Eberron Character: Maechen Eyre

Name: Maechen Eyre
Race: Human
Class: Wizard 5/Barbarian 1/Dragon Prophet 1
Experience: 25,400
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Religion: Aureon
Homeland: Aundair
Age: 31 Height: 5'9" Weight: 155 lbs.

Statistics: STR 14, DEX 14, CON 16 (18), INT 18, WIS 13, CHA 11, BAB +3, Fort +7 (+3), Ref +3 (+1), Will +7 (+6), Init +6 (+2 Dex, +4 Improved Init), AC 12 (+2 Dex), HP 44 (51)

Skills: Balance +2, Concentration +8, Craft (Bookbinding) +6, Craft (Alchemy) +7, Decipher Script +8, Gather Information +5, Jump +3, Knowledge (Arcana) +10, Knowledge (History) +7, Knowledge (Geography) +1, Knowledge (Dragon Prophecy) +4, Spellcraft +10, Survival +3

Action Dice: 8

Spells: 0 (4/day) -- All 0-level spells; 1st (4/day) -- Comprehend Languages, Ebon Eyes, Enlarge Person, Feather Fall, Grease, Identify, Mage Armor, Magic Missile, Lesser Orb of Acid, Reduce Person, Shield; 2nd (3/day) -- Bull's Strength, Ice Knife, Invisibility, Phantom Foe, Web, Wraithstrike; 3rd (2/day) -- Clairaudience/Clairvoyance, Dispel Magic, Fireball, Haste, Lightning Bolt, Tongues
Class Abilities: Fast Movement, Rage 1/day (6 rounds), Constellation Power: Falazure
Weapons/Attacks: +6 (1d10+3, Greatclub +1), +6 (1d4+2, Masterwork dagger)

Equipment:

+1 Greatclub, Amulet of Health +2, Wand of Magic Missiles (5th level) (49 charges), Pearl of Power (1st), Spellbook, Explorer's Handbook, Backpack, Alchemist's Lab, Light Horse (w/Pack & Riding Saddle), Masterwork Artisan's Tools, Everburning Torch, Bedroll, Scroll Case, Parchment (10 sheets), 50' silk rope, waterskin, spell component pouch, Tindertwigs (10), ink & pen, identity & traveling papers, 2946 GP (Dave, is this a House of Kundarak letter of credit, gold and platinum, jewels, etc.? Break it down for me if you will)

Feats: Combat Casting, Dragon Prophesier, Extend Spell, Improved Initiative, Prophecy Shaper, Scribe Scroll
Proficiencies: All Simple + Martial Weapons, All Light & Medium Armor, All Shields (except Tower)
Languages: Common, Draconic, Gnome, Elven, Argon

History: Growing up the son of a moderately famous bookbinder in the city of Passage, Aundair, the gangly, introverted boy named Maechen would oft times wonder at his surname – “Eyre.” It was, he learned, derived from the name of the moon and mid-spring month of the same name, and Maechen was excited when his mother explained how it was associated with the dragonmark of making. Throughout adolescence, he felt drawn to the moons, the stars, and the Ring of Siberys, certain that his family name would prove a calling, that his dragonmark was soon to appear.

It never did.

Reluctantly, he took up his father’s trade of bookbinding. Some years into his apprenticeship, he learned a secret that explained both how his father had avoided military service in the war and how the family maintained such a comfortable living: his father had a private contract with House Orien to construct the finest spellbooks in service to those wizards House Orien sent to the frontlines. Once he was “in” on his father’s secret, Maechen was only too happy to help him. He became friends with many a visiting wizard, began to study their simplest cantrips, and was encouraged by them to continue his studies.

In his mid-teens, Maechen was sent to the metropolis of Fairhaven to begin his formal study of wizardry at the prestigious University of Wynarn. He excelled in his studies, learned the principles of alchemy, and even found himself setting aside his books at times in service to athletic pursuits - the latter more in service to romantic pursuits than any love of sport. Maechen had become involved with a classmate, a spirited beauty with auburn hair. Her name was Melaan Windshire. On a lightning rail field trip to the Starpeaks Observatory, the pair snuck in after hours and consummated their love beneath the field of stars. It was that night that she told him about her hobby of studying the Draconic Prophecy.

A year passed. The pair were inseparable and, when Melaan learned that she was carrying Maechen's child, they married and took a leave of absence from the university. Those were Maechen’s happiest days, living with Melaan and studying the Prophecy together, caring for his young son, and eking out a modest living making spellbooks as the war drew to a close that seemed to bode well for his future.

The first wedge between the pair was, in a sad irony, the Prophecy itself. For Melaan it was a hobby; for Maechen, an increasing obsession. As if returning to his childhood, he felt sure he was on the cusp of some fateful discovery, but it was always just around the corner, always in the shadows just beyond his vision. Maechen cared deeply for Melaan and his son, Zanj, but his obsessiveness gave him a temper he never knew he had and arguments were frequent and painful.

In the year 995 YK, he dreamt ceaselessly for three months of a great silver dragon. When an emissary arrived at his home claiming to represent such a dragon - Vuulaytherus of the Chamber – Maechen accepted the man's word without question. Accepted, too, that he had a role to play in the Prophecy, that he was to travel to Argonnessen in one year’s time to accept that role from Vuulaytherus, and that in the intervening year, he would travel Khorvaire at the dragon’s bidding to prove himself.

Fired by the purpose he’d so long craved, Maechen left his home and family the following day, leaving only a note of darkest regret. He knew they could never understand that this is what he had to do. That if he didn’t follow his calling, his life would be as nothing and even his devotion to them would be undermined – for what husband and father could face his loved ones knowing he had failed to play his part in fulfilling a destiny that would surely make the world a better place for them?

The year that followed tested Maechen as never before, traveling many lands beyond the borders of Aundair in service to Vuulaytherus. He sought out obscure magic items, rare documents, and sages both esteemed and held in contempt. At times Vuulaytherus’ commands made little sense – what did a dragon need with a handful of sand from the shores of Newthrone in Q’Barra? – but Maechen performed them with the zeal of a true acolyte. And he also tasted his first combat, putting into practice those arcane battle magicks that were mere theory in college. But even as Maechen felt the righteousness of his path, ever did his wife and son remain in his memory. He always sent them a portion of the spoils he earned adventuring for Vuulaytherus, and occasionally, when he could tolerate the emotionalal toll, he would even write them. He wanted them to know that he was well and that he thought always of them, but he never left a means of responding - lest he risk weakening in his resolve.

On the appointed day, he sailed for Argonnessen with a crew of men he thought to be traders, but who proved to be little more than wreckers looking to prey on ships driven from Argonnessen by the Seren barbarians who protected its coasts. In a fitting twist of fate, they themselves were set upon by Serens. Perhaps the Serens recognized that Maechen wasn’t truly aligned with these corsairs, perhaps they saw in his eyes the calling of the dragons that they too worshipped. Whatever the case, he was the only man on that ship to not have his belly put to barbarian spear that day. Instead he became their captive.

The life to come was brutal and filled with the pain of learning amongst a people who responded to failure with the sharp crack of a fist. Maechen was forced to learn their ways lest the wildlands themselves leave him starving or devoured by some monster. And so he learned to fight, wielding the shaped greatclub of the Serens, and he learned to channel his moments of rage into bursts of great fighting prowess in battle. He even learned their language, a curious mixture of Common and Draconic. When the day came that he decided Vuulaytherus could wait no longer, Maechen was confronted by the Seren tribal elder on trying to sneak from the village. Indeed, his leaving had been foretold, and the confrontation was simply a final parting of ways with a rare outsider who’d managed to earn a measure of the tribe’s respect. "Just a measure," the old man told Maechen, a rare smile lining his tan, creased face. Maechen was gifted with a mighty club etched with arcane symbols, and more importantly, given a sacred cord with which to bind his long, black hair in the ponytail worn only by those tribesmen considered worthy fighting men.

In the weeks to follow, Maechen ventured into the depths of Argonnessen with only the calling of the Prophecy to guide him. Even with his newfound survival skills, the jungles beat him down, he became emaciated as prey proved too elusive to hunt, and when he finally found Vuulaytherus, he was half-mad from his journeys. What followed Maechen recalls only as one remembers a dream, but secrets were told him that toppled the final barrier of doubt that he was destined to play a role in the shaping of the Prophecy. He bore no dragonmark, but he would indeed be a “maker,” and that which he forged would shape the world more than anything so mean it could be made by hand.

Just a few weeks ago, Maechen awoke from his fugue meeting with his newfound master. He found himself hale and hearty, staying in a comfortable inn in the city of Stormreach on the vast, unexplored continent of Xen’drik. He felt as if he’d slept well for the first time in years. His more fiery impulses had faded, replaced with an understanding that he would fulfill his role even if it took years, decades...or more. His zeal for the Prophecy was now counterbalanced with a level of serenity. A glowing symbol of the draconic constellation of Falazure had appeared on his shoulder overnight, the final confirmation that Vuulaytherus had faith in him.

And so it was that when a messenger arrived with word from the great, silver dragon that Maechen was to seek out a man in Xen’drik with a key role to play in the Prophecy, Maechen didn’t howl for joy, but rather smiled the quiet smile of one who understands. He had suffered the turmoil of indecision the whole of his life, to the point of hurting those he’d loved dearest, but now he knew the pain would not be without reward.

He readied his gear.

A Note on the Upcoming Schedule...

