Eberron Adventure: Forty-Third Session

So there they were….

…in the cozy Ghallanda Hall, chowing down on a breakfast of tacos prepared by their warforged friend, Chef. The Hall was abuzz with talk of the upcoming Race of the Eight Winds, and in between bites, the party, consisting of Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, Shadowale the halfling rogue, Comfort the tiefling sorceress, Kyllar the human wizard, and Turnin the human monk, all discussed what they had learned about the other riders.

In his business dealings, Turnin had heard about Janus Campbell of the Rattlestone and Bazaar districts. While he doesn’t remember what the mount is, the monk does recall that it is slow. They are not usually favored to win, but function as more of a kingmaker, leveraging bribes and making deals to manipulate the outcome of the race.

Kyllar the human wizard has also heard a bit about one of the riders: Ruth, the niece of one of Winnifred’s friends. She rides the Hawk, wearing light and dark browns, and represents the Tumbledown and Underlook districts. While the hawk isn’t expected to win, the districts make bank on everything surrounding the race, as their districts make for prime viewing areas.

The tiefling sorceress Comfort, a longtime resident of Sharn, has enjoyed watching the yearly race for the violence, usually perpetrated by the Griffon, with its large beak and maiming talons. It never wins, but is a fan favorite in the city. Ridden by a (rumored) former pirate orc named “Slash” the last few years, the griffon is something probably best avoided.

The halfling rogue Shadowale also had heard of one of the riders, Bolad the Beautiful, a halfling riding a pterodactyl-like dinosaur known as a glidewing. She is rumored to be decidedly not beautiful, and financially backed by the halfling mafia, Clan Boromir.

Looking up from his plate of tacos, Gnofulk announces that he has learned a bit more about the race. It is three laps around the inner plateaus of Sharn: a big loop; a figure eight; and a final big loop.

The gnome has also learned about one of his opponents: Officer Gladstone, riding a Hippogriff, both pulled from the ranks of the Goldwings, the small aerial division of the Sharn City Watch. Year after year, the Hippogriff consistently places in the top three for the Race of the Eight Winds. Someone to watch out for, for sure.

Including Gnofulk, that’s six of the eight riders/mounts in the Race. Perhaps Rhogar the dragonborn fighter and Whudyalookadah the gnome druid have learned more?

The party finishes their tacos, and decides that today is a good day to finish up the errands for Winnifred. The kindly old wizard will cover the cost of boarding and feeding Nutasha, Gnofulk’s flying squirrel mount if they drop her bets off with the bookie. And if they help her steal the Conjurer’s Cup from Beatrice Marsh… the old wizard will owe the party a favor. Turnin pulls out a sack of coins and divides it up among the party. Their first stop will be the bookie’s – and they might as well place some of their own bets while they are there…

The party departs Ghallanda Hall, and makes their way down to Greyflood. As they make their way through the main throughfare, they hear some sailors gab about seeing a full-blown tyrannosaur down here recently… The party continues on, and reaches “Half the Time Shipping” – the front company for the halfling mafia.

They knock the appropriate knock (shave and a haircut), and the door opens, revealing a common room. A few well-armed halflings linger around the room, which has a handful of tables and chairs. Behind the bar sits a halfling with spectacles and Lincoln beard – Boris the Bookie. He is chatting with a well-dressed dwarf woman, and a ways behind her is a wizardly-looking teen, who is startled a bit as the party joins the queue behind him.

The teen clutches his pouches of coins and tries to adjust his blue pointy hat, emblazoned with a crescent moon and stars. He is Mickey, apprentice to Walter the Wizard, here to place some bets.

Mickey refuses to be goaded into betting directly with the party – they are in a bookies, after all, but does discuss one of his bets. The two “big money” pools are 1) who will win and 2) who will the griffon maim. Mickey says rumor has it, the Cogs has a new, unseasoned rider. He’s betting this rube will be the first to fall to the griffon. The party takes this claim (mostly) in stride.

The dwarf finishes her bets, claims a few receipts, and departs, leaving Mickey to place his bets.

While the wizard apprentice speaks with Boris, Kyllar hands out a few pieces of his artificer’s puzzle box, each loaded up with Mage Armor. Simple trace the rune with your finger, and the spell will be released.

Mickey soon claims his receipts and departs as well, leaving the party to place their various bets with Boris.

Shadowale bets 50 gold that there will be three fatalities in the race

Gnofulk bets 30 gold that he will finish the race, and 20 that he will win

Kyllar bets 30 gold the Gnofulk will kill someone

Turnin bets a whopping 200 gold that Gnofulk survives the race.

Lastly, Kyllar hands over Winnifred’s note with her bets. Borris hands out all the receipts, and the party departs as a few clusters of other gamblers enter the common room for the front company.

The party decides that now is as good a time as any to go steal the Conjurer’s Cup for Winnifred, and makes their way up to her aerie and small castle in one of Sharn’s numerous towers. They make their way there without incident, and catch the old wizard just as she is finishing preparations for the ritual in her common room. The massive fireplace is empty, and two tall candles sit alongside it. Intricate, circular runes are scribbled around the fireplace and candles, and as she finishes the final words, she summons warm cookies for the party, and talks through the plan with them.

She’ll open a portal to Beatrice Marsh’s personal sanctum, and the party will enter, retrieve the cup, and get out. They have about an hour before Winnifred’s portal spell collapses, so they’ll need to move quickly.

Munching on the cookies, the party has some questions, but unfortunately, Winnifred isn’t too enlightening. Beatrice is a warlock, but the nature of her patron is a mystery. All the old wizard knows is that it’s not a Fiend, leaving either a Fey or an Old One as the most likely patron. Winnifred doesn’t know much about this alternate dimension aside from its magical location, deduced over years of study. She doesn’t know what is there or how things will work. She also doesn’t have anything else to really give the party – she’s working with them because they are competent and have their own gear.

