Author: Tanga

A smokey mist hung over a Skarsnik village, the survivors of the melee had turned in for the evening. Did this skirmish signal the end of months of horror or just another fresh trauma to be endured before the rot claimed them all? They were too exhausted to ask. Sub Optima also rested, the only ones awake under the stars were the few relatively Redrot free goblin hunters who patrolled among the huts and tents, their weapons held close as they scanned the darkness for danger. The only firelight visible to them came from the cave mouth. Shadows flickered and danced on the walls as two figures continued to work long into the night.

Gritgoz wiped his brow. They had been toiling here for hours since the fight, Drek and he had provided what help they could to the wounded and infirm while the rest of the party had calmed the tribe and secured the perimeter. It was good to fall back into practiced movements with his mentor after all the chaos. A tourniquet here, applying a salve to stay first blooms of Redrot there, and where necessarily, ending the patient’s suffering with a precise cut of a keen blade. For those who needed that final treatment there wasn’t much of them left anyway. Most of Grotlix’s boys had been too far gone for conventional medicine and father’s personal retinue were now little more than beasts. The more uncooperative patients had been restrained by gnarled vines conjured by the high shaman just inside the cave entrance. This chamber had been converted to a temporary infirmary after Ernie had given it a quick blast of cleasning fire. Gritgoz marveled at the old shaman’s skill, he had not made a mistake all day in the application of his treatments. Though the last ten or so diagnoses had not exactly been challenge to assess…

‘WorMFiSh In ThE sKY BlOOd IN THE GRoudND, GrIndTO-gETHer IN BATtLEBOUND brOOdLING CUTCUTCU–‘ with a darting incision Drek silenced the bellowing of a cousin Gritgoz barely recognised, half her face obscured by Redrot, and wiped his bloody sickle with a bunch of aromatic purifying herbs. The sickly smell of the Brokroot cut through the clawing miasma of blood, decaying viscera and dried vomit. Drek closed his eyes and raised hands aloft.

‘Sleep well Proki. Your body has gone looking for your soul, may wise Gruzzok guide it that it may join you in the afterlife’ 

Gritgoz bowed his head and intoned the required response.

‘In Riznarax’s name we beseech it’

He loathed seeing his people laid so low by the disease, for the first time they resembled the savages the tall folk believed them to be. His revenge against the Herald did little to assuage the anger he felt seeing this perverse mockery of the proud Goblin race.

Drek washed his hands in a basin cut into the stone and then turned to address Gritgoz

‘Only three patients remain’ he nodded at the raving figures securely bound to the cave wall.

‘And they are yours’

Drek began to busy himself at a makeshift worktable strewn with phials and alembics.

‘I shall wait outside, you administer the remaining cure produced by your gnome ally’

‘But master-‘

Drek raised a hand calmly

‘You shall administer the cure. When you are done seek my council outside. They are your kin, this is your responsibility’ 

‘Yes master. Forgive my impertinence’ Gritgoz quickly averted his gaze and looked at the floor.

Drek packed up his healing supplies, curiously shaped blades and a score of bottles and gourds disappeared into a voluminous leather-bound box.

‘You have done exceptionally well and have learned much since you left our territory. But I am still High Shaman here’ with these firm words Drek flashed his acolyte a quick glare, but seeing Gritgoz’s head was still bowed his voice softened.

‘Raise your spirits young one. Our work is almost done for the day’

‘Is our work ever done master?’

Drek nodded grimly. ‘Eventually yes, but the point is well made. Come, show me this miracle of alchemy you have achieved” with these parting words Drek stalked out into the darkness.

Gritgoz took a deep breath and turned to observe the the three thrashing figures. Shabnuk and Nubnex appeared almost purely bestial. They alternated between screeching, roaring and cackling at him. They contrasted sharply with the third figure, Grotlix.
Although his brother merely eyed him with quiet fury his madness was also clearly visible in his beady red eyes. For now, he ignored him and focused on his parents, who gibbered and shrieked as he readied himself. 

‘This won’t hurt if you don’t resist’ Gritgoz nervously murmured as he cautiously approached, carrying the three potion bottles containing the precious cure and a large copper syringe. 