I've got no problem starting Raveloft in two weeks. Kinda itching to do it, Frank Quitely. If we can just know by next weekend, that would be awesome. We've got four in the party so far. Ben, are you in? I might also have a friend from College Station who wants to give Ravenloft a shot. Anybody mind?

Eberron Adventure Journal: The Wrath of Vulkoor

Vult 8 - Vult 9, YK 998

Part One - Arrivals and Departures:
Setting out following the direction of a generally confident Halas Martain, the Wandering Wolves rode their newly acquired warhorses into the Eberron jungles, hoping to reach Stormreach before the Golden Dragon departed for Khorvaire, where the news it carried would almost certainly spark a war.

After traveling about 10 hours, encountering surprisingly little resistance from local beasts, night fell and the weary adventurers decided to make camp. They made sure that Gunter was still bound, gagged and secured before resting, and they left Luggoth to keep watch.

As morning dawned, Luggoth awoke, groggy and uncertain what had happened. He remembered the sound of spellcasting, then silence cutting off his cries of alarm. He remembered pulling out his sword and then falling victim to paralysis as darkness enveloped the campsite. He saw shadowy forms moving through, and one of them took advantage of his paralysis to club him unconscious.

A quick glance at the camp revealed that Halas, Gunter and Tworock were missing. Before he could fully process this information, however, he heard rustling in the bushes nearby. Letting out a roar, he rushed toward the bushes with his sword. This stirred Lysander immediately, although Pel simply muttered in his sleep and rolled over in his bedroll.

Luggoth held his sword when a familiar face emerged from the bushes. Brand, last seen dying of mummy rot, emerged hale and hearty with a new companion, a human in explorer's clothes adorned with spell component pouches and a carved wooden club slung across his back. Luggoth's cries of surprise, and the sound of the reunion, soon woke Pel as well, and the Wandering Wolves had a reunion at the campsite.

Brand introduced his companion as Maechen, a servant of the same dragon that Muroni had followed, and then began spinning the tale of his father's rescue and what he had been doing in Eberron for the month. It was at this point that Lysander and Pel both noticed that they were down a few members. Brand's story would have to wait... there was a mystery afoot.

Luggoth recounted what had happened, and Brand informed them that they were in the territory of the Volentar Clan, drow who worshipped the wrathful aspect of Vulkoor. This was a hint as to what had happened when Luggoth discovered a note in the bedroll of Tworock reading, in scrawled Common, "This area belongs Vulkoor. Your friends go to Vulkoor. You leave or you go to Vulkoor."

Maechen cast a detect magic spell and found no lasting magical auras, but did determine from his experience that the spells were probably Hold Person and Silence, and that they were most likely cast by a cleric. The Wolves searched the area and together determined that all three of the men were taken without a struggle, that there were four in the group of drow, and that the drow had moved throughout the camp quietly and carefully before choosing who to take.

Brand could tell from the prints that two of the drow were carrying Tworock, and one each was carrying the other two men. Brand guessed that they were probably taken as sacrifices to Vulkoor. He theorized that the drow hatred of giants might have informed their decision to take Tworock, although he couldn't guess why they might have taken Gunter and Halas. He offered that the drow often passed without trace, but that they should try and find their trail.

Part Two - A Trail of Gold:
As Brand suspected, there was no trail to be found once the drow got about 20 feet from the campsite. However, Luggoth spotted something in the mud, a gold piece, and picked it up to determine that it had an arrow scratched into it, pointing down the trail. They guessed that Halas must have been dropping the coins to leave a trail.

On horseback, the Wolves and Maechen began following the trail, and found additional gold pieces along the way. About every ten minutes or so, they found a piece of gold. Luggoth realized as they were following the trail that the drow, despite being hidden, had been taking a circuitous route, doubling back on their tracks and making random detours. They were obviously taking no chances about being followed.

After about three hours and 20 gold, the adventurers found their first platinum piece. It would be the last one they found, because about the time they were to reach the next one, they found instead something that had been eating them. A very large, mutated rust monster, which after snapping up the platinum piece on the trail, turned its attention to the metal-laden adventurers in front of it.

The Wolves feared the creature's immense size and rusting abilities, but they were able to put it down fairly quickly. Pel and Maechen unleashed magic missiles from their wand as Luggoth and Lysander peppered it with arrow fire. Pel blasted it with enough magic missiles to blacken its face and destroy one of its eyes, and Luggoth followed up with an arrow into its burned head that put it down for good.

Unfortunately, the rust monster had eaten the rest of their trail, but they were able to follow the large beast's tracks and find where the drow's pass without trace abilities had faded. They could see that the four drow were still traveling, and they still showed all the signs of carrying all three prisoners.

Part Three - Canyon of Darkness:
As the Wolves continued on, they saw that the path lead through a box canyon, twenty feet wide and thirty feet high with considerable jungle cover above that rendered the canyon fairly shadowy and dark. Fearing an ambush, Pel, Lysander and Brand moved stealthily into the canyon. Unfortunately, they didn't know that Ashkala and Teralas, a pair of drow raiders, waited in the tree cover above and had spotted them coming from a ways away. When they entered the canyon, however, Lysander spotted Ashkala in the branches and cried out "drow!" just as they launched their ambush.

Xen'drik boomerangs whistled down out of the trees, impacting Brand and Pel, as Lysander pulled out his bow and fired an arrow into Ashkala's arm. Maechen and Luggoth rushed up to join the group as Brand fired his bow at Ashkala as well, one scratching his cheek and the other landing solidly in his leg. After the arrow impacted, however, a cloud of darkness enveloped the two drow, making it even harder to see them amidst the foliage cover.

As Pel readied his crossbow, the darkness dropped suddenly into the midst of the Wolves, and Brand heard something landing on the jungle floor. Ashkala drank a potion of healing that reduced but didn't eliminate his wounds as Lysander and Brand moved forward out of the darkness, further into the canyon. They emerged just in time to be targeted by Neveress, a drow firebringer who had been invisibly watching from the end of the canyon. She launched a fireball into their midst, blasting Lysander, Brand and Brand's animal companion, Crowley, a viper that dropped nearly dead to the floor of the canyon.

As Pel moved up to cast cure light wounds on Crowley and prevent his death, Luggoth shifted and charged, easily covering the immense amount of ground to slash at Neveress with his sword.

Two more boomerangs came whizzing down into the group, both aimed at Lysander, but only one connected. Lysander was badly wounded, and for some reason a vision of his death entered his mind, as he witnessed another fireball launched into their midst, resulting in his instant fiery demise. He was shaken out of this vision as Pel moved to him and cast cure moderate wounds, and Lysander began singing, inspiring Luggoth's second attack on Neveress, which slashed her apart and dropped her, dying, to the jungle floor. Maechen tried to use a Grease spell to get the drow to fall, but Teralas managed to nimbly leap to another branch, aided by the rope harnesses he and Ashkala were wearing.

Seconds later, however, Teralas and Ashkala dropped to the ground anyway, swinging down on ropes and cutting them free with their drow long knives. Maechen blasted Ashkala with an empowered magic missile, killing him, and the other Wolves quickly surrounded Teralas. He acquitted himself well, fending off attacks from Pel and Brand, but Brand deflected his return attack and threw him off-balance, allowing Lysander to summon his new keen rapier from his glove of storing and stab Teralas all the way through his chest, resulting in a burst of electricity running up and down the drow's frame. Before he could recover from this blow, Maechen rushed up and bashed the drow's skull in with his club.

While searching the drow, Brand found a scorpion on Teralas' body. It tried to sting him and failed, and Brand crushed it. None of the others had anything similar, but they did have some magical armor, potions, an amulet, a ring, a scroll and a wand, as well as masterwork weaponry.

As Lysander and Maechen identified some of the items and Pel placed the rest in the haversack, healing Lysander and Brand further as well, Luggoth climbed the rope into the trees and looked around for other snipers. The creaking branches supported him well enough to look around and he determined that this was the last of the drow in the area.

Part Four - The Survivor and the Demon Farmer
Despite this assurance, the Wolves moved more cautiously from this point, with Brand and Lysander scouting quietly ahead as the rest of the group rode slowly behind them on horseback. Brand found the tracks of the last drow, realizing that the three that had attacked them were part of the same band that had kidnapped their allies and their prisoner. The tracks indicated that the drow was carrying the three prisoners on some sort of stretcher, leading them to guess he or she must be fairly strong, but it also left a very easy trail.

Lysander returned to the rest of the group as Brand scouted ahead, following the trail. As he moved, he heard movement about fifty feet ahead in a group of bushes. He moved quietly, using cover, to get closer to the bushes, and the movement stopped. Brand stopped as well, looking around and casting a spell that gave him blindsense so that he could spot an invisible man, about 10 feet away, trying to sneak past.

"Martain? Is that you?"

"Who's asking?" came the reply.

Brand revealed himself to be one of the Wolves, showing his ring as identification, and Halas Martain became visible. He explained that he had been feigning unconsciousness when they were captured, and that he felt he was outnumbered and didn't want the other hostages to get hurt, so he didn't attack, but he did leave coins. Brand feigned ignorance in the coins, pretending to have tracked the traceless drow, impressing Halas while annoying him at the loss of his money.

Halas offered his own inflated account of what had happened as the two men headed back to rejoin the other Wolves. After the shaman had carried them for a short while, another band of drow, made up of about six drow warriors, met him in the jungle. Two of the warriors and the shaman carried Gunter off in one direction, while two of the other warriors took Tworock in a different direction. The other two warriors were carrying Halas, and he decided to make his move, since they had never bothered to disarm any of the captives, thinking them soundly unconscious.