With no further questions, Winnifred takes her place in front of the huge fireplace, arms outstretched. Ready?

The elderly wizard flicks a double thumbs-up to the fireplace, and pale blue fire spews from the candles, setting the inscriptions ablaze and opening an opaque, shimmering portal as the fiery pathways connect.

The party jump through as a group.

All land safely on the other side, with the exception of Gnofulk, who biffs it and tumbles through the portal, landing on his back. He is helped up by Turnin, and the party takes in their surroundings.

The smells of a salty sea fill their nostrils, and they find themselves in a small sitting room; a moldy looking couch before them. The walls are wood paneled, and warped slightly with the dampness, and the rugs on the floor squish slightly underfoot. The room is tall, and the portal sits a good 5 feet off of the ground. Not perfect, but still, not bad.

The sitting room has two exits, and the party opts to go right, and find themselves in the middle of a long library room. They fan out, and Kyllar casts detect magic, but none is found among the moldy tomes. Shadowale lifts one from a shelf, but its dilapidated pages crumble in his hands. It was probably a dumb book anyways.

In between the book shelves are stone-framed windows, all displaying the same odd vista. There is a churning sea, dark save for the white caps and almost oil-like coloration of the shallows. Opposite the sea is a dead cosmic sky; only a handful of dim stars fighting against the black. The oddity is the horizon; a vertical line with the sea on the right. The party is unsure how physics works here.

They decide to continue going right, and enter a room with a large staircase, with steps going to a level above, and a level below. The party decides to go up, and starts climbing. They emerge into a stone-floored solarium. On the other side of the glass is dark, green-tinted water, occasional motes floating by. A few heavily distorted light sources glow through the deeps, illuminating the solarium with a pallid light, exposing a few small bookshelves, a telescope and a table with notes and globe that appears to match up with a few of the distorted light sources.

Turnin can’t resist looking through the telescope and peers in. It is pointed near one of the light sources, but the monk can’t determine what the source is. As he ponders, he swears he saw a hand move, and stands transfixed, beholding a heavily obscured form twist in the unperceivable distance. Hands, arms, and tentacles squirm just out of view of the telescope, and the monk takes a step back, shaken.

Kyllar notices the small book near the telescope, and picks it up, reading the page it is open to. The paged has a heading of “Leviathan” – and the name triggers the wizard’s memory. He pockets the book. It could prove useful later.

The party can’t make heads or tails of the rest of the room, and depart the sickly solarium, descending the steps down, Kyllar in the lead. They pass their original level, and continue downward, the steps quickly transitioning to damp stone.

It proves too much for the wizard, and rounding a corner, Kyllar biffs it, thumpa-thumpa-thumping down the stairs to the landing. The wizard adjusts his robes, as the party catches up, and they find themselves in what appears to be a cavernous cistern, tall stone columns supporting arched ceilings… well over a floor above them. The architecture is weird. The party can’t determine the depth of the water.

The landing transitions into a stone pier of sorts, in the shape of a cross. The party warily makes their way down the pier to the cross-end. They peer down, seeing steps from each of the cross stubs deep into the water, ending with what looks like a pale blue oval.

As the party discusses their next move, the portal light on their right flickers thrice, and long shadows are cast upward towards them. Three bulbous, thick bodied forms start bobbing, thin limbs climbing the steps on all fours. The party quickly decides to hide.

They back up to the cross stub on the left, and after some consideration, Kyllar conjures an illusionary wall to conceal them.

A few tense moments pass, and then the forms breach, one-by-one, flopping up onto the stone pier. Their hands and feet appear fin-like, and their bodies and faces are bulbous. Huge yellow eyes sit on either side of their hairless heads, and their fat lips flop in the groans and rumbles some unknown language.

The party exchanges looks, nudging the magic users. Comfort quietly casts Comprehend Languages, and hears the awkward small talk between the three, noting how terrible the transportation system is here, and chit chat about helping Beatrice and furthering the Old One’s plans. All hail!

Comfort also notices that the trio is on a bit of a sliding scale. One of them has distinctly more human traits than a fish or a merfolk, which leads the tiefling to suspect that some kind of process or metamorphosis is responsible for their appearance.

The trio begins to depart, the more human one hunched but standing more upright, and turning towards the center pier, while the other two, more fish-like, continue on, shambling towards the party on all fours.

The party again exchange looks, and decide to act while they have the element of surprise. Comfort summons up the energy within her, and twin-casts a witch bolt at the two fishy forms before her, blue energy arcing out from her palms and into their scaled bodies.

The bolts burst through Kyllar’s illusionary wall, ripples forming in their wake, and the fish-men warble in disbelief as Shadowale bursts through the wall too, blades flashing with his sneaky cuts. One fish-man is gutten stem to stern, fish guts spilling out as the blade in the halfling’s off-hand sinks into the fatty flesh of the second foe.

As Shadowale slices, Turnin uses his cool staff to vault past the fish men, landing near the more human of the trio. The monk’s sudden arrive startles the man-fish, his bulbous eyes wide in disbelief. Turnin wastes no time though, and with a wide swing of the cool staff, the man-fish is ended.

Gnofulk follows his fellows through the rippling wall, and merely thwacks the sole surviving fish-man in the face with the butt of the gnome’s ax, knocking him out. The blow echoes through the cistern, but there are no other sounds.

The party try to rouse the fish-man by tossing some water on him. It doesn’t work, but a chuckle is shared. More than half the allotted time has expired, and the party decides to backtrack to the library. Gnofulk hoists the bulbous fish-man over his shoulder, should he wake up and the party need someone to interrogate about the whereabouts of the Conjurer’s Cup.