His father was practically enveloped by the rot. His crown lay perched at a comical angle atop a plume of crimson fungus and his face was contorted by pustulous growths which covered most of his face. He had always been stout for a for a goblin but now his stomach was bloated to the point that it had cracked open in places like overripe an fruit seeping glistening foulness. As his son approached his swollen belly wept with dark red pus and he half shouted, half spluttered his first intelligible sentence in hours-
‘Find me a bed weakling boy!!…a sweetly rotten bed to lie upon’ he shrieked before his son forced the hard won cure bottle between his ruined lips and forced him to swallow it by pinching his nose. Immediately a change came upon him, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body began convulsing and spasming as the cure traveled through his body. His expression was one of pure agony but he did not cry out in pain. Gritgoz rechecked that the vines would hold him securely so that he would do no harm to himself while the process was allowed to run its course.

As he turned his attention to his mother, he saw she was gawping at the fits which racked her spouse and was lying very still. It appeared to him that she had momentarily regained some semblance of sanity. Apparently the rot had not affected her as strongly nor as visibly as it had done Shabnuk. No plumes of fungus burst forth from her, however her veins were far darker than they should be, discolored by the parasitic Redrot which now coursed through them. Gritgoz shuddered to think of the lurking canker which was consuming her from within, hidden from view. As he considered how best to administer the cure she began to speak in measured tones, her words labored with effort.

‘My boy….please…save your Brother…save…’

He rested a his hand on her cheek in an attempt to soothe her.

‘Its ok Mother. I’m here now. I have brought the weapon to fight this contagion. The rest is up to you’ with these words he offered the potion to her, which she gulped down frantically.

Again the same change, her eyes rolled back and the shuddering spasms begain, though they were less violent than Shabnuk’s. His thoughts idly returned to the fight and he counted himself lucky that he had managed to bring down the bridge before father and mother had descended on the party. In their youth they had been renowned warriors of the clan, their addition to the fray could have severely complicated matters. That left only one more…

Grotlix thrashed his head from side to side aiming to avoid being forced to drink the cure as Gritgoz approached.

‘You think your childish concoctions can save us Brother? Still so arrogant after all these years, after all the lessons in humility I was forced to beat into you. I am the strongest, will always be the-‘ His sneering was cut short as an enormous ape fist travelling at speed knocked him out for the second time in 7 hours. Gritgoz returned to his goblin form and injected the cure using the copper syringe. He watched with interest as convulsions overtook the body of his unconscious brother and grinned as he responded.

‘Stronger? Yes Brother. But not more powerful. Told you it was going to hurt if you resisted’ 

It had been easy in the end. After all those years being pushed around by his brother, defeating him had barely involved breaking a sweat. More importantly his task was complete. He had returned with the cure to the clan hold, and in the morning… well. He would know if he had saved his kin. Doing his best to ignore the tortured expressions of his family as they thrashed in agony, he packed his things and left the cave for the cool night air, where he found Drek waiting for him smoking his foul tobacco.

‘Not exactly what I would have done for Grotlix, but I can’t fault you the directness of the approach’ he said inspecting the stem of his pipe.

‘The process seems to be causing them extreme pain. Should we not do more to ease their suffering master?’

Drek shook his head

‘They failed to protect their clan. This suffering is their penance and their fate is now in the hands of the ancestor spirits. Come. I will walk you to your tent’The

y crossed the hastily repaired bridge and towards the cluster of tents and huts which now housed what remained of the ancient clan Skarsnik. 
Drek broke the silence as they arrived at Gritgoz’s shelter for the night.

‘You showed your brother mercy. Tell me why?’

Gritgoz stopped in front of the entrance and took out the scimitar he had claimed from Grotlix, now sheathed in its ceremonial scabbard. He spent some moments staring at it before he answered.

‘I have learned your lesson of the spider and the web. Dark times are ahead, and the Skarsnik tribe will need every strong arm it can muster. However that fool will no longer wield father’s sword, he is no longer worthy, in the morning I shall-‘

The punch from Drek took him completely by surprise, sent him sprawling into the dirt and caused him to drop the blade.

‘You dare to declare who has the right to wield that sword!?’ Drek hissed in a whisper incandescent with rage ‘Clans have rules Gritgoz. Clan Skarsnik is an old clan, we have very old rules. Some older than the trees and rocks, infused with ancient magic. Do not dare break them, or you shall answer to worse than me!’ Drek bent down and snatched up the scimitar and stowed it within his cloak.

‘If your Father recovers he shall decide who shall carry the symbol of his people. Do not forget that!’

Gritgoz struggled to his feet, his head bowed. ‘I am sorry Master, I spoke hastily and thoughtlessly, I will-‘

His apology was cut short as the High Shaman began to cough violently, his exertion had clearly triggered his Redrot symptoms, and he raised a hand to silence his apprentice as he gradually got his wheezing under control. As Drek wiped his mouth having finally fallen silent, Gritgoz couldn’t be sure if he saw blood in the corner of the old Goblin’s mouth. A long moment passed until the High Shaman broke the tension. He stepped forward and placed a clawed hand on his acolyte’s shoulder.