Halas gave an account of a brave battle in which he was wounded by their scorpion chains (this much was borne out by some fairly nasty looking wounds) but managed to prevail, and Maechen, not yet annoyed by Halas as the rest of the Wolves were, took pity on him and offered him a potion of cure moderate wounds, which he greedily but gratefully drank.

Halas led the Wolves back to the spot where the drow had split, but unfortunately, they had used their pass without trace ability and were basically gone. The Wolves determined that Tworock would want them to prevent the war and resolved to go after Gunter, but they weren't entirely sure how they were going to do that. Then Brand offered that he knew of an informant in the area, about two hours to the south, who would almost certainly know where the secret shrine was. The Wolves resolved to go to this informant.

After about two hours, the group did indeed reach the farm of Hackrazet, a babau demon who had retired from the Demon Wastes to open a farm for eternal rations. His crops were Long Corn and Gurk'ash, flora and fauna used to make the expensive rations. As they arrived, though, the Wolves saw that something was wrong. The corn was trampled and eaten in several spots, and the fence showed signs of being patched several times as well. The Wolves approached the farmhouse of Hackrazet, and he greeted them, as he had met Brand once before and knew his father well.

The Wolves explained their dilemma to Hackrazet, and he offered an exchange. He knew where the shrine was, probably four hours to the north, and he'd offer them directions if they'd agree to do something for him. It seems an old enemy had unleashed a celestial bulette on his crops, and Hackrazet was unable to destroy the beast. In addition to being difficult to deal with thanks to its celestial nature, he worried that if he destroyed it, he might call down some fairly nasty holy wrath upon himself. But if some adventurers were to destroy its corporeal form, sending it back to its celestial home, they would surely not suffer the same consequences. Or at least, not to the same surely fatal extent as Hackrazet would.

With little choice in the matter, the Wolves agreed to Hackrazet's terms. He then produced a scroll of Geas from a magically trapped chest and asked that one of the adventurers' agree to be ensorceled as a sign of good faith. After trying to pawn off Halas, which Hackrazet saw straight through, Brand was given the quest spell. The Wolves were on the clock, now. They had to deal with the drow and rescue Gunter and return to handle the bulette within the next day, or the spell would begin having its ill effects on Brand. They mounted up and began the journey back into the jungle, heading for the drow shrine.

XP:
Lysander 700
Luggoth 700
Pel 700
Brand 900
Maechen 900

In Mucus Drowned

Sorry, all, but I have an upper respiratory infection that is still contagious. To spare you all my misery, I will be staying home tonight. Please enjoy having a designated book reader and under no circumstances will Gus Paul make that Nazi loving commie a new suit.

Chapter 1: The Missing Man

On a cold October night in Boston in the year 1936, a strange reunion took place. Spurred by a mysterious warning from Count Rostov in Berlin and a frantic missive from Buck Martin in Brazil, four men who had not seen each other for a decade joined forces again to struggle against the rising tide of darkness.

Only Spencer Thompson was expected to be absent; his incarceration after a failed burglary attempt was well-known. But it soon became clear that Dr. Robert Harger was missing as well. A hastily organized search of the Doctor's house yielded vital clues: three letters to Professor Rutherford, never mailed, written over the course of several years.

The first letter told of Harger's piecing together of several clues about the horrible fate that befell the Olympia survivors – knowledge of which had driven him to seek forgetfulness in a bottle. The second letter recounted his attempt to find a way to rid himself of the cursed amulet, culminating in a meeting with Gus Paul, an expert on the Jewish Kaballah. In his final letter written several days before the reunion, Harger admitted he had discovered how to rid himself of the amulet, but feared the steps he must take. Now, at last, he had decided to make the desperate attempt, renting a boat and performing a strange ritual upon midnight seas. Should he fail to return, he urged his friends to contact Gus Paul, now under threat due to his association with the doctor.

The investigators made an ominous discovery: Harger had rented his boat near the beach where De Roca had made his final attack a decade past. The boat had been rented a week ago and had never been returned. Still haunted by the memory of De Roca's horrible half-human minions, the investigators did not dare to explore the beach at night. Instead, they turned their attention to Harger's last request and placed a long-distance call to Gus Paul in New York City.

They quickly arranged to meet Paul in New York that morning. Paul was already acquainted with Harger's account of the fantastic events of 1926, and his own mystical studies inclined him to give it some credence. Over a mediocre breakfast at a local café, Paul recounted his own experiences with a man named Conrad Witten, chairman of a veteran's charity called the Beneficial Society for the Care and Treatment of Veterans of the Great War.

Years earlier, Witten had sought Paul's expertise in analyzing a photograph of a mysterious amulet thought to be of cabalistic design. Witten said it was a gift from an anonymous donor, and because of its unique design the Beneficial Society was having difficulty getting it appraised. Paul could offer little help – the amulet clearly had nothing to do with Kaballah – but he readily assented to Witten's request that the matter be kept confidential. Several weeks ago, Witten had returned, angrily accusing Paul of having broken his promise; in recent years, there had been word of several inquiries among scholars and academics about a strange amulet matching the design in Witten's photograph. Paul realized that these must have been triggered by Harger's investigations, but he kept the doctor's confidence, insisting to Witten that he had made no such inquiries. Clearly unsatisfied, Witten left with a vague but ominous threat. Since then, Paul had several times felt he was being watched or followed. Fearing for his and the doctor's safety, he had contacted Harger.

In an effort to learn more about Harger's fate, the investigators called the boat rental shop. To their dismay, they learned that the boat had been found washed ashore in pieces. Furthermore, the shop owner claimed that it was "full of bullet holes." There now seemed little doubt about the fate of their friend, but the pressing matter of Witten's threat left no time for grief.

After some artful maneuvers to evade potential followers, Paul, Rostov and Huxley paid a visit to the offices of the Beneficial Society. There, an apologetic Witten attempted to make amends for "losing his temper" with Paul. He offered to seek his donor's permission to discuss details about the amulet (assisting the investigators in their fictitious attempt to appraise a similar artifact). There was no doubt in Paul's mind that Witten was lying; his years of haberdashery had given him a keen insight into human nature. Nonetheless, the investigators accepted Witten's promise to contact Rostov – whom he seemed to recognize from a lecture years before – with the results of his discussion with the donor.

After the interview, Paul distracted the vacuously charming secretary, Mary Cooper, while Rostov listened at the door of Witten's office. Despite some early successes, Paul's charismatic demeanor ran afoul of Mary's time-consuming hair-care regimen. Meanwhile, however, Rostov was able to discern the sound of furniture being moved within Witten's office. A cautious peek into the office was spotted by Witten, whereupon Rostov boldly entered and remarked upon the curious aquarium he had just noticed, the very piece of furniture Witten had been dragging across the floor.

Witten explained that the aquarium, enclosed on all sides, was designed for deep sea creatures that could not survive the low pressure of an ordinary tank. Within, strange, translucent spidery creatures crawled in an eerie silence. Witten called them "sea spiders," another exotic gift from an anonymous donor. "They are not true spiders, of course," he explained. "Rather some type of polyp. I don't know the scientific name."

There was something else odd about the aquarium, but Rostov could not place what it was. The ghost-like creatures drew him with an uneasy fascination, but he knew he could not push his luck any further. With an aristocratic bow, he bade farewell to Witten and the three men left the office.

Guarding against being followed, the investigators returned to the hotel room that Rostov had secured. It was now time to plan their next move, but Rostov had an unnerving feeling that their time was very short…

Ravenloft Character: Zargosz Duurr

"When all else fails, hit it with a stick."

Name: Zargosz Duurr
Race: Half-Orc
Class: Figther 1/Druid 5
Experience: 15000
Alignment: Neutral Good
Religion: Gatekeeper Druid
Homeland: Shadow Marches
Age: 26 Height: 6'4" Weight: 230 lbs.

Statistics: STR 16, DEX 17, CON 13, INT 8, WIS 18, CHA 11, BAB +4, Fort +6 (+8), Ref +1 (+5), Will +4 (+9), (All saves additional +2 vs Aberrations) Init +3, AC 19 (+3 Dex, +1 Two Weapon Defense [w/quarterstaff equipped], +5 Rhino Hide Armor), HP 46

Skills: Climb +1 (+6), Concentration +3 (+4), Craft: Woodworking +2 (1), Handle Animal +3 (+3), Jump +1 (+4), Knowledge (nature) +2 (+3), Knowledge (the planes) +1 (+0), Listen +1 (+5), Profession: Boating +1 (+5), Profession: Fishing +1 (+5), Spot +1 (+5), Survival +1 (+7), Swim +1 (+4)

Class Abilities: Animal companion, nature sense, wild empathy, Woodland stride, Trackless step, Resist nature’s lure, Wild shape (1/day)

Racial Abilities: Darkvision 60'

Weapons/Attacks: +7 melee (+8, 1d6+6, w/+1 Quarterstaff 2-handed, 3d6+6 when charging [Rhino Hide armor]), +7/+7 melee (1d6+4, w/+1 Quarterstaff, two weapaon figting), +7 melee (1d4+3 dagger), +7 ranged (+8, 1d6+3, masterwork throwing axe), +7 ranged (1d4+3, sling)

Equipment:

Rhino Hide armor, +1 Quarterstaff, Cloak of Resistance +1 (figured in), MW Throwing Axe, Sling, 30 bullets, backpack, bedroll, fishhooks x9, fishnet, 50' hemp rope, waterskin, smokestick, Explorer's Outfit, rations - 10 days, climber's kit, spell component pouch, grappling hook, tindertwigs x5, oil x2, sack x2, cheese, piton x2, antitoxin x2, tent, scroll case

Scrolls:

Flaming Sphere, Produce Flame x2, Magic Fand x4, Magic Stone x4, Cure Light Wounds x4, Cure Moderate wounds x2, Lesser Restoration, Longstrider x4, Speak with Animals

Feats: Two Weapon Fighting, Two Weapon Defense, Gatekeeper Initiate, Augment Summoning

Proficiencies: Simple and martial weapons, all armor & shields (metal prohibited)

Languages: Common, Orc

Animal Companion: S'saska
Constrictor Snake
Size/Type: Medium Animal
Hit Dice: 3d8+6 (19 hp)
Initiative: +7
Speed: 20 ft. (4 squares), climb 20 ft., swim 20 ft.
Armor Class: 15 (+3 Dex, +2 natural), touch 13, flat-footed 12
Base Attack/Grapple: +2/+5
Attack: Bite +5 melee (1d3+4)
Full Attack: Bite +5 melee (1d3+4)
Space/Reach: 5 ft./5 ft.
Special Attacks: Constrict 1d3+4, improved grab
Special Qualities: Scent
Saves: Fort +4, Ref +6, Will +2
Abilities: Str 17, Dex 17, Con 13, Int 1, Wis 12, Cha 2
Skills: Balance +11, Climb +14, Hide +10, Listen +7, Spot +7, Swim +11
Feats: Alertness, Improved Initiative, Toughness
Animal Companion Abilities: Link, share spells


History:

Many moons gone came Zargosz Duurr among the First People, on a night with a sky full of portents. Those who bore him, humble fisherfolk of a nameless place amidst the fens, raised him in their customs till he reached the Age of the Trial. He came before the Shaman, as all must, who saw in his Wisdom that he would be One to Walk the Path, and sent him to the Camp of the Wise to learn their Ways.

First, they taught Zargosz the Stick, for Those who walk the Path must sometimes stand and fight. This he learned well, for when steel may be rare, wood is plentiful, and the Stick will always be close at hand.

Next The Wise Ones told him the Old Stories, of the Great Evil that came to this World, and how they beat it back, and closed the Gate, and must now ever be vigilant lest it be openened again. And how they fight this Evil yet, for it was not all destroyed or driven away, but still plagues this World in its Dark Places.

Zargosz learned these tales he also came to understand how the World fights alongside, and aids One on the Path, and tells its Secrets to those Wise enough to hear. And hear he did, for Wisdom was his.

And there came a time when he went alone into the wilderness, as must be done, to partake of Sacred Plants to seek Visions and Knowledge. For many days and nights he chanted and drummed, and smoked the Leaf and ate the Cap, and saw many things. And a Great Serpent came unto him and spake and said, "Fear not, Zargosz Duurr, for I would not harm one such as you" and lifted him upon her head, larger than his raft by far, and bore him to a secret place where lay her unborn young.

She flicked one great green egg with her tounge (larger than his arm by far) and bade him, "Take you this, which is my child. Keep her warm and she will wake and leave her shell. Feed her and protect her and she will be your boon companion and ally in the hard days that lay before you. If you fail in this I shall know. Fail not, Zargosz Duurr, for I would not harm one such as you. Go you now. Snakes weep not, nor say farewell."

And Zargosz Duurr did as he was bid, for Wisdom was his.

And the egg hatched, and came into his care S'saska, his companion and help-meet, all bright green and golden-eyed, and whom he did feed and care for, and who did begin to grow.

Soon came the time of the Great Conclave, when the Wise from many places gather around the Sacred Stone, to chant and drum and tell the Stories, and take the Herbs to seek Wisdom, and Knowledge and Visions. Many Prophesies are made and, as always happens, on the fifth day, as the sun sets and the fires are lit, the Stone awakes and bathes their circle in an eldritch light. Then the Dragons speak to them, saying one thing to this, another to that. To Zargosz Duurr they spake saying, "Go you into the East, to a certain Crossroads, where you will meet Righteous Ones who serve the White Fire. Your paths will join and lead you to a Great Evil wich you must strive to overcome."

And it was given to him from the Wise Elders: a fine and blessed Fighting Stick, to smite the enemies of this World; a fine and blessed set of Hides, to guard him from his foes; and many Magical Words of the Earth, inscribed on fine papyrus, to aid him on this, his Quest.

And Zargosz Duurr and S'saska did leave the Holy Marshes, and go East to find the Righteous Servants of the White Fire, at the Crossroads, where their destiny lay.

In Madness Drowned: Prologue

Part 1



Part 2

Ravenloft Character: Oren Ghastor

Name: Oren Ghastor
Race: Shifter (Wildhunt)
Class: Monk 4/Paladin 3
Experience: 27566
Alignment: Lawful Good
Religion: Silver Flame
Homeland: Thrane
Age: 27 Height: 5'6" Weight: 127 lbs.

Statistics: STR 14 (16), DEX 14, CON 14, INT 14, WIS 18, CHA 14, BAB +6, Fort +7 (+11), Ref +4 (+8), Will +4 (+10), Init +4 (+2 Dex, +2 Shifter Instincts), AC 18 (+4 Wis, +2 Dex, +1 ring, +1 amulet), HP 58

Skills: Balance +2 (+6), Climb +2 (+8), Escape Artist +3 (+5), Heal +4 (+8), Hide +6 (+8), Jump +5 (+11), Knowledge (religion) +7 (+9), Listen +5 (+10), Move Silently +6 (+8), Sense Motive +4 (+9), Spot +4 (+9), Tumble +6 (+8)

Class Abilities: Evasion, Still Mind, Slow Fall (20 ft), +10 ft. move, Ki Strike (magic), Aura of Good, Aura of Courage, Detect Evil, Smite Evil 1/day (+2 hit/+3 damage), Divine Grace (+2 to all saves, already included), Lay on Hands (6 hp/day)
Action Dice: 6
Racial Abilities: Low-light vision, +2 on balance, climb, jump (already included), Wildhunt (+2 Con, Blindsight, 2/day for 8 rounds)
Weapons/Attacks: +9 melee (1d8+3, unarmed), +7/+7 melee (1d8+3, flurry of blows), +9 melee (2d6+4, greatsword), +9 melee (1d6+3, kama), +7/7 melee (1d6+3, kama), +9 ranged (1d8, masterwork longbow), +7/7 ranged (1d2, shuriken)

Equipment:

Gauntlets of Ogre Power (already figured in), Ring of Protection +1, Amulet of Natural Armor +1, (2) Potions of Hide From Undead, (1) Potion of Heroism, Masterwork Longbow (w/58 normal arrows, 20 adamantine arrows, 20 alchemical silver arrows), (15) alchemical silver shuriken, 50' silk rope, waterskin, 10 days rations, (2) flasks of holy water, silver holy symbol, monk's outfit, Valenar Riding Horse, 56 pp, 9 gp, 30 sp, letter of credit (750 gp), jewelled silver ring (200 gp)

Feats: Monastic Training, Deflect Arrows, Stunning Fist, Wildhunt Elite, Shifter Instincts
Proficiencies: Simple and martial weapons, monk weapons, all armor & shields (except tower)
Languages: Common, Elven, Sylvan

History: From the journal of Oren Ghastor:
Many of my race call me traitor. Many of my faith call me abomination. Too many others are ready to look at only what lies on the outside and judge, when the true nature of good and evil is underneath the flesh and bone, in the hearts and minds of others. My heart and mind are good, and pure, and true. This I know, and this I have dedicated my life to.

My life before the Silver Flame is so long ago, so alien to me, that it might as well not exist at all. Indeed, I don't remember my parents. I grew up in a Silver Flame monastery, part of the Order of the Argent Fist, raised by the monks there. When I was old enough to begin asking questions about why I was different, they told me the story of how I came there. That two shifters, a man and a woman, stumbled into the range of the sentries. That when they reached them, the shifters were dead of a variety of wounds, but they had a living, if badly wounded, baby with them. The monks took me in and prayed for me, believing that I would never survive. Not only did I survive, I manifested a patch of silver fur in the shape of a flame on my back. They viewed this as a sign, and from the moment I was old enough, they began teaching me.

Some of my first words were a request to become a Seeker of the Argent Fist. It is my calling, and I know that I have a great destiny. I am the Silver Flame's weapon against evil. But I am also a messenger, one of a few who can bridge the gap between my race and my faith. If more shifters knew the true danger the lycanthropic invasion presented, they wouldn't judge the actions of the Inquisition quite so harshly. By the same token, if those more fanatical proponents of the religion could only see that there is a difference between being touched by the beast and being a beast, they would realize that shifters are no more inherently evil or wicked than men.

It is my destiny to seek out evil and destroy it. Whether the danger be undead, mad warforged, corrupt humans or vicious tainted beasts, I will be ready to meet it, with fist and arrows and shurikens.

Oren died in battle with giants and a hag who was one of the Ravenloft Fanes. The hag killed him with her final attack before her companions destroyed it.