The party cautiously make their way back up the stairs and to the library, and continue on through it to the far end of the room, entering a private study. Walking from the library to the study, the vistas displayed by the windows of the new room shift; same sea and cosmos, but a different perspective with regards the horizon. Bizarre.

While still damp and humid, the study is in a little better condition, dominated by a large desk in the center of the room. The party spreads out in the small room, with Kyllar burning another spell slot to detect any lingering magical items.

The wizard is rewarded, and a magical peacock quill, small knife, and shark jaws are tossed into the Bag of Holding while Turnin nabs the Conjurer’s Cup from a shelf. Gnofulk unceremoniously dumps the fish-man on the floor.

It is nothing, if not ostentatious. It has a metal skeleton inlaid with colored glass like a stained glass window. The cup itself is large and hexagonal, each face showing off some facet of magic, from an all-seeing eye to ensorcelled weapons to a succubus mud-flap girl silhouette.

Loot in hand, the party is running short on time… but not that short. They decide to venture on and explore more of this salty abode.

Skirting around the desk, the approach a locked door at the end of the study. Turnin tries the door, but it is locked. Shadowale tries to pick the lock, but it appears to be beyond his abilities. Finally, Comfort steps in and with two twists, the door is opened, revealing another little room, with a stairwell and another shut door.

The party scamper up, Turnin in the lead, and they find themselves in another solarium. Like the other solarium, this room has similar small bookshelves and a telescope. It also has an astrolabe, filled with stars. This stands in stark contrast to the exterior of the room, a mostly empty void of black; the dark opposed by only a few dull suns.

Again Turnin looks through the telescope, but sees nothing spooky this time. Just empty space. Which could be argued as being existentially spooky.

The party backtracks down the steps and opens the other door in the stairway room, leading to a bedchamber, with a large bed and vanity. Against Comfort’s protests to leave the lady’s things along, the rest of the party piles in, though no magic items are found. Turnin looks under the large four-post bed and is surprised as a frog leaps out. The monk’s reflexes are too good however, and he manages to snatch the frog by his back leg mid-leap.

Kyllar checks the time, and stresses that they need to get going.

The party hurries back to the small sitting room with Turnin clutching his new pet. A quick peek down the other exit from the sitting room shows a large, long hallway, but the party has no time to explore more.

Winnifred’s voice is heard from the other side of the portal, imploring the party, if they are there, to hope on through – the spell is just about out of energy.

Turnin bends down allowing Shadowale and Gnofulk to climb up and jump through the portal, followed quickly by the rest of the party, who haul themselves through Winnifred’s onto the floor. When they are all through, the elderly wizard lowers her thumbs and the pale blue flames are extinguished, sealing the portal.

Kyllar triumphantly hands over the Conjurer’s Cup, and the party is quickly debriefed with more cookies.

While their extra loot is kept hidden from the elderly wizard, the party does tell Winnifred that Beatrice is a warlock favored by the Old Ones, and that group is linked to the Leviathan threat spoken of by the Death’s Noggin hobgoblins just recently. The last bit goes over the elderly wizards head, but she is pleased to learn more about her rival. And now, she owes the party a favor…

Eberron Adventure: Forty-Second Session

So there they were…

On a wonderful afternoon, scarfing delicious beef wellington as prepared by Chef, the warforged cook in Ghallanda Hall. Comfort the tiefling sorceress, Shadowale the halfling rogue, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, Rhogar the red dragonborn fighter, Kyllar the human wizard and Turnin the human monk were enjoying themselves and their full bellies and hearing about Gnofulk’s flying squirrel mount for the Race of the Eight Winds (Nutasha), when a teen human boy burst into the hall, eyes sweeping across the room until they landed on the party.

The kid is dressed in a not-quite-fitting brown speed suit with “Jake – House Orien Courier” on the nametag. He awkwardly approached and explained -aww geez- that the party was needed per their um, signed contract with House Orien. The party got rewards for finding secret spaces, and a retainer fee to clear out any ruffians or monsters that wormed their way – and they are needed now by his supervisor.

Kyllar, who was expecting trouble today, hands out part of his Puzzle Box to Comfort and Turnin; each of the pieces of the box contains the spell Mage Armor; just shake and blow into the box bit to activate! The party should be pretty tanky now.

After some teasing and taunting of poor Jake, the party follows the young courier out of Ghallanda Hall on to the platform and ramp outside the hall, where Jake has a magical, if boring ride waiting. It is a platform with standing room only. Jake posts up behind a podium and starts turning gears and switches, and cranks a level, imploring the party to hop in and hang on. A guard rail provides the illusion of safety as the party walks on. Another few gear twists, and the platform moves past the edge, and begins rapidly descending into the depths of Sharn.

Full of delicious beef wellington, this is not a forgiving maneuver. Rhogar, afraid of heights unless he is driving, closes his scaly eyelids and pretends it is a windy day. Comfort dry heaves once. Kyllar is jostled once too much, and vomits off the back of the ride, though who knows where it land. Gnofulk, Turnin and Shadowale are unfazed, perhaps even enjoying the ride by the time it comes to a halt, deep in the lower parts of Sharn.

Jake lands the platform just outside a rocky area cordoned off with red and black tape, and points toward and elf dressed in brown – Pamir, his supervisor, who is chatting with a gruff dwarf dressed in red, someone from the City Watch. Jake tells the party that this is, like, as far as he can go, and they should go talk to the elf.

Lower Sharn is generally sparsely populated, but this region is better than most. There is a street, and among the foundations of the towers are actual shops and apartments. The cordon separates them from the rocky area that is your destination.

