor and weapons, and pegs for cloaks and the like. After shutting the tower door, Isabella moves to one of the nooks, and doffs her armor, gesturing to the empty nooks, should the group of adventurers wish to do the same.

Kyllar discretely writes “Trap?” on the door in an illusionary script, but he nor any other group member believes Isabella means ill. The party doff their armor as well, and stretch, after a long day on their feet.

A thought occurs, and the party asks if Isabella is the only paladin here; the tower is big, and even these cubby nooks suggest there should be more. Isabella concedes that that makes sense… but she is the only one. This place has been around for ages… perhaps in the past there were more, but she has been the only one serving here since she arrived, and had not uncovered any chronicles or tomes since her arrival here. Even if she did find books... she’s a sheep farmer’s daughter, illiterate, and summoned from the pastures to take up sword and shield by her deity.

Kyllar huffs, and from behind her notes, Professor Thorntongue whispers “peasant.” This poor girl is no help to the academically-inclined!

An open, spiraling staircase sits in the middle of the room, leading up to the higher levels, and aside from the cubbies near the door, the first floor is rather sparse, with shelves of simple foodstuffs and basic adventuring gear, like rope and old bedrolls, lining most of the wall.

Something is odd though; the level seems almost compartmentalized, and with the door shut, partially observed gears can be seen turning, first this way, then that way… but the party cannot discern their purpose at first glance.

Isabella points to a few bags of foodstuffs, and the party brings them up to the second floor, which seems to be living quarters. The staircase deposits the group into a kitchen, though the party catches glimpses of other rooms beyond.

The kitchen has an arrow loop build into the wall, and again, partially obscured gears can be seen near the floor and ceiling, turning. Through the loop, the landscape outside seems to oscillate, and the group learns through conversation that the tower twists as a form of defense, and is shrouded with enchantments to both ward and camouflage… Isabella concedes that the workings of the tower are beyond her; she has never had to do any repairs, or ward the tower itself.

In the kitchen, Isabella coordinates the group as they make a simple, hearty meal, directing ingredients to be added here and there. The meal is eventually cooked to perfection, and the party brings their picnic up to the highest level of the tower.

The stairs end under a kind of wide stone gazebo of sorts; its supports turning into small walls reaching out to the exterior battlements of the tower like the spokes of a wheel. There are slots for dropping things at attackers, as well as a higher crenellated wall. At regular intervals, the party notices full quivers and short bows, and Isabella shrugs. Her deity demands she be prepared. The group snakes their way along the battlements, still disguised by magic, to the stone gazebo, which now at this height appears to be more of a patio than anything. A pale silvery flame dances in a large metal saucer, and the party arrays themselves around it, enjoying the company and the meal, chatting until sleep eventually takes them.

The tower twists throughout the night, its motions stuttering the waltz of the stars above.

The morning comes, and the party rises, and nibbles on some bread and cheese as everyone prepares to go about their day. Isabella asks the party about their quarry. While the DieFi rod is still beyond her, as Kyllar explains more about the zombies they have encountered, Isabella interrupts. Dry, preserved zombies, like those found in among the urchins, are essentially unheard of. As are inert ones. Given the description of the Wizened, Isabella thinks that the Wizened are doing the necromancy, and tweaking it a bit.

Armored, the party prepares to depart, but Isabella gives them a final boon, three vials of consecrated oil for their weapons; Oil of the Blessed Repose, which will the party to anoint a few weapons and deal more damage to undead they encounter. She again warns them away from seeking out the lich the Ujix the Despoiler, believing her 1v1 approach to be the best bet of stopping him. The party isn’t so sure (liches have sweet loot, right?), and promise to keep in touch, and stop by again sometime and check in.

The party makes their way back to the enchanted, flying skiff borrowed from one of Rhogar’s friends, and they soon are floating back to Sharn amid another hot, cloudless day, the dragonborn focusing on the controls and fighting his fear of heights, as the rest of the party directs him with course adjustments.

It is decided that the group will visit House Sivis next – a dragonmarked halfling house associated with communications magic – to try and learn more about the magical DieFi rods.

The party gracefully flies through Sharn, landing on a platform near the Sharn Headquarters of House Sivis. Sweet entrance music blaring from Kyllar’s conjurations, and the party approaches the front door, and realizes this may go better if they have an actual DieFi rod to present to the gnomes.

Kyllar turns down the volume, and the quartet returns to their borrowed skiff, and begin a descent into the neighborhood of those merfolk scavengers…

They can’t make it all the way. Lower Sharn is too compact, so they park their skiff in a dark alley, and descend the rest of the way on foot. The group reaches that low, gloomy platform, and wisely take the left street towards the merfolk, avoiding those (probably still angry) street urchins down the street to their right.

They enter the dark, damp, and shabby merfolk neighborhood. The spaces between the tower foundations flooded with water. They spot Bubbles, the merfolk they encountered before, and looking distressed the fish-man thrusts a slightly damp bag into Rhogar’s hands.

The party regards this item, and asks Bubbles what is going on. In between throaty warbles, Bubbles tells the party that the orange man showed up the other day. No one saw him, but he took the scrap, and left the bag and some notes. Bubbles holds up one wet note, the ink washed away. He holds up a second note, also dripping ink, and laments how the orange-clad guy singled him out to give the party the bag (per the now unreadable note) and the merfolk wails in despair.

Rhogar hands off the bag to Professor Thorntongue, while Kyllar and Whudyalookadah embark on a gambit of bad-cop/psychotic-cop against the nearly inconsolable merman.

The wizard points out that those singled out by the orange-clad man don’t generally live long. Remember that merfolk, Steve? Dead! Killed by the orange-clad brute! Kyllar demands the merfolk help the party – or they won’t protect him from the orange-clad monk. Kyllar’s words are backed up with grotesque gestures from Whudyalookadah, and the merfolk is coerced into helping the party retrieve a DieFi rod from the sunken, bloated zombie cohort in the neighborhood.

The party marches through the damp neighborhood, past the branching, sunken alleyways while Professor Thorntongue completes here identify spell on the bag. With a mild curse, the informs the party that the bag… is really a Bag of Devouring. Kyllar curses loudly. Stupid necromancy guy.

Arriving quickly at the end of that sunken avenue. Their destination appears to be unchanged from their last visit. The crude building is still collapses in on itself, toppled into its basement, and rubble, and the only means of ingress, two metal doors twisted shut, all almost entirely submerged.

Kyllar points at the pile, and Bubbles bashfully wades into the little moat, treading water so that his fishy head is just above the surface. He paddles over to the doors, and while they are still slightly battered open from Turnin’s blows, the merman can fit no more than an arm inside, and looks back to the party. They’ll have to help somehow.

Bubbles looks on, still neck deep in the water as the party debates what to do. They could batter open the door? But they’d need to get over to it… Whudyalookadah could shift into a frog? But probably won’t be able to lift out the rod… Professor Thorntongue eventually casts a spell, allowing the party to walk on water… right past Bubbles. The group reaches the rubble, and apparently eager to get on with all this, the Professor smacks the door mightily with her mace, crumpling the weakened metal enough to allow just about everyone (excluding the large and heavily-armored Rhogar) inside.

Whudyalookadah gestures menacingly to the merman while Kyllar tells their forced accomplice that there are zombie bodies in there, and that the group needs Bubbles to bring back a metal rod from one of their bodies. The wizard then points emphatically towards the opening, demanding the terrified merman enter and retrieve the object.