Upcoming Schedule - December/January/February

OK, it's about time to update the schedule again. This is all more tentative than usual, as we're coordinating more schedules and three (!) GMs and games in the upcoming months. It's also extended further out, since I wanted to have some idea when we might start Ravenloft But here's how I see it.

December 22nd - Gaming Off
December 29th - Call of Cthulhu

January 5th - Gaming Off
January 12th - Eberron: The Wrath of Vulkoor
January 19th - Eberron: The Wrath of Vulkoor
January 26th - Call of Cthulhu (or Ravenloft?)

February 2nd - Call of Cthulhu (or Ravenloft?)
February 9th - Call of Cthulhu
February 16th - Call of Cthulhu
February 23rd - Poker Game

Ravenloft character idea

Hey, everybody. Wanted to run this past you all. I was thinking of basing the party (since you all would have been adventuring together for some time) as something close to a covert task force for the silver flame. Since the church's reputation was tarnished by the purge, maybe they keep certain individuals around to handle tasks they'd rather the public not know they're involved in.

Just an idea...

A letter regarding the power of letters

Tobias Rothman
12006 Houston Street
New York, NY 10016

Dear Mr. Rothman,

Please allow me to first state that this letter is intended only for the eyes of Mr. Rothman. If you are a friend, associate, business acquaintence or family member of said gentleman, I urge you to put this letter down now and deliver it to him forthwith. I will not be held responsible for any damage that may come to your life after you read my story, but rest assured, once you know of these things your world will change in ways you cannot imagine.

At the very least, I assume I now have your attention, sir. I should begin with an introduction. In fact, this letter shall serve as little more than an introduction. It is my intention to begin a correspondence so that we might share information and perhaps meet one day soon when my business brings me to Manhattan (as it often does).

I was referred to you by Mr. Shelton Rabin, with whom I believe you are quite well acquainted. I understand that in addition to being one of the finest sources of diamonds in the United States, you are something of an expert in matters regarding the Kaballah and mysticism as well as other occult matters. It is upon this subject that I write to you.

Matters of the occult are not unknown to me. I grew up in a small schtedle in Poland where I learned the Torah as a matter of course and the secrets of Kaballah at my father’s side. Though I found the mystic teachings of our People interesting, I never thought that I might find a practical use for such skills. Then my brother Hyram and I went to war.

At first the war was like any other. We were trained in combat and learned the art of pugilism from our bunk mates even as the officers tried to drill us in other forms of hand to hand combat. I myself found that a pistol felt as natural in my hand as the Talmud.

One night found Hyram and I as the last surviving members of our unit, deep inside enemy territory. We knew then that we had no hope of survival. Yet we remembered the teachings of the Kaballah. We went to a local stream and there we found clay. Using certain methods that I’m certain you know as well as I, we fashioned the clay into the form of a man and upon his brow we wrote in Hebrew the word for truth, “Emet.” (Damn these American typewriters! What I wouldn’t do to have the holy letters upon these keys.) I must admit that we were nearly surprised when the golem actually stood up, ready to protect us from our enemies. And protect us it did. Before that day I thought that I had seen war, but I had never seen violence such as this. The creature’s strength was inhuman and without a soul there was no limit to the amount of harm the beast lay upon our enemies’ bodies. But when there was no one left the fight, the monster turned on its masters.

We ran all night trying to evade the creature, but as dawn rose over the mountains it caught up to us, lifting Hyram off the ground by his throat. I had no choice but to destroy the creature. And so I lifted my pistol (with only one bullet left, mind you) and took careful aim on the letters we had inscribed on the creature’s forehead. I shot the first letter, the Aleph, thus changing the word “Emet” (“truth”) to “Meit” (“dead”). The golem was no more and my brother yet lived.

But from that point on, I could not avoid the things that walk unseen in our world. It was as if summoning that magic had left a mark upon me. Even here in America it finds me. I have since married as has my brother. We live in Oklahoma City, having joined one of the Land Runs, you see. If you are not aware (as many outside of this young state are not), the Land Runs were executed to encourage settlement in this area that was at the time Indian territory and not even a state. Families and individuals lined up on a marker, each of holding a handful of wooden stakes and measured lengths of rope along with all our other worldly possession. A gunshot rang out and we ran to use our stakes and rope to measure out a parcel of land. A parcel of land that is our own to do with as we will. Hyram and I have built a fine house for our families and I am proud to say that our habidashery, Sir’s London Shoppe, is the finest in town. We’ve recently built a deck raised above the sales floor so that we can keep an eye on our customers and our sales people.

But I digress, sir. I am contacting you to enquire about certain symbols I have seen upon the body of a creature words cannot describe. I hope that you will write me back soon so that we can begin a dialogue on matters beyond the mortal world. Perhaps we will both learn answers to questions that have plagued us for far too long.

Sincerely yours,

Gus A. Paul


P.S. I would also like to discuss the purchase of a small portion of diamonds from you. I would like to present my lovely wife, Birdie, with a necklace and earrings that she might wear for certain social events. I am certain that in time the jewels will be handed down to our children and their children, perhaps making their way into wedding rings and the like as jewels so often do.

Blood On The Trail: An Autobiography by Buck Martin

(Notes for an autobiography found two years after Buck's death, dated June 14, 1928)

If'n you go asking around about my life, you might get some folks who say my recollections here ain't entirely right. But those folks are damn liars and fools, and you should spit on them and punch 'em in the face. If they ask why, tell 'em Buck Martin sent you, then kick them in their dangly parts just for good measure.

Anyhow... I was born in the 1860s in Kansas. I don't rightly know which year, as my folks weren't too keen on keeping track of specifics like that, but I do know we were a proud part of the Union. Which doesn't make me a damn yankee. I just don't see anything right about one man owning another count of his skin color. If that man is dumber than you, or slower than you, or maybe owes you money because he's worse at gambling than you, maybe you can own him. But not just because he looks like he spent a few turns too many poking his face into the oven to see if the biscuits were done. That just don't make any sense at all.

When I turned 14, I went to work. I rode with the Pony Express, delivering messages all over Kansas and a few other states besides. I was the best at my job, on account of I only needed to sleep for 2 hours a day, as long as I spent two more hours drinking whiskey. Which, y'all might be interested to know, you can easily do on horseback at a full gallop, if'n you're talented enough. Anyhow, after a few years riding across the state, I first met Buffalo Bill, when he brought his traveling show through to Kansas. I didn't know exactly what I was getting into when I paid my nickel and walked out into those bleachers, but when the show was over, I sure as shooting knew what I wanted to do.

So I went up to Mr. Buffalo Bill and asked for a job. He wasn't sure about a scrawny kid like me, but when I showed him that I could shoot, ride, tell funny stories and had the biggest pecker of anyone at the show, he gave me the job. I was the youngest rodeo clown they had, and they only gave me that job on account of they felt bad for all the leads in the show with their tinier peckers. Or at least, that's what I suppose. It would have been rude to ask.

For the next ten years or so, I kept on moving up in the show. I got to be the indian who yelled "How! We come in peace!" right before the cavalry gunned us down like the red-skinned savages we were. Then I was the man who tried to punch a cow, only to have the cow kick him square in the nether region as hard as it could. T'weren't a real cow, you understand, just two jealous fellers in a cow costume who did their best to break my magnificent pecker. But it was too strong for 'em. I think I broke their kicking foot on more than one occasion. Eventually, I got to be one of the cowboys, shooting, roping, riding and all that type of thing.

I met a lot of folks in that show, from Annie Oakley and Calamity Jane on to Wild Bill Hickok. It's a shame about old Bill, but it's like I always told him. "Bill, someday the injuns are gonna get ya." And they did, when he was playing poker and a band of wild injuns rode right in and scalped him on the spot. Leastaways, that's the way I heard the story.

Well, after a few years, I found that show business was getting to be too much for me, and I needed somewhere to settle down. I decided that other than his untimely death and mild drinking problems, Wild Bill might have had the right idea, and I went into the lawman business. Started out as a deputy in one town, had to leave over some unfortunate misunderstandings about whether or not a lawman was due free pussy at the local whorehouse and if so, how often and then moved on to another. There were always little misunderstandings like that. Drinks too much. Shot the mayor's favorite cow. Burned down the hardware store. Slept with the bank owner's wife. Broke into the bar to get whiskey. All trumped up charges by people jealous of my talents and my enormous pecker, by the by. I think it was the tenth town finally had the wisdom to make me sheriff, after their previous sheriff died in a fight with a bear. I killed the bear, took its pelt and claimed the star.

Or it might have been he died of dysentery on the trail, and I took the star off his corpse. Can't rightly remember, it was a long time ago. Pretty sure it was the bear, though.

I was sheriff for a good long time, at least until the turn of the century. Got it in my head to try my hand at some of them dime novels, and turned out I was pretty good at them. Writing true tales of the wild west started to get a little dull, though, so I branched out into writing monster stories like the young'uns like. Got pretty rich doing that, and had to quit my sheriffin job to write all the time. The town was real understanding, leastaways I heard they were. I had to move to the city to further my writing career, and didn't have time for formal resignations and such. But I'm sure everything went fine. I made sure and open up the jail when I left so nobody would be wrongly imprisoned, and I left my sleeping deputy my best bottle of whiskey and a shiny gold sheriff star, not to mention a fully loaded Colt peacemaker, to deal with any troublemakers. Last I left, those escaped convicts looked plenty scared, and I doubt any of 'em even tried to leave.