“No…I am sorry Gritgoz” Drek smiled a rare smile. “I am hard on you because I expect so much. You have accomplished great things. But, remember young one, the lesson your brother could never comprehend. The foolish Gobbo thinks he is wise, but wise Gobbo knows he is a fool. Know your limits Gritgoz, that you might expand them”

“Yes master. Thank you master”

“Check on their progress before sunrise” Drek turned to leave ”When you have tended to them meet me at my tower. Rest well young one. A new task begins tomorrow” 

Gritgoz watch the shaman’s retreating back until he could not make it out through the darkness. Before he entered his tent to finally sleep he looked up and observed the new moon which squatted ominously among the stars, a portent of the grim times to come.

“Yes master. I only hope I am worthy to meet it”

‘Two pints of Barbells and packet of Barkskins please, Mes! Are you enjoying being home from college?’

With a flick of her wrist, two large tankards flew under two Barbells taps and began to fill themselves, Mesmerelda’s Unseen Servant helping out, just as Mesmerelda was. It was tradition for the youngest Phantagone child to serve the bar on Harvest Close. Mes had been doing it for over thirty years and before her, Rab had done it for 74 years, taking over from Meldrew, the eldest when he had gone off to Namburg to join the Realtor’s guild 214 years ago. She looked over at her brothers, sitting with their friends, all home for the holidays and smiled at her new little niece, Honey, Rab’s youngest. The Bar was packed as it was every Harvest with villagers popping in to celebrate the last reap or check if the first keg of Harvest Ale was ready to be tapped. Mes took the now full pints, prestidigitized the clove and vanilla into the foamy head of the porter and handed them over with the dried barkskins. 

‘1 silver 6, please Mr Darnton. College is great, thanks’ she waited patiently as the old gnome fumbled in his coin purse.

‘Have they taught you one to restore sight to old blind pumpkin farmers yet?’ he asked, holding up a gold piece and squinting at it. ‘What is that one now, at all? They keep changing the coins on me.’

‘That’d be more Abjuration now, Mr Darnton. I’m doing Transmutation with a minor in Conjuration. Here, do you want a hand?’ She fished the coins out of his purse and smiled.

‘It’s all Merspeak to me, love. Tell your father I’m looking forward to the keg, there’s a few of my pumpkins gone in, he was saying’.

Just then there was a loud bang on the door and four crownsguard walked in, followed by a short, fat human dressed in robes. He look around and headed straight for Mesmerelda.

‘Are you the landlord, ma’am?’

Although not completely silenced, the atmosphere dipped noticeably and her brothers were up on their feet and looking over at the guards. An unusual sight in the village, especially at this time of year.

‘Has there been some problem, sir?’ asked Mesmerelda, her mind racing.

‘Are you the landlord?’ His voice was quiet, constrained. The voice of a man who never had cause to raise it.

‘No, I am’ said Gari Phantagone, stamping the mud from his boots as he came into the lounge from the kettle sheds. ‘I noticed the rest of your men out there, will you not invite them in for a toddy?’

Mesmerelda’s father was a quiet, patient man, slow to worry. But she sensed a tension in his voice she had never heard before.

Mr Phantagone, my name is Arlow Calloway, I’m sorry to interrupt your revelries but as I’m sure you’re aware from my letters, you are two days overdue from leaving the premises and these bailiffs are here with me tonight to make sure you and your patrons will leave peacefully so the new owners can begin work.

Mesmerelda looked at her father and over to her brothers who seemed as shocked as she was. Her father looked crestfallen.

Mesmerelda looked at the man and the soldiers and for a second considered reaching for her pouch, where her bit of fur and her glass rod were waiting, ready to be turned into a bolt of lighting that would char these intruders. Her brothers had similar ideas from the looks on their faces.

‘No need for trouble’, her father’s voice unusually faint, ‘I just thought we could close out the Harvest’.

‘I’m afraid not, Mr. Phantagone, I’ll give you half an hour to get your things and then I need you out on the road. As for the rest of you,’ he raised his voice, addressing the shocked patrons, ‘this Tavern is closed, by order of Judge Konstantine’.