Bubbles sinks, and then kicks, propelling himself out of the water, and over the ruined threshold, and into the dark depths of the ruins.

Seconds later, a bloated body breaches the water, its taught skin bursting against the stones and spilling its rotting guts over the rubble. Bubbles is close behind the body, wailing and trying to clamber out of the sunken pit. Kyllar’s little speech did not prepare him for what the merman saw – bloated or worse yet, corpses, sickly bobbing organs and random digits, all floating in the stagnant water… some of it even got in his mouth! Gross!

Bubbles wails, over the talk of the party, and is eventually coerced again into trying to retrieve the rod,  his face covered by conjured goggles and a bandana, courtesy of the wizard forcing him to slink back into the dark, filthy waters.

A few minutes pass, and then a bloated merfolk body, metal spinal rod in plain sight, is rolled over the threshold, resting on its back on the thin band of dry rubbly between the fetid pool and merely stagnant looking water nearer to the merfolk neighborhood.

Bubbles head breaches, the conjured protective gear disappearing; the merfolk spitting repeatedly and shivering in total disgust. As he eyes the body closer, he wails with renewed gusto – the body has the twisted dead face of the slain merfolk Steve.

Still distressed, Bubbles flops over into the merely stagnant water, wailing and scrubbing furiously at his scaled skin.

Kyllar attempts to wrench the rod from the body with Mage Hand, but the magic is not strong enough. The wizard turns to console the merman, promising him all sorts of new things as a reward for helping the party. His mind anchored a bit by business, the merfolk realizes that Kyllar still hasn’t paid up from the last time he helped the party, and the wizard promises more and more trinkets, and dismisses the merfolk, imploring him to lay low in an attempt the avoid any potential wrath from the orange-clad monk.

Bubbles swims to the edge of the stagnant pool, and emerges, still scrubbing and spitting. The party shares a moment, watching the merfolk go. Nobody thinks he is long for this world.

Rhogar then takes a chance and removing the rod from Steve’s body, and rips it free nearly without incident. The scaly skin tears and bursts, spilling the rotted, waterlogged innards over the rubble as well, but the dragonborn triumphantly holds aloft the DieFi rod… which is still attached to the skull, though the bones are missing a jaw.

Exposed to the air, the rancid zombies begin to stink. Rhogar dips the rod into the stagnant pool, rinsing some of the fleshy bits off, and then hands it to the wizard, who magically disguises it as rosewood staff, with a flowery, pleasant smell, and the part slink away, walking briskly through the neighborhood, moving towards their airship.

Fortunately, the skiff is right where they left it.

Still trying to air out the rod, Kyllar holds it aloft, again conjuring sweet entrance music as the skiff again sets down on the landing platform in the highest reaches of Upper Sharn, and the party again makes preparations to talk with the gnomes of House Sivis.

With the rod, they think it will go well.

The group approaches the tower, still broad, but bathed in light, and only a dozen or so levels from the top of the spire. Unlike below, towers have numerous balconies and windows, and the party spies them all over the place.

The doorway to House Sivis is impressive, like a cathedral; small arched doors inserted into a larger overarching… uh… arch. The House’s coat of arms, a Cockatrice, is engraved in the center of the large, ornate arch. The group enters, throwing open the doors impressively.

To either side, the walls are glass, providing visitors with a cross-section of two-floors of office work. The gnomes make a bit of a show about being busy, and can be see shuffling papers, running documents and instruments from desk to desk, as well as a bunch of gnomes plugging and unplugging wires at some kind of arcane switchboard.

The party is puzzled, but not interested at the display of office life, and walks toward the far end of the wall. There is a pretty-looking gnome lady sitting at a desk marked “Reception”, to whom Whudyalookadah makes a rude (thankfully unnoticed) gesture. On either side of the desk are wide doors, and near each door is a stately looking older gnome, well-dressed and well-poised.

The bubble receptionist welcomes the party to the Sharn branch of House Sivis, and asks how she can help them. Conspiratorially, Kyllar leans over the desk, and launches into a long summary of what the party has been up to. The Receptionist’s eyes glaze over. When Kyllar finishes, she asks for a more succinct summary, and apologizes; she’s new here. The group wants to see someone about a magical rod and communications? She looks to the stately gnome to her left. R&D? He nods, opens the door, and whispers for the messenger to take the group down to the R&D labs.

Practically dancing, a gnome pops into view, happily declares his name is Mort, and asks the party to stick close and follow him. Mort gleefully launches into an unprovoked attack on their ears, reciting a little speech about the origins of the House (3000 years old!) and what they do (translate things! Be neutral diplomats!), leading them down the wrong corridor only a few times. Even with the prepared spiel over, Mort cannot be contained. Seeing Whudyalookadah, Mort giggles with excitement, declaring that he is a city gnome, and wonders what kind of a gnome this gnome is? Whudyalookadah gestures to his simple, rustic clothes and grudgingly admits that he is a forest gnome, and then threatens Mort. Undeterred, the guide turns to Rhogar, reaching for the dragonborn’s weapon, a bright mace. When asked where he got such a neat shining weapon, the dragonborn mutters that he killed a guy. Right-o. In a last ditch effort at conversation, Mort turns to Professor Thorntongue and Kyllar, and asks who’s spellbook is bigger. The wizard’s. Obviously.

After a few tense moments of silence, Mort leads the group to a desolate hallway, and throws open the doors to R&D. The gnomes in this office, a trio clustered around a workbench, look up, and sigh at the sight of Mort. Mort waves, and the office gnomes wave Mort away, and motion quickly for the party to shut the door behind them. Whudyalookadah hocks a loogie, which lands on Morts foot. The city gnome is revolted, trying to shake it off or wipe it across the floor as the door shuts on his face.

Free of Mort, the gnomes, who all appear to have small, faintly luminescent dragonmarks on their body, ask what they can do for the group. Kyllar presents the rod, asking the gnomes if they could help identify it and discern its properties.

The gnomes share a moment, and in the middle of replying that it is obviously a staff made of rosew—Kyllar dismisses the spell, and the rod appears in all its horrid glory. A fish scale falls, plopping onto the desk. One of the gnomes heaves a little. So… you brought us a grotesque skull-themed walking stick?

Kyllar again tries to summarize their experiences… zombies, zombie with rod… rod helps command the zombies… Maybe communication magic is involved? Could you investigate the magic intricacies of the rod?

Rhogar twists the merfolk skull off with a sickening crack, and chucks it into the Bag of Devouring, where it breaks into pieces, before tumbling down and disappearing into the folds of the fabric.

This is beyond the paygrade of these gnomes, and the Bag of Devouring kinda freaks them out. Their office has a pretty open floor plan. Beyond a short wall, there is a kind of shooting range, and the gnomes point the group towards the office on the other side; Rogim’s office. The group makes their way down the range, and slabs of stone wall, plates of lead, a thin, a large piece of paper… all attached to little rolling carts that can be wheeled onto the range to block spells.

The party exits the far side of the range, and is confronted by a very stately looking older gnome. Rogim is wearing a nicely cut tunic, displaying a greater dragonmark for House Sivis spanning from his belly to the back of his shaved, hairless head.

Seeing the studious Professor Thorntongue scribbing at her notes, the gnome guesses that she is in charge, and asks her how he can assist.

The Professor gestures to the skull rod. She states that the rod is used to control zombies. And asks accusingly if Rogim knows of anyone else who could do such magic. That’s right Rogim, you’re on notice!

