Conquering the Barbarian Altanis: Session 183

Adventurers

Character Race Class Description
Anoran Hall Human Cleric level 2 A thin, wiry, and bald follower of Promehene, the God of Time. He doesn't know what drives him to adventure.
Ignaeus Elf Fighter level 4 / magic-user level 5 An arrogant and self-assured sellsword wandering Wilderlands to prove he can best anyone.
Julius Human Ranger level 1 A short king covered in bushy hair and green moss.
Kenso San Human Fighter level 2 An arrogant and self-assured sellsword wandering Wilderlands to prove he can best anyone.
Leticia Human Cleric level 1 Extremely righteous, borderline zealot, devout follower of Rasthri, Goddess of Strength in Revenge.
Minako Konishi Human Monk level 3 Pretty Karakan with grace of a panther and shrewdness of a fox. Silk sash holds here loose trousers in place, while loose jacket rounds up her exotic look.
Syd Grundy Human Fighter level 3 Tall, middle aged and scruffy looking man of the wilderness.
Tam o' Shanter Human Cleric level 4 A boisterous wine-lover of Losborst on a Great Crusade of the Grape.
Thorinda Bung Human Monk level 3 She has blonde hair done up in a tight pony tail and wears light, loose suit.
Tosk Human Fighter level 1 Extremely large muscular man with pot belly; cagey about his intentions and past; seeking fortune.
Warmund Abendeurer Human Fighter level 1 A burly blonde barbarian; Wilbalt's older brother and the stronger of the two.
Wilbalt Abendeurer Human Fighter level 2 A burly blonde barbarian; Warmund's younger brother and a better swordsman of the two.

Shadowrath 1st, Airday

A cacophony of voices fought with the sound of underground river flowing thru the stone. A party numbering sixteen discussed their way up the well—a string of two hundred and fifty feet of rope, hanging from a branch sitting atop a dilapidated circle of stones.

It held as they went down. Will it hold as they went up?

They discussed at length—the climbing order, how to get the dead up, how to get the wounded up, what to with three stragglers they picked up, so on and so forth.

Ignaeus, Tam o' Shanter, Thorm, Warmund, and Wilbalt noticed that one of the man looked almost the same as the wizard they had rescued from the ooze chamber.

Thorm pointed that out “Lad, you look almost exactly like another fella we helped down here some time back... What was his name... Diocletian? You gents related in any way perchance?”

The man looked slightly stumped, and his voiced changed pitch several times as he answered “Ahem... Yes, he is my cousin. We came looking for him because he went missing couple of weeks ago. You met him?”

“We met him down this same precise hellhole we find ourselves in right now... And we helped him get back to Ironburg.” Thorm explained.

“What a serendipitous encounter then! Are you heading there now? Can we come along?” the man retorted.

“Fine by me, if the others agree.” Thorm shrugged.

Thorinda and Syd were too busy planning the ascent, so they stayed out of this conversation.

“Sherendpitous indeed!” slurred Tam “and from our point of view obvioushly a tad shushpicious (Hic!). But worry not! I have a shimple sholution, a way we can all be friendsh!”

He lofted his jug and sloshed the contents around. “I am a Herald of Loshborsht (hic!), God of grapesh, Shaint of drunksh. Within (Hic!) thish jug ish shacred wine, like unto the very pish of the God himself. A heady vintage indeed (Hic!) Any who ship from the vesshel receive the blesshing of the drunk, reshilience, attractivenessh, Inshite (hic!), but also the drunksh inability to tell a convicing lie.” (hic!)

He fixed the newcomers with a hard stare, seeming more sober “So come! drink with me now, so we may all say naught but truths and dispel all suspicions.”

He swilled down a deep slug of wine from the jug. “I will not even try to deceive you as I am now an open book. I have been trying to incite my companions to kill you!”

He laughed.

“The truth feels good, now lads, drink from the jug and unlock your silver tongues and let us all be friends. (Hic!) Or pish off!”

“Sherendpitous indeed!” slurred one of the men in leather armour. “and from our point of view obvioushly a tad shushpicious (Hic!). But worry not! I have a shimple sholution, a way we can all be friendsh!”

He lifted his palm and a jug formed. He sloshed the contents around. “I am a Herald of Loshborsht (hic!), God of grapesh, Shaint of drunksh. Within (Hic!) thish jug ish shacred wine, like unto the very pish of the God himself. A heady vintage indeed (Hic!) Any who ship from the vesshel receive the blesshing of the drunk, reshilience, attractivenessh, Inshite (hic!), but also the drunksh inability to tell a convicing lie.” (hic!)

He fixated on Tam as his garb mutated into Tam's, chambepot and drunkard's tan included, with a hard stare “So come! drink with me now, so we may all say naught but truths and dispel all suspicions.”

He swilled down a deep slug of wine from the jug. “I will not even try to deceive you as I am now an open book. I have been trying to incite my companions to kill you!”

He laughed as his two friends mutated as well.

“The truth feels good, now lads, drink from the jug and unlock your silver tongues and let us all be friends. (Hic!) Or pish off!”

By the time he finished speaking there were two Tams, two Thorms, and two Ignaeuses.

And then a wild melee broke out.

Warmund cared not if he hit real or fake Tam; he swung with all his might and nearly cleaved one of them in half. Anoran smacked Ignaeus with flail, a real one unbeknownst to him, hurting him real good. Tam swung at Julius, knocking him down with a single blow of his jug.

Warmund kept beating on Tam; Thorm had slain Thorm; and Drokh thrust his spear through Tam's thick skull. Both Thorm and Thorm writhed as they died, mutating into foul creatures of the Umlaut.

Ignaeus duelled Ignaeus, with no one daring to interject. Minako reasoned that real Ignaeus will land first blow, and therefore it will be obvious which one was fake. Elf fought elf for quite some time, as others watched with bated breath.

Ignaeus swung his sword and lost footing. Ignaeus used the opportunity and smashed the pommel of his blade into the back of Ignaeus's head. Ignaeus stumbled forward to his knees. Ignaeus booted Ignaeus, leaving him dead on the ground.

Adventurers watched in silence.

Silent gasps formed.

Dead Ignaeus remained dead Ignaeus.

They all jumped the fake Ignaeus, beating down on him.

Warmund was his next, and last, victim.

Drokh put down fake Ignaeus.

Adventurers sighed a breath of relief after checking on the fallen—Julius, Ignaeus, and Warmund were still alive. Batter, half-dead, but alive.

Over the next four hours the survivors planned and executed their ascent. Few of the healthy ones swum in the river and added another fifty feet of rope to the bottom of existing rope. Then they tied a harness, which was to be used to tie the wounded and dead in order to pull them up.

Anoran, strong and healthy, took Thorinda's massive greataxe. He tied it to his back. His armour was doffed, for he was working in water quite a lot. He swam and began his ascent. Party below him fought off several skeletons that intruded upon them.

This was Anoran's first delve into the bowels of Castle Yukanthur. His muscles contracted and tensed as he pulled himself up, carrying the weight of greataxe on his back. It was dark above, with a little bit of moonlight shining through. The darkness filled his view. He felt something heavy falling on him. In split second he decided to reach out with one hand; attempting to grab onto the well wall.

His palm slipped; his arm snapped. Something heavy latched to him, penetrating his skin with something hard and sharp. Without even realising it, Anoran was now in a free fall. Water did little to cushion him. He felt coldness, and then nothing.

Anoran Hail died in the bowels of Castle Yukanthur, never learning what was it that drove him to adventure.

With little time to mourn, the party continued with their plan.

Tam, whom had tried to convince others that his drunkenness is nothing but an act to deceive the enemies, was betrayed by a drunkard's bladder. He was the last to ascend. But first he had to take a leak.

A sound of doors being forced open interrupted him. Something strong enough to push through three piled up corpses used to wedge the doors.

His manhood still dangling, and his chamber-pot still rattling, Tam jumped into the river and started climbing. Two ghouls appeared, ravenous and impelled by a sight of juicy ass. They ran after the cleric, jumped into the river, and began clambering after him.

“Begone! Begone foul creatures!” Tam shook, rivulets of yellow sprinkling all around.

Ghouls hissed and let go off the rope. They dove in the underground stream, as Tam shoot up. He would forever deny birthing skid marks on the rope.

It was night.

A pleasant, even slightly chilly night. Winters in Barbarian Altanis were still warm, especially compared the icy Valon. Party found a secluded hole to rest in. They hauled their assess to Ironburg with first rays of sun.

Gloomfrost 9, Fireday

Adventurers spent five weeks resting and recovering in Ironburg. Ambros, nominally a prisoner of Sig, but allowed to freely move about the thorp and surroundings, healed his friends and raised Kenso and Leticia from the dead. He kept aiding the miners, from whom he had learned that some new miners should arrive from Hara.

Tam spent time drinking and preaching, getting into rowdy mess at least thrice. Agathon the Wiry had to get involved each time. Somehow Rupert Ironwill now thinks even less of Tam, something he thought was impossible.

Wilbalt spent time doing push-ups. Nothing but push-ups. Push-ups in the morning, in the noon, in the afternoon, in the bed while sleeping, on the table while eating, so on and so forth.

Minako spent her time in deep meditation. She was not disturbed.

None passed on the opportunity to mock Kho Rimbo, whom had been sentenced to wear brank's bridle until next summer, roughly a period of six months. A crude iron cage was put on his head, with a thin iron bar inserted into his mouth. Underneath it was a single need. Every time he tried to speak he would prick his tongue. The contraption was crude, sharp around the edges, and heavy. Kho Rimbo drooled and his head hung to the side.

Rupert Ironwill initially wanted to gouge out his eyes, but was convinced otherwise by Alaric and Ambros, whom had both argued that Kho Rimbo is a good man, despite his shortcomings.

Others convinced Heinrik to speak to Old Crus. Muscular magic-user has now been serving him for most of the year. Their relationship began out of need—Old Crus might be ancient and slow, but he is a good teacher and has extensive library—but Heinrik remained even after he had learned new spells.

Heinrik had three questions on his mind:

By now he knew how to speak with Old Crus—a multitude of short, repetitive conversations over a span of several days. It was still unclear to him when was Crus obtuse, versus when was he forgetful. For the first two days he had to keep answering why does he want to help Ambros at all. Crus was confused at first, but then seemed to accept it was kind of quid pro quo, with Ambros saving Heinrik several times. Then he had to listen repeat descriptions of Racoba that Crus still remembers—a brilliant, but paranoid man. His paranoia had driven him to success, and his paranoia had driven him to madness. “Racoba, unlike me, does not forget. He holds a grudge. He is paranoid but patient. There are only two ways to help your friend. Either end him” and Crus winked on end “or end Racoba. There is no other way.”

Unsure what to make out of this, Heinrik reported back to his allies.

Ambros had now been in captivity for two months. Neither Sig nor Ironwill approached him to begin the trial. The two in fact seemed much busier with administrating their newly acquired barony: establishing patrols, building fortifications, and helping the locals. Ambros was treated well.

Many ideas were raised among the adventurers. Leave for new lands. But where? Set Ambros free. But when? Defeat Racoba. But how?

No decision had been made.

Racoba's uncaring shadow still loomed large over them.

Poster by Lord Jubalon Flux.

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