Recent Posts

Popular tags: (See More...)
Pointer-left Download_thumb
Posted by the GM
O Mundo de Aedda
Ato III, pt. 1 - Calamidade
A viagem de volta pelo esgoto não foi melhor do que a ida. Exaustos do trajeto, e com mais cinco pessoas que também não estavam nas melhores condições, o grupo seguiu uma marcha lenta em busca da saída mais próxima. Com o mapa em mãos, Ragnar buscou a saída mais próxima, mas o cheiro, os túneis destruídos e a tensão pelo inimigo que fugiu para lugares desconhecidos atrapalhavam sua leitura, aumentando ainda mais o percurso. Nelath, mesmo feliz por reencontrar sua amiga, não tirava os olhos das curvas, esperando inimigos ou armadilhas em todo canto.

Após encontrarem, um local seco e menos fedorento, decidiram parar para comer algo e retomar o fôlego. Conversaram, comeram e vigiaram por uma hora. Quando retomaram a viagem, aconteceu.

O tremores começaram leve, e foram ficando cada vez mais potente à medida que o tempo passava, chegando a um ponto que era impossível ficar de pé. O chão começou a se abrir, e parte do teto, a ceder. Todos tentavam se segurar, porém era inútil. Quando os tremores chegaram a um ponto em que parecia que o mundo ia acabar, Robb, Dremian, Áster, Akin e Olara são engolidos pelo escuro. O buraco fecha e os tremores param.


Viewable by: Public
Tags: Introduction
Pointer-left Screen_shot_2018-08-28_at_11.29.00_am_thumb

Genet Fouts
Posted in Lankhmar
Spiders in the Swamp
South and east of the city is the great salt marsh. It is reached via the marsh gate. Margon makes the peat cutter Taraz “pinky swear” to guide us back to Lankhmar when this is all finished.

Flossin and Margon tie a rope to each other. They fear one of them will fall into quicksand and that this strategy will save them. While marking a bush so he can find the way back to Lankhmar, Jenet rouses several large salt spiders who attack him. Jenet kills one with his rapier. Flossin tosses a pint of oil into the midst off the spiders. Margon lights a torch, runs up to the oil, and is stopped by the rope tied to her and Flossin -hilarity ensues. We eventually kill all the spiders.

We reach the peat cutters camp. The party splits up. Jenet joins some of the peat cutters as they search for game to eat. Flossin, Margon, and Ricky stay in camp with two of the peat cutters. Flossin finds a small crumpled note on the edge of the fire ring. It looks like it was intended to have been burned in the fire.

“Still not time to return to Lankhmar. Food and water will be delivered as scheduled. Dispose of letters after reading -Taraz”

We suspect the missing peat cutters aren’t really missing and that Taraz is in on the scheme.

That night, while we are sleeping, Taraz wakes up some of the peat cutters. Flossin is awake and quietly wakes up Ricky. Jenet and Margon are asleep. Taraz signals something to the peat cutters and runs off into the woods. Flossin follows Taraz into the woods and knocks him out. The peat cutters attack. Flossin threatens to kill Taraz if the peat cutters don’t surrender. Jenet convinces two of the peat cutters to drop their weapons. The rest drop their weapons and we tie them up. Margon eats Taraz’s pinky finger. Taraz tells us he, and the Peat Master Freylug, were frustrated with the low cost of peat and devised to poison some peat to stop black market peat sales in Lankhmar. They blamed the poisoned peat on the wood cutters. They decided to sell black market peat as well. The peat cutters brought us out here to add legitimacy to their schemes. When we became suspicious, Taraz wanted us dead. We decided to give Taraz to the Wood Cutters guild and the hired help to the Slayers guild.
Viewable by: Public
Session 0: And so it begins

“Now what?” Trinique adjusted in her seat and strained to hear what the young magic student was saying. He was called Sparrow, but the rumor was that he was the great grandson of Reslin Kine, the famed adventurer. And as some knew, Kine’s fortune had never been found. It seemed that Sparrow was booking passage on a caravan to Drellin's Ferry. Was this related to the treasure? Perhaps it was just an errand for his masters in The Citadel.

Every time she thought of that name it made her laugh. The Citadel sounds so foreboding. Indeed, the Brindol Academy of Magic Arts was headquartered in a large tower complex near the middle of the city, but it was by no means a citadel. Yes, there were some magical wards around the place but there were also mortal guards and any mortal guard was a weak point in any defense. Of course, while they had not been sufficient to block her from getting inside, they had been more than enough to keep her from gaining any magical training. Even with her father's influence and wealth, she had not been able to make the planets align for her to be admitted as a student.

Yes, he was booking passage. The mage was trying to convince the man to take him all the way to Oakhurst but there was no way the caravan master would agree to that. He was one of the Black Knives men and he would surely be arranging a way to steal the cargo before they hit Drellin's Ferry. Perhaps to rob young Sparrow and leave him for dead too. So, if the mage was going, Trinique would make sure to be on the trip too . . .


A golden apple? Why was she dreaming about a golden apple? That and a death white apple, twirling in torchlight. And those beasts with their pointy ears and feral eyes? There was something to it. Were they the ones who took her from her family? No, that was not it. She touched the scars on her neck. Then why did it terrify her so much? Surely an apple could not grow in darkness whether it was golden or not. But she got the distinct feeling that that apple was in her future and it was not in a place in which she would be comfortable.

This was not the first vision Quinn had had. Ever since she had “returned” she had a jumble of dreams which were surely more than just her brain trying to figure out the day. Sometimes they were premonitions and guided her in the face of danger. Sometimes they led her to new discoveries including her new ability to cast spells. But this golden apple was new. She needed a sage to help her explain.

Quinn splashed her face with water, ran her fingers through her hair since she had no comb, then shouldered her pack. It had been a long time since she left Witchcross. Too many days to count. However, she should be in Brindol City by night time and perhaps she could get an answer about this golden apple.


“Hello little one. How was your day?”

Trinique did not think her sister even knew the possible darkness in her future. If she could not find a way to buy her freedom, Jasmine would definitely become a prostitute or a gangster’s wife if she stayed here much longer. The money Trinique was able to scrape together for extra jobs was enough to keep her sister in the kitchens away from the worst of the crowd but she could tell by the way the rougher men and women looked at her, that it would not be long.

Jasmine, covered in the smell of cooking all day, looked up from the wash basin where she was cleaning dishes. She broke out into a smile at the sight of her sister. “Hey you. What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you. Going to be away for a while. Have to go to Drellin’s Ferry for work.” Trinique came around the side of the wall, grabbed a dish and began drying. Jasmine frowned, “work? What type of work? Is it dangerous?”

“Nah,” said Trinique, drying another dish. “Just a little bit of an armed escort. But the pay may be good enough that we could leave this place behind once and for all.” With that Jasmine smiled but her mind was elsewhere.

The sisters washed and dried in silence for a while then Trinique moved over to Jasmine and brushed hair out of the young one’s eyes. “I will get us out of here soon, Jaz. I promise.” Trinique left the room and went back into the streets.


Quinn did not like this city. It was big and fascinating, but it also stank, felt stifling and was way too noisy. She did find a respite. The garden within the walls of The Citadel was quiet and filled with plants, flowers and trees. She could not exactly ignore the walls that seemed to jail the growth of the wild things, but it was better than nothing. She also found information about the golden apples. Talking to an apprentice who had the misfortunate of being assigned to the entry and public question area on the day she arrived, she discovered that the golden apple was real. The apprentice was named Sparrow and he said that he was on his way to Drellin’s Ferry, near the place known for the golden apple, Oakhurst. He invited her to share his wagon at least that far. He was to meet a priest named Derny who had information about his great grandfather, an adventurer of some sort. Apparently, the old adventurer had hidden away some treasures and Sparrow believed there were things too important to be left to the dead.

As for the golden apple, Sparrow said that legend has it that a goblin tribe from near Oakhurst has turned from raiding to trading with the town (that in and of itself sounds like a tall tale). However, every year, slightly after the summer solstice, these goblins sell a single piece of magical fruit to the highest bidder in Oakhurst. The fruit, apparently an apple of perfect gold hue and shine, heals those who suffer from any disease or other ailment. The townspeople sometimes plant the seeds at the center of each fruit, hoping to engender an enchanted apple tree. When the seeds germinate in their proper season, they produce a twiggy mass of twisted sapling stems. Not too long after the saplings reach 2 feet in height, they are stolen — every time. The townsfolk assume the goblins send out thieves to ensure their monopoly of enchanted fruit. Of course, this must be a myth, but it is the only story that seems to involve a golden apple in this area of the Vale. How could a band of wretched goblins ever possess such a wonder, and how could they steal every sprouting sapling grown from the enchanted fruit’s seed without the townspeople noticing? This is a mystery worth pursuing.


Sparrow was apprehensive about the caravan driver and his crew. Luckily there were other passengers heading his way. There was safety in numbers. And at least he had met Quinn, a traveling Druid, and Trinique, a guard of some sort, before the start of the journey. They were the only passengers with him on the way to Drellin’s Ferry. Of course, Quinn was going beyond, all the way to Oakhurst. But it would be good to have their companionship on his journey.

For now, they had been on the road for several days, stopping in the towns of the Dawn Way and either dropping off or picking up goods. Mostly it seemed just heavy barrels and crates with markings indicating linens, ceramics, weapons and other sundries. Nothing too exiting and hopefully nothing that would attract the attention of ruffians. Today they had left behind the last of the towns before Drellin’s Ferry, Terrelton. The only memorable thing about Terrelton was the smell. In the early summer heat, the smell of the tanneries that lined the way into the town from the east, hung low over the entire place, making being outside difficult. Luckily, they were there just one night. Tomorrow, they should reach the banks of the river and his destination. He hoped that Brother Derny had received his letter and knew he was coming. To think that he was close to finding his great grandfathers tomb and treasure was exciting. Particularly exciting was the thought of bringing the Sryix back to the Citadel. Magical artifacts were too important to be left to the dead and had to be studied and observed and used to better the lives of the living. That is exactly what he would do even though he was not sure exactly what a Sryix was . . .


“We have to pull over and water the horses,” said Goran, the caravan driver. The man hopped down from the first wagon and motioned for everyone else to stay put. He then walked a bit away to the side of the road, making no move towards the barrels of water on the second wagon. Shortly thereafter, a group of armed men came out of the woods. While Sparrow was consumed with reading over the notes from his great grandfather’s old journal, Quinn looked up from her notes long enough to notice a man in leather armor and a crossbow hiding behind a nearby tree. She started to say something but Trinique put a hand on her shoulder and shook her head to indicate they should not do anything quite yet.

One of the armed men, clearly the leader, began a friendly looking conversation with the caravan driver but the words were indiscernible as they were too far away. Goran soon returned to the party though and explained that he needed their help in making one of their deliveries. The men were concerned about receiving their shipment in town due to bandits and decided that they could just have the items they were expecting offloaded in a nearby cave. It would go quicker if the three adventurers would help with the unloading.

The cave was just a short distance away from the trail. It was clear that it was an encampment of some sort and had been for some time. Quinn and Sparrow began helping with the cargo while the man with the crossbow climbed into their place and observed. Trinique made no effort to hide that she recognized the men as Black Knives and spoke to the leader.

“So, what is the plan here?” she asked.

“Well, which one do you like the least? We have to kill at least one of them to make this look good. Perhaps both of them.” He laughed harshly and wiped spittle from his red beard.

“That’s not going to happen” Trinique said calmly. “Seems we are going to have to lose two of your men on this job.” She looked him in the eyes without hesitation.

“Fine, we can just hurt them if they will play along. I will talk to them.” The man walked away from Trinique and entered the cave.

“Hey, you two look like smart people who could use a few kronas. You may have figured this out already but you see, this here is an arrangement. We help unload some of this cargo early, make sure it looks like bandits attacked the caravan then we sell it and the owner gets some insurance money for his loss. Everyone wins. You can win too, 10 krona for the two of you to split. But to make it look real, I am going to have to hurt one of you. Fair?” The man looked at both Quinn and Sparrow expectantly.

“Fifteen” said Sparrow. “Just not in the face. I know how this works. I’ve been through this before.” The mage braced himself for a punch to the gut. When it came it was a bit more painful then he expected but not too bad. Quinn looked very uncomfortable. Between the darkness of the cave and this whole situation, she was starting to hyperventilate and panic.

“Well,” said the man, “that’s not enough. I am going to have to hit you both . . . a few times. You’ll heal.” He grinned and took a step towards the hunched over Sparrow. In a flash, Quinn and Trinique were there. The fighter stabbed the man in the shoulder as he looked on in horror. “Trinique! What are you doing? Your father will never stand for this!”

“I am not my father,” Trinique said as Quinn struck with her staff and pushed the man backwards.

Sparrow scooped up a pebble from the floor of the cave and gripped it tightly while saying something arcane. Light burst into the cave, illuminating it like sunshine and the wizard dropped it to the ground. “Now that is better,” he said. Quinn said nothing but appreciated the darkness’ retreat.

Seeing the other men beginning to enter the cave she raised her hands and pleaded to Obad-Hai. The patch of ground around the cave mouth quickly sprouted into a tangled mass of vines, flowers and shrubbery. The bandits barely escaped being entangled in it.

The bandit leader was alone in the cave with the three adventurers now but underestimated their battle prowess. He quickly succumbed to their blows but not before scoring a hit on Trinique. He was supplemented by bolts from the crossbowman but none of the others dared cross Quinn’s barrier of flowers and brambles. After his death, they were at a stalemate.

“Come out and no one gets hurt any worse than they are. We can work out something,” the bandits outside the cave yelled.

Sparrow cupped his hands around his mouth and they glowed ever so slightly. “Leave here and you will be spared. Stay and be doomed.” His voice came out as an incredible deep and loud bass, echoing in the cavern and shaking the leaves on the trees just outside.

There were a few chuckles from the bandits and two ran off at the direction of the caravan driver. He had shouted something about bringing wood and oil to the cave mouth. The closest bandit growled into the cave saying that the adventurers would soon be crispy unless they surrendered. None of them seemed concerned about Sparrow’s trickery.

Quinn responded by producing a ball of flame in her hand and flinging it at the man. He screamed in agony as his beard disintegrate in a twist of foul-smelling smoke. Hands slapped the fire out but not before dropping him to his knees from the pain.

Quiet settled in again as the bandits awaited the arrival of the fire making materials. The three adventurers stayed out of sight as best as they could but occasionally a crossbow bolt streaked into the cave, letting them know that they were trapped. Quinn and Trinique quickly consulted each other. Perhaps there was a way out after all.

Quinn stepped into the light and held her hands outstretched. With a whoosh of air and tinkling like icicles snapping in the wind, a snowy, icy dagger of pure ice appeared then streaked toward the ruffian. It struck him in the chest then exploded in a shower of jagged crystals, showering both him and the Goran in a storm of deadly ice. Both men were knocked back then fell into the dirt. Their faces were pocked with bloody shards which began to melt and their beards were frosted as if from a blizzard. Their eyes flickered and remained open, staring at the sky above but without any sign of life.

Sparrow again cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted for the men to abandon their siege. A crossbow bolt was returned in response. Still an impasse but the effort to smoke them out would soon be underway.

Trinique looked at Quinn and shouted, “Now!” Instantly the bramble of flowers and vines were gone and Trinique was in a run. She passed by the bodies of the dead and leaped up towards the wagon’s side, vaulting over it and right beside the crossbowman. Her rapier flashed and was at his throat before he could blink. “Drop your weapon,” she said through clenched teeth. He did and got down on both knees, his hands in the air.

Quinn and Sparrow followed quickly, rushing out of the cave with fire bursting from Quinn’s hands and Sparrow’s booming magical voice echoing through the cave and out into the clearing beyond. Fire sparked from the balls of it that Quinn threw, none hitting their marks but certainly adding dramatic effect. The remaining bandits surrendered without further combat. But one, Jarrald Halfgiant, who had been returning with a load of branches, turned and ran. Trinique sent the remaining wagon driver after him but the tall bandit eluded him.

The adventurers searched the dead, finding numerous kronas (gold pieces), soldats (electrum pieces) and talents (silver pieces) as well as a heart shaped bloodstone. The crates and barrels were filled with mundane items which may fetch some krona, but were not worth the trouble of having to fence them by the party itself. Trinique told the remaining bandits to carry on with their theft and insurance scam but add that a rival gang, perhaps the Shadowbanks, had attacked and killed the others. They all swore to Trinique that the true events would be kept secret and there would be no hard feelings.

Once everyone had their stories straight and the dead were buried in the cave, Trinique motioned to the new caravan driver and they continued on their way. She could not help thinking that allowing Jarrald get away would present a problem but also knew that he was a coward and would likely disappear for long enough to allow her to make appropriate arrangements. Either that or she could ensure that he turned up in the Elsir River after a tragic accident.

The rest of the trip was uneventful and before nightfall, the thatched roofs of the village could be seen up ahead and the caravan entered the town of Drellin’s Ferry . . .

Session: Session 0 - Friday, Nov 30 2018 from 5:00 PM to 8:30 PM
Viewable by: Public
No longer a green thumb
As Flossin sat at his flat surrounded by ferns, orchids, succulents, and other "greenery" he decided he had to get a new seed dealer. A shame really what happened to the poor bloke, but you mess with curses, you get burned. Flossin thought back to the bar with the Red Mist seeping in. Sorcery all right. Nothing good comes of that. He was sure the Great Gygax was up to his old tricks, getting him and his friends involved in some type of trouble. But all signs pointed to the Peat and Woodcutter Guild argument. Well, whatever, that Red Mist was, Flossin was sure it was bad news, and the Great Gygax was plop him in the middle of it. The bones don't lie, trouble was brewing.
Viewable by: Public
Padhraig's Journal
The Fenstalker limped into Tree-Town’s meager harbor, far worse for the last week’s storms, the hearts of all aboard, myself, companions, and crew, all still shaken by the sight early in the week of Zolos, colossal beyond imagining, reaching up from the Bore toward the grey storming sky, an unmoving figure of black borne up on an island-sized nest of writing tentacles, each monstrous in its own right. That we all saw it says one of two things. Either Zolos’s influence is so strong now it can reach into the mundane world or the crew of the Fenstalker have been long enough in the presence of Ankaran and Zolosian influences that they are touched by the Cyclical powers. I fear both possibilities, the first for this world, the second for these good men and women. It is an ill reward for their bravery, loyalty and skill that they be drawn into terrors such as this.

The ‘Stalker also rode low because she sailed heavy-laden. Knowing the possible limits of Tree-Town’s supplies, even after a year free of the terrible Brides, we carried our own season’s supplies as well as more we might share or, if Aillie, a Silverhill to her core even if she refused use of the name, might sell. Iron stock, casks of spirits, and cloth ranging from common to moderately-fine filled the holds, kept mostly secure and dry despite the foul weather by dint of constant effort.

We had more preparation from the advice of Dama Kaela’s most unusual mentor, a dwarven priestess introduced to us with an impossibly long array of titles. “Her Glorious Magnificence, She-Whom-Dwelt-Beneath-The-Earth-And-Above-It, Lady of the Arcane Mendings, Keeper of the Wizard Word, Once-Princess Enrathi”. Did all dwarf-folk use such well-crafted names, matching to their legendary well crafted arms, armor, and cities? She had many questions and warnings for us, such as why we lived in islands that were cursed, driving out all her folk long ago, and why Kaela had not returned to her tapestry (by which she apparently monitored her student). But when I asked of my one mystery, she said and Earth-oracle was the wrong choice to learn of the Wavestrider’s Cloak of Waters. Water or Fire would be closer attuned to that item, if item it even was, as it might be simply an aspect of Kael Wavestrider’s power. But I knew nothing of that from the mantel of the Wavestrider that had touched me, so perhaps it was a secret for which I was not yet prepared. We took her words somberly, and readied our way North with them fresh in mind.

Entering a harbor low, fat and ill-rigged would normally raise alarm, but in distant Tree-Town, and ship not flying the Spear was like to bring welcome new goods, and the Fenstalker was known. Mattau Stone led a welcoming band, both to greet and to help us tie up to their much improved but still rough harbor, though there were many slips available as few had chosen to winter here. We were laden too low to come into dock, so mored out a ways and set to longboats into shore. Unloading would be considerable work, at least until the load lightened enough to tie to a proper dock.

We were greeted with insisted offerings of mead and honeyed water, even though we were familiar folk, mostly. They kept care here, after the terror too recently lifted. They seemed surprised we had come, as neither Dama nor Lord had given them word, though I was certain the former knew we we close and the later likely as well, as I had told one in letters and Dama Kaela probably the other by her magics. But we were welcome enough, as expected, and led to the Inn, now signed as the ‘Only Inn’, a claim it would not have for long if Tree-Town continued to grow as it had this year. Palisades protected much of the town, new buildings of stone and imperfect wood – the better went to ships whose ribs could be seen rising across the harbor – with healthy greenspace around to make for a friendly, comfortable space, not so cramped as most cities nor as poor-made as too many towns. I stole a look across the harbor toward the fishers, but misty clouds kept me from seeing its state clearly. But I could see that bridges now crossed the river, joining the settlement to the neighboring works and fishertown, and that the once-neglected stumpfields nearby had been cleared and replanted with some care.

Dama Kaela sent word she would dine with her father this evening, but I chose not to wait and headed to the new-built chapel. I was greeted there by a terribly young acolyte, not a local, I thought, because I must have met them all over the last winter. Would Magret bring such a one this long way? But no, not Magret as such, but rather her duty to her Lady. For that, I think she would travel to the ends of the world, and this was near enough there for most, and bring whoever she was told.

She seemed over-awed by something about me, like as not exaggerations and tales she’d heard, because my cloak and hat were in no state to impress anyone. But she said the Dama and the rest were ‘up the graveyard’ and sent me off with a blessing.

I found them quickly enough, hearing them first as forcefully stated prayers carried in the chill air. The burial-field had been surrounded by stone walls and a gate since last winter, and enlarged some as well. From inside were flashes of holy light and calm but firm instructions to watch the gate and anoint each carefully before stacking. Indeed, I could see from without, Magret with her left hand in mithril twin to that on my own right somehow even though the sizes were distinct, led hers in cleaning up after a couple hands of zombies.

“Too late to be of assistance then, am I?” I asked from just outside the gate, winning a smile from the young Dama and surprise from the others. She set them to assembling a small pyre, grim work though she and several of hers stole brief glances my way until it was done and they sent back to chapel and we to the Headsman’s to report.

Along the way, she offered return of my gauntlet, and I again said I’d never ask her for such. Let it protect her in her holy work rather than obstruct my spell-casting. She frowned a little at the mention of work, saying the local graves were not restful, and the risen seemed even to outnumber the dead buried within, somehow.

She made report, then accompanied me back to the Only Inn to greet the rest of my company. Dama Kaela was graciously friendly to the younger priestess, even as she made her way out to dinner at the newbuild keep with her father. Aillie looked from Dama Magret to me and back with an expression I cannot name, but that promised some sort of mischief I’m certain she would consider ‘helpful’ toward some purpose or other.

Yvor had gathered a small number of local youths, with young Thom having made himself their spokesman. The summer had been good to the boy, filling out his hungry look from the past winter, and he seemed keen to have his little band trained to bow-crafting and archery, and thought the sharp-eyed watchman a good teacher. With a nod from Jokhula, Yvor agreed, which I’m certain will keep him well occupied for the winter to come. And the local would-be toughs better disciplined than I think they expected.

Conversation turned to a newcomer to town this year, a Greenman named Kieran Shepherd. It was he who had insisted on the clearing of stumps and wide-spaced buildings. Magret said she had not yet had opportunity to compare family trees with her likely distant cousin, but that he had settled out near where the river split and had done the growing settlement much good.

Dama Kaela returned late after dinner with her father, reporting all reasonably well, though several matters still promised hints of trouble. Those, we might face come morning. Reluctantly, I let Dama Magret return to her own duties and settled in for the night.

The next day, over dark bread served with understandably generous dollops of honey, we decided the undead were our first worry, as Lord Dunleavy had expressed worries of these to his daughter as well. In a chill, damp rain, we returned to the graveyard and searched it, both physically and magically, and found the subtle but undeniable center of the effect. Under cover of damp leaves and broken twigs, a single hoofprint was burned dark into the earth, and from it radiated necromantic magic. Demonic in aspect, but unfamiliar… It was not the foul thing that had bound the fisher-folk, nor immediately clear as anything once held in the nearby prison. But it was not of this world, and so it could be bound. Jokhula worked the basics of a circle to protect the rest of the graveyard from this evil. It would not last long, but perhaps might give Dama Magret an hers a night or two of proper rest, mayhap even a week. And more if we could find the source of this.

Yvor led our tracking, aided by Jokhula’s arial guide. Single hoofprints, widespread as if striding or bounding impossibly far, on rooftop and rock, coming from across the river and into the wild wood.

Or, not quite so wild, as they led us to a log-framed mouth into a deep, dark opening into the earth.
Viewable by: Public