Final Chamber

And so the heroic traitor Namthar fought his brother to a stalemate – wounded he used the last of his energy to drive the elder brother back, and Moros retreated to his vessel. But he had mortally wounded Namthar, and he vowed to return, to reap what he had sowed, and to consume not only Vaul, but this time his brothers Namthar and Kossos too as punishment for their insolence. This would prove to be a most interesting cycle, he would surely grow strong and wise with this harvest.

Moros would bide his time, sow yet more seeds, and let his army grow in the shadows, watch its natural leaders sprout and rise and when the way was prepared, his patience would be rewarded. They would signal to him. His would be the harvest.

And that is why this place is sacred my students, we must defend it, and stop any signal fire being lit. Beyond this path, the guardian stands tall, an avatar of Namthars power, in eternal vigilance over the signal fire.S

The justifiably arrogant Etricht

“Ive won, its over. A plan decades in the making – did you really think you could stop it? There is nothing now to prevent the coming harvest– the elves lie plague-ridden and ruined, the winding path is closed, the men of the north are at war with each other, and the flotilla will slowly starve while porta verde is consumed  from the depths by Nileth. Dwarves are merely slaves now, dragged underground and building empires for their enemies.

I am on the cusp of greatness Alaistair… Moros will reward me, I will take Namthars place and become a scholar like them, ascend to godhood. When we restart this cycle, it will be by my hand the seed is sown, and by my scythe the harvest will be reaped. And I will consume, and learn, and grow, just as they have done and always will… 

#HeraldChat 

To Throkk: Which model are you then? I thought you were decommissioned? Deemed a rather spectular failure – abandoned by your creatators, your church, not even worthy of your own memories. Abandoned even by your family I believe. I wonder what your real name is?

To Gritgoz: Nice speech, have you been preparing it for weeks? Oh, Im impressed by how effective you were in the end– I had my misgivings about using goblins, but you really did turn out to be the perfect vector for spreading that redrot- why, I only had to release a single one to take out most of the elves in the South. To think, we had perfected the plague for so long, and just couldn’t think a suitable way to spread it. Until somebody mentioned there was a young half elf selling goblin slaves and I had an idea…

To Tulip: what an delicious gift you have acquired on your travels young  man – it gave me great pleasure to defeat your vamypre patron, i think ill enjoy carving you up too. I wonder what I will see when I eat your flesh, hmmm? I wonder if your friends know how much you love secrets?

To Alistair:  Ah… the Goblin Slaver, key Thief, betrayer of your father , an outlaw in your own lands – Im surprised to see you here – is it redemption you seek? How quickly you turned your back on your old way of life – Will you do the same again ? Youre hands are every bit as bloodstained as mine young thief…

To Ernodal: Ah the navigator. You took me by surprise last time we meet you know. You look just like your mother… but you reek of elf like your father. And just like her, you have a darkness growing in you, betrayal and cruelty coiled around your heart.. I can see it. I might have loved her once , but after her.. betrayal the die was cast and.. well here we are. There will be something poetic in destroying you like she destroyed me.

The Pilgrimage

What follows is a summary of almost 1 year of IRL lore:

Key background: Religion in Vaul.

While local spirits, deities and forces of natures are worshiped across Vaul, the main continent is dominated by two major deities – the twin brothers Namthar and Kossos. It is from these to the major common language curses (“By the twins”, “Black twin” etc) arises, as does local mythology of the two moons, the seasons, and most of the natural order of the world.

Namthar is the patron deity of Namburg, a glistening city of steps and steeples in the thundra of the north. A highly structured and policed church, it has spawned priests, bishops, the Judges, towering cathedrals and a vast lexicon of rules and regulations that must be followed to the word to save your eternal soul.

Kossos is the patron of Kossos strangely enough, known by most as “Salt in Wounds”. Within the vast sprawling metropolis ( the biggest city in Vaul) a gargantuan behemoth lies chained to the earth by sacred harpoons. Salt in Wounds is divided as to what actually this titan really is – some say a protector left by Kossos to guard the city, others claim it is the hound of Namthar, chained as punishment, others still whisper this is their god himself made flesh. Disagreement forms the basis of religious and political discourse in the city. Regardless , it doesn’t stop all life from revolving around the monster.

Key background: The century war

Almost 1000 years ago, a catastrophic war raged between the twin brothers , known as “the century war”. Every race splintered and took sides , families and clans were sundered by the division. The cause of the war is speculative at best, each religion claiming casius belli and that they fought for moral and spiritual justice. A holy war of just and excellent cause. Subdivisions of the subdivisions of religions have legions of scholars ready to present their thesis on why Holy Namthar needed to purge the blasphemers from Vaul, or why Kossos purified the very land by spilling the black blood of the Namtharites, but the wisest shrug and admit, that for such a cataclysmic war that took generations to recover from, worryingly little is known.

