Eberron Adventure: Session Thirty-Nine

So there they were…

Scheming. With the three DieFi rods, the party, consisting of the gnome druid Whudyalookadah, the tiefling sorceress Comfort, the dragonborn fighter Rhogar, the human monk Turnin, the gnome barbarian Gnofulk, the human wizard Kyllar (and the kobold manservant Kaz) had the means to zero in on the location of the Wizened. Rhogar had made the rounds in Ghallanda Hall at an unimaginable 4 a.m., rousing his comrades and informing them that his friend in the City Watch had spread the word among the patrolmen in Greyflood, and the beat cops had spied a man in orange robes in the area. Rhogar was also excited because the armor he had ordered through Felmore’s Emporium was ready for his final fitting! Finally, the dragonborn could crack heads wearing full plate.

The party, bleary-eyed, munched on a cold breakfast of biscuits and cheese. The rest of the party was convinced to visit Felmore’s Emporium, as both Turnin and Gnofulk also had items that should be ready by now. And maybe that fancy-looking suit of armor Kyllar was eyeing as a conversation piece for their eventual party headquarters might be able to be bought…

Turnin and Kaz each take a rod, and Gnofulk somehow tucks one into is assortment of weapons. Sleepily Turnin excitedly claims his DieFi rod is flaring up, though it may have been a prank by Kyllar. The party ventured out into a cool morning that promised to become a glorious day. Weather-wise. They trudged along the mostly deserted walkways connecting the innumerable towers of Sharn, and soon found themselves beneath a sign bearing the image of a plate-clad minotaur and the words “Felmore’s Emporium (Associated with House Cannith)”.

*ding*

The party burst in on an unsuspecting Felmore, who was just opening up shop, moving from shelf to shelf setting his gizmos, gadgets, and the toy Skull Buddies in motion for the day. Pleasantries were exchanged, as well as the favor scroll for House Cannith obtained earlier. Kyllar noted with some dissatisfaction that the armor he had been eyeing was gone.
Turnin, the human monk received twenty-six smoke bombs, and as Felmore juggled the taskts of making the final fitting adjustments to Rhogar’s new plate armor and explaining the bombs to Turnin, that number became twenty-five, and the monk was engulfed in a rough five-foot cube of dark smoke.

Gnofulk thumbed his ammo warily. The gnome barbarian had asked for special sling ammunition for when raging might be a poor choice of action. (What?!? Bro, do you even barbarian?) Boring a hole seemed like an odd thing to do to a pebble, but Felmore explained that once flung, air would woosh in, and it would sound like the wail of a chain-smoking Banshee. Anyone nearby not in cover would likely be frightened, and anyone nearby already in cover would be quite dissuaded from leavings its safety.

Turnin then remembered that he had left his weird hovering and flaming skull associate, Skull Buddy in the tender care of Felmore, after everyone determined that Skull Buddy wasn’t 1) a toy Skull Buddy 2) a real skull 3) but not a demi-lich. Felmore admitted that the Skull Buddy was beyond his abilities, and his crew of warforged worked were working on it… though they had yet to arrive today. Odd. They are usually so punctual.

*ding*

Turnin claims his rod is acting up, and newly outfitted, the party departs, and arrives in the northern area of the district of Greyflood in the still-early morning.

Viewing this area in the daylight for the first time, Turnin, Gnofulk and Comfort learn a little more about how Sharn functions. A number of small trading vessels travel down the Dagger River, pausing to load and unload cargo, moved by large mechanical cranes looming over the river banks from some of the towers in Sharn. The cargo is briefly handled by these shipping companies, and then sent down the street to transportation companies that sort and disburse it throughout Sharn via porters.

The main thoroughfare – Commerce Road – is getting busy as the morning progresses, becoming clogged with cargo, workmen, sailors, and all manner of pedestrians.

They travel along Commerce Road, and on their right, soon pass by the building of Half the Time Shipping, the almost-certainly-a-front-company for the Halfling mafia. The party briefly considers stopping by, either to talk, or to spy or to fight, but eventually decide against doing anything with the mafia.

Another rough block or so, and they are at the bar known as the Naked Dwarf, and Whudyalookadah is… excited to see the owner Meloria again. But it’s morning still… and the bar is closed. Shucks.

The party, DieFi rods still inactive, decide to duck into the side streets between the towers, and explore the cluster of shops and dwellings just off the beaten path.

An oblivious Turnin, still insisting that his DieFi rod keeps flaring literally stumbles into a shop called “The G-String” – a shop of music boxes, sheet music and mostly stringed instruments. The monk narrowly avoids knocking over the tripod street sign as a hopeful shop keep looks up.

Or… tries to. Despite a normal haircut otherwise, the elf lad has incredibly long bangs hanging over his eyes, and he spends much of the conversation flipping them back or throwing his head in small nods in a persistent and futile attempt to see his potential customers.

Gnofulk is intrigued, as he is proficient in one musical instrument of his choice, and begins to browse, trying to remember which oddity he remembers how to play while Kyllar and Turnin talk to the owner, trying to find their lost “friends” a guy in orange and a gnome named Mort.

Sadly, neither has been seen by the shopkeeper. The party also learns that business has been slow for the little ironically-named music shop. The elf thought more people would chuckle and browse… but the sailors especially have been very disappointed in both his selection and sense of humor.

The party suggests that maybe marketing isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s the merchandise. Or maybe some combination of the two. Why not have a bar with attractive… entertainers, where everyone sings and jams? An idea takes root in the mind of this shopkeeper as the party walks away…

They continue on in these little alleys between the towers, and find a market of fresh street food being sold, and Gnofulk’s primal senses are piqued by the fragrant street meats. The barbarian’s hunger is roused, and he hungrily stalks from vendor to vendor, getting angrier and angrier at each inferior morsel. The best the gnome can do is “fish on a stick,” which is decidedly unusual and unappetizing to this forest-dweller.

The rage is kept in check, and the fish choked down... and Gnofulk finds that it is surprisingly good. Kyllar and Whudyalookadah also order one, and chat with the vendor as the food is prepared. The party is keen to know his business model, which Kyllar guesses as “1) Catch Fish 2) put on stick 3) profit.” The vendor points out that he adds a “seasoning” step in there too... but concedes that his operation is pretty straightforward.

With half the party snacking, they continue to poke around and explore these side streets, bouncing from one cluster of shops to another, with a fair amount of apartment complexes in between.

A long sign swings languidly in the breeze, reading “Coupling Bunnies” with a picture to drive the point of the establishment home. Two large saloon-style doors stand shut before the party. Turnin swings both doors open –

-and blushes a bit. A little ways into this section of the tower stands a lady orc wearing a white lacy dress standing behind a maître d’ stand. She winks at the group, and the doors shut. “The doors work.” Whispers Turnin to himself. “Just checking.”

Some doors are better left closed, but the party decides “why not?” and waltzes in, and quickly confirms that this place is exactly what they expected. The orc’s voice is a little heavier than the party would expect at a place like this, and also find out that she hasn’t seen any wrinkled guy in orange robes. Comfort doesn’t recognize the establishment, but knows sleaze when she sees it. At the suggestion of the tiefling, the party tells the orc to check out the music shop a few blocks north – and depart.

They continue exploring these seedier areas, and eventually sneak up on “Da Club” and walk in. The shop is one large room, and its walls are lined with clubs, small axes and cutlasses and such. A small multi-faceted and glittering ball is suspended from the ceiling, slowly turning, and with an arrow protruding from it. The orc eyes the bauble with dislike, and then welcomes the party.

The orc came in here once, was disappointed in it being a dance hall, and bought the shop to rectify people’s expectations. He caters to visiting sailors and thugs mostly.

