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DM Angelo
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Verbobonc Dark
In the Desert Wasteland
Day 2 (Continued)
Night time
Group heads out after day rest
A herd of worm-like sand surfing animals passes by north of the group.
One of the horses pulling a wagon is attacked by a creature hiding in the sand.
The wagon is in need of repair.

Day 3
The group comes to a buried obilisk that is pointing right and has strange writing on it.
Fork in the road.
They make camp
Orlen casts charm person on Ragnar.

The group heads out towards the right of the fork.
They come to a half-buried statue. Macross tries to read the writing on the stone tablet. The sand gives way and they discover a buried temple.
5 Large Tarantulas almost TPK the party.

Writing on the Obelisk
__ __ __ __ of the Kings __ __ __ __ __ Pazar __ there lies __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __

Writing on the statue Tablet
__ name __ __ __ ruins __ __ __ __ __ city __ __ __ __ __ magic __ __ was __ __ see __ __ __ __ __ __ __

Ragnar XP total: 1175
Session: Episode 26 - Wednesday, Feb 06 2019 from 8:00 PM to 11:00 PM
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Crazy in the Head
“…crazy in bed,” Dill snarked. The others laughed and Ainorei added that she hadn’t heard that one before. Peering over the rim after many cups of ale, across the great fire pit in the main hall of Caer Gwynned, a standout in the crowd had caught Dill’s eye. While everyone else wore heavy fur garments to stay back the cold, this one was barefoot in a simple chemise revealing her bare legs. “Any port in a storm,” he muttered, as he sidled over. He furtively mentioned how he too was barefoot and told her how he admired her sinewy feet. It was working. Disheveled blonde hair framed her heart shaped face, sweeping down in wild curls, below her shoulders, almost meeting at her narrow chin. She appeared to be glaring wide eyed, but Dill would bet anything they always looked like that. It reminded him of another unkind quip, “Steer clear, of the lady with the crazy eyes.”

He could see the fretful faces of the older couple standing beside her as he continued his small talk. Later that evening he would learn that they in fact had taken her in like kindly foster parents.

Anwin was her name. “Mad” Anwin was what they all called her behind her back. She unravels a tale about once having a child, a son, possibly a prince that was replaced by a changeling. Dill had a hard time following along and couldn’t tell what was the truth or not. But, by the way she stroked his face and pulled her to her ample bosom, he wasn’t complaining. And he kind of liked her take charge attitude when she took him by the hand and led him to her bed.

It was the middle of the night when the alarm sounded. The creature was back, scaling the fortress wall. Dill was kind of relieved that they didn’t have to go hunt it down in the miserable snow. He grabbed his gladius and made haste for the roundhouse door. The elderly couple was up, one lighting a candle.

Dill’s face suddenly went hot with shame as he recollected through the drunken haze the sheer amount of noise their fervorous lovemaking had made. The guttural grunts, gasps and panting, followed by Anwin’s raucous shrieks of “yes, my little prince, yes!” Still grinding against her Dill had shouted “oh mommy,” over and over again, overcome with lust and lost to the fact that this may or may not be some sort of role play.

He dodged through the door into the ice cold night air, as he rounded their dwelling, he could see the hulking terror, backlit from the moonlight, on a rooftop. He could not discern its face, but Dill laid his eyes on the outline of one its foul hands, ending in savage daggerlike claws. He quickly calculated that just its fiendish hand was bigger than him. As Dill exhaled, his swirling vapor carried with it, almost a whisper, “Oh mommy.”

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Ruminations #7: Lysa's lament
I KNOW... the show MUST go on. But seriously... nobles and patrons turning into rats and sharktopi. Sob would have had a blast with the situation but by the time he was able to arrive, of course Lysa had perform again. I need to do a better job of keeping them in separate places. I also need to talk to the players guild about working conditions.
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Padhraig's Journal
The opportunity for a quiet walk from town to the Greenman’s home was not to be. Rather, most of our company agreed with me that the Shepherd who had laid down so many rules for the growth of this town was well worth meeting, so only Cabhain, Allie, and Jokhula remained behind at the Only Inn as Magret, I, and, it seemed to me at the moment, several dozen more made our way to the split in the river. On the island in the midst was a new cabin, a simple bridge leading across the water.

In fact, it was just three, Dama Kaela, Sir Jarrad, and Yvor. Still many introductions to be made, and I can understand why Kirrin Shepherd, as he gave his name, was somewhat defensive. In addition, that is, to the clear fact that he blamed us and our carelessness the winter before for the infestation of the island by, if not exactly demons, a taint of demons that willed itself toward regaining that state. He worried aloud that, even now, it was already too late to undo some of the damage done.

Taking from him a map of the worst infestations he had located, we returned to the inn and faced a new problem. Lightbringers, apparently of the faction Jokhula and Yvor had been cautioned to avoid, had been spotted on the island. Not in Treetown, but in the Cowtown settlement and, if rumors were to be believed, up around the new-born, all too circular lake that was the remains of the Zolosian Depot. Not the only remains, as the ants and Kirrin had made clear, in their own ways.

Snow came that night, and not exactly early this far north on the circle. Jokhula assured us that her magics and mundane tricks Yvor knew could get us to the lake despite the storm, and we made preparations. Food and supplies were gathered, odd wood-woven overshoes made to travel over snow, and too little time was free between this as Magret’s work in the still-unfinished chapel for us to find any real time to talk.

It was cold and windblown white as we left, back to an all too familiar path we had taken once before, knowing less of what we would find. Magic protected us from the worst of the elements and kept sign of our passage to a minimum, but my clothes and armor were not made for such use, even if the cold was kept at bay. When we reached a good ridge from which to view the lakeside, I was glad for any chance to not trudge uncomfortable shoes over too deep snow another stride.

The Lightbringers were there, in a more impressively constructed camp. Walls, a moat, watchtowers and a palisade protecting the three sides not against the lake, regular guard and good, clear lines of sight to any approach. And, to our surprise, at the first hint of a change in watch, a patrol flew up from the camp, passing by another returning to land. I think it was only Yvor and Jarred’s fine woodsmanship that kept us at all hidden from such careful eyes.

We watched for a day, to get better aware of them. One patrol returned bearing an unrecognizably shaped body, to the clear delight of someone we later ascertained to be the commander. We also witnessed a supply wagon arriving by magical gate, so they clearly were prepared to be here for some time.

That all known, we made our way to greet them in the name of the island’s governor. After all, his daughter was one of our number. The rest of us took on the role of her escorts, with Jokhula and Yvor moderately disguised and mostly silent to not be recognized. Silver and Merrin were the names they would offer.

The saw our approach before we left the treeline, and the guard was doubled as we approached. We were challenged in the name of the Lightbringers and announced ourselves as come to parley in the name of the Frasiers. After a brief delay, the commander welcomed us to his camp.

Bogen, First Son of the Lightbringers, was the name and title he gave, and cleansing this land of demonic infestation the purpose he claimed. Dama Kaela and Sir Jarrad argued the Frasier’s authority over the island and the Grey’s authority to protect the land, but he was clearly unconvinced. He and his had determined the lake the focus of the problem and meant to scour it utterly as a means of solving the problem.

I made no attempt to argue that, whatever power they might bring, it was scarcely likely to be of the scale of the twin orbs that had fragmented but not eliminated the problem a year before. I was of no mind to argue magical powers or their relative magnitude between sources arcane and divine, as the way he described their plan left me worried he might actually respond by getting sufficient power, an option not likely to the good of this island’s well-being.

Scarcely, and I think only because their plan were not yet at the ready, we won time to examine the exact nature of the lake’s corruption. With a few more supplies arranged from them, mostly heavy metal stock to use as weighting, we left to make a camp they could see, and there prepared for an early morning dive thru the ice and down into the dark, chaos-corrupted waters to find just what might have, quite impossibly, survived the twin annihilations. Magic was prepared to defend from even greater cold and grant breath in the depths, and if we did not all sleep poorly that night, I could not say who slept well.

Dawn came, and no sooner was I under the ice and into the water toward that, though, when the world flipped. The ice became floor beneath not ceiling above, and from its glassy-smooth surface grew a vast, cold palace.

“At last, my dearest grandson, you have come to me.”

The voice was familiar, though I had never heard it. Rather, it spoke to something in me deeper than memory. Magic protected me from the cold, but I could not help but shiver.
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A Good Place
This is a good place.

So thinks Valindra Silverbark, seated beside the great fire pit in the main hall of Caer Gwynned. She can feel the magic and wisdom of Gwynedd the Elder suffusing the hall, the force of all living things, gathered and centered here - powerful, vibrant, potent. Though Gwynedd the Elder serves Arduinna, a deity much different than Rillifane Rallathil, Valindra knows their power flows from the same wellspring, and she senses it all around her. That power lies strong in this village, coiled like a great knot of energy in the fabric of all-things centered on this place.

Thus, she is happy to be here, beeking in the warmth of the fire, savoring this momentary respite from their bloody travails, sipping a dark yeasty ale spiced with cloves. Outside, winter’s fist ruthlessly grips the land, but within this hall she has found the warmth and weal.

At the head of the gathering sits Gwynedd the Elder, powerful, beautiful despite or perhaps because of her age. She has given and taught Valindra so much in their short stay. The elf is deeply honored by her gifts, and has already prayed to the Leaf Lord to make her worthy of them.

Across the fire, Siobhan, the traveling dark eyed bard of the Severn River Valley, sings the story of the Orb of the Four Winds to those gathered in the great hall, her voice rich and sonorous. Valindra listens intently, watching the bard’s every move and gesture in the flickering light. She, loves to listen to such tales told and sung round the fire, though she has little knack for the crafting of them herself. This is one of the many things she likes about Blair, she thinks. Hopefully, Blair will tell some stories or recite some verses herself when Siobhan has finished.

She looks upon Blair and the rest of her comrades, Winter’s Bane, their faces ruddy in the firelight. Dill, already deep in his cups, casting his hircine stares upon most of the village lasses in the hall; Doughty Diogenes, his fearsome two handed sword seemingly never beyond his reach; Solera, so quiet and mysterious, her ice blue eyes glittering in the firelight, hinting at their unknown mysteries; and Ainorei, her delicate features sharpened in the firelight, leaning forward, absorbed in the bard’s tale unfolding before them.

It is odd, she thinks. They have known one and other for such a scant time and yet they have accomplished so much. They have given succor to so many people with their efforts, and word of their achievements has already spread throughout the valley and surrounding regions.

Yet she realizes that, with the possible exception of Ainorei with whom she shares a common forest home, she has so little in common with her comrades. Even Solera, a fellow elf, hails from regions so far geographically and culturally removed from hers, that she seems almost alien to Valindra. But despite this, a strong connection has grown and continues to grow between them all.

It suddenly occurs to her that in some ways they resemble the Orbs of the Four Seasons of which Siobhan sings at this moment, all so different yet forming a harmonious totality. She muses upon this for a moment, thoughtfully swirling the ale on her tongue, before rejecting the analogy as a bit too trite.

Nevertheless, the affection (even trust?) she feels for them has grown beyond its nascent stages and has flowered like fairy slippers blossoming on the moist forest floor. This is good and necessary, given what might lie ahead of them. The troll lair has proven merely an entryway into what appears to be a vast underground expanse of caverns and tunnels.

They have even found evidence that the Drow, those dark elves of the deeps so feared and reviled by her people, may lurk down there as well. Such a potential threat to the good people of the Severn Valley cannot be allowed to stand. And so, she and her companions must soon descend into those chthonic depths to explore and discover what threats may indeed lie in wait there, and eliminate them if necessary. Oh yes, Winter’s Bane will need to depend upon each other more than ever in the days to come.

Such worries, however, are for tomorrow. For now, Valindra merely wants to enjoy the company of her friends and the hospitality of Gwynned’s hall. And so she calls for another ale, leans back, and realizes suddenly that her heart feels lighter than it has in long time. Yes, this is a good place indeed.
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