Key background: The Herald/St. Etricht.

The gang became aware of the Herald a few weeks into their adventure, as a man responsible for much of the discord and chaos they were encountering. They have been pursuing him since, as he seems responsible for much of the party’s woes.

Etricht was once a campaigner with an adventuring group known as the “lightbringers” much like sub Optima. Perhaps more optimal. Actually, almost certainly more optimal. Other members are known to include Conan the librarian, and at least 2 others. ( Its interesting to note that Conan is a decrepit old man, whereas Etricht when the gang encountered him looked middle aged at best). They famously captured Beausang, a notorious Elder vampire, and disbanded after a number of successful and suitably heroic adventures, citing artistic differences ( although Conan hinted there was quite some discord within the group once ). Etricht became quite religious and joined the church.

Etricht quickly excelled in his campaigning duties and became a hero within the Church of Namthar, was ordained a saint, and founded the Judges leading them on multiple expeditions and crusades.

A number of decades ago, the pious Etricht set off on a pilgrimage to Ashenkirk, a place which was thought to be either inaccessible at best, or a legend at worst. He returned a changed man, and became withdrawn, sullen and confrontational. He fell out with most of the hierarchy of the church, and began secretive expeditions without approval, and surreptitious meetings in the shadows of the great statue of Namthar in the captial. He quickly fell from grace and after escalating theological conflicts with the archbishop he was eventually excommunicated under classified circumstances.

He has since been made an apostate.

Key known offenses include:

Engineering the redrot which has decimated the elves, and involved goblins as a result

Inviting the Nileth beneath Porta Verde to incapacitate the orcs ( and resulting in Celeste’s Death)

Manipulating the red dragon into immolating a major elven city

Awakening the dream-eater to terrorise Vicetina

Installing Maggie in the ivory tower, thus preventing the elves accessing the winding path

Was involved in Walpurgis night, wherein he attempted to close the winding path by force with a small force of judges, but resulted in a large scale demonic ravaging of the elves. He seems to have a very personal distaste for elves.

Potential roles hinted at include:

The fall of the dwarves, who now are enslaved underground by Night elves in the sunless sea. Alawyn is the last dwarf left above. ( currently in porta verde)

Ongoing conflict between the 2 major human kingdoms.

Involvement with the necrophage project, which caused dead to reanimate and terrorise the northwest

His involvement with other events, such as Ernies personal summoning catastrophe etc are unknown.

The pilgrimage

Descending the stairs into the buried temple, the gang follow the Heralds footsteps, and walk the ancient and long forgotten pilgrimage route, learning the forgotten history of the world, perhaps they are the only living souls to learn such things aside from their quarry…

Chamber 1:

And so the scholars came, to reap what they had sown, to learn by consuming, to restart the process, and the planet waited to be reborn.

But this cycle was different – they met resistance. Men, Orcs and Elves had united, formed great armies to oppose their creators.

If it is the dream of the drop to join the river, these drops would rather remain a puddle. The scholars were taken aback, this rarely happened when the time came to gather the harvest. These peoples had been forewarned of their coming. They suspected a traitor in their midst… one of the scholars would have to die.

The collapsing roof and too few coffins, The room calls for the death of one, as the scholars had done.

Namthar couldn’t not abide by the bloodshed, to spill the blood of a fellow scholar. Instead Namthar convinced his Elder brother to bind the youngest –  Kossos and to chain the traitor to the rock and leave him to suffer for all eternity while the planet rose and fell around him with each harvest. As the remaining two would grow wiser and more powerful, Kossos would grow hungry and bestial

Chamber 2:

And so war began… The peoples of Vaul realised they were strong as one, yet even separated, and opposed to each other, the scholars proved formidable, for they had encountered resistance before, they were always prepared. The 3 brothers fought, two against one. United the people stood, yet divided the scholars stood even taller

The cobalt dias, requiring the party to divide as the scholars had to proceed

Chamber 3

Who would have guessed, after millennia of experimenting, consuming, growing, that one of the scholars would begin to ask the wrong questions?

To wonder whether they were but the harvest for something yet larger, for a greater mind still.

And for the first time since the birth of the stars, a scholar felt pity. And having tricked his brother into trapping Kossos, the traitor -Namthar finally revealed himself to his Elder brother. And so the century war began,  he people of Vaul blinded by faith, fervour and fear choose sides and fought amongst themselves, the rivers of Vaul ran red with the blood of the scholars – blood drawn from the treacherous blade of their own brother.