Kyllar offers to handle the glittering ball if the orc would answer a few questions? The orc enthusiastically agrees, and the wizard’s mage hand procures a knife and swipes at the cord suspending the orb.

It falls.

Turnin is ready though, and arms outstretched, it lands atop one hand, rolls down both arms of the monk, coming to a stop with a flourish in his other hand.

The orc tells the party that he hasn’t sold anything to a guy dressed in orange, but had seen a guy down a bit south, along the main road, and the party departs.

They eschew traveling along the main road, bypassing the busy Rock Steady Shipping, Everything Goes Transportation and Marsh Shipping towers, and continue along the back streets, coming up on a market for reagents from a less-traveled angle. Eyes of a newt, pinecone dust… you name it – it’s here, but the party doesn’t have need of anything. They see a book market across the street, and Kyllar demands the party travel there next.

They exit the reagents market onto the main street, and as they pass a derelict-looking transportation company. The swing slowly. “5 Orcs and a cart Transportation.” But the 5 has been crossed out and replaced with a 4, and then that replaced with a three. The whole text is crossed out, and a “Closed” sign hands beneath the company one.

As they pass the shuttered company, their DieFi rods begin to glow. The party spreads out, trying to triangulate and soon the rods furthest away wink out. This looks to be the place…

The party takes a stop off the main road, and fans out to regard the building. It appears to be a stout warehouse, taking up the entire level of this skinny tower and being about 60 feet tall.

There are two sections of large double doors covering areas about 40 feet wide and thirty feet tall. An “In” door for receiving shipments and an “Out” door for the orcs and their cart. Both are shut, and secured with chains and a lock. The party decides to go in through the out door. Non one expects such blatant disregard for the rules!

Comfort procures a small lock picking kit – and proceeds to do what the party rogue cannot.

The small padlock clicks open, and the chains loosen. The party gingerly snakes them free, and stealthily opens the door.

It’s shady inside, but not unbearably dark.

A small labyrinth of boxes stand before them, nearly all large (10’ x 10’) crates standing ready for transport. In the back of the room appears to be a 60’ tower and controls for a descending claw arm, rigged to scaffolding and metal runners from the ceiling. The claw holds a large pallet of crate boxes from the ceiling.

There is enough light to see, but shadows abound. Turnin hops up onto one of the walls of crates as Kyllar’s familiar scouts the room, finding nothing. The labyrinth turns out to be full of potential paths, and no actual dead ends.

Just lots of big crates, ready for transportation.

The party sets out, aiming to close in on the control tower. Rhogar’s new plate and Gnofulk’s weapons clatter loudly as the party moves; Rhogar, Kyllar and Kaz and Gnofulk, Comfort separated by a crate wall with a very stealthy Turnin atop. Whudyalookadah shapeshifts into a hawk, and flies up to the control tower, but sees and does nothing.

Turnin wants to see what’s in these crates, and two crowbars are tossed up to the monk. The first crate is broken open, revealing a bunch of soap bars.

The party moves closer, still clattering, and from somewhere in the warehouse - no one can pinpoint where – the breaking of wood is heard. The rods flare to life, but the party can see nothing.

Turnin jumps over to another crate wall, and drives the crowbar in. With a mighty press of the bar, the wall of the crate breaks, splintering wood.

Hearing the noise, Kyllar rounds the corner to the lane where Gnofulk and Comfort in time to see a small mountain of zombies spill forth from the wrecked crate and into the path. Kyllar calls forth flame and ignites the crate, reasoning that he could always snuff it out later. The dry, preserved zombies in and around the crate start to combust.

Crowbar in hand, and seeing Gnofulk and Comfort in danger, Turnin leaps to another crate wall, and picks a new box to try to smash. The monk fails, and only manages to get the crowbar stuck into the sturdy wood case.

Hot on the heels of Kyllar and Kaz, the plate-clad Rhogar stomps around the corner and starts shoving and battering the zombies surrounding Gnofulk as they try to stand; shoving one and battering another with the dragonborn’s sturdy shield.

The mass of zombies paw, scratching Comfort and Gnofulk as the parched undead, modified with metal blades, attempt to stand.

Enraged, Gnofulk and Comfort tear into the mass of limbs from two sides. The gnome barbarian with an uncouth series of attacks with a great axe and scimitar, and the tiefling sorceress seizing the dead with electrifying caresses.

Whudyalookadah, still in hawk form, dive bombs the mass of zombies, and is rewarded with a beak-full of gross. The hawk spits. Gross.

Kyllar unleashes seven hawk’s worth of fury into the swarm, fanning the flames. Kaz, tries to watch his masters back, and shrieks as the Wizened appears.

A blur of orange appears behind the wizard; wrinkled fists pummel the wizard as a shriveled tongue murmurs the forms. The last thing the wizard hears is “Scythe cuts the Wheat” as his body seizes up and he falls to the ground, knocking on death’s door. The Wizened withdraws.

From atop the crates Turnin sees his comrade fall and the victor flee, and the monk catapults himself towards the orange robes, imploring his quarry not to go anywhere. The normally talkative Turnin is rather stoic today; not even bothering to ask actually anticipated questions like “what’s with all these boxes? Why are you here, and who are you working for?” and proceeds to simply smack the Wizened with the cool staff, though his shriveled opponent shakes off the ki-focused attacks. “Ignorant fool,” whispers the inconvenienced Wizened.

Rhogar continues to batter the zombies with mace and shield, and Gnofulk with axe and scimitar. The zombies scratch at Gnofulk, but the barbarian seethes through the most of it, and the dragonborn’s plate proves nigh invulnerable.

Comfort considers a necromantic attack, but decides to rip a devastating line of enhanced lightning at the back of the Wizened, igniting the dust and crates nearby, and adding to the growing inferno in the warehouse.

Both monks easily evade the attack with a mandatory twirl, though the skin of the Wizened starts to char and smolder under the ambient heat of the blast.

Whudyalookadah, still as a hawk, swoops down to Kyllar, returning to Gnome form, and taking the wizards hand, tenderly tells the wizard to nut up.

Kyllar coughs as he regains consciousness, and looks deep into the eyes of the surly, ill-mannered gnome. The wizard murmurs a sweet nothing…

….and the gnome starts to change.

He turns scaly, and toothy, and begins to grow.

In only a few moments, the polymorphed gnome towers over the crates as a regal, murderous lizard. Massive jaws snapping, tail thrashing and tiny arms flailing uselessly. The gnome’s now tiny brain starts to try to make sense of it all. Is he really a.... a... T-Rex?

The Wizened whispers his forms, one wrinkled fist connecting with Turnin’s chest-

-and the other unexpectedly grabbing the cool staff. With a look of contempt, the Wizen plants his feet and flings Turnin into the air, whispering something about meddling and weak fung fu.

Turnin flies and crashes into crate suspended by the iron claw, and the force of his impact breaks it open, dropping zombies down into the room and growing fires as it swings back and forth.

The monk is able to recover quickly from the throw, and manages to regain his footing among the rafters. He briefly glimpsed the Wizened darting through the crate scorched by Kyllar, and decides to jump from the rafters, aiming for the other side of the crate. The monk guesses correctly, and lands close enough to the Wizened to continue the fight.

The numerically reinforced shambling horde swipes at what it can, and the newly arrived members attempt to right themselves and join the fight.

Rhogar and Gnofulk continue to batter the horde, cleaving apwart what is left of the original group and moving on to the new arrivals, while cool-headed Comfort takes a wide stance and twin-casts a spell, blasting apart two control zombies, enhanced with those DieFi rods, but there is still enough rods to keep the horde in motion.