The gnome is taken aback a bit, surprised at the accusation, he stammers, off guard, extolling the long impartial service House Sivis has given the continent… eventually the gnome is guided towards just investigating the rod, as his hands investigate the rod, inscribed with a “14” on it, as he prods the group for more details on the zombies and the magic witnessed.

Rogim has been around the block a few times, and he too feels the “inactive” and dry zombies are unusual. As is the rod.

The rod itself appears to be just an average metal rod. Most of it is plain metal, which could be produced by any half competent blacksmith or foundry worker, and are likely found all over Sharn, even the continent. The business end, with magical enhancements, is further up on the rod, near where the skull would be attached via graft.

Rogim can discern some of the enchantments, and informs the party that the rod appears to be designed to deal with Command-style magic. The spells themselves are not really complicated… but the gnome is surprised by its genius. The maker has taken very common, simple spells, and applied them in a unique way to the basics of necromancy, receiving basic spells, and then amplifying them over an area.

Exploring further, Rogim conjectures that since necromancy is a bit of a psychic connection, the rod may be primed for reception. Fingers caressing the top of the rod, Rogim notices an orb, that would appear to glow as orders are received. The gnome guesses that it may glow when near the person issuing the commands, and will definitely glow when any commands are issued in range.

It would take weeks for House Sivis to explore and then replicate the rod, and the group decides against it turning it over just yet.

The group continues to question the gnome, and eventually they determine that a zombie apocalypse is unlikely. Sharn is too dense to issue such a wide-ranging command. Either the buildings would block the magic, or the targets too scattered to all rise at once. The zombie hordes, allegedly hidden throughout Sharn would need to be activated in sequence – Rogim is sure there is no way to activate the hordes en mass.

Eventually the group thanks Rogim, and takes their rod with them.

They rehash what they have learned. Steps have been taken to protect the zombies from normal wear and tear, in ways that echo what the party knows about the Wizened – they are the necromancers. The little zombie cohorts have been squirreled for reasons unknown. The rods are common, and would be easy to get ahold of. The rods are enchanted with common magic – the Wizened would not need a real specialist to do these enchantments

The party regards their DieFi rod… Sweeping the city would take way too long with a single rod, and the Necromancer could easily elude them on pure chance.

Rhogar begins to methodically recount where the party has encountered the Wizened previously. There was first the docks district in Grayflood; the massacre of the clerics; the rooftop where a monk received the SMS gargoyle; the moving drop point with Turnin’s gross “arms dealer”; and lastly, the urchins and the merfolk in low Sharn.

As he mentions the merfolk, the dragonborn raises a finger to make a point, but it unfortunately quickly eludes the fighter.

The party feels like they are at a bit of a dead end. They have leads… all of them cold as the zombies themselves. They commit to following up on each of these locales in turn with their new DieFi rod, and heading back to Ghallanda hall, begin to make plans to resupply.

Eberron Adventure: Thirty-Third Session

So there they were….

Napping. As the storm disbursed and was replaced with a radiant dawn, the mob of a party found themselves shuffling back towards Ghallanda Hall after their vicious fight with Zyn, former party member, and former Avatar of the Fey (now deceased). Well known in this establishment, the party trudge in, shaking off the damp of the storm, and collapse into plush, comfy chairs and couches in one of the Hall’s many common rooms, and spend the next day lounging around and recuperating; snacking occasionally and sleeping deep and often.

Turnin the human monk, Shadowale the halfling rogue, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian and Comfort the Tiefling sorceress, were all dozing near one another, sunk deep into the cushions of the comfy furniture. They were awoken by prods and the insistent whispers of a gangly, pimply, half-elf boy, who was urging Madam Comfort to awaken and return to her bath house… things were in motion, related to…. Sandar Fancybrook.

With a snort, Turnin wakes up and is on his feet. He recognizes that name! A name from Brenda’s journal from the very beginning of the adventure, all the way back in Fal-Narah… a name that has caused many inquisitive whispers of “Rogue?” into the darkness. Sandar Fancybrook, the rogue who abandoned his party, and caused the downfall of the warforged Bulwark and the dragonborn paladin Sorai all those sessions ago, providing a good parable about the perils of splitting the party... he wants in on whatever this is.

Comfort arises, placing her slim stiletto knives in her newly regrown purple hair, and is joined by a content Gnofulk and a murderous-looking Shadowale.

The group quickly gathers their things and prepare to depart, grabbing some biscuits to go, and leaving the other half of their party mob behind in Ghallanda Hall to focus on whatever has diverted their attention away from this cool adventure.

At the bidding of Comfort, the pimply half-elf boy rapidly shares the situation with the group (rather than just her), and as the group and boy make their away along the sky bridges and winding tower paths, the little half-elf relates that it’s not Sandar Fancybrook at the bath house... but it is related. Sandar’s alleged accountant is in the bath house… and the old dwarf may know things! So, per Comfort’s instructions, the bath house workers are stalling a bit while the accountant soaks, and this elf-boy, Timit, was sent to try and find Comfort.

It’s still quite morning out when the party arrives at Bathomet’s Bath House, entering discretely through a back door. As the group enters the workers regard their Madam with a mix of relief and concern. The tiefling is quite disheveled, but looks like a weight has been lifted from her mind. They update her that the dwarf – Ivar – still has about a half hour before his massage from a nice strong man is scheduled.

The party decides to retire to the third floor, to Comfort’s private chambers. Turnin is eager to find Sandar, but is curious to know why the rest of the group is interested.

Comfort admits that she’s not quite sure either. She heard Shadowale was looking for Sandar, and is fulfilling her end of a bargain by helping. She had assumed Sandar Fancybrook, with his alleged ties to a house of assassins, might have known something or have even been behind those grisly murders… but that is obviously not the case now.

Grimly, Shadowale twists his hand, summoning a perfect cube of billowing fire within. Everyone sit down. It’s story time. Beverages are brought over as the halfling begins his tale around the conjured bonfire.

Tossing back his hood, Shadowale admits that that was not always his moniker. He was once Falco Burrows. He was also once married. Mirabella was her name; a fellow halfling thief. They stole the hearts of each other, and lived well. They robbed from the rich, kept most of it, and cool sweet parties. But one day, while attempting to rob some poofy-looking jerk, she was killed. The mysterious, murdering stranger taunted Falco and then disappeared. Falco did not know the man’s name, but got a good look and tried to vow revenge.

Falco trained, but also descended into drinking. Well, more drinking. Halflings have good parties after all… but this drinking was the more somber, self-destructive side. Drunk, Shadowale fell in with the party, and while friendship and adventure helped, the halfling was still stricken by grief, and still driven by revenge. He will see Sandar Fancybrook die.

…and with Shadowale’s secrets now aired out, the party is completely on board and ready to hatch a plan in order to reach this jerk.

The group decides to lie in wait in one of the massage rooms, which has wispy silks languidly draped from the ceiling and running down the walls. The unsavory aspects of Gnofulk’s barbarian-ness is disguised, while the desirable ones enhances with oils, and he and Comfort wait by the massage table, while Shadowale and Turnin hide, standing still on either side of the door.

The old dwarf Ivar waddles in wrapped in a towel and still wet from his soak. Turnin is able to discern that the old accountant has a small dragonmark on his left shoulder, though the monk does not know to which House the mark represents, while Comfort and Gnofulk notice a small key dangling from a chain around the dwarf’s neck.