So from tomorrow we can implement Matt Colville’s amazing strongholds and followers rules ( tweaked of course). Its optional, and if you never acquire a single stronghold or follower, thats totally cool with me, this is just a PSA to let you know there is now a robust rules infrastructure behind the scenes in case thats something you fancy – Vaul/the DM are now prepared.

The following is a quick non-copyright infringing summary of the rules just so you have a rough idea of whats on offer. The gory details are all to be discovered as you play through, but hopefully this is enough to help you make some broad, informed decisions over the next few weeks without reading the book and spoiling stuff, ask questions etc

Summary

Strongholds cost money, time to build and upgrade

Taking somebody elses/ fixing a ruined stronghold will cut the time & cost proportionately to the state of the place your overhauling.

Stronghold Types + key effect:

Keep/ barbarian camp/pirate ship: (10k gold to build, time varies on location/workforce)

Raise an army, gain improved battle skills, fuck shit up

Temple: (8k)

Summon powerful ally’s of your patron, dependent on your “concordance” with them

Druids grove: (8k)

Summon ally’s, lose the summon bonus of temple but instead gain ability to imbue grove with powerful permanent spell (free resurrection once per season etc). Needs to be tended.

Establishments (6k)

(Tavern, theatre, laundrette, blacksmith whatever you want) – monthly revenue,gain rumours + intelligence, plot hooks, espionage, shady shit

Mages Tower (8k)

Research new OP spells, become lvl 99 turbo wizard

A Castle can contain some/all these strongholds – add 10% to price and time for extra work combining things into a single structure.

Additional effects:

Your stronghold provides a demesne effect surrounding it

                Awesome Flavour effects informed by you           

                Very substantial Combat bonuses (i.e. your own lair actions)

Your stronghold improves your class features after an extended rest (i.e 1 week)

                e.g. Barbarians gain “Chieftain’s Rage”, Druids “Savage Shape” etc

Your strongholds with attract followers!

                You roll for them – Ranging from rag tag bands of drunken teenagers to legendary allies that might actually help you save this doomed planet (some insane ones tbh)

Your stronghold will upset the balance of the world

                Hard to hide a new keep. Tavern less so. Prepare to upset people and make new friends. It sure it will be grand.

Can install mental permanent items in stronghold, augmenting warfare(below) and normal game skills. unique items, etc

Followers:

Defend your stronghold, project your power.

Includes class specific retainers (aka your pals/lieutenants/VIP). e.g. Reid

Artisans: make you amazing gear and tools. Smiths, farmers, alchemists, spys, you name it.

Warfare:

3-minute way to resolve mass warfare, or slightly more involved mini-game that runs in background to your own party battle.Nothing too messy.

its a big scary place out there, and navigating around is going to become increasingly important.

Ive updated the world map to now have hexes overlayed.

View post on imgur.com

it took a little bit of careful measuring to get all our historical travel times consistent, but this is now all squared away I believe. What Suboptima need to know is as follows…

Hex Travel times

• On foot: 1 hex = 2 days travel
• On Horseback: 1 hex = 1 days travel
• By Ship: (small craft, or incompletely manned large vessel): 2 hexes per day.
• By Ship: ( very fast, large vessel): 3 hexes per day.
• By Ship: ( Galleon/ man-o-war/Pirate ship -counts as a “stronghold btw”): 5 hexes per day.
• By Tower: Instant
• Other modes of travel will be added as your invent/discover them.

e.g

As discussed at last session, you all have a horse outside the mansion ( well, you did last time you checked a few hours ago) – across the badlands and delta to the swamp is 1 week of travel. Using Throkks half crewed caravel in a box, its 2 hexes/day, so 4/5 days travel depending on where you want to land.if you walk it, 14 days hike.

You can force a march and skip sleep to cover more distance. this gives +1 hexes traveled in that day, but must save vs exhaustion point. this makes sense to me as hiking all day and night will give proportionately good returns, horses will tire and slow down so returns drop, whereas a ship is sailing ahead overnight anyway on a skeleton crew, so keeping the full crew up to squeeze every last drop of efficiency out of the wind is going to have diminishing returns.