Whudyalookadah the tyrannosaur blinks, and then spits. The old gnome is still in there somewhere. The wheels turn, and the beast lunges forward, swatting teetering zombies off the top of crates with his massive scaled tail, and smashing through other piles of boxes. Merchandise and flaming splinters are flung throughout the warehouse as the dinosaur makes his way towards the last thing that really caught is attention: Turnin throwing himself from the rafters.

The lizard tears through two rows of crates before he happens upon the monk duel, swatting zombies out of the way. The former gnome cannot remember what he is supposed to be biting, and ends up snapping at at Turnin, the bright dragonmark at the back of the monk’s head just too alluring apparently. Fortunately, the massive jaws miss the party's monk.

With the tyrannosaur rampaging about this largely enclosed space, Kyllar proceeds to start more fires, hurlling a fireball into the "zombie pinata." The crates explode, and a half dozen more immolated zombies fall to the floor, while splinters of flaming timber are scattered throughout the room.

A brutal Ki strike against Turnin inflicts grievous necrotic damage, and the muscles of the young monk seize up. The Wizened withdraws a bit, keeping the young monk between him and the dinosaur... but the old bones and shriveled flesh are starting to give, and the aged monk, skin still smoldering, does not make it far.  Even with cramping muscles, Turnin is able to keep pace with his quarry, and even manages to outdistance him slightly, making the Wizened closest to the dinosaur now.

With a huge expenditure of effort, Rhogar sprints, crashing through what is left of the crates left in the wake of the tyrannous Whudyalookadah, spanning much of the warehouse and closing with the weakened Wizened...

...only to miss his strike.

....and interpose himself between the dinosaur and the Wizened. Rhogar, is now closest to the dinosaur.

Whudyalookadah is still adjusting to the polymorph, his dinosaur brain urging him to eat. The former gnome regards the situation, and in a moment of critial clarity, dives at the Wizened snout first. Not quite used to being a Tyrannosaurus Rex, Whudyalookadah eschews the obvious jaw attack, and opts to surprise his jerky-like prey, and uses his mighty jaws to pin the monk to the floor while his tiny arms tear, faster and faster at the robes and dry flesh.

The tiny arms windmill around and around, shredding the aged monk. Miraculously the pilfered Bag of Holding is torn free and flung aside unharmed, and soon the claws scrape nothing but stone, the shredded form scattered behind the T-Rex like dirt from a digging puppy.

The inferno spreads; and the zombies continue to stumble about attempting to fulfill their final commands, but as most are on fire, are quickly dispatched by Gnofulk's weapons and Comfort's magics.

The blaze entirely out of his control, Kyllar implores Turnin to loot what look he can from the Wizened, and everyone starts stumbling towards the exits.

Keeping low to avoid the smoke, Whudyalookada batters through the doors, and stands victorious as the fires continue inside this level of warehouse. A mighty roar is loosed as the rest of the party stumbles out in the wake of the dinosaur...

... and back out onto the bustling thoroughfare of the district, on a simply perfect afternoon.

Eberron Adventure: Thirty-Eighth Session

So there they were…

Worried.

The dragonborn fighter Rhogar, the human wizard Kyllar, and the gnome druid Whudyalookadah sat around Ghallanda Hall under the tender alcoholic ministrations of their usual bartender and occasional middleman, Bud Miller. This group had tracked down some information about the Wizened and the DieFi rods, and had taken to a few days or relaxing, confident that their comrades would likewise quickly fulfill whatever separate tasks they had set out to do.

They, apparently, had been taking their sweet time on their sojourn.

As they began discussions over their drinks on how they might be able to track down their missing members, the missing quartet entered the Hall, beaten, bruised, and sopping wet, despite a string of dry weather the last few days.

Saying nothing the halfling rogue Shadowale, the gnome barbarian Gnofulk, the tiefling sorceress Comfort and the human monk known as Turnin all approach the bar, and ordering a staggering amount of food and drink, declare that they have uh... seen some stuff.

Drinks were downed quickly, and they then declare that they need to dry out before the food comes and the catching up goes too far. A few minutes later they return, and the trading of tales commences.

The quartet relates that they snuck off to murder a half elf known as Sandar Fancybrook. Turnin mentions that this is the rogue talked of way way way back by the dragonborn paladin Sorai in her dying warning not to split the party, a warning received mere days into their adventure as a group, way back with the Sealers of the Stone Maw and Brenda Halim, the Mover of Pieces.

Shadowale also pipes up, noting that the reason Sandar Fancybrook needed to die was… revenge.

The halfling relates his story, and the recent reveals of Sandar’s meddling with Shadowale’s life. Before Shadowale met the party, he was a happy drunk, enjoying minor thievery with his wife. House Tarkanan values disposable halfling assassins, and sought to recruit Shadowale through grief, drink, and manipulation.

Sandar began “recruiting” Shadowale with the murder of the halfling’s wife. Grief would lead the halfling to drink, as is common with his race. House Tarkanan would hand off his recruitment to another operative, who would “handle” the halfling and ply him with drink and lies until the House needed something done.

Unfortunately for the house, their handler – a dwarf lady – was killed on the electric rail, shortly after spotting Shadowale, and Shadowale continued on his own path, moving slowly but ever closer to avenging his wife.

Once in Sharn, Shadowale found himself in contact with House Tarkanan, but with the safety provided by the party, free of their direct control. The halfling also heard news of someone matching the description of his quarry in Sharn.

The House realized that a reckoning was likely… but opted to try and get some use out of Shadowale still, and aimed him at Steve Carlsberg von Brighthammer Jr., with instructions to go alone. Shadowale did not, and survived the encounter, with Gnofulk tossing the paladin into the lava river deep in the Cogs in Sharn via a suplex.

The reckoning was inevitable, but their small hit squad failed to derail Shadowale, and with Comfort’s aid, the secret lair of Sandar Fancybrook, murderer of Mirabella Burrows (who was a pretty lady, tricky rogue and wife of Falco Burrows, aka Shadowale), was discovered during the grisly murders investigations.

So, with the investigations concluded, Shadowale embarked on a journey for revenge, and found himself joined by Gnofulk, Comfort and Turnin, who recognized Sandar’s name from the journal he kept belonging to Brenda Halim.

Comfort then takes up the story, and relates how the group moved to interrogate a known associate and accountant for Sandar, who was an elderly dwarf in her bath house. And long story short, Gnofulk attempted to massage him.

The group gleaned enough information to infiltrate Sandar Fancybrook’s lair – the base of operations for a cell of House Tarkanan, and the group snuck through a Legitimate Drinking Establishment, accidentally started some fights, let most of the baddies live, and was subsequently captured and tortured, apparently for days.

Turnin chimes in that all the baddies the group let go, came back to fight them again later, and the monk asserts that the group should always be killing their foes.

Comfort continues, stating that they were freed in part by the intervention of some Blink Dogs, who knocked over the metal and glass cage of a blue imp familiar named Tiny, shattering it and freeing the imp. The dogs fought with the torturers, were wounded and withdrew. Tiny finished off the torturers, and freed the party.

Kyller interrupts, and mentions that the Blink Dogs were some protection, courtesy of House Ghallanda, nodding down the bar toward Bud Miller, for reasons he can’t quite recall.

The quartet attempted to sneak around, triggering a huge number of alarms in the process of their jailbreak. They learned a little from some of House Tarkanan’s HR files, like about the existence of “Boss” a Beholder and presumed mastermind behind House Tarkanan, “Skirge” a mindflayer pirate, Feral Fawcett, who is still planning something unknown, and Ujix the Despoiler, a secretive lich up in the plateaus around Sharn. However, the imp Tiny absconded with the files.

All was not lost though, as they eventually found a mostly complete spellbook belonging to the late Naman Fireslinger, as well as the pilfered book on the Wizened, procured by Turnin. Kyllar rejoices at the former.

They found a drunk halfling and an elven House Tarkan handler, and through some tough love and dubious logic, convinced the halfling to drunkenly stagger away, and then tied up the defeated and unconscious elf, all without apparently seeing the potential parallel with Shadowale, and what their irascible halfling might have been without their help.

The party pressed on, and eventually fought and defeated a very drunk, pretty lame Sandar Fancybrook, who, through a fumbled release of his dragonmark, cause rain to start falling in the lair, slowly flooding it.

Gnofulk states proudly that they looted a bunch of stuff, and shows off the little armory strapped to his back. The group picking up two sets of armor; a magical sword with a Beholder Eye as a pommel, lots of cash and gems, a royal jeweled necklace from the continent of Aerenal, and a small stone, which is offered up by Shadowale and identified as a Sending Stone by Kyllar, though no one knows how to use one.

…And that brings their story to now.

The human wizard Kyllar, the dragonborn fighter Rhogar, and the gnome druid Whudyalookadah launch into their story.

They, along with Professor Thorntongue, who was still tagging around after the confrontation with Zyn, decided to snoop around, and see what could be discovered relating to the DieFi rods, the Wizened, their missing bag of holding, and necromancy in general.

Unable to track down Naman Fireslinger’s spellbook on their own, Rhogar borrowed a small air skiff from his friend in the City Watch, and they took it out to the City of the Dead – a large graveyard among the plateaus just northeast of Sharn.

There they met a young illiterate and solitary paladin, known as Isaballa, the Holy Warden, who said that she was tending to and protecting the graves, as well as facing off against and keeping tabs on Ujix the Despoiler. She argued that solo was the way to defeat a lich.

After a hospitable evening in a warded pillar overlooking the grounds, the group returned to Sharn, where they hoped to recover a DieFi rod from the merfolk. They returned to the slum to find Bubbles the merfolk, who tried to give them a note from the Wizened, but the ink had washed off. Because merfolk. The Wizened also gave him an apparent Bag of Holding to give to the party.

Kyllar produces the bag, and asks if anyone wants to see what’s inside. Gnofulk gladly jumps in, and moments later, is thankfully dumped out.

For the empty Bag of Holding was really a Bag of Devouring. The gnome could’ve gotten swallowed whole. Kyllar reveals himself to be a bit of a jerk, and potentially the greatest force of moral decay within the party.

The group returns to telling their story, and how they coerced Bubbles into diving into the sunken, destroyed cache of the Wizened, probably scarring him for life, as he retrieved the bloated corpse of one of his friends, which promptly popped like a rotting fleshy balloon once it was out of the water. The group promised him protection, and told him to lay low and that was four days ago.

Yeah, Kyllar may not be a nice man.

The group disguised the rod, skull still attached, and brought it to House Sivis, a gnomish dragonmarked house associated with diplomacy and communications magic. There they met an annoying gnome named Mort, the relative of a House bigwig, and Rogim, a heavily dragonmarked elder gnome, who was able to discern a great deal of about the rod and its magic.

The rod receives and amplifies simple command-style magic, allowing a user to control a group of zombies over a small area. However, the rod needs to be close to the commander, and within line of sight, similar to the Command spell. The raising of the dry zombies appears to be a separate thing from commanding them. Rogim tweaks the rod slightly, causing it to glow around this specialized kind of command magic.

The following day, they take their rod, carried by Kaz the Kobold, to Grayflood, in an attempt to backtrack to the party’s first meeting with the Wizened, as well as explore a deed delivered to Turnin that morning.

After visiting the Naked Dwarf bar, the deed is found to be for an apartment in a section of tower set for demo/reconstruction soon… and Kaz alerts the party that the rod is glowing.

They wander in and explore, eventually kicking in a door and finding the Wizened on the other side, activating two cohorts of dry, preserved zombies while a third lays in a neat stack in an apartment neighboring the one purchased by Turnin.

Kyllar ignites the zombies with a fireball, but the orange monk escaped, launching himself out the window. The group pursued, over a spilled delivery of Zoop’s Soups, sort of under, sort of through a large stained glass window for the re-consecrating of the Silver Flame’s previously massacred chapel, and also through the annoying gnome Mort, who was seeing off a group of elves from Aerenal.

Yeah, Whudyalookadah does not like Mort, and gored him pretty good while in boar-form. Whudyalookadah tells the party that he has heard rumors of a reward from House Sivis… because Mort has gone missing. The group is unsure if they want to go and fess up.

Long story short, the Wizened is quick, and got away, helped by a distracting smoke bomb, just like what Turnin wanted from Felmore’s Emporium. They trudged back to the apartment, burned the few remaining zombies in the stone apartment tower, collected three more rods (#s 15, 16, 17), and returned to Ghallanda Hall… and after a few relaxing days, here they are.

Now, all caught up with each other’s sojourns, after deciding to focus on the Wizened, the reunited party puts their heads together, trying to figure out their next moves...

Kyllar and Shadowale are able to visit Rogim in House Sivis the following day and have the gnome modify two other rods, and retain one for the house to study. The dragonmarked gnome is also able to show Shadowale how to activate the Sending Stone, which is blinking because it has a message-

-which turns out to be the Beholder known as Boss checking in on Sandar, wondering if the "elf slave" has the halfling situation under control. The Beholder would like to get back to business as usual, and has new tasks for Sandar's group to complete...

Turnin is able to delve into the book, and learn a little of the actual history of the monks, as well as their martial prowess, while Rhogar’s City Watch friend has put the discrete word out at Rhogar’s request, and a few Watchmen have seen a figure matching the description of the Wizened monk in Greyflood. Armed with the general location, three rods to help narrow the manhunt, and now plenty of adventurers, the reunited party begins their final preparations for a battle with the Wizened...

Eberron Adventure: Thirty-Seventh Session

So there they were…

In unexpected silence. The alarms they had triggered had suddenly ceased their warnings, and Shadowale the halfling rogue, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, Turnin the human monk, Comfort the tiefling sorceress and Tiny, the imp stood tensely in the library.

Turnin quietly pocked a book on the Wizened from the library, found by his very discerning eye among hundreds of tomes. Pretense gone, Tiny spoke in common, and warned the party that someone probably knows that they are loose in the lair. How? Well, someone had to turn the alarms, amirite?

Shadowale and Gnofulk crack the library door open, looking around. While indistinct blabbering is hear echoing off the walls, no one is in sight. While defensible, the library is an inferno just waiting to happen, then they decide to creep (yeah) away, and down the hall to their immediate left.

Small doors line the left-hand side of the hallway. The first three are shut, the fourth open, the fifth open and charred from one of Comfort’s earlier attacks, and the last two closed. Crying is heard from somewhere down the hall.

Being quite thorough, the party began opening every door after getting the “no traps” sign from Shadowale. The first room is empty, with just a bed against the far wall, and a few pegs for cloaks. The second room is the same as the first. The third opens with a very noticeable creak, and opening the door reveals… a third, identical room.

The creak causes the sobs to cease momentarily. A tall elf in a dark cloak sticks her head out of the fourth room, and is immediately approached by Comfort, being true to her name and asking in sincere tones whatever could be the matter for such a pretty elf.

Gnofulk, Turnin and Shadowale see this occur, and wonder what Comfort is up to. The elf’s eyes are bone dry, and the crying is coming from someone else in that fourth room.

The elf darts quickly back into the room, and shuts the door. Comfort thinks she looks familiar, and remembers seeing her corralling two devastatingly drunk halflings out of the Legitimate Business Establishment when the party first approached it. Comfort is insistent, and knocks softly at the door while Shadowale opens the flimsy lock with a flick of his pick.

The door swings open, and Shadowale and Comfort see the elf speaking to a bleary and teary eyed halfling dressed in dark clothes. The elf urgently gestures towards the group, informing her halfling that they killed his brother!

Tiny regards the party. This is a reasonable accusation, in her estimation. The party hears the accusation, and starts mentally tallying their body count. They don’t recall killing any halfling children. But they may have to. Blades appear in the hands of this tiny halfling adolescent, and his drunkenness and sadness seem to disappear as he throws himself at Shadowale in a focused, murderous rage. “For my brother Steve!”

Blades flash with quick movements, but Shadowale is only nicked as he is driven back from the door and into the hallway. Seeing such commotion, and pretty sure the elf’s accusation is false, Turnin attempts to deescalate the situation, running up and prying the murderous halfling off of Shadowale with a series of joint locks. The drunk little rager is hefted back, his tiny feet lashing out as Turnin lifts him out and away from his comrade. With a captive audience, Turnin emphatically insists that they didn’t kill his brother, shouting louder than the elf.

Free of the halfling, Shadowale throws himself at the elf. He manages a deep cut. She retaliates with her blades, and lays the rogue low while imploring the halfling to aid her and get revenge for his brother.

Seeing his drinking buddy slump to the ground, Gnofulk steps forward, and slaps the elf in the noggin with the flat of his axe, hitting her in juuuust the right spot on her elf skull to knock her the f out. What a b.

The drunk halfling struggles as he hears Gnofulk’s victorious, uncivilized grunt, but Turnin’s grip is strong. Turnin whispers they the party has a very strict policy on families. They (apparently) kill all or none. Since this halfling is alive, obviously they didn’t kill his little brother.

Completely outnumbered, and apparently outnumbered by psychos, the halfling drops his daggers to the ground, and resumes sobbing. Turnin lets the halfling so, but shoves the kid a bit.

Comfort tries to get to the bottom of things.

The group learns that the halfling has been in a drunken stupor for weeks. Sweaty Sweeny and Steve were orphans. Maren (the elf) said she saw who killed their folks, and that’s she’d help them. About a week ago, the trio wandered off, to avenge their parents. Steve didn’t make it, but Sweeny couldn’t remember the details. Maren had been protecting them for a few weeks, and he believed her… but things just don’t make sense now.

The party deduce that this is the fate awating Shadowale, had he not the party around.

After asking Sweeny about this place, they determine he doesn’t know much, and encourage Sweeny to head upstairs into the Legitimate Drinking Establishment. Turnin tells the Sweeny to “have one for Steve,” and reflects on how many Steves have met unfortunate ends in this sad world. Tiny whispers harshly that the party is a bunch of enablers.

The party convinces Sweeny that they’ll tell Maren where he is when she wakes up. Sobbing, the halfling hugs himself and zig-zags drunkenly down the hall and down towards the exit.

Maren is then looted, bound and gagged. Gnofulk takes her longbow and quiver, and the few boring-looking blades. The gnome is now armed for just about any contingency.

The fifth room is inspected. Comfort’s magic had ignited the bed, and the room is charred. Well done!

With Tiny in tow, the group presses on. The bathroom at the end of the hall is uninteresting, though the group notices that someone didn’t flush. They enter a small crossroads with a candelabra on the only wall. They turn into the small kitchen, where the find tables, and a bar. Behind the bar is a dumbwaiter (probably leading up into the Legitimate Drinking Establishment) with scraps. Even the barbarian turns his nose up at such fare. He’s no scavenger.

The party hears the rise and fall of a drunkard’s voice, apparently coming from the main hall.

Comfort decides to peep (yeah) inside. The hall looks much the same as when they last recall seeing it, though the wizard, presumed dead, has been removed. The golem sits inactive against a wall, the brush propped up against it. A complete red and black banner hands from the high ceiling, and the paints and additional banners sit on the ground, mostly furled up.

At the far end, propped up against the statue of Lord Tarkanan, Comfort  sees Sandar Fancybrook leaning against the statue, large glass of brandy in one hand, rather drunk. The half elf is in turn, shouting for an update because it’s been literally forever, admiring his cloak, swirling his brandy, wondering why this room isn’t redecorated yet, shouting for a minion to top him off, and wondering where everyone else got to.

The tiefling slinks back to the group, and informs them that Sandar is up ahead, alone.

Shadowale whispers “dibsonfirstblood” and sneaks (yeah) through the banquet/war room, ready to enter the hall from another angle.

Clad in pilfered dark leather armor and armed to the teeth, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian creeps (yeah) up to the far end of the hall, nocks an arrow on his 6’ longbow, and holding it awkwardly due to his tiny size and arm span, takes aim at Sandar-

-who in sudden a moment of clarity, locks eyes with the Gnome, who releases. The arrow bounces harmlessly off the tall statue. The half elf wails in fright, and drops his large glass of brandy in surprise, which precipitates more wailing.

Battle is joined.

Driven be terror, Sandar is first to act, and draws an odd looking blade as he stumbles away. He points the pommel at Gnofulk, which appears to be a large eye. Gnofulk collapses to the ground, asleep.

Shadowale bursts into the room, and moves quickly around the statue, coming up behind his prey. A dagger is driven into Sandar’s back, followed with a brief exposition on revenge for Shadowale’s slain wife, Mirabella. Sandar wails again, looking behind him to see Shadowale as well as the halfling’s dagger in his back. Blood is getting all over his wonderful clothes! If only Shadowale had been brought to heel like so many other halflings!

Turnin foregoes entering the fray, and passes the columns to the great hall, and looks down the hallway with the entrances to HR, accounting and the armory, and stretches, preparing to head off any reinforcements.

Comfort gives the gnome the briefest of nudges as she walks by. Apparently unable to rouse him, she presses, leaving him to his gentle snoring and flings a lightning bolt towards the far end of the room. It arcs, striking both Sandar and his brandy, wounding the former and igniting the latter for a few seconds.

Tiny thinks Comfort didn’t try hard enough, and starts slapping the gnome across the face, back and forth, until Gnofulk is roused. Cheeks smarting, he groggily staggers to his feet, and attempts to nock more arrows and loose them at Sandar, though his volley is largely ineffective, the only damage caused merely a nick against the half elf caused by a ricochet. This… displeases the barbarian.

Sandar continues to wail, trying to draw the attention of his minions, and turns around to face Shadowale. The half elf’s blade and his insults are ineffective… as are Shadowale’s strikes. Sandar declares that he is drunk. What’s Falco’s excuse? If only there had been time to housebreak this halfling…

Shadowale slurs his speech, and convinces Sandar that he too is drunk and that this is a totally fair duel, though a firebolt from Comfort suggests evidence to the contrary.

Turnin sneaks (yeah) up the door to the treasury, waiting for Sandar’s reinforcements to come pouring out of the armory.

The monk does not have to wait much longer. As sounds of fizzling magic and the whiffing of blades come from the grand hall, the HR drow and lady dwarf armorer run out of the armory, weapons drawn.

Turnin shouts down the hall, and draws the ire of the dwarf. Bruised and furious, she gestures with her shield for the drow to help their dumb drunk boss and with mace aflame, charges down the hall at the monk. She has a score to settle.

She rounds the corner into the accounting area, but Turnin is (almost) ready for her. He swings, but it is a little high, and his staff whooshes by her head. A few punches are thrown, but the dwarf shrugs off the bulk of the blows. Turnin qickly scampers around and into the armor via the connecting hallway with accounting.

Abandoning his longbow, Gnofulk draws Squirrellenbane and charges Sandar in a rage, getting in two decent chops against Sandar as the drow enters the room.

Sandar disengages and as he runs past the drow, but turns his pommel towards Shadowale, who drowsily collapses in a heap against the statue. The half elf tries to activate his dragonmark, but is unable to harness the torrent within. Instead of a devastating deluge, the air merely grows thick, and it begins to rain heavily throughout the lair, the water rapidly accumulating on the stone floors.

Turnin waits in the hallway door to the armory, preparing himself to lead the dwarf on an exhausting (for her), circular chase, and is surprised to see Sander exiting the grand hall and also rain coming down indoors. He is also surprised to see the dwarf reach into a pouch and lob odd looking trinket at his feet. Flipping out of harm’s way, a small cataclysm of lightning consumes the space he just occupied.

Comfort, oblivious to her surrounds, blasts the drow with magic, her flames bypassing the orbiting blade silhouettes, as he lunges towards Gnofulk. As the blow lands, the blade turns white and dissolves, and the drow’s eyes go wide. Gnofulk grins, congratulating himself on both stealing and donning the armor, and would swear in the days to come that the white motes, floating away from the former blade were miniscule doves.

The gnome swings at the drow with his axe, the latter, however, is still ensorcelled by the Blade Ward granted by his dragonmark, and the small flat pink dagger silhouettes rotate around his dark-skinned and dark-armored body, reducing the potency of these attacks. Not fond of this tit-for-tat, the gnome seethes.

Tiny scampers past Comfort, picking up a piece of now wet parchment, and flings it up, draping it over the tiefling’s extended arm. It appears to be a page ripped from the spell book of Naman Fireslinger, an artistic template left on the floor for the painted banners to be hung from the grand hall’s ceiling.

The imp continues scampering forward, and seeing their quarry getting away, lobs a firebolt at Shadowale in an attempt to wake the halfling. It works, and the rogue stumbles backwards, waking up and only lightly crisped.

Shaking away his grogginess, and seeing the object of his revenge fleeing, the halfling throws himself at the fleeing form of Sandar, plunging more knives  into the half elf’s back. Sandar gasps in surprise, and expires mid-sentence. Shadowale stabs his quarry a few more times, to insure his demise, and begins looting the body, procuring two keys, a small stone, and the weird blade.

Tiny leaps atop the arcane golem while Comfort releases a devastating blast of lighting at the drow… zapping him dead. Unfortunately, in a foot and a half of water, this was not the best choice of spell, and both Comfort and Gnofulk are zapped as well as lightning arcs down through the water. Gnofulk unclips the drows bandolier of daggers, tossing them over his shoulder.

Seeing Sandar fall dead nearby, Turnin pivots to confront the surly dwarf, and with a flurry of blows, manages to knock her prone. She forces herself to her feet, and smashes the monk with her hefty flaming mace.

However, with Shadowale appearing as well… and holding Sandar’s weapon… the duo convince the dwarf to surrender, and leave. Pushing herself up out of the water, she extinguishes her mace and throws it aside with flooosh, and then starts booking it out of the flooding lair.

The flooding, now almost two feet deep, does not deter the group however, and armed with the two keys, Shadowale swims over to the treasury vault door, which is glowing and gilded, and is soon joined by the rest of the group, with Tiny riding on Comfort’s shoulders. The alarm is triggered again, but the door is opened, revealing some rolled up parchment, and pouches of gems and coins, all greedily stuffed into pockets by the adventurers.

They make their way over to the armory, but the second key does not work. Shadowale and Turnin deduce that the second key must have been to Sandar’s private broom closet vault, which they had already broken into. They also realize that the dwarf they let go (twice) probably had the key.

After a failed attempt at picking the armory lock, Gnofulk has an idea. He uncorks a nearly forgotten potion, and his barbarian arms ripple with even more muscle. He eyes the door angrily, and Comfort casts Embiggen on the gnome, who begins to grow. Get gets taller and taller, growing to a towering 5’1” and roars with fury as he batters down the armor door.

The metal bows and the thick wood splinters, revealing a breastplate with clips, hooks and many small pockets, a bandolier of 1-shot wands, and a case of scrolls. The party grabs it all and starts to make their way to the exit. While the rain is lessoning due to the death of Sandar Fancybrook, the water is still raising.

Sopping wet, they reach the exit and depart, dripping up towards the Legitimate Drinking Establishment. They totally forgot about Maren the manipulative elf.

They slosh into the storage room of the Legitimate Drinking Establishment, and exit into the kitchen, where the find Chef, the warforged cook, sharpening his knives. He asks Comfort if she remembered to bring him the onions he asked for.

The tiefling did not.

Chef assumes that Sandar Fancybrook is dead, which is confirmed by the party. Rolling up his cookware, he asks if they might have use of a cook. He appears to be out of the job. Not seeing any dragonmarks, Comfort tells the warforged he’ll be back cooking again soon. Follow them!

They all depart through the back door. Shadowale has had his revenge, but will this newcomer cut into the profits of the party-loved Zoop’s Soups??

Eberron Adventure: Thirty-Sixth Session

So there they were…

Bloodied, in nothing but their smallclothes, and locked dark in cells. Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, Turnin the human monk, Comfort the tiefling sorcerer, and Shadowale (aka Falco Burrows, aka Shadowale), the halfling rogue wondered what they did to get here. They all recalled Gnofulk massaging a very old dwarf, and Comfort sneaking them through a front company known as “Legitimate Drinking Establishment,” and then down into the lair of Sandar Fancybrook, leader of a murderous cell of House Tarkanan, a conglomerate of violent thieves, assassins and those aberrant dragonmarks.

They recalled interesting-looking candelabra as they entered, failing some attempts at being sneaky, and a fight with lots of magic and fire, and then finally the appearance of Sandar Fancybrook, roused from his quarters by the din.

At this point, their memories became hazy. Each vaguely remembered bits a droning and villainous speech and parts of a fight of some sort. Since they awoke in cells…. The group assumes they lost.

Hours have passed for sure. Probably days. Possibly, a week or more.

The group has been tortured, and Comfort has ratted out the old dwarf Ivar, the receiver of the worst massage ever, and the one who gave the party the means (the key to the Treasury Vault) to rob this cell blind and betray House Tarkanan in the hopes splitting the loot with the group and retiring comfortably. In all likelihood, the dwarf does not have long to live. It is not wise to betray assassins.

So there they were. Alone in the dark.

Each individual cell has walls of smooth stone; and a seemingly enchanted window that functioned as a door. Sound is muffled, and magic nullified. The party has sworn it has heard growls coming from the darkness, and it is to this muffled noise that they each awaken.

The growls abruptly stop, and yellow light spills into the room from the left, the source bobbing around and glinting off the instruments of torture and the hooks and horrid restraints dangling from the ceiling. A trio of masked torturers, dressed in House Tarkanan’s black-and-red come into view; a woman holding the orb, a tall and skinny man with a knife and a key, and a short and burly man with massive muscles.

They approach Comfort’s cell, but before it can open, the growls return, and the party can see portal-like ripples of magic, and fur. The torturer’s knife slashes, and the woman casts magical fire. The party, blinded by their abrasive bright lights can only squint, watching some beastial thing (or is it things) magically teleport. The beasts are driven back, but the last torturer falls too.

Moments pass; their eyes struggling to readjust to the darkness.

In turn, the cells of Comfort, Shadowale and Gnofulk are opened. Finally, Turnin hears the key turn, and his cell door swing open, but alas, as a human in the darkness, the poor monk cannot see his rescuers.

After a tense moment, the monk tentatively asks "hello?" And the rest of the group, with only a little hesitation, replies that it is them. They are free, and though the exact process is baffling, the gnome, halfling and tiefling thank the thing that unlocked them; a blue wingless imp, who is covered with purple bruises.

Shadowale asks the blue imp a question, and she tilts her head in the universal sign of incomprehension. Fortunately, Comfort speaks Infernal, and rephrases it. Turnin is still blind and confused.

The imp is known as Tiny. She relates to Comfort that she was accidentally freed in the scuffle, and points to a box, slightly bigger than her and made from the same enchanted glass. It lies broken on the floor; knocked off a small counter.

The imp conjures a small flame above her head for the benefit of Turnin, and seeing the imp, thanks her as well.

Through Comfort, the party learns that the growls, portals and blurs of fur were Blink Dogs. The imp thinks the Dogs came for the group – demons like her don't usually get along with dogs, so they wouldn’t have come for her. Still… they accidentally freed her… so they can’t be all bad. With a little encouragement, Tiny concedes that she a "better-than-average familiar," and was unfortunately caught trying to spy on House Tarkan for her master, about whom she refuses to speak.

The group wastes no time comparing notes on what they remember about the speech or the fight or anything else. They’re freed, but in a bad spot, their only weapon a solidary dagger pilfered from the corpse of one of the torturers, and held by Gnofulk.

The room has no means of illumination. Opposite the four cells is a dark passageway on the left, which, after a cursorary look, the party believes to be the end of a secret way into the room, and tables and racks of torture devices on the right, separated by the counter from which Tiny’s cage fell. To the left of their cells is a small nook with a few steps leading to a door, which looks mostly like the wall… a flimsy attempt at camouflage.

Comfort asks the imp to run and get help, but she gives them all a look. She’d rather exact a little revenge. She can’t fly, but she’s got a few tricks up her sleeves, and can turn invisible, albeit with a lot of effort.

Shadowale listens at the flimsy camouflaged door, and hears someone shuffling papers. The party asks the imp to leave via the secret passage, circle around, and scout the room. The Imp agrees, extinguishes her conjured flames, and sets out. A few grunts of effort are heard, followed by a whisper that the secret door is too heavy for her to move alone.

The group immediately abandons that plan, and Shadowale opts to stealthily open the flimsily camouflaged door, and have the imp scout the room directly. Tiny, still invisible, is released into the room, and after a few tense moments, appears back in the room, gesturing Shadowale to close the door.

The blue imp informs Comfort that there is one male drow in the room ahead, armed with knives, and looking over stacks of paper and some boxes.

Knives the drow may have, but he still sounds like a nerdy paper pusher. The party psyches up for battle.

Again the door opens, and Gnofulk attempts to creep out. The drow, picking at a fingernail with a knife turns asking if the torturers are done alrea—and the Gnome flies into a rage at being found out. The Gnome strikes with paramount accuracy at the drow, and after a few stabs with the dagger, the aberrant dragonmark on the drow’s arm begins to glow, and is soon surrounded by two-dimensional dagger silhouettes glowing with a pink menace. When the barbarian stabs again once of the flat magical blades interposes itself, mitigating some of the gnome’s strike before shattering and dissolving.

As the gnome angrily takes a step back, preparing for a long fight, the monk bounds up into the fight, and grapples the drow like whoa, and the unfortunate office worker is dragged back into the dark room of torture and thrown into a cell. Tiny locks the door.

Turnin did not disarm the drow, and although trapped, the drow stands defiantly in the cell, blade drawn and still surrounded by pink magical dagger silhouettes.

While deciding what to do, a soft *pssst* Tiny draws the group back into the room, and she points to the boxes. Sticking out of one of them is a squirrel skull pauldron. It’s the party’s clothes! As they slip into dresses and put on robes and armor, the group sees numerous shelves in the room with what appear to be personnel files. Comfort tries to find Sandar Fancybrook, and finds a little snippet, learning that he specializes as an Arcane Trickster, and was a “halfling recruiter” prior to taking over this cell recently.

Shadowale and Turnin both then think to look up Falco Burrows… but the halfling is quicker, and triumphantly pulls his file from the stack, and sits, pouring over the notes someone else has made about his life.

Properly clothed, curiosity wins out over a sense of urgency, and the group launches themselves into the filing cabinets.

Turnin finds an entry for Brenda Halim, the Mover of Pieces, written by Sandar Fancybrook. The dandy was infuriated at being detained by this upstart cleric after setting the recruitment of Falco Burrows in motion, and while he was able to shake off her task, he wanted revenge. He was pleasantly surprised to find she has since disappeared, and considered the matter closed.

Comfort finds a file on Ujix the Despoiler, a lich apparently residing in the City of the Dead and forested hills northeast of Sharn. House Tarkan doesn’t know what the lich is up to… and they don’t like not knowing.

Gnofulk finds an entry for a mindflayer pirate known as Skirge. Apparently he and Sandar had some kind of fashion disagreement, and Sandar wants revenge if ever the pirate is found.

Comfort finds an entry for Feral Fawcett, with House Tarkanan lamenting the trouble she is causing. She has actually organized the Daask gangsters in Sharn towards some yet-unknown goal, and the uncertainty is agonizing to the House, who seeks to maintain and exploit the status quo balance of power.

Turnin finds the final entry, for Sandar’s boss… a beholder referred to only as Boss. Sandar thinks Boss is somewhere in or around Sharn… and that if he can kill Boss, he can take over control of House Tarkanan entirely.

Shadowale exhales slowly, having finished reading his personal file. Slowly realizing the boon his companions have been to him, he passes his file around, letting them each read it in turn.

kShadowale had just only recently shared with this group about his quest for revenge for the murder of his wife Mirabella by Sandar Fancybrook, and his redoubled efforts to find the half-elf murderer since arriving in Sharn. Reading the file, the party learns that House Tarkan often recruits halflings this way. Halflings like to drink. Cause them some misery… and the drinking turns into something they can exploit. Exploit this enough… and the House can point their inebriated murder machine at a target, and have it eliminated with no real ties to the House. Additionally, the drinking likely means the halfling operative is caught and disposed of by the guards or authorities…

Sandar had started the process of “recruiting” Falco and turning him into a disposable killing machine by murdering Mirabella. Falco turned broody, adopting the name Shadowale. However, Sandar had to hand off further involvement as he was promoted within the House. The replacement handler, a dwarf woman, was waiting for Falco on the electric rail heading towards Sharn… but was unfortunately killed when the warforged terrorists attacked the train.

House Tarkanan’s would-be-disposable assassin was allowed to roam free.

While the drinking continued, Shadowale was protected by the presence of the party. House Tarkanan tried to loose Shadowale at Steve Carlsburg von Brighthammer Jr. alone… but the party tagged along, and the halfling not only beat the paladin, but survived.

House Tarkanan doesn’t like what they don’t know and what they cannot control. They decided Shadowale could not be brought into the fold, nor controlled at arms distance, and they decided to rid themselves of the halfling, and failed. And now… Shadowale had located Sandar, with a reckoning close at hand.

Tiny taps her foot impatiently as the party passes around Shadowale’s file. Then then all rise to their feet. They have some “revengening” to do.

There are door other doors leading from HR, both shut. One leading into a hallway, and one into the next office space. Gnofulk attempts to listen into the other office, but cups the wrong ear and hears nothing. Turnin then does the same, and both the barbarian and the monk confidently declare that there could not possibly be anything in the next room.

They throw open the door, and find the room already illuminated.

Fortunately, they recall that the lights are always on most of the lair, due to the reflective ceilings and band of enchanted masonry giving off light. There is no one in this room.

Four desks sit here, with ledgers upon them, and the group realizes that this is the accounting room. In addition to the mundane entrances, before them stands a glowing, gilded door: the door to the cell’s Treasury. They greedily pat their pockets, looking for the key given to them by Ivar. They do not find it… apparently House Tarkanan either recognized their own key from the start, or followed up once Comfort blabbed about Ivar’s involvement. The jerks.

The group had taken the HR files with them, and Tiny asks Comfort to read them (because spying, whispers the blue imp) and the tiefling hands the files over. While rearranging the accounting ledgers to that they are woefully disorganized, Gnofolk sees the hand-off and wonders if the imp does know common, and was just messing with them.

Despite not having the key, Shadowale can’t help by try the vault door.

eeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The halfling discovers that the door had an alarm.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Still unarmed, the party panics. They quickly decide to run into the next office.

They are greeted by an angry and bewildered female dwarf dressed in plate armor.

Fortunately, the party spies their weapons, laid out on a desk. Unfortunately, that dwarf is standing next to it, and seeing the party unarmed, attempts to protect the stash. She pulls out a wand, and releases a barrage of Magic Missiles against Shadowale, who is the first into the room. As the rod crumbles, it’s magic spent, she draws a mace, which becomes wreathed in flames.

Shaking off the hit, Shadowale runs around the room, locking the door leading to this office from the hallway, and then running over to quickly survey the next room. He is, unfortunately, still unarmed.

The next room is large; two roughly spherical rooms littered with traps, obstacles, and small wands similar to the one that just blasted him, all poised and ready to be triggered. It is a… dangerous room.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

As Shadowale finishes his surveying, and positions himself behind the dwarf but a safe distance away, the monk rushes forward, asking nicely for the groups weapons. The dwarf refuses, and Turnin slips through her defenses, surprising her with a few punches, and knocking her Ki off balance. The topples to the ground, her shield smacking the desk as she hits the ground and sending Turnin’s cool staff flipping into the air.

As the monk reaches out, and continues to spin the quarterstaff around around his limbs and person, Gnofulk spies his axe laying regally on the desk. He rushes in, and hops onto the desk to grab his axe before leaping off to land some vicious blows to bloody the prone dwarf.

Seeing the dwarf launch himself off the table, Comfor t rushes up, and blasts the dwarf in the face with a poisonous spray.

Bloodied and overwhelmed, the dwarf tosses aside her mace, and the fire dissipates. She surrenders.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Having taken a break from perusing the files, Tiny giggles. This group is pretty good. As weapons are reclaimed, Turnin chastises the dwarf for making them do this the part way, and then demands she turn off the alarm. The dwarf spits out blood, and says she can’t. She works in the armory, and has no idea how to turn off the alarm in the Treasury. She refuses to open the door to the proper armory as well.

The group panics, and decided to flee with Tiny in tow.

They run into a large hallway behind the Grand Hall, which is littered with trophies. Pelts of scale, hide, flesh and fur adorn the floor, and the walls are covered with magically mounted skulls, bobbing next to expository plaques like moored ships. The party quickly try to traverse the hall to reach Sandar’s private chambers, but… things catch there eyes.

Comfort spies a fabulous necklace cascading with jewels on a stand behind a cube of glass; it’s multitude of jewels shifting color in waves. She slides to a halt behind the plaque that reads :Mortuary Jewels of Royal Aerenal, punches the glass, but only cracks it. Turnin see her however, and swings wildly, breaking the glass and freeing the necklace, which is quickly snatched by the tiefling.

 DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A throbbing alarm joins in with the alarm from the Treasury.

Gnofulk beholds a massive squirrel skull in the hall, and can only grin at the name “Twiggens” on the plaque below before continuing on.

Shadowale skids to a halt inform of a huge skull labeled “Larelith, Gold Dragon.” The skull is laid out in a kind of double profile (like shark jaws), a mess of bones floating in the center skull from the presumed killing blow. Leaning closer, the halfling considers if he could hide here… and discovers that the wall behind the dragon skull is an illusion.

The rogue sticks his hand through and sees it disappear, and then summons his companions back. They pile in to this secret passage.

A wild stairway appears, and they begin to walk up. As they approach the top, they are confronted by a roaming head with four protruding eye stalks. As it beholds the party, it shrieks a string of incomprehensible babble interspersed with utterings of “fancybrookfancybrook.”

Shadowale, first in line, is blasted, with the eye stalks unleashing a blast of necrotic damage and then paralyzing the poor halfling.

Turnin sees the rogue teeter but remain standing on the steps, and then the monk advances, swinging his staff and beating the Spectator repeatedly about the head. It would be more impressive is the Spectator was made of less head, but still, the monk is able to stun the guardian.

Gnofulk

Comfort

Giggling at the amount of fun she’s having, Tiny scampers up the steps, and jumps up to eye level before letting rip with a Firebolt to the Spectator’s eye, burning keep into the floating skull which collapses lifeless to the group.

DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The party explores this secret passage. Up on the left is a small nook with dials overlooking the dangerous training room. Up ahead is another locked door, which Shadowale deduces to be magically alarmed as well, though more of a silent alarm than the ones already triggered. To their right are a few steps leading down to what the group thinks is the personal quarters of Sandar Fancybrook.

As they make ready to enter the personal quarters, they realize that Tiny the imp is not in tow, and they hear tiny exertions. The party takes a few steps back and facepalms as tiny tries (unsuccessfully) to work the door to this secret room.

Gnofulk tries to force the door, and on the second attempt, it buckles, revealing a small room similar to a broom closet – cramped and with a few shelves. The gnome grabs a few pouches and throws them back to the party – they are filled with gems. He tosses a tome back at them, and Turnin sees the cover embossed with a flame, and the words “Property of Naman Fireslinger” written in the cover – it’s the slain wizard’s missing spellbook. Lastly, the gnome discovers some leather armor, with a few things left untied, would fit him adequately, and starts squirming into the armor.

DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

In they go. The secret door is thrown open, and the party spill into Sandar Fancybrook’s private quarters.

He’s uh… not there.

They spill into a small study; the secret door concealed by a book case. Beyond that is a bedroom and dresser.. a bathroom, and a kind of lounge by the entryway. A painting of a slim, hairless Sandar Fancybrook reclining on a bear skin hangs alluringly by a hooded fireplace. Conceivably, were there no fire, one could scurry through the fireplace into the library beyond.

Shadowale cannot believe that Sandar Fancybrook isn’t here, and starts looking for an ambush. Books are pulled from shelves and candelabras ripped from walls, but no additional secret passages are found. The halfling then grasps the alluring painting, and gives it a tug. No safe is revealed; the painting only swings off the nail and crashes to the floor.

Shadowale extinguishes the fire with his magic ring of Fey Fire, and discovers that this could be a kind of secret entrance; the fire appeared larger than it was though magic, and passing through (even with the flame) would not be too injurious.

DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The group exits through the main doors to the private quarters as Tiny shreds the painting on principal with her claws. It’s a gross painting.

At a loss since their target didn’t stay in one reliable place, the party peers down the long hall or rooms, and then decides to slink over into this library.

House Tarkanan has amassed quite a collection, chronicling old histories, ideas and even religions. A particular section of books catches Turnin’s critical eye, and he picks out a nice, small orange tome with the title “The Wizened.” That should come in handy, once the monk has time to peruse it.

DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH DAAAAAAAAHHHH

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

As the monk pockets the work, the alarms suddenly switch off, and an uneasy silence engulfs the party.