Loitering Watchmen lift up the cordons, allowing the party entrance, and Pamir the elf greets, them, and introduces them to Lumarum, captain of the City Watch in this district before jumping into business. House Orien is interested in building a rail system in Sharn, and was looking for secret spaces within the City to lay potential lightning nodes or stations. This is a potential station site, and House Orien hired two surveyors to go in and get a more accurate map of the area. One was delayed in his descent into the space, saw his partner shot with arrows, and noped right on out.

The party immediately want to question the survivor, but Pamir refuses as the man has had a tough day, and already been questioned by the City Watch and the House. He and Lumarum should be able to answer any questions. The party are concerned with the quality of arrow the man was shot with, as they think the level of craftsmanship could infer the kind of opponent they are facing. Lumarum replies that the survivor did say that the arrows flew straight and true when he described his partner being shot. So… the arrows are probably well made? Cheap arrows don’t fly straight.

Pamir gestures behind him a bit, towards a semi-secluded section among the foundations of the towers – the area further secluded by the cordons of the City Watch. A hole sits nearby, barely large enough for two to fit through if they were standing up, and a flat rock sits nearby. A hefty metal tripod stands over the hole, pulleys and ropes hanging from the apex and nearby Watchmen tied up and ready to belay the party down.

Shadowale asks for Pamir to clarify what it is they need to do here, exactly. Scout? Conquer? The elf replies that this low in Sharn… he’ll give the party a free hand. Scout, destroy, whatever, just make this place safe for the surveyors and workers – this would be a really nice spot for a rail station.

The party seem to like this freedom, and ready their weapons as they approach the hole, and all the ropes and all the Watchmen ready belay them down.

Instead, they all pile in, and fall down the hole together, with Kyllar casting Feather Fall on all but Turnin, who, given his monk-skillz, could reach the ground easily.

The party descends down into the subterranean caverns, into a room with two exits. Rhogar is the first to reach the bottom, and several well-made arrows whiz by. The dragonborn can’t see who shot at them, but is able to discern that the arrows came from the two exits, and the fighter charges the nearest exit (on the left) as the rest of the party reaches the rocky ground.

…Rhogar reaches the end of his charge, but still hasn’t seen anything resembling an enemy yet. He ends his movement near a crude rocky barricade, and suddenly, he’s hit! Small war cries ring out, and sharp somethings hack at his scaled flesh and draw blood. The dragonborn roars that the rocks are attacking him!

Kyllar thinks this statement is quite dubious, and runs up near the dragonborn. Movement catches the wizard’s eye, and he releases a Fire Bolt, which scorches into the darkness. While he missed, the wizard does illuminate the attackers… some kind of reddish goblinoid dressed in armor.

As the Fire Bolt zips by, Gnofulk flies into a rage, and flings himself at the other exit (on the right), trusting in his darkvision to find targets. Wielding his axe and scimitar, he does indeed find his foes, and strikes out at the red goblins.

Following the barbarian, Comfort also heads towards the exit on the right, and twin-casts a Witch Bolt at the cluster of gerblins, bloodying one.

Seeing slashing and magic on either exit, Shadowale decides to assist Rhogar and Kyllar on the left. The rogue has apparently not fallen out of practice. He slashes at one, and eyeing a weak join in the armor, cleaves the hobgoblin in two before skewering another.

Turnin was the last to land on the ground, with an appropriate landing. From what he has glimpsed from the magical attacks and heard from the shouts of his comrades, he knows that it is not rocks they right, but hobgoblins! Bigger, redder, and far more martially competent than their green-skinned evolutionary cousins.

The monk decides to take advantage of his inordinate speed and rushes the far exit. Unfortunately, being underground, it is quite dark, and the after-images of the magical attacks have faded by the time monk arrives at the little barricade and the baddies. Whirling his cool quarterstaff, Turnin swings once, twice… and connects with nothing. The monk remembers goblins are short, and lashes out with a kick, and finds nothing. Channeling some Ki, Turnin kicks once more at the darkness… and hurts his foot on the rocky wall. It is far too dark for the monk to see properly.

The hobgoblins have no such deficiencies, and in formation, those that remain begin to strike out with small pole-arms, screaming as they strike out with their sharp weapons. Turnin is struck hard by a sharp pole arm. More sweep at Gnofulk with accompanying small screams, but the hobgoblins are apparently unused to picking on someone their own size, and can’t land a blow at the raging barbarian.

On the left, the hobgoblins are equally organized, but it goes far worse for them. The pole-arms sweep out, but Rhogar’s fighter skills has taken over, and he knows his adversaries. As one chopping blade moves towards Shadowale, Rhogar interposes himself, and strikes out at the wielder, smashing the hobgoblin in the face as the other pole-arms bounce harmless off the armor of the dragonborn. Rhogar presses the attack, and delivers crushing blows to the remaining hobgoblins at the left exit before charging off alone deeper into the cavern. The dragonborn spies a few more entrances to other rooms, but keeps to his right. The sounds of battle echo off the cave walls, and the fighter posts up behind the other hobgoblins fighting his comrades and cutting off their escape route.

The dragonborn neededn’t have bothered. Three hobgoblins remain; though one is bloodied by Comfort’s Witch Bolt, the energies of which still crackle in the air with menace.

Gnofulk angrily strikes out at his unbloodied opponents, eyeing the defenses of each with an amazingly critical eye, his axe and scimitar cleaving through his unwary opponents with ease. Comfort glares at the last hobgoblin, and with a frown, the tiefling ends its life with a sizzle from the still-active Witch Bolt.

The sounds of battle die down, and the party lights a torch for Turnin and Kyllar and wanders deeper. Ahead they see paths to two more caverns, and in a small recess in the cave wall, Rhogar points to a corpse, and the party crowds around to investigate.