Ivar is happy to see a man like Gnofulk, but a bit puzzled by Comfort’s presence. Is something wrong?

Comfort tries several tracts… each one unfortunately largely unsuccessful in eliciting information. The sorceress knows that Ivar works for Sandar, and Sandar owes her money. While old Ivar, in his exposed state agrees on his business relationship with Sandar, he, as the accountant, promises to make amends on Sandar’s behalf. Ivar also eventually admits that there is a “bit of a back room” at the Legitimate Drinking Establishment, a bar in a building where Sandar, Ivar, and their associates do most of their business. If Comfort really wants to find Sandar… she should ask for him there to get the message worming toward the right people.

Comfort thanks Ivar for his candor and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her, realizing a little too late that the Legitimate Drinking Establishment… like, there has to more to it with a name like that, right? She waits by the door.

Rid of the woman, Ivar grins at the disguised Gnofulk, eager to get to the massage. The dwarf plops himself face down onto the table with a deep sign of anticipation.

The gnome is perplexed. After caressing the dwarf as one would a pet, the dwarf is losing patience, and tells the gnome he can lay into him. Trying to oblige, Gnofulk scampers up onto the massage bed, and begins walking on the dwarf’s back. Gnofulk is eventually pushed off and away; the old dwarf quite dissatisfied. As he flips himself over-

-he sees Shadowale, playing with a knife, and Turnin murmuring prayers and focusing intently on the ceiling of the room. Gnofulk makes a grab for the dwarf, but the old man is able to evade the clutches of the gnome, and retreats, trying to avoid being surrounded.

Turnin steps in front of the door, blocking the exit, and while they are soon rejoined by Comfort, gaining critical knowledge about anything proceeds at a glacial pace.

The party fails dreadfully to either persuade or intimidate the old accountant into giving up much information at all, and eventually Gnofulk makes a play for the key, tugging at it forcefully, though not quite forcefully enough to break the chain; instead yanking the dwarf near and head-butting him. The party again tries to coerce the dwarf into giving up the key, but to no avail. He pleads with them to leave the key alone – Sandar will likely kill him if he loses possession of it. Eventually the dwarf deduces that the party means to do more than just talk with Sandar… and a deal of sorts is cut.

The accountant hands over the key to Turnin, and states that it is the key is to the Treasury, where Sandar, Ivar and their associates keep the illicitly-gained cash, gems, deeds and small treasures accumulated and acquired by the group. For half the cash and gems there – and Ivar knows this amount to the copper – Ivar will hand over the key, and tell the party what it needs to know to make their way into Sandar’s little hideout. The party can make their play against Sandar Fancybrook and raid the Treasury while the dwarf gets a real massage here at the bath house under close watch. If all goes well, the party completes their dealings with Sandar, and the dwarf gets the cash he needs to flee Sharn, possibly even retire in some modicum of luxury… and everyone is happy.

The party agrees to the terms, and gets down to planning.

Sandar is based out of the lowest parts of the Dura Plateau; the roughest parts of a rough district. The Legitimate Drinking Establishment, while a place people can drink, was established as a front. There are two ways into the establishment: the server’s back door (usually guarded by an orc) and the main entrance (usually guarded by a minotaur). In the storage room of the Legitimate Drinking Establishment, there is a somewhat hidden door. The password is “Swordfish” – speak it to the guard… and you should get in no problem.

As for the Treasury… when you walk in to Sandar’s little hideout, there will be a Grand Hall in front of you. Head down the hallway on the left; take the second door you see (just ignore all the other rooms you may happen across), and right in front of you should be the Treasury, a glowing, magical door.

As for Sandar Fancybrook… he has a private residence down there, in the south east of the complex. You can’t miss it if you stick to the mail hallways. Simply take the easternmost door (again, just ignore everything else) you can find… and that’s his residence.

What about the other rooms? Or any other people possibly down there? Bah, whatever. The party has what the info they need to find the Treasury and Sandar, and they prepare to depart, leaving Ivar in the comfortable luxury of the staff at Bathomet’s Bath House.

It’s been a busy morning so far, and after a hike down into the lowest parts of Lower Dura, the group spots the Legitimate Drinking Establishment, arriving on the scene a bit before lunchtime. Two young, incredibly drunk halflings stagger out of the bar wrapped in dark cloaks, and a tall elf in an equally dark cloak attempts to herd them away.

The group opts to just walk right up, but as they approach, the minotaur, massive axe nearby, raises a hand to stop them, stating that they are “at capacity.” The party moves to object, and soon Turnin recognizes this game. He displays a few coins for the minotaur, who concedes that he does have room for them after all, and holds the door open for the party.

As they enter the main room of the Legitimate Drinking Establishment, Comfort is accosted by the serving girl, another tiefling, who thanks the sorceress for finally showing up, and announces that she is going on break. She adds, while leaving, that Gnofulk, Shadowale and Turnin can sit wherever they would like.

Shadowale murmurs that they should “just go with it.” And the party minus Comfort is soon sitting around, surveying the room while the tiefling heads back to the kitchen to procure the drinks. Behind the ubiquitous chase doors to the kitchen, Comfort finds a warforged chef, wearing the nametag “Chef” and a poofy baker’s hat prepping food and drinks with machine-like efficiency.  While he doesn’t recognize Comfort, he recognizes her competence, and thanks her for filling in before sending her out with the party’s order, and a special drink for the wizard.

The trio of dudes has effectively reconnoitered the Establishment. It is most definitely not at capacity. In the southeast is a wizard, just obliterated, swaying back and forth in his chair. In the southwest corner, a dragonborn and lady dwarf are making eyes at one another, and at the northern most table, a tough-looking satyr is making eyes at Comfort as she returns to the group after delivering the drink to the wizard.

In hushed tones, she informs them that there is a warforged chef in the kitchen, and the orc should still be at the back entrance…. But with a diversion, they should be able to sneak around and into the storage room… and then down into Sandar’s lair, but they’ll need a distraction.

Shadowale recuses himself to the bathroom, while Turnin attempts to work the room. The monk first approaches the wizard, and first masterfully convinces Thembar that he is a great wizard… and the wizard looks up from his drink agreeing with the monk. Turnin then tries to convince Thembar that the dragonborn and dwarf lady were saying just awful things about him… but fails. The wizard hiccups and declares that life is too short for grudges, and his intention is to live and let live, just before taking a huge guzzle from his mug.

The monk leaves in disgust.

Making her serving rounds, Comfort approaches the satyr, who declines a drink but infers that there is something else the tiefling can do for him… and pats his lap. She’ll… be right back.

Turnin then approaches the starry-eyed couple, and whispers conspiratorially that he thinks the wizard over there is going to burn the place down any second. As they look over, the wizard hiccups again… and then passes out. Turnin quickly amends his assertion, adding right after this nap. Magical flames take a lot out of you, right?

Comfort approaches Turnin and the apologizes to the dragonborn and dwarf for this patrons behavior and pulls the monk back towards the group, telling him to sit still for a minute. Shadowale returns from the bathroom, declaring there wasn’t anything worth burning – not that that’s what he was trying to do or anything.

While Turnin laments the inconceivable failings of his plans, and Gnofulk and Shadowale do what they do in locations like these (drink), Comfort sets about some real subterfuge.

Comfort whispers to the satyr to meet her in the ladies room in 5 minutes…. And the drunk satyr immediately scampers off. She then enters the kitchen, telling Chef to start cooking all the meats – a huge throng of people just walked in and man are they hungry! The warfroged almost seems to gulp at the news and impending pressure, but readies his station and begins to work.