As the ground rushed up to meet him, now glistening with the sudden cascade of silvered ball bearings bouncing wildly, Throkk thought he caught a glimpse of Alastair turn one back last time…

 

A summary of the research time spent:

Re Dreadswamp:

Strange combined creatures, possibly due to historical sorcerers experiments known as thesselar. At least one reference to a bear with an owl for a head. Was a source of unstable mutagen material for the Judge project. The most recent expedition to retrieve additional samples resulted in an almost total massacre of the mercenary company, leaving only one man alive. His report described a multi-headed creature, whos heads grew back when damaged.  They attempted to sneak up on the creature but were unable to do so, it seemed to be guarding an old ruined tower.

Re Judge project

See above. Also, authorised by Church, Started by Etricht(aka the herald) who you learned is now an apostate. Exact details unclear, but involved fusing genetic material to creature soliders. Possible involved memory manipulation based on the research notes in your journal you collected. Was cancelled after the burning of South-Hallow and failure to retrieve any more samples due to mutli headed apex predator above. The relationship between Karn and Throkk is alluded to but largely speculative, gossip and conjecture are found in many of the journals. Throkk was certainly his “favorite” attendee of the facility, yet was pushed into multiple unstable and experimental protocols despite danger.

Re Ashen Kirk

Pilgrimage site for Namthar and Kossos worshipers, ancient and predates century war, but after the conflict a cathedral was built on the site by the largely victorious namtharites. Has become inaccessable due to thesselars presence this last century ( unclear if he is now alive or dead). It is found on the most South Eastern Tip of the Dreadswamp.

 

Vazza inhaled deeply and signed. The sweet scent of honeysuckle carried on the breeze, with only the faintest suggestion of the lavender from the next valley dancing around the periphery of his senses, playing with him. The landscape was like an oil painting, the sunlight twinkled across the vineyards and bounced off the pristine whitewashed houses that lined the river. Vazza knew the water was cold and clear on a day like today, and almost as crisp as the dry , fruity white wine these grapes would produce. His homeland… Tranden, its lands glowed lush and vibrant all year round, the meadows saturated with deep purple wild flowers and the crimson fuchsia tumbling from hedgerows as one rode past. Children’s laughter joined the birdsong and caught his attention, and he turned on his horse he watched a beautiful peasant maiden chasing her sisters through the neatly maintained lanes of grapes, her blonde curls tumbling from underneath her suncap, bouncing around her perfectly slender jaw. She was fair indeed. Vazza smiled and urged the horse onwards. She turned to him as he approached, the white mare picking its way delicately through the yard. Her were eyes were sapphire blue and wide like saucers as he approached, almost too big as they gleam up at him. She opened her mouth to speak, her lips full and blood red against her porcelain skin, parting slowly for him with the unmistakable promise of the evening to come and heady wine fueled secrets to be shared.

“Wake up you useless shit-munching dick-nosed fat fuck” she whispered.

Vazza jerked upright in the saddle. They had stopped suddenly and James had delivered a swift elbow to his ribs to bring him to attention. He thoughtfully thumbed  his nose and frowned as he peered into the darkness. Vazza fucking hated the South. The land was shit, the food was shit, the people were shit and the weather was complete shit. The had just spend a whole fucking week riding across some plains after paying a small fortune to the ruler, who was no more than a man in a tent. If the knights of Tranden so wished, they could run the entire khanate down in a mornings work he suspected.

He adjusted his belt and freed up his sword arm, pushing the grizzly trophys of the slain dog men to one side. They had fought like.. well.. the animals they were, but they should have thought of that before they had crossed the path of the warriors of Tranden. It would sure be a tale worth telling back in the court of the Earl, the trophies might finally earn him the knighthood he had so cruelty been denied this last season.

He peered ahead into the black night.

“Why have we stopped”

“Something spooked the horses”

Vazza rode to the front of the line, nodding to Sustack. He had returned from Porta Verde empty handed, no lead on the quarry. This had displeased the captain greatly. He could kiss that vineyard goodbye that Sustack could. Vazza chuckled, pleased to see Sustack fail. Maybe Vazza would give him a job in his mill when he was knighted. Never liked Sustack. Had a weird nose Sustack. Too straight.

As Vazza stared on, he saw two flickers of torch light in the distance begin to approach him. Too far away to be important, but then why had the horses stopped so. As the points of light drew closer detail began to emerge.. they didn’t flicker, rather they .. blinked, they were eyes. Vazzas heart began to pound in his chest, almost clinking off the breastplate. A few seconds later and the shape formed out of the night.. a man? Oh by the twins, the smell of blood was in the air. Vazza fucking hated the South…

The man stood silently, the eyes glowing a deep swell of amber, like a sun setting on a particularly troubling day.

Captain De Fleur addressed the figure.

“We wish to pass through here, please stand aside, by order of the Earl of Tranden”

A long silence followed before the voice responded, a gravely, world weary male voice.

“Have you paid your taxes to the Khan to pass this way”

“We have, you work for the Khan?”

“And you killed those dog-men” dragged the voice

“And what of it, they were abominations”

“It seemed like you stormed their camp at night”

“The tactics of battle are but details, the story is of victory and bravery”

In the still night, Vazza felt a bead of sweat begin to form at his lower back, pooling under the wool and leather.

“And why are you riding South oh brave ones?”

De Fleur withdrew the scroll and passed it to Sustack, who dismounted and slowly approached the figure. The glowing eyes fell on the scroll, and on the portrait. The handsome half elf. They had been tracking him for months now, but the only good lead they had was beaten out of that Kossovian wine merchant a few weeks ago.

“You seek this half-elf. What did he do?”

“He is a thief, a charlatan, and a seasoned criminal. He took something of great value from a very powerful person.”

“What did he take exactly?” the voice rasped

“We.. er.. I.. am not paid to know such things, only to retrieve him and his possessions”

The eyes blazed now as they stared back at De Fleur.

“Do you know this … crook? Who are you? Speak or feel the kiss of Tranden Steel”

“Sir” came a call from the rear. Vazza spun around, the dread rising in this throat like bile. There was another pair of eyes behind them. The horses snorted and stamped the ground, the smell of the panic spreading through the ranks. Vazza pulled hard on the reins to maintain control of the beast. His stomach sank as his bowels loosened. Another pair. Another. Another. Within a few seconds, dozens of the orange eyes had emerged from the undergrowth. They were surrounded.

“My name is Squint”

Vazzas horse rose up in terror as he lost his grip on the leathers. Sailing backwards through the air Vazza had a lot of time to reflect on the factors that had lead him to take this quest to retrieve the Errant Bentbuck. Greed for one. Gold. Wine. Lust. Ambition. Hubris. As the ground rose up to meet him, one simple universal truth had become crystal clear to him however , the words punched from his lungs and the rocks buckled his breastplate and crunched his spine skywards.

“I fucking hate the South”

Taahirs tower is the first structure  acquired by the party, and perhaps is the first building in a bastion that might someday become a part of your stronghold. Or you might send it straight to hell. Who knows?

As Klaus and Taahir become increasingly familiar with the tower, a number of potential upgrades have occured to them:

Upgrade	Cost		Time
Alarm system	500g		1 day
Reinstalling the Alarm would allow the tower to teleport randomly to a safer location when intruders are present within – needs to be activated by a 4 digit code on the way out/in.
Channelling crystals	1500g		2 days
A sort of visual high dimensionality reduction technique, The crystals help refract the kaleidoscope of potential future images in front of Ernodal into a more condensed and aggregate form – Allows Ernodal advantage on all rolls when piloting/skill challenges in the tower
Walkii Talkii Rune	2000g		2 days
An ancient method of sending messages magically before the classic copper wire technique was perfected, this allows users of magic to communicate to those in the tower who are inside in the room with the runes etched into the wall – allows unlimited message spell between magic users and residents of the room
Decoction station	3000g		3 days
A bubbling desk full of alchemical contraptions fizzing, puffing and stewing in a series of ongoing distillations. Generates 1 greater healing potion per day. Can hold 10 potions in total.
Home Alone	500g per trap		1 day per trap
Swinging logs, paint buckets on doors frames, tripwires and glue painted floors. If you can dream it, Klaus can make it. Can be primed as an action and used as protection, should you ever wish to prevent unwanted entry into the Tower.
Backdoor	500g		1 day
A hidden exit in the pantry that leads to a small slide behind Taahirs shelf of condiments and fine teas. Provides an additional escape route.
Electrum plated antidiscombobulation girdle		5000g	4 days
A rather uncomfortable looking full body girdle that can be built into the pilots chair and attaches Ernodal firmly into the tower. It delivers high voltage shock to the Lumbar spine when the liquid electrum pseudo-level detects any acceleration in a Euclidian plane outside 2 standard deviations the normal variance for the trip thus far. The effect allows Ernodal to reroll any skill roll once per trip. Effect stacks with channeling crystals.
Teatime Motherfuckers	500g		1 day
Taahir finishes fabricating his exquisite jade teapot, with a duplicate image of this tower etched into the side, flanking Throkks Caravel. The perfect accompaniment to his family blend of tea from Salt in Wounds ( perfected by his cousin Barry), pausing for tea (10 mins) grants 1d8 temp hitpoints for 6 hours to the party.