The corpse is that of a satyr with Daask gang markings, its arms and legs bound and its body covered in bruises and cuts and its jaw slack. The party finds no loot near the corpse. Torch in hand, the party decides to venture further into the cave. They eschew the right passageway, and prepare to explore the one on the left. Kyllar summons his familiar and sends the awkward-looking bird forward, seeing through its eyes-

-where it is quickly ended by arrows. The wizard gasps as the bird thing falls, and more shrieks go up and more hobgoblins charge out from the other room.

Rhogar catches one in his face with the dragonborn’s mace, ending his life quickly. We can call Gnofulk butter cuz he is on a roll, once again critically appraising the defenses of his opponents and quickly landing a powerful blow against the tiny being. Kyllar releases a Fire Bolt at one of the remaining hobgoblins, before withdrawing to a much safer distance. Out of the corner of his eye though he spots beady eyes glinting in the darkness, peering at the party from the path they decided not to take. The wizard shrieks.

Comfort falls back to join Kyllar, and calmly summons lightning from within. The air around the tiefling cracking with energy before it is released, arcing into the darkness.

The first hobgoblin in formation see what is about to go down, and successfully gets out of the way of the blast, or so he thought. The lightning arcs out with devastating ferocity, electrifying the entire corridor. Little electrified hobgoblin skeletons are seen glowing momentarily from beneath their armor before they all collapse, dead.

Before Shadowale or Turnin can strike at the last surviving goblin barring the intended path of the party, another hobgoblin runs up shouting in common and waving for his soldier to stand down. The soldier hobgoblin backs away, and the party demands the hobgoblins throw down their weapons.

The newly-arrived hobgoblin commander orders his soldier to do so, and soon a halberd, a sword, a dagger, and a short crossbow are at his feet. Rhogar grapples the soldier, hoisting him over his shoulder, while the rest of the party warily investigates the nearby portions of the cave while keeping watch on the commander. In the area the commander was in, they find bedrolls and supplies for the hobgoblin soldiers, and a few small notebooks. In the other room, beyond the lightning-charred remains, the party finds another bound (and dead) captive, a heavyset fish-man with tiny ears, large eyes, bulbous lips and scaly skin. Entirely different from the slim merfolk encountered previously.

Content that there are no more hobgoblins lurking about, and there are no other means of egress from the cavers other than they was the party entered, the party reconvene to… chat with the commander.

The party learn that the commander is Krunk, of the Death’s Noggin Clan – a group of hobgoblins that have called Sharn home for countless generations, going to any means necessary to remove threats to themselves and to Sharn. They moved the stone and came down here a few days ago to follow up on some leads via interrogation. This place was nice and secluded and they were just about to pack up when some deranged human repelled down. They shot him – life is cheap in Sharn’s low places ya’know – and they continued preparations to depart. Then the party showed up, and well, things took a turn for the worse.

Commander Krunk admits that he is not used to being outnumbered, and also that if he weren’t outnumbered, he’d probably try to fight the party. He acknowledges that he and his las surviving soldier are at the mercy of the party. Shadowale barely masks the fact that he couldn’t care less about any of this, and plays with his blades while eyeing the hobgoblins.

The party agrees to sit and talk civilly, and asks about each of the persons being interrogated. Commander Krunk starts with the Daask captive, stating that the Death’s Noggin Clan has known for some time that Feral Fawcett, lead instigator of the Daask in Sharn is planning something big. The Clan still doesn’t know exactly what yet. This gangster didn’t know anything besides being told to make himself available the same day as the Race of the Eight Winds. She could be planning something with the racers, fixing the race… who knows.

The party then ask about the fish-man, and the goblin grins a little. This is largely the opposite of the previously story – here the hobgoblin knows just about everything but zero hour. It’s a good thing they’re sitting, because this story is a little more involved.

Years and years ago, the Death’s Noggin Clan got wise to the machinations of a cabal of warlocks doing the insidious bidding of their patron. The captured a small clan of dragonborn outside of Sharn and embarked on a breeding program to create a new strain of dragonborn, blacker than the blackest black times infinity. On par with the elf/drow dichotomy.

Before the Death’s Noggin Clan could act, a group of nature-worshipping clerics intervened, freeing the captives. However, they were actually too late. Broods had already hatched and the Darkborn (or Drakborn) were loose in the work. While all the hatchlings have martial tendencies, Commander Krunk warns about the pureblooded Darkborn.

You see, the Darkborn were but a means to an end, and magic resides in the veins of purebloods.

When the last Darkborn dies… the spilling of its blood will complete the spell, a portal will open, and a another servant of the patron of these warlocks known only as Leviathan will be summoned. Commander Krunk thinks that will be a bad day.

Fortunately, that day is probably a ways off. Were the Last War still in full-swing, Leviathan would probably be here by now – the Darkborn drawn into the bloody conflict. However, with the end of the war marked by the Day of Mourning… the Darkborn’s access to death is slightly constricted, limited to bar fights, intrigue and adventuring, like the dragonborn in the party.

Rhogar almost blushes, though it is hard to tell with the red scales, and he confesses quietly to the party that he was a hatchling of that captive brood. Not a pureblood Darkborn, but apparently linked to them. He had no idea about Leviathan.

This is all Commander Krunk has to offer the party, and he asks for mercy. Battling Leviathan is a ways off, and who knows where it will be summoned, but if the party spares him, Krunk believes the resources of the Death’s Noggin Clan may be able to help the party stop Feral Fawcett and her plans for the Race of the Eight Winds.

The party minus Shadowale likes being owed a favor, and agree to spare Commander Krunk. Rhogar puts down the soldier, and the party starts getting ready to head back up to the surface, but Commander Krunk insists that they find a way to hide him and his last soldier. Krunk knows the City Watch are up above. If they are seen, they will be detained.