Well, my writing career just took off, and pretty soon I was rich and famous. Traveled all over the country spinning yarns, performing in shows and doing good deeds. Even inspired some other writers to follow in my footsteps, like Lucas Huxley, the man who wrote the spookiest damn lifeboat massacre story you'll ever read. I didn't ever dream I might come face to face with real monsters, just like the ones out of my storybooks. But I did, and I'm pretty sure I'll be writing true tales of western adventure and fighting monsters for the rest of my days. Think I'll probably invest my wealth in that new stock market, because a man should plan for a more stable future, and my friend, what they call a broker, told me there ain't nothing more stable than the stock market.

Telegram from Buck

The following telegram was received by Lucas Huxley on September 27, 1936 (although it was sent much earlier, the lack of an address delayed its delivery - despite the sender's insistence that, "He's a famous writer, everyone will know where he lives!"):

Another Cold October

Country mouse or city mouse?

Born in the cold Russian October of 1892, Nikolai Ivanov Rostov, son of Count Ivan Antonovich Rostov was raised in the best of both worlds. The wealthy and influential Count Ivan possessed expansive rural estates outside Kolpino, where Little “Koyla” spent his happy childhood. These also had for several generations provided much of the family’s income from farming, berry orchards and the breeding of some of the finest cavalry mounts to be found in the region. As all the actual work was performed by the peasants that had been attached to the land for as long as or longer than the Rostovs, Nikolai had plenty of idle time to learn the rustic arts of hunting, horsemanship and other such manly pursuits.

During Russia’s harsh winters the family would retire to the relatively warmer and decidedly more cosmopolitan graces of nearby St. Petersburg, and their opulent villa at its heart. Here Nikolai was educated at the finest schools and universities, becoming an accomplished rapieriste, and learning the courtly customs of Russian high society, with all the intrigue and romance one might expect from such a glamorous setting.

Nikolai thrived in these environs and this charmed life, which fit him like a tailored glove. He was exceedingly popular among his peers. Men admired him for his athletic prowess and adventurous spirit. Women for his dashing good looks and abundant charm, which were never more evident than at the numerous gala occasions held in the grand ballroom of the Rostov’s Petrograd pied-a-terre, whence the cream of Russian nobility convened in sartorial splendor.

It was at one such fete, in the year 1909, that a 16 year old Koyla had his first eerie encounter with the supernatural. In attendance as guest of honor, was the Tsaritsa Alexandra Fyodorovna, Empress Consort of Nicholas II, last Tsar of the Russian Empire. She of course came accompanied by her retinue, which included the infamous Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin, her mystical aide-de-camp. The party was nearly ruined when, into the midst of a Viennese Waltz, Rasputin, eyes agog and arms akimbo, charged and assailed the young Nikolai with a stream of vulgarities, then fell into a seizure at his feet.

Quick thinking Nikolai and another nearby young man carried the incoherent spiritualist, who was apparently in the grips of some sort of psychic fugue state, to a nearby antechamber and arranged him on a settee. The second man ran to fetch a glass of water and/or vodka while Nikolai kept watch over the Tsaritsa’s freakish pet.

Thus alone, Rasputin began to regain some reason. His gaze penetrated Nikolai, and with weakly whispered words and a gesture he beckoned the young man closer.

“Closer. Come closer. You...you have a great destiny. Your future...the earth...the sky...the sea...and a world...BEYOND!”

As Rasputin had softly spoken his hands had drifted from Nikolai’s shoulders, slowly down, down, so that the shouted “BEYOND!” was punctuated with a salacious squeeze of the teenager’s burgeoning manhood. A shock of freezing cold ran through him, and a glimpse of an unfathomable black void flashed in his mind. Nikolai recoiled in horror and shame as the Mad Monk cackled with maniacal glee. He backed warily from the antechamber, and never spoke of the incident to any living soul.

On the outskirts of St. Petersburg, Russia’s “Gateway to the West”, the Rostovs also owned a produce warehouse and jam cannery, as well as, coincidentally, a glue factory, where the less stellar output of their equine endeavors would sometimes end their days.

Even their most exemplary steeds, however, did not course quite swiftly enough for young Nikolai, and so began his lifelong love with automobiles, and the pursuit of pushing them to the limits of their performance. Since St. Petersburg lacked a proper raceway, he and his friend’s had to make do with its cobblestone streets, and, once banned from those, the back country roads which surrounded it. He also made several trips to the Continent to compete in the European circuit during the early ‘10’s, and though he never won, he’d generally fare much better than most, and always better than bad.

As much as he loved auto racing he still found himself unsatisfied with mere accelerated horizontal movement, and developed a keen interest in the more vertical pursuits of aeronautics, and ballooning in particular. At the country estate he assembled an enormous specimen of gaseous flight for which he envisioned multiple purposes, including military applications. Many scoffed and said it was his head that was filled with expanding gas, and it was a useless endeavor, but this was put to the lie much sooner than anyone could have anticipated.

An idyllic existence then, for our young Rostov, but all good things do come to an end.

And so it was, as WWI turned Europe to a charnel house, and drained Russia’s resources of men, money and food, another cold October came in 1917. While Bolsheviks were storming the Parliament in St. Petersburg, Nikolai pushed his roadster to breakneck speeds, returning his father to the relative safety of their lands near Kolpino. A very few short days later the Revolution began to spread throughout the countryside, and the peasants that once brought bountiful bushels of blackberries to the ancestral home, now converged there with pitchforks and torches. Nikolai loaded his family, along with as many of their valuables as they could safely carry, into the small cabin of his balloon, and so spent his 25^th birthday asky, floating above the fiery burning face of the Red Menace.

A strong Southwesterly wind carried them aloft for the next two days, crossing more than 200 miles, over Lake Peipus, and into Estonia. There they called upon some distant relations, and regrouped with other Noble Rus who had fled. Tragically, Count Ivan contracted a pneumonia on their frigid passage, and languished for some months before expiring. As eldest, Nikolai assumed the hereditary title, even though technically, his “county” no longer existed. At least according to the Bolsheviks, that is.

The young Count participated in the White Army’s attempts to retake their lost ground. He soon found himself more effective as a fundraiser and public figure than a soldier, owing to his natural grace and the harrowing tale of his incredible escape. He even achieved some moderate celebrity, appearing across Europe and eventually the U.S. retelling his adventure to rapt audiences. Sadly it was all for naught. The White’s military campaign failed utterly, and a war-weary world turned away from the East to nurse its own bitter wounds.

The Count to this day still speaks out vehemently against the threat of Communism, unions, and Marxist agitation, but few really listen, and so he consoles himself with racing, champagne, and those starlets and showgirls that cannot help but find themselves charmed in his presence. He lives on their grace, and that of influential friends who may still find him useful from time to time, dreading all the while, another much, much colder October, in the world beyond.

Telegram from Count Rostov

The following telegram was received by Virgil Rutherford on September 19, 1936:

Eberron Character: Rochus d'Kundarak

Name: Rochus Kraal d'Kundarak
Race: Dragonmarked Dwarf
Class: Fighter 2/Rogue 3/Silver Key 2
Experience: 24,500
Alignment: Neutral
Religion: Kol Korran
Homeland: The Mror Holds
Age: 52 Height: 4'1" Weight: 141 lbs.

Statistics: STR 14, DEX 18, CON 16, INT 16, WIS 12, CHA 11, BAB +5, Fort +4 (+7), Ref +6 (+10), Will +4 (+5), Init +4 (+4), AC 19 (+1 armor, +4 Dex, +1 ring), HP 61

Skills: Appraise +6 (+9), Balance +3 (+7), Bluff +5 (+5), Climb +4 (+6), Craft (Trapmaking) +3 (+8), Disable Device +6 (+13), Escape Artist +3 (+7), Gather Information +4 (+4), Hide +4 (+7), Intimidate +4 (+4), Jump +2 (+4), Knowledge (Architecture and Engineering) +4 (+7), Listen +5 (+8), Move Silently +5 (+9), Open Lock +4 (+10), Ride +3 (+7), Search +5 (+8) (+11 with traps) (+10 with stonework), Spot +4 (+7), Swim +2 (+4), Tumble +4 (+8), Use Magic Device +5 (+5), Use Rope +5 (+4)

Class Abilities: Trap Finding, Sneak Attack +2d6, Trapsense +1, Evasion, Heir’s Mark (Silver Key levels count toward DM caster level), Trap Master (+1 to disable device, search, and spellcraft when dealing with traps), Warder’s Keys, Wardsense (use search to locate traps w/ DC higher than 20, use disable device to bypass trap or disarm magical trap), Crafty Hands (open locks of disable device at 60’, manipulate objects under 5 lbs.)
Racial Abilities: Darkvision, Stonecunning, +4 vs. trip/bull-rush, +2 vs. saves on poison or spells, +1 attack vs. orcs and goblinoids, +4 dodge vs. giants, +2 on Appraise or Craft (stone)
Weapons/Attacks: +8 (1d8+3 + 1d6, Shocking Battle Axe +1), +8 (1d6+2, Masterwork Handaxe), +7 (1d4+2, Dagger), +8 (1d4, Hand Crossbow)

Equipment:

(1) Potion of Cure Serious Wounds, (2) Potions of Invisibility, (2) Potions of Cure Light Wounds, +1 Ring of Protection, +1 Shocking Battleaxe (Giant Splitter), Warder's Keys, Traveler's Outfit, Masterwork Thieves' Tools, backpack, caltrops, flask of whiskey, 2 good locks, masterwork manacles, waterskin, 1 week rations, signet ring, Letter of Credit (2500 GP), gems (500 gp and 400 gp), 90 gp, 60 sp

Feats: Dodge, Combat Reflexes, Alertness, Investigate, Least Dragonmark (Warding: arcane lock 1/day)
Proficiencies: All Simple & Martial Weapons, All Armor & Shields
Languages: Common, Dwarven, Giant, Goblin

History: The son of Vorik d’Kundarak, Rochus was born a member of the warding guild. His father wanted for him to carry on the proud family tradition of providing security for those who wish their assets to remain their own. He began his training, supervised by his father, at an early age, and was soon one of the fastest and most nimble dwarves in all of the Mror Holds. In later years, he trained as a warrior for a short time, hoping the strength of his arm might benefit the House as much as his cunning and agility.