With the satyr gone, the wizard unconscious, and the dragonborn and dwarf with eyes only for each other… the party is almost ready to go. Chef is busy, but moving from counter to grill to counter. Despite a small protest, Comfort casts Ensmallen on the monk, and the party hustles through the kitchen and into the storage room without being seen. As the chase doors flop shut, Chef calls after Comfort to bring him some onions when she has a minute.

The sorceress agrees, putting Chef at ease, but the party instead sets about finding this door… after a quick moment, they realize one of the shelving units is on wheels, and push it out of the way, revealing a dirty door with no knob but two shut slots; one at roughly Comfort’s eye level; another roughly at Shadowale’s.

The tiny trio tries to hide just out of sight as Comfort knocks high and the top slot opens. A green face and beady eyes fill it, and a gruff voice asks for the password, and Comfort replies with a sonorous “Swordfish.”

The door swings in, and Comfort leads the way, followed by Shadowale, Gnofulk and a still Ensmalled Turnin. The armored orc had moved to close the door behind Comfort, but stopped, surprised at the little parade, and readied his large axe while demanding to know what was going on.

Shadowale, Gnofulk and Turnin all quickly parrot “Swordfish!” … and the troglodyte orc can’t find anything wrong with anything. They do know the password after all. Proud of a job well done, the orc puffs out his broad, armored chest and waves them all on and down into the hideout.

The party marches down the hall and down a little into the earth as Turnin returns to normal size. The find themselves in a bit on an square anteroom, facing two large doors. The ceilings are quite tall – nearly 10 feet, and are both curved and polished. A few feet from the top of the wall is a band of enchanted masonry running around the room, tossing light up towards the ceiling, which is then reflected downward.

A pair of dragon-looking chandeliers is hung at head high against the wall, the serpentine holders cradeling two large candles. They seem a bit unnecessary, but Turnin thinks they add a nice ambiance to the place. A quick second glance from the monk confirms that they look quite nice.

Gnofulk cautiously approaches the door, and tries to listen for any clue of what might be beyond. The gnome hears indistinct, echoed muttering, and the group elects Shadowale to go investigate. Greasing the large doors a bit, the halfling squeezes out, and cautiously approaches the big room while hiding behind the towering pillars.

The rogue peeks in. The room is huge; 20-30 fee high. In the distance, he sees a towering statue, and is able to make out the large Lord Tarkanan inscription holding a mace and a shield embossed with House Tarkanan’s coat of arms – a Beholder.

This… makes some sense to Shadowale. While House Tarkanan is now a house assassins, he recalls that it started out under Lord Tarkanan as a bid to become the 13^th official Dragonmarked House in Eberron, and home to those with the Aberrant Dragonmark…. Before the other Houses united against Tarkanan in the War of the Mark over 1500 years ago, which resulted in House Tarkanan broken into these tiny cells and driven in the shadows. If Sandar Fancybrook is indeed part of the House, that may complicate things.

Besides the statue, Shadowale is able to deduce the source of the noise heard by Gnofulk. The room has several buckets, and half a dozen large banners laid across the floor. Near the statue is a masked wizard (facing near the entrance to the hideout), mumbling and humming to himself while he conducts an angular golem with bulbous joints glowing purple and blue. Shadowale deduces that the golem is painting things on one of the banners; delicate work requiring the direct control of the wizard.

Shadowale slinks back to the anteroom and reports back. The party thinks that with a little luck, they can sidestep the wizard, and with a lot more luck, make their way quickly down to Sandar’s private rooms undetected. The party moves back to the center pillar, and then Shadowale creeps off to the left, ready to wave party members on or half them behind the pillars as needed.

Comfort is the first to join the halfling, but even with his coaching, movement catches the eye of the wizard, and his head snaps up, and he thinks he sees the something disappear around a corner. After a moment, he gestures, sending the golem off to investigate…

Gnofulk presses his tiny frame abound the center pillar, and Turnin decides to return to the anteroom, and investigate those wall chandeliers again, shutting the doors behind him with a soft thud.

Hearing the implacable footfalls of the approaching golem, Shadowale and Comfort scamper into the nearest room, looking for a place to hide. The room is dominated by a huge table, very brightly illuminated by the focusing ceiling above, and surrounded by over a dozen chairs. The pair dive under the foot of the table.

While Gnofulk is deciding whether to go for the golem or the wizard… he realizes the rapid retreat of Comfort and Shadowale has drawn the attention of another person. The golem is interposed between the gnome and this new person, but the barbarian’s keen eyes catch more than a glimpse of metal. The golem and plate-clad figure stalk into the room, and Gnofulk moves back towards the main entrance.

Comfort and Shadowale see two sets of legs enter; the legs of the golem on their right, and legs clad in plate to their left, walking slowly… slowly in time along the table. They hear the soft rasp of a blade and a series of clicks and whirrs. In concert the figures drop. A dark-haired woman is brandishing a glowing sword at Comfort, and the golem has dropped into a squat, arms outstretched, and palms open wide. Shadowale notices a pinprick of light down the wrist-barrels….

Comfort berates Shadowale and they fake looking for an ill-defined object, but the woman isn’t buying it. She gestures with her sword, and demands to know why there are sneaking about. Shadowale professes that he is a member of House Tarkanan, and the woman demands to see his mark.

The table is tall enough that Shadowale doesn’t need to crouch, only hunch a bit. He stalls for time patting down his pockets – when he realizes that she is demanding they show her a Dragonmark. The wheels in Shadowale’s head turn. While he has done work for House Tarkanan… he always felt he was kept a little… out of the loop. He has been working for House Tarkanan... right? The halfling knows he doesn't have a dragonmark, and also knows that he is in a spot of trouble currently...

The woman orders the golem to attack, and from its wrists, a stream of Magic Missiles emerges, streaking into both Shadowale and Comfort. While the tiefling points an accusing finger and wraps the golem in monentary flames, the construct impassively fires again; more streaks of magic tearing into the duo and bloodying Comfort.

Shadowale sprints towards the head of the table, and runs around the corner, entering the Grand Hall from the southeast entrance. The wizard franticly tries to get the golem to react, but is too slow. Shadowale readies an arrow and his bow as he runs, and as he turns the corner, lets it fly… and it flies true, grievously wounding the wizard.

Seeing the halfling bolt and assuming the tiefling will do the same, the dark-haired fighter readies her sword and shield; preparing to run her prey down. But Comfort is unarmored and too quick, and flees, dashing back towards the main entrance to the hideout, the fighter at her heels but unable to catch her.

Gnofulk, hearing the sizzles of Magic Missile, and the screams of the wizard, and the clattering of the fighter’s armor chasing after Comfort, pounds twice on the door to summon the monk before running into the Grand Hall. Gnome procures one of the enchanted knives that slew Duran Punchitfixit, and flings it underhand at the wizard, speaking the command “Kill,” before continuing with the motion, reaching back, and then launching a javelin at him as well.

Turnin, hearing the summons of the gnome, kicks open the door, and as he races to join the fight. As he darts into the Grand Hall on the heels of Gnofulk, the monk sees Comfort sprinting madly back into the hallway. As he passes the gnome and runs toward the wizard, he sees Gnofulk’s magical blade spin and dash, cutting the wizard as it zips through the air, passing through the flesh and then hovering a few feet away, reading itself for another pass. He also sees Gnofulk’s javelin bury itself in the guts of the wizard. Beholding all that has gone down in the past minute, Turnin adamantly asks just what in the hell is going on here.

Face obscured by the mask, the wizard gestures to the javelin in his guts and the arrow in his neck, and echoes Turnin’s question. The conversation continues with the monk continuing to jog towards the wizard, and swinging at his dumb masked face with his cool staff.

The swing misses, and Turnin follows up with a flurry of uppercuts, juggling the masked wizard into the air with his fists.

Ribs crack with each blow, and the robes of the wizard open, revealing a dragonmark of scribbles over his chest, which glows blindingly bright as the wizard loses consciousness. The dragonmark radiates out and along the wizard, cracking his skin and turning it grey-

-and then the stony skin explodes, shredding his robes as chunks are propelled across the room.

Amazingly, Turnin is unharmed.

The force of propelling the flaky stone skin also breaks it, and Shadowale continues his run, though a cloud of rocky dust towards Gnofulk and that southern pillar.

Comfort skidded to a halt by Gnofulk, and was preparing to turn and release a spell against the fighter chasing her. The fighter rounds the corner, quickly finds herself facing far more than just the tiefling.

Her armor is somewhat incomplete – and a dragonmark can be seen in place of her missing gorget, which flashes a menacing red as she shouts in defiance, raising her glowing sword up instead of slashing with it, and a booming fireball emerges from her person, engulfing Comfort, Gnofulk and Shadowale in momentary flames.

As the flames buffet her person, Comfort releases her spell against her pursuer; and massive lightning bolt cuts through the flames, electrifying not only the fighter, but the space behind her as well, reaching all the way down the hall and into a room, igniting something inside.

Angered by being singed, Gnouflk flies into a rage as the flames disburse, and charges, hacking at the fighter, and he is quickly joined by Turnin, swinging his cool staff and Shadowale, who misses with his knives.

The fighter is still standing tall, but knows she is outnumbered. Her dragonmark shines a little less brightly, and with a swing of her glowing sword she disengages, fleeing back into the room with the table, and the party moves to give chase.

As they enter the room, they see the golem, an angular mess on the floor and no longer glowing.

They also see a man standing near the head of the table, dressed in an expensive if garish outfit. With a soft laugh to himself, he gestures to halfling, saying “Ahhh, Falco. You’ve come.”

Eberron Adventure: Thirty-Second Session

So there they were…

Exhausted. As dawn broke, the massive party trudged back over the  bridges spanning Sharn’s innumerable towers to Ghallanda Hall, barely making it into the warm common rooms before collapsing into plush chairs by the hearth. The next day was spent recuperating and drying out. The following morning, the massive party split. Shadowale and Comfort has business to discuss, which drew the interest of Turnin and Gnofulk.

The remaining group, consisting of the human wizard Kyllar, the gnome druid Whudyalookadah, the elf cleric Professor Thorntongue, and the dragonborn fighter Rhogar, chatted about what they should do next. Kyllar was very, very keen to investigate the already investigated den of Naman Fireslinger, a fire-liking wizard thug whose death had led some of the party to the realization that Zyn had been committing the grisly murders, and set them all on the path to a showdown with their former party member, which had just been resolved by the fight in the Fey Wild not even two days ago.

Kyllar was also very interested in tracking down the Wizened, who had stolen the party’s Bag of Holding, which Kyllar was still very sore over. Rhogar was also interested in finding the thieving monks, and Professor Thorntongue, who had originally helped the party find out the general religious information on them, was also game… but the newcomer, Whudyalookadah, was completely lost, and at his insistence, the trio brought the gnome up to speed in a very lengthy recap, covering much of the party’s escapades in Sharn, from the massacres of the clerics, to the framed Daask, to the failed crusade of Steve Brighthammer von Carlsburg Jr., to the disappearances in Greyflood, to the urchins and merfolk… to an “arms” dealer, to Professor Thorntongue and her help in the libraries and to the current situation.

While not grasping all the details, the irreverent gnome Whudyalookadah is sufficiently intrigued to join in this new hunt against the Wizened.

But the hunt will need to wait a bit. After a hearty breakfast, the party heads out, Kyllar gleefully leading the way not towards any of the possible leads on the Wizened, but towards Naman Fireslinger’s apartment, in the hopes of finding the dead wizard’s spellbook.

While still early in the morning, it was already immensely hot. The massive thunderstorm from a few days prior had evidently heralded hot, cloudless days to come. The party sweated as they made their way horizontally across Sharn, from one section of the Middle City to another, along walkways winding around towers and large bridges between them. Their path bores through a tower, bisecting it, and the party takes a few turns along the hallway “avenues,” and soon arrives Naman Fireslinger’s apartment.

The door, busted in by Zyn a few days ago, still sits against in interior wall, sundered, and with a white chalky outline of the murdered sentry among the splinters. Red ribbons of the City Watch crisscross the doorway; the Watch has been here.

Undeterred, Kyllar leads the group inside after stretching the ribbons a bit to make way. He marches ahead, into the wizard’s room, but finds nothing but empty furniture. In the room to the left, empty bunkbeds are found. In the room to the right, the “conference room” with the large table, they see the three other white outlines of those murdered by Zyn, but find no loot in the charred and smudged room.

Frustrated, the group decides to visit Madam Inquisitive, the substitute investigator for the City Watch, who had helped the party track down Zyn a few days ago. She had been investigating the grisly murders a bit; perhaps she has the items not already swiped by Shadowale, Comfort and Gnofulk when they explored the scene originally. Plus, she did help them find Zyn. Perhaps she could help the group find some of the Wizened?

The party again moves laterally though the city, walking along more walkways and bridges toward Tower 4, the precinct where the Madam Inquisitive is subbing. They’ve been here several times in the past week, and so are waved on through; past the desks of the beat cops, and into the office of the Madam Inquisitive, who is still working feverishly.

Without real pleasantries, Kyllar starts pressing on the personal effects of Naman Fireslinger, and any books he may had had on his person when the City Watch seized the items in the apartment-

-but the Madam Inquisitive deflects his urgent questions momentarily. Wasn’t the party in here not 48 hours ago? Didn’t they leave to find this murderer Zyn? You can’t just walk in here and ask questions. How did that whole showdown with your friend go?

The party recounts the story, but very poorly, and not at all convincing. However, the Madam Inquisitive knows from prior experience that words are not the party’s strong suit, and believes that the murders are indeed over.

No legit books were recovered from the apartment; only a few notebooks and scraps of paper outlining the basic schemes the wizard’s group was to undertake. As a token of her appreciation though, for bringing an end to Zyn’s murder spree, she offers up the only worthwhile effect of Naman Fireslinger; a wand. It looks dry and cracked, like a burnt twig, but the wand is not brittle and is surprisingly inert and cool to the touch. Professor Thorntongue readies her notes and beings a ritual that will identify the item as a +1 wand, while the rest of the party moves into discussion on the Wizened.

With both Whudyalookadah and Madam Inquisitive interrupting for clarification, Rhogar and Kyllar retell the party’s dealings with the Wizened, stressing their desire to stop these monks… for the public good.

Unfortunately, operating in a different area in Sharn than Grayflood, the Madam Inquisitive has not heard the rumors of these zombie caches, no knows anything about the DieFi rods, other than they sound rather unusual for necromancy.

Rhogar and Kyllar float the idea of using the Inquisitive’s methods for tracking Zyn to track the monks… but unfortunately that seems unlikely. The Contraption of Find Person is generally quite useless. The search criteria are minimal, and the range is pretty abysmal. It was pure luck that Zyn was both a drow (rare in Sharn) and nearby that it even worked at all.

The group had gone over and considered each encounter with the Wizened, and had dismissed each as a dead end, and were desperate. Could they use the Contraption to ping for uses of necromancy?

The Madam Inquisitive suggests that they focus on actual investigative work (following up those leads with two new sets of eyes and skills), but the group insists. She readies the Contraption, and after a half hour, the milky globe displays a single, faint red dot; detecting some residual necromantic magic in Sharn… from the position in the globe, she thinks that this is the mortuary run by Gertrude.

The party is immediately suspicious, and ignores the possible explanations of the Inquisitive, bids her good day, and marches toward the Gertrude’s mortuary… passing under the thaumaturgical neon sign, past the empty lobby and reception desk, and back into the old woman’s workspace. She waves them over as they enter, and she pushes the slab holding the body of Naman Fireslinger into the magically chilled wall slot.

Again without much tact, most of the party immediately starts to press her on what she knows of necromancy. She reminds them that she is an immigrant from Karrnath, on the north east of the continent, where necromantic magic is common and welcomed in daily life. Even with her meager abilities, some spells can help her deduce how her subject died and the school of magic is quite helpful to someone in her position. This aspect of her job hasn’t come up much recently, since the bodies have desecrated in such ways.

…but not Naman Fireslinger! Zyn was interrupted, and didn’t have time to flay the wizard’s face. While the rest of the part had been chatting up the old mortician, Professor Thorntongue had slinked away, and rolled out the wizard from the wall, readied her notes and had begun readying a Speak with the Dead spell.

Against the objections of Gertrude (decency) and Kyllar (practicality; the guy didn’t have any dealings with the Wizened), the spell is allowed to complete. As the five questions are posited to the dead wizard, Whudyalookadah is just messing with the body. Dangling things around its unaware face, poking it, and standing atop the chest of the deceased, the tiny gnome eventually strikes a pose like a victorious mountain-climber. Death is no excuse not to have fun.

With another avenue to wizardy goodness, Kyllar pounces, and asked the pyromancer what the heck happened to his spell book? “Stolen,” the corpse replies. Perhaps the scrolls recovered by Comfort were his early attempts to re-create the book? Rhogar attempts to cast a wide net with the next question, and asks if the pyromancer has had any dealings with anyone in orange? “No.” Kyllar, still all about the spell book asks who stole it. “A drunk halfling dressed in black,” rasps the corpse. Shadowale? Muses the party. The fourth and fifth questions are also pretty useless, with the corpse telling the party that he was working with the 3 thugs… Whom the part deduces were the ones killed in the apartment with him. At least that spell book may still be out there…

Fireslinger is again deposited into the wall, and Gertrude shrugs and gestures to the corpse. See? Necromantic magic can be really helpful when dealing with corpses. The party asks more about Gertrude and necromancy and Sharn.

As the rods are described, Gertrude asserts that that is not “normal” necromancy as she knows it, and as the discussion progresses, two options present themselves.

The first is visiting House Sivis in Upper Sharn, a House primarily of gnomes who specialize in magical communication; the choice championed by Kyllar.

The second is traveling to the City of the Dead, just northeast of Sharn; a repository not only for bodies, but also for knowledge about these things. Everyone else thinks this sounds by far more exciting, and the wizard is outvoted.

It would be a long walk through the rocky switchbacks to reach the City of the Dead, nestled in the crags outside the city proper, but fortunately Rhogar has the spare keys to his friend’s air skiff, and the party is soon flying gently between Sharn’s towers; gliding out towards the cliffs.

Not large enough to hold an elemental to power it, the skiff is instead shaped like a rickety boat, with enchantments along the bottom hull for flight, and in the rear for thrust. With Rhogar manning the controls, the rest of the party takes turns peddling to propel the skiff forward towards their destination.

The view is impressive. With the towers looming behind them, the party gazes at the vistas before them; the Dagger River and its rocky banks on the left, and the rolling farmlands beyond the plateaus ahead and to their right. While still terrified of heights, Rhogar is able to keep a lid on his anxiety, and deftly lands the skiff; despite the fear, or maybe perhaps because of it, the dragonborn appears be a natural pilot; cautious but proficient.

With a safe landing, the party exits the vehicle, stretches their legs, and debates about where to go first, having surveyed the immediate area around them from the air…

From their landing spot, the party heads south, towards that conspicuous-looking structure. A large roof peaking in stone and ending in clay shingles is supported by numerous columns; the interior open to the air. Atop the stone foundation is a lengthy slab of stone, there is a stone slab coffin; the likeness of a soldier – sword and all – carved atop his final resting place.

Reading the memorial plaque, the party is able to deduce that this mausoleum is 1500 years old; and commemorates a soldier who died in the War of the Mark… a war when the 12 Dragonmarked Houses, still in their infancy as organizations, united against House Tarkanan and besieged those with Aberrant Dragonmarks in Sharn. Rather than be taken alive, Lord Tarkanan and the Lady of the Plagues sundered ancient and low-lying Sharn, breaking the hovels with devastating earthquakes and suicidal plagues, and burying their dreams of a 13^th House and exploring the aberrant dragonmarks in more detail.

Reflecting on the grim history of the area, and wondering what evil rubble may still linger beneath the massive towers of the city in which they now reside… the party walks north, wandering among the graves there. Most of the headstones here are haphazardly placed, and quite old. Burial has slowly fallen out of fashion the last thousand years, replaced with cremation. Still the dirt is packed down solid and the lawn is well maintained.

The party then venture to this odd triangular obelisk standing in the middle of this cluster of headstones. Bobbing above the pinnacle is a levitating and opaque octahedron, from which radiates a faint glow, bathing all the graves in soft white light. As the group walks among the graves, they read, and realize that this is a newly constructed memorial for officers from Sharn who died in the Last War… the 100-year long continent-spanning conflict that ended only a previous few years ago. The party also realize that the graves are all oriented to the obelisk, the names of the perpetually illuminated in the comforting light, and that their final resting places are organized by the plateau district in which they last lived. Seeking out a few names of his fallen comrades, Rhogar pauses to pay his respects.

Solemnly, the party hikes up to this odd white stone pillar, shaped to resemble a single unbroken piece of polished stone, and stoically watching over the grounds. Roughly 6 stories high, the party begins to walk around the edge looking for any clue to its purpose, and any possible means of ingress, if it is a tower. As they wander towards the eastern side of the pillar however, a mob of skeletons stumble forth from the tree line about 60 feet away, rusty axes and swords swinging back and forth with each lurching step as they move towards the pillar. Three groups seem to be moving roughly in sync, with two singular skeletons marching along the flanks of the host.

Professor Thorntongue is first to react, and calls forth a Sacred Flame to lob at the center group of skeletons, and Kyllar flings a Firebolt at them as well. Both burning magical projectiles land among the skeletons, while the old bones are singed, Whudyalookadah approaches an unsuspecting Rhogar from behind. The gnome’s hands disappear beneath the fighter’s armor and near the base of the Dragonborn’s tail, and moments later Rhogar’s scales take on a somewhat ashen hue and look to be far more durable than before.

The cleric and wizard are exposed, and driven onward by infernal magics, the skeleton horde closes the distance. While Rhogar moves to interdict, he cannot interpose himself between the horde and his comrades, and a messy battle line begins to unfold.

Not as sturdy as a typical cleric, Professor Thorntongue attempts to withdraw to safety, but her elven feet are not quick enough, and one of the rusty blades slashes her as she moves. Lacking even modest protection, Kyllar doesn’t wish to risk be cut down running away, and he generates a Thunderwave, and while the center holds, the wings of the skeleton formation are pushed back. Whudyalookadah looks to aid the group, and casts Faerie Fire against as much of the opposition as the gnome can. The center cohort, which has taken a significant beating so far and whose bones are starting to grind out dust, and southern cohort begin to faintly glow.

The respite from the rattling onslaught is momentary however, and the skeletons quickly regroup and advance again, surrounding the party (save for Whudyalookadah) on three sides. Rhogar intervenes, striking at one of the solitary skeletons attempting to hit the Professor, but whiffs his main strikes against the center cohort.

The Professor curses as she attempts to formulate a plan, and curses again as she sees a feminine figure dressed in armor under a white tunic steps out from the tall white pillar despite no obvious means of egress. She curses a third time as the figure approaches, draws a flaming sword and begins to slash at the nearest undead and cheer the party on in their efforts to repel the skeleton mob. Duly encouraged, Professor Thorntongue continues to lob her sacred fires in amongst the boney rabble.

Still surrounded, Kyllar again blast a Thunderwave. Fortunately, this time, the center cohort fails to avoid the blast. Unfortunately the wings of the loose skeleton formation hold. Fortunately, the center cohort is blown to bits by the percussive force, their lose bones being tossed backwards.

As the inert bones clatter to the ground, Whudyalookadah assumes the shape of a boar, with mighty tusks. Unfortunately, it is a gnome-sized boar, and the adorable teacup pig charges between the legs of one of the cohorts, inflicting no harm.

The skeleton formation is split in two, and each retaliates; their rusty weapons swinging around, missing the Professor and bouncing harmlessly off Rhogar in the south but cutting into Kyllar and the boar hide of Whudyalookadah in the north. Maintaining the attention of the southern cohort, Rhogar strikes out at the lone skeleton harassing the Professor, and soundly clobbers it, the fighter’s weapon striking the helmet of the skeleton, and collapsing its spine to dust as the blow drive the bones back towards the ground. Remaining composed, Rhogar commands Kyllar to retreat, and the wizard obeys, slinking out of the melee and asking the newcomer who she is.

She suggests that they can talk later, and with a prayer, swings her flaming blade into the cohort of skeletons distracted by Rhogar, and smoldering bones fly as the tide begins to turn in favor of the party.

Professor  Thorntongue and Kyllar lob another round of fiery magic into the cohort while Whudyalookadah makes another pass at the ankles and shins of the last skeleton cohort. They stab at the boar but cannot seem to take it down. Rhogar and the paladin advance, this time Rhogar battering the cohort to oblivion and the paladin smiting the solitary skeleton.

As the bone dust settles, the woman regards the party, looking beyond them, off into the distance… perplexed, but her composure is soon regained, and she introduces herself as the Holy Warden Isabella – charged with consecrating and defending these grounds from the undead… and wonders why the party would come armed to a cemetery.

The party gestures to the broken bones of the skeletons at their feet. Point taken. Adventurers should be prepared. Well, what brings them here then?

The party relates that they are hunting what they believe to be a group of monks known as the Wizened, who are dabbling with zombies and necromancy using magical rods grafted to the spines of some of the zombies.

Isabella has not heard of necromancy in this way… but admits she is more familiar with smiting the undead than in determining how they magically work.

The party learns more about this young Isabella. She is not tied to any religious order. The gods instilled her directly with her holy powers, and she was compelled to this place and tasked with its protection. She is the current Warden in a long line of defenders. They live in this warded pillar until they fall, and then a new one is apparently imbued with power and summoned by the gods. While she lives alone, this area is not always so desolate; there are festivals and services every few days, with many coming to pay their respects to her as protector and groundskeeper.

The party is rightly more interested in her protection duties, and Isabella relates a little more about their surroundings. Sharn’s current incarnation, the impressive City of Towers is only its newest incarnation; but the site has been inhabited for thousands of years, and these rocky hills have become the repositories of countless dead, some powerful, many meek. The tree line marks the end of what her and her predecessors have reclaimed and warded. In and beyond the forests, lurks a powerful lich known as Ujix the Despoiler, and nestled in these crags are buried other evils and treasures.

The party continues to follow each question with another, and learn that Isabella has been serving her role as Warden for almost 6 years, and in that time she and Ujix have entered into a deadly game of cat and also cat; each one smiting the companions/minions of the other, but leaving their main adversary unharmed.

After fighting alongside her, and hearing her stories, Rhogar has been regarding the paladin with his trained eyes as a fighter, and is able to deduce that she is both more skilled and more resilient than the dragonborn. But the fighter’s thoughts are derailed before he can put those facts into any kind of context by

Mention of the lich Ujix has greatly excited the party, and they are eager to go beat up a lich; but Isabella looks on with horror at the rash desire, attempting to dissuade such belligerent action. If you bring an army against the lich, you are doomed to fail, for with each soldier of yours that is slain, you feel the lost twice as bad as normal; for the soldier falls and then rises to resist you. Such it would likely be with a group of adventures for as soon as one falls… the fight gets that much tougher.

Aside from these occasional probing attacks against her wards and defenses, Ujix keeps to himself. Believing that one-on-one is the only way to defeat the lich… Isabella is content to leave well enough alone for now. The world is dangerous enough without picking fights.

It is well on in the day, and Isabella offers the group lodging for the coming night while they plan their next move. Dusk is still a ways away however, and Isabella inquires if the group visited the tomb of Winfiz the Destroyer - nestled in the cliffs to the west. There is time enough to visit them and return to the pillar before nightfall. The group lets the paladin lead the way.

Isabella leads them to a tall alcove, with the cliff rocks shaped and smoothed away to create a safe and sheltered area. A stone-shaped arch marks the entrance, and though the exterior is quite weathered, it appears to be decorated with a weathered carving of a figure standing on cracked earth, surrounded by a disorganized horde of lizardmen-looking creatures over the bucking ground.

The group shuffles inside, and sees a small, roughly cubic shape in the center of the room. It appears to be a coffin-like object, and a gnome-sized body is displayed on the top, with etchings around his hands, and snaking around his back and neck.

At gnome eye level, Whudyalookadah notices a story, and begins reciting the tale of Winfiz the Destroyer for the party. Long, long ago, before Sharn was a city, it was quite literally a hole in the ground, filled with kobolds. A nearby gnomish tribe went to battle their ancient racial enemies, but miscalculated. Their vanguard was surrounded and being overrun when a soldier named Winfiz manifested a dragonmark, which burned into his flesh and glowed. The ground quaked, and collapsed on top of the kobold tunnels. The gnomish expedition was granted a respite. They recovered Winfiz's body, and erected this tomb to watch over the grounds and (hopefully) prevent the kobolds here from rising out again.

Local history demonstrated that the tomb did not have any magical properties, and the kobolds eventually dug themselves out. However, some of the script catches Whudyalookadah's eye, and he realizes the gnome scribe's description of the spell contains enough information to mimic Winfiz's earthen cataclysm, and he, the Professor and Kyllar learn a simple cantrip to disrupt and up heave a small section of ground.

Satisfied with a day's worth of exploring, they solemnly depart the tomb, and begin the walk back to Isabella's pillar.