The party frets a bit. Could they Dimension Door the hobgoblins to safety? Do they have a long trench coat to hide them beneath? One hobgoblin should be able to survive 10 minutes in a Bag of Holding, but would two hobgoblins have enough air? Shadowale has had enough, and quietly slits the throat of the soldier. Problem solved! He beams as he grabs a rope and starts climbing up.

Commander Krunk is a little disconcerted, but concedes that the soldier’s job is to die, and continues to acknowledge that he is at the mercy of the party. The rest of the Clan doesn’t know what he learned from the interrohops into the Bag of Holding, and the party make their way back up to the surface. The notify the elf Pamir of House Orien and the dwarf Lumarum of the City Watch that there are bodies down there that will need to be cleaned up, but the area should be safe for future surveyors.  

The party departs the scene, and releases Commander Krunk in an alleyway out of sight. Shadowale continues to play with his blades while the hobgoblin thanks the party for not killing him, and before the hobgoblin disappears back into the low, shadowy places of Sharn, he promises to send anything he hears about the Daask and the Race of the Eight Winds to the party.

Eberron Adventure: Session Forty-One

So there they were…

…with rumblings in their tummies. The party descended upon one of the common rooms in Ghallanda Hall, where the warforged known as Chef, with a few added plates of armor around his midsection, and recent hanger-on of the party, was serving up a taco bar with carnitas!

One of the party, the halfling rogue known as Shadowale, but sometimes also known as Falco, had arrived early, and was working through gods know what number of plate and drink, but was unusually, almost eerily happy. He explained his changed demeanor due to a vacation, but whether that was true or not remains a mystery – no one in the party pressed him on it, or asked if the happiness was really owed to sweet, sweet revenge.

Regardless, everyone’s favorite rogue seemed to be a changed halfling, and greeted the rest of the party warmly as they entered. Soon, Shadowale the halfling rogue, along with Kyllar the human wizard, Comfort the tiefling sorceress, Gnofulk the gnome barbarian, Turnin the human monk and Rhogar the dragonborn fighter were chowing down at a fantasy taco bar.

Between bites, Turnin scratched his headband of intellect, and remembered that Chef, the warforged cook, was a warforged, and that the party had recently been having suspicions about a mysterious group of warforged from the Cogs…

The monk produces his broach from this mysterious group, and presents it to Chef, and asks what he knows about the group… or warforged in general. There wasn’t any warforged out in the monastery where Turnin was growing up.

Chef relates to the party how devastating the Last War was – 100 years of brutal conflict all over the continent. The warforged were created, imbued with skills and sentience and sent out to fight. The War ended in the mysterious cataclysm known as the Day of Mourning, a devastating magical blast that turned an entire nation into a dead and deserted wasteland, and an armistice called. The forges operated by House Cannith were turned off… and the warforged were left unemployed.

The warforged people were left to fend for themselves. Some, like Chef embraced work, and continued serving others. Some, like the thugs from the train, turned to banditry. Some, like Bulwark, turned to more ethical adventuring. No matter what they chose to do after the War, questions revolving around existence, purpose, and the meaning of life have plagued the warforged.

Some groups of individual warforged have banded together, creating differing philosophies to answer these questions. The group to which the broach belongs is one of those groups, and while their philosophy is unknown to non-members, their name has been whispered around Sharn….

The Perpetual Legion.

That…. That doesn’t sound like a friendly name.

The discussion turns to the foundry, and the party asks if any new warforged are being created. Alas, no. The secrets of giving the warforged constructs consciousness and agency are trade secrets of House Cannith, and actually part of the treaty ending the war forbids anyone from creating more warforged.

The party eventually turns to discussing what they want to do next, go after Gofer, root around for more information on the Perpetual Legion… but is interrupted by Chef, who informs the party that the Legion has left town. With more coaxing from Comfort, and a little “encouragement” from Rhogar, Chef is able to recall the recent rumor that the Perpetual Legion had boarded a decommissioned train and departed along an abandoned electric rail line into the Mournland.

Should the party wish to follow the Perpetual Legion into the wasteland, they will likely need to follow the electric rail line now known as the Ghost Train.

Swallowing the last of the carnitas, the party all agrees that that sounds like a legit adventure –

-And also a lot of work. They’ve got a potential Beholder beneath Sharn; a Lich wandering the woods; a medusa to fight; a race to win; and a false god to kill in Xen-Drik. Let’s back-burner this Perpetual Legion business for a few weeks, eh?

Kyllar reminds the party that they should visit Asmund and Blume, the paladins belonging to the Order of the Wayward Blades. The wizard notes that at the request of this tiny Order, the party had investigated the massacre of the Daask, and uncovered the meddling of the Wizened and the framing of the Daask. The holy duo would probably want to hear of the demise of the Wizened.

The party exits Ghallanda Hall, and traverses the City of Towers, winding around the spires, and down into a cluster of honeycombed apartments. Kyllar knocks, and Blume, the old white-haired elf answers in a silver tunic and sword at his hip. The elf welcomes them inside, and gestures for them to sit on pillows in the common room. The Order of the Wayward Blades is usually itinerant; this apartment is serving as a temporary living space and chapel for Blume and his mentee, Asmund, who appears to be out at the moment.

Kyllar soon delves into business, and brings Blume up to speed: the Wizened is dead. …but that’s about all the party knows. They were “unable” to question him. It’s not like talking is a free action or anything. Blume chides the party a bit, reminding them of their part in the failed Crusade, where they refused to take Blume’s “stand down” orders as part of the paladin’s plan to stop it… the party’s refusal to take and distribute the orders led to a good number of unnecessary deaths of Silver Flame soldiers, who zealously fought in the streets to the last man. Blume knows the big picture isn’t foremost in the minds of adventurers. So long as they learned something though, Blume is forgiving – his Order exists to help others learn from the mistakes of others.

The party and Blume talk, trying to piece together more of the big puzzle.

The party expands a bit on the Legion in the Cogs, and Blume sits up a little straighter, and asks if the party remembers their early run in with Blume and then the Daask when the party was first poking around the Cogs. The party does.

Asmund was sent by Blume to investigate the Cogs, as Blume, as a result of his paladin training, had felt an evil presence there. All involved had assumed that it was the vicious Daask the elf sensed… but even after the failed crusade, that sense of foreboding pressed on the mind of the elf. Suddenly, a few days ago, the weight lifted… departed almost. Blume had sent Asmund down to investigate… but apparently the party has solved that little mystery for the old paladin.

The Perpetual Legion packed up and left the Cogs a few days ago, and left for the Mournland.

Blume notes that the creation of life (new warforged) isn’t necessarily evil though – it must be other actions and motivations of the group that triggered his paladin senses.

The group try to view the big picture again.

The Wizened and the Perpetual Legion were in cahoots to some extent; working with a combination of zombies and new warforged bodies.

The Wizened and his zombies in disguise massacred the Silver Flame clerics and framed the Daask. Steven Carlsburg von Brighthammer Jr. responded in the Silver Flames usual, zealous and retributive way, and while the crusade failed, they managed to clear out the Daask from around the warforged foundry-

The dragonborn fighter Rhogar interrupts. What about the armory vault in the cleric’s chapel from the investigation of the massacre? It was locked; and only holy magic could unlock it. Did the Wizened take the loot? He’s no cleric…

Blume admits that the holy armaments are still missing, but doesn’t think the Wizened would have taken them. As far as Blume can recall, Steve was jonesing for a chance to prove himself in battle for as long as the elf can remember. The Daask had always been a threat. Steve probably acquired the armaments himself in preparation, and the massacre was simply the spark hitting the tinderbox. Steve was suplexed off the dam into lava. There’s no way to know for sure, but if Blume was a betting man, the holy armaments are slag at the bottom of the lava river in the Cogs.

Kyllar again curses at the party’s chance at phat lewt, despite having neither a cleric nor a paladin in the party.

The discussion again returns to the bigger picture, with Turnin scratching his headband of intellect again. The monk’s eyes go wide as he drops a surprisingly nuanced take on the situation.

The crusade benefitted the Wizened and the Perpetual Legion, who were working together. While the crusade failed, it did rid the Wizened and the Perpetual Legion of the nearby Daask, and the fallout from it preserved the secrecy of what they were working on, namely zombies and warforged, until just recently.

The party still thinks it best to learn more before charging into the Mournland, though when the party is ready to do so, Blume will likely send Asmund with them. The elf is getting too old for serious adventuring, but the young goliath paladin would probably be useful to the party.

Talk turns to Blume and the Silver Flame. The elf is glad to be replaced – the Silver Flame is too zealous for him. While their goal of resisting, fighting, and eradicating evil is commendable, their “ends justify the means” world view is too much for the old elf. He is much happier leading and mentoring his little Order.

Day-to-day affairs have already been transitioned over to Blume’s replacement; a human known as Reginald the Redeemer. As far as Silver Flame leaders and preachers go, Blume thinks his replacement is more thoughtful and considerate that most, but it is still the Silver Flame. Reginald would think longer than most, but would still not hesitate to burn down a village and all its inhabitants to end the life of one monster.

The official ceremony – officially handing off duties and reopening and rededicating the chapel post-massacre – was delayed due to the shattering of an ornate piece of stained glass down near the docks in Greyflood…

Blume also has a bit of general advice to impart to the party. The Silver Flame has arranged for two of their most zealous champions to keep a watchful eye on the ceremony, known as Censers, so named for their holy, magical war mauls, with hollow areas to burn incense.

During the Last War, the Silver Flame sent out a number of missionaries into the barbarous, nomadic tribes of the hulking peoples known as goliaths. Blume found Asmund, and tempered the lad’s strength with patience and wisdom. Many other tribesfolk were not so lucky. These two twins in particular were really enamored with the retributive and violent tendencies of the Silver Flame, and quickly became two of the religions most effective – albeit ruthless - Censers. They would probably not get along with the party too well, and with the Silver Flame being a dominant religion… crossing them would likely get the party in serious hot water, if not killed. So yeah, best to avoid them, if at all possible.

Kyllar stopped listening at magical war mauls, and the wizard winks at Blume as the party moves to depart. Suuuure. The party totally won’t try to acquire any of that sweet sweet Censer loot. Slack-jawed in disbelief, Blume stammers as the party exits the little apartment.

Back on the street, the party ponders what to do next, and decides to focus on the Race of the Eight Winds for the time being. Gnofulk is slated to represent the Cogs, and the rest of the party ready to act as the supporting Wind Guard… but their jockey still needs a mount.

The unusually cheery Shadowale starts to slip into his old dour self. There has been a lot of inane prattling tonight… let’s get Gnofulk a flying mount and be on to the exciting, action-filled bits already!

The party begins brainstorming. Where could they find and/or steal a flying mount? And what mounts would be acceptable? Halfway into a harebrained scheme, level-headed Comfort asks about that old wizard lady. Doesn’t she owe the party a favor for saving her chimera mount? She could be a resource.

Kyllar, apparently still shook up from that experience, can’t recall the details exactly. Maybe? All he remembers from that ordeal was bleeding his own blood and using Spider Climb to cower under a sky bridge.

Still, it’s the best lead the party has, so off they go, climbing higher and higher among Sharn’s mighty towers.

The soon arrive at, well, near to Winnifred the Wizard’s not-so-humble abode.

Several tall levels of towers are being used by Winnifred for her sanctum and her aerie, enclosed in large panes of magical glass. The party stands on a ledge where the sky road ends, and forty feet away is Winnifred’s landing platform. Two massive doors stand, allowing access to the aerie, and next to them, a manor house sits; almost like a castle in a bottle; the structure within the tower, but a wall of the house merged with the wall of the tower.

Facing yet another small chasm of an obstacle… most of the party hesitates and begins to postulate how to cross. Dimension Door? Benign Transposition?

Not Shadowale and Turnin though.

Turnin jumps across the spawn with ease, and the rogue tosses him a rope. Knots are attempted, and the rogue makes ready to jump across too when suddenly the manor door swings open and an old wizarding woman with immaculate robes and a tight grey bun wanders out onto the platform, a sturdy stick leveled like a shotgun.

She soon recognizes Kyllar however, waves, and readies a small sky skiff. She pushes it over, and it floats across the chasm. After some finagling, the party ferries themselves over.

The old woman is elated to see the party again, all these wonderful adventurers that rescued her precious chimera mount. She conjures milk and cookies for the party, and Shadowale starts gorging himself on sweets.

Winnifred inquires about Kyllar’s feat in artifice, and the party wizard replies that it is going well, and he is learning to inscribe spells into his Puzzle Box. Mostly utility spells for now. The old woman glows when the party hesitatingly mentions they are here on business related to the Race of the Eight Winds, and needing a replacement mount for Gnofulk, who is representing the Cogs. She enthusiastically herds the party into the manor house, through a spacious hall with a huge portrait of Winnifred slightly younger, and out a back door into the Aerie.

Unlike the heat of the Cogs, which is brutal, dry, and menacing, the heat situation here is balmy and inviting, with the windows creating a kind of green house. The twittering of birds is heard as the party surveys their surroundings.

Glass encases the Aerie, with tall stone pillars joining floor to ceiling. Several roosts are seen, either built into the pillars or spell shaped into the boughs of trees.

Winnifred waxes on about the Race. Aerial creatures are fascinating to her, and she is housing three of the district mounts here already, including the Owl, the Eagle and the Hawk. She states that as a traditional event, no mounts may be duplicated, but she has a number of creatures in her menagerie that would be suitable substitutes for Gnofulk, and would adhere to the spirit of the event. Each one would have unique abilities in the race. She has large, suitable creatures like; undulating flying snakes; bats; flying mobulas (rays); flying winged fish; flying frogs (with big webbed hands); a huge wasp; a “koopa paratroopa” flying turtle; and a flying squirrel.

…and of course Gnofulk’s barbarian eyes light up at the chance to race with his totemic kin. Winnifred produces two large acorns to help lure the animal; one is snatched up by Gnofulk, the other by Shadowale. Kyllar conjures a third, green acorn to try his luck too.

As they wander the forested enclosure, and around a small artificial pond while looking for the flying squirrel, Winnifred continues to explain the race… how each mount is unique and no spells or weapons (other than the ceremonial sporting crossbow) are allowed, and how it is a time of tourism and commerce for Sharn.

She also brings up the hidden costs of championing a district. You see, riding a mount is one thing, but feeding and caring for it is another. She’ll let the party use the mount, but they’ll need to –

-and a gold coin bounces off Winnifred’s forehead as Turnin commits on the follow through.

She admits that the party could pay her for boarding the animal, but that they might want to spend their gold gambling. She has some errands that need running, and would like to barter. One errand for room and board. The second, and she would again owe the party a favor.

Gnofulk spies the flying squirrel, high up in the trees, and starts chittering, displaying the large acorn before him.

Shadowale holds his high above his head, scampering about.

Kyllar’s extends his arm, displaying the green-tinged conjured nut.

So far, the flying squirrel seems most interested in Shadowale, and parachutes down a few branches towards the party.

Winnifred continues with her proposals. The first potential task is the most simple. The Race of the Eight Winds is not just a race, but also a time for comradery in your district, boasting between districts… and an avenue for both legitimate commerce and underhanded bribes. Winnifred wants to make a “donation” to the Hawk – the niece of one of her old friends is the rider this year – and cememnt that bond of friendship, but because she is linked to the care of several other mounts… she herself cannot make this… donation. Winnifred summons a sealed envelope, and presents it to the party. The old wizard would like the party to deliver it to Boris, a bookie associated with Clan Boromar. If the party wants, that can make their own donations then as well… or place bets many aspects of the race, from who the winner is to who the griffon will gore this year.

The second potential task is more complicated. Winnifred would like the party to acquire something for her. The magical aristocrats in Sharn steal a trophy – the Conjurer’s Cup – back and forth for bragging rights. A no-good warlock and probable harlot named Beatrice Marsh stole it from Winnifred a few years ago, and the old wizard has tracked the trophy to a pocket dimension used by Beatrice. She’ll open a portal, and the party can run in, grab it, and head back out. Winnifred can’t grab it herself since she needs to maintain the portal; and she can’t send a typical hireling or servant, as the pocket dimension may be dangerous. She needs brave adventurers to do this for her.

The party quickly agree to perform both tasks, reasoning that it is nice to be owed a favor. Though they almost immediately start discussing, in hushed tones of course, whether or not they will ever receive this owed favor. Winnifred is old, guys.

As they start debating when to run these errands, the flying squirrel swoops down to land near Gnofulk, who has been chittering sweet entreats to the furry animal. It warily approaches, taking the acorn and letting the gnome scratch it behind the ears.

Achievement unlocked: Mount Acquired!

The party is another step closer to the Race of the Eight Winds!