As the years past, Rochus’s dragonmark manifested, and it became obvious that his future did not lie in combat, but in security. Rochus became a Silver Key under the employ of House Kundarak. He is a field specialist in security and investigation. There is no security system in place that Rochus cannot strengthen.

To celebrate his new role as a Silver Key, Vorik gave Rochus one of their family’s most prized possession: the magical battleaxe known as Giant Splitter. The axe was first owned by Rochus’s grandfather Deltak, who had the weapon enchanted and in later years felled many giants with it. Vorik then had a second enchantment bestowed upon the axe, allowing it to shock any it strikes with a great deal of electricity. Vorik explained that it is now Rochus’s duty to use Giant Striker and to one day have an additional enchantment bestowed upon it.

There is nothing more important to Rochus than the love of his father. In truth, he sees his role as a Silver Key as another honor he can pay Vorik. His life creates a sad paradox, in that his role within the House keeps him away from his father. Rochus has not seen Vorik in many years, but he continues in his field, still hoping to honor his father in the best way he knows.

Action Points? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Action Points!

Just a reminder - anyone who posts his character's bio will receive an extra action point, representing the insight that comes from self-reflection, or some such contrivance. Remember, action points can mean the difference between a quick death and a slow, agonizing one!

New Blog (Sort Of)

Hey all,

When I signed into my blog today, it told me to switch over to Blogger Beta, which converts the blog over with new features, etc. and more importantly links it to your Google account (since Google bought Blogger). These are all things I wanted, so I did it... but I didn't notice until too late that it also converted over any blogs that I started, which means y'all will have to switch your blogger accounts to post on this blog. Sorry, and I hope the conversion process isn't a hassle... it was easy on my end, at any rate.

Delay of Game

I won't be available this Friday, December 8. The roll-out of a new system at work got pushed back to this weekend, and since I'm out of town Saturday/Sunday, I'll have to do the roll-out Friday night.

Sorry for the delay, guys. I'll try to add some extra horror to the following session to make up for it.

In the future: Ravenloft?

Hey, everybody. I just ordered Expedition to Castle Ravenloft off of Amazon. It's an update of the old Ravenloft module, designed for use as a one-off adventure or a campaign. How about, after we have our next Eberron adventure, I take a shot at DM'img, take you guys through this bastard? Sound cool?

"Fightin'" Tommy O'Flannery

Tommy was born in 1895 somewhere in the Illinois countryside under mysterious circumstances. He didn't discover the truth until he was older but it seems that his biological mothers name was actually Brigid, last name unknown; and that she was ritually murdered on the night of his birth by her dead husband, attending the birth in spirit, as it were. The next part of the ritual was intended to take Tommys life as well but he was surreptitiously rescued by another Tom O'Flannery, Tom o' Diamonds, an explorer and renowned adventurer. No one knows what the dark ritual was for, or what became of the cabalists after Big Tom locked them in a burning barn, (one would surmise that Tommy's ghostly bio-patriarch survived). Little Tommy was adopted and raised in the fairly well-off O'Flannery household where he was adored by his new father, his mother Margaret and his elder brother Marcus. Big Tom was employed by a "Social Action Group" called Fair Shake, which was really a front for the highly secretive, catholic splinter organization known as "Occulus Diem," the Eyes of God, an organization dedicated to the elimination of "otherworldly" threats to the Church. As an investigator and enforcer of the will of the "Luminus Sacralogos" the guiding council of the order, he was involved with many anti-occult activities over the years. He fought for country and church in the Spanish-American War and then settled down to a life of politics in order to extend the reach of his secret organization. --Little Tommy had several more incidents in his life. At 12 he happened upon a robbery attempt in his family home. The thief was stealing an artifact from one of his Dad's adventures and Tommy interrupted him. The thief was leaving the house with a box marked "Tommy-1895." Tommy tripped him on the stairs and the box fell to the ground. Tommy grabbed the box and the thief grabbed the amulet that had been it's treasure. The thief drew a long curved dagger and slashed Tommy's face. Just then a car pulled up outside. The thief, a one eyed man with a black moustache, ran away with the amulet, not the box. Tommy looked into the box and found a letter detailing the events of his birth. There they found him, drenched in blood and tears. He carries the scar to this day.--They told him the truth and his adoptive father began to tell him of his work, eventually Tommy joined him.--When Tommy was 16 he was captured by a group of cabalists who drugged and ritually tortured him. It broke him, he would never be the normal lad that every parent dreams of. The anger flowed through his veins, the burning against evil was so intense that some, including his father, thought that Tommy was a danger to himself and everyone around him. He was sent to a military school to finish his prep days and then received an appointment to West Point, where he graduated from just in time for WW1--Lt. O'Flannery earned the nickname "fightin" in the military. He fought like a demon with no thought to his own body and earned a new scar on his throat that gave him the voice to match his scarred face. It was during his time in a German work camp that the "Occulus" contacted him about being a full member. They saw to his escape, the telling and re=telling of his heroics, and his father's continued rise to power. Upon returning to the U.S., Tommy became an operative of the order, investigating, reporting, and eliminating whatever "occult" activity the order found threatening. He has mostly chased Red Herrings. But now........new assignment...........cover, veteran's hospital fundraising. Investigate incident involving..............Walk in the Blessings of St Jude, my son.

But Not of Man

Prologue

In 1926, the wealthy industrialist and shipping magnate James Harrington summoned several friends and acquaintances to a dinner party sponsored by the American Businessmen’s League. From that night forward, their fate became bound together. They were:

• Count Nikolai Rostov, an ex-patriate Russian nobleman and staunch anti-Communist. He was the keynote speaker at the dinner, warning against the dangers of worker’s unions.
  
• Dr. Virgil Rutherford, Professor of Linguistics at Harvard. Harrington had earlier asked his help in translating a hand-copied fragment of an occult text from German.


• Dr. Robert Harger, M.D., a prominent local physician.


• Lucas Huxley, a struggling writer. Huxley’s complex allegorical tales of societal decay had failed to spark much interest from the public or publishers. To date, his only success was the short story “Lifeboat Massacre,” a pulp story about the horrible fate that greets the survivors of a sunken luxury liner. This story aroused the interest of Harrington and earned the admiration of fellow writer, Buck Martin.


• Buck Martin, a former lawman and writer of Western dime novels. Martin was a celebrity guest at the dinner.


• Spencer Thompson, an occasional piano player and frequent thief. He knew Buck from a stint as the saloon player in the All-American Wild West Show. Buck invited Thompson to the party.

At the party, Harrington suddenly grew frightened. He begged his guests to protect his wife from a mysterious threat, and to keep safe the strange amulet he kept hidden beneath his shirt. All at once he collapsed, vomiting enormous quantities of seawater. Moments later, he died, his lungs filled with water as if he had drowned. His dying words were a choked warning about söhne des meeres – the “sons of the sea”.

The Depths of the Past

Bound by their promise to the dead man, Harrington’s guests began to investigate his death and the mysterious threat to his wife. Suspicion fell on a Harrington family friend, the unctuous Captain De Roca, skipper of the Brazilian tramp steamer Oscar, but Mrs. Harrington insisted that he had been a loyal friend to her and her husband.

Clues appeared in Harrington’s past, linked to a chain of events begun in 1917 when the Olympia, an ocean liner on which he was a passenger, was sunk by a German U-boat. Some survivors were taken aboard the U-boat, only to be trapped when the submarine struck a mine and plunged to the bottom of the sea. Incredibly, Harrington and two other men, Tom Barnes and George Wilson, survived.

None of the survivors could shed any light on their miraculous escape. But as the investigators dug deeper, they discovered that all three men were afterwards changed in some strange and awful way. There were hints of a horrible, hidden deformity, and terrible urges. One of the survivors, George Wilson, was arrested multiple times for assault and attempted rape, and finally committed suicide in prison by castrating himself.

The other, Tom Barnes, had become a morphine addict. Like Harrington and Wilson, he wore a strange, greenish-gold amulet of bizarre workmanship. They were wearing them when they were rescued at sea, but none could say where they had come from. They could not bear to remove them, and the few times Barnes had tried, it had always returned inexplicably as he slept. This fate was now shared by Dr. Harger, who had donned Harrington’s amulet.

Barnes warned against the machinations of De Roca, whose designs appeared to be centered on Mrs. Harrington. They seemed connected with Harrington’s insistence that his wife never bear a child; the doctor who supplied Barnes with morphine, Lohmann, had performed more than one secret abortion for Mrs. Harrington. Barnes feared that De Roca wished to use a Harrington child in some horrible occult ritual.

Troubled Dreams and Troubled Waters

A midnight raid on the Oscar provided several tantalizing clues, including the complete hand-copied text of an occult tome, Unaussprechlichen Kulten. Dr. Rutherford studied this intently, and found himself immersed in strange and horrible rituals he did not dare to practice. But one night he awoke to find his hands covered in cat's blood, the book open before him, and he realized the decision was no longer his. Strange, prophetic dreams haunted him. He heard warnings of disaster, gurgling from the lips of drowned men. And he saw the figure of Captain Cook, the 18th century South Seas explorer, who insisted cryptically that, “They were plainly the jawbones of fish, and not of men.”

Soon after the Oscar raid, the investigators were attacked at Rutherford’s home. Water gushed from the faucets, moving as if alive, trying to engulf and drown the men. Fleeing outdoors for safety, they were attacked by shotgun-wielding sailors from the Oscar, aided by a mysterious figure that lurked in the shadows and showed hints of a shape that was only partly human. The investigators managed to drive off their attackers and badly wounded the shadowy figure.

The next day, Barnes was kidnapped by De Roca’s minions. De Roca proposed an exchange: Barnes for the amulet now worn by Dr. Harger. Fearing for Mrs. Harrington’s safety, the investigators persuaded her to proceed with a planned sea cruise and escorted her safely aboard ship. That night, they drove to the seaside rendezvous to meet with De Roca.

Lost at Sea

De Roca’s treachery was immediately evident; Barnes’ mutilated corpse was found by the shoreline. Then the sea suddenly surged and rushed inland, flooding the small beach. The investigators remained safe on high ground, but then De Roca appeared, rising from the waves. Moonlight gleamed on the grayish-green things that came with him, slipping through the water like fish but then rising to walk like men. A pitched battle followed. Some were driven mad by the horrible half-human fish things, others were stricken with terror by De Roca's supernatural gaze. But even De Roca's occult powers could not save him from the withering hail of bullets that were turned against him. He sank at last beneath the waves as the investigators fled from the amphibious horde.

It was not until the following day that they found the letter from Mrs. Harrington to DeRoca, telling him of her pregnancy and pleading with him for help. "I love my husband, but I love my unborn child more," she wrote. "Please help me, Captain - do you what you must to protect the life of my child." A few days later, Mrs. Harrington was reported lost at sea after falling overboard. Her body was never found, and she was presumed drowned.

Of the many unanswered questions that remain, some clues may lurk in the strange poem found in De Roca's cabin:

The Other Messiah

Up rose that scourge, the fishers of the deep,
But savage minds hearkened to ancient fears;
With timeless runes upon their stony spears,
They sent the god-king to his endless sleep.
His Titan corpse rotted upon the earth,
While his children beneath the haunted seas
Hissed evil curses and croaked blasphemies
And prayed to sunken gods for his rebirth.
In unknown depths His monstrous seed was spawned,
To be born of woman but not of man.
They looked upon His bloated face and ran.
Darkness oozed in His wake, and no day dawned.
Cities trembled and fell, as all around
The world quaked with horror, in madness drowned.

(from People of the Monolith by Justin Geoffrey)

One week away!

That is all.

In honor of our upcoming Cthulu game

I thought you might enjoy a little song called the Carol of the Old Ones.

Sing along!

Auuugh!

Long break, no game, too much work! AAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Miss you guys. *sniff*

Upcoming Schedule - November/December

I realized, as I looked at the schedule, that the planned first day of Call of Cthulhu was in fact the day after Thanksgiving. I'm guessing that means at least somebody (possibly me) won't be able to make it. If I'm wrong and everybody can definitely do it, let me know in comments, but I suspect that we'll be starting Cthulhu in December instead. I also suspect we'll be having some holes in schedule thanks to various holiday festivities. Here's the schedule as I see it for November/December... but keep checking back, as I bet we'll have to amend it.

November 3rd - Borat movie at the Drafthouse (Let me know if you want to come)
November 10th - Gaming off (Wizard World Texas)
November 17th - Poker Game
November 24th - Gaming off? (Unless everyone is available for Cthulhu)

December 1st - Call of Cthulhu First Session (everybody in?)
December 8th - Call of Cthulhu
December 15th - Call of Cthulhu
December 22nd - Call of Cthulhu (unless holiday plans interrupt)
December 29th - Call of Cthulhu

Post in comments, let me (and Mat, who's running CoC) know what your schedules look like for November/December.

A conversation between friends

The following exchange occurred in Sharn, just before the beginning of The Grasp of Emerald Claw. Jason and I played it out by email, it was great fun and I've decided to post it for everyone's perusal. Hope you enjoy - just remember, your characters don't know this stuff ;)

Lysander contacts Pel in a private place, probably the back of the shop. Lys invites him to dinner up at Lys's place to discuss a few things. If Pel accepts, (which I expect:)), he provides an expensive meal (through my house contacts) and excellent wine, and proceeds with his, er, proposition. "Pel, I'll come straight to the point. My people want you to jump ship an come work for us....now, wait, hear me out. The money is good and the House is loyal, your race, of course, would not be an issue, except for the benefit of your powers. To this point, the House has not placed me in a compromising situation with the Wolves goals and, in fact, they have been very supportive of my role and given me a great deal of freedom. This is, to the point, the most uncomfortable assignment they have given me, because I know, friend Pel, that you have been a loyal friend to me, and to your current employers. It is your nature. But I ask you, my friend, to observe this opportunity with all of the intensity of your wit and sensitivity and to consider, yes consider thoroughly, what a team we would make, moving within the same orbit, as it were. By the Dragon, man, we would shake the very foundations of this land! Ha, ha! Can you not see it? As Wolves and partners in information, oh, the stories they will tell! YOu don't need to give me an answer now, I'll deal with the impatience of my superiors, and you will remain my friend and compatriot, no matter your decision. Now, relax, have some cheese."

Pel:

A proposition both interesting and enticing, my dear friend, even moreso in light of the fact that I also have one for you.

I'll just have another piece of this delicious cheese whilst I compose my thoughts.

*Pel smiles enigmatically*

Pel chews, takes a sip of wine...and begins.

"Blissful, elegant, angelic..where did you get this wine? No, don't tell, SOME secrets should NEVER be shared."

*ahem*

"At any rate, as I say, I've a proposal of my own. Something of a counter offer, as it turns out. I agree that our, ah, abilities are quite complimentary, and working in concert we could indeed affect the nature of things far and wide. Even the stories told by future bards would no doubt be incomplete as to our true influence."

Sip.

"But such is the nature of our profession, and I digress. What I would propose to you is not a change in employment for either of us, but, rather, an informal alliance between our two interests – your house and my, ah, organization, - with the two of us, you and I, my friend, as the linchpins in the agreement. The rings of the marriage, if you will."

Pours more wine for the both.

"We would be a clearinghouse of information. We would know EVERYTHING. We would be mighty resevoirs and control the flow, upstream and down."

*stares off glassy eyed for a moment*

"Dear me, I'm a bit flush...must be the wine. I think I'll have a bit more"

Sip.

"I believe the goals of our two interests can be complimentary, and do not, as far as I'm aware, often come into conflict or compete. Much could be gained by cooperation, and if we arrange things right, we'd both have two paychecks, instead of just the one."

"Now, in order to assure friendly cooperation from my organization, there'll need to be a, um, slight change in administration. As it happens, I'm currently conceiving of a plot...or rather a scheme *smile*...to bring just that about. If it all works, it would not only achieve that, but it would also blacken the eye of several of our enemies, set them at one another, and make us some money in the bargain."

"I haven't got all the details worked out yet. I could certainly use your assistance and that of your House, putting us all in good stead with rising elements in my own organization."

"Now, if you can speak for your...I wont say "superiors", that can't be true...let's call them your "elders"...if you can speak for them, and agree in spirit to my counter-proposal, I will tell you of my scheme."

Sip.

"AND, if that is the case, we'd best order up a strong pot of klava. It's rather complex. Also, I'll warn you now, it's risky, dangerous, foolhardy, devious, and will involve deceiving a great many people...possibly even some of our friends."

"For their own good, of course. More wine?"

Lysander:

Lysander summons a lute and begins to dance his fingers across the strings, a moderate tempo in a minor key. "Well, well." *closes eyes*

"You know, it thrills me when I listen to a piece of music and the second movement begins, a counter melody or an entirely new theme, and it takes me by surprise with it's elegance or it's boldness. I do hear the beauty of the harmony you propose, friend Pel, and it seems goodly to me to follow this golden thread of melody."

*stops playing, opens eyes*

"Yes, I believe this to be beneficial to both of our houses and of course, gainful to us. What then, my brother-in-secrets, do you propose? For, in truth, it sounds like, well........fun."

Pel:

*grins*

"It pleases me my dear friend that we can sing thus in concert. If I may venture a solo, I believe I can sketch out the bones of a tune upon which you may create such lovely variations as have yet to grace a living ear."

*bows slightly*

"Who number the enemies of the Wolves? I would count among them the Emerald Claw, certain minions of the Lord of Blades, and, most recently and unfortunately, Sharri d'Deneith, and those loyal to her cause. She hates us unjustly, and while I honestly wish her no harm, I would thwart her equally unjust designs of revenge against us."

"The Claw and Blades wish us ill, requitedly, and mostly to do with this Schema they desire."

"I also have a personal enemy, and I'll confide in you some details, as a show of mutual trust and admiration. As you're aware, I've a close contact in a local organization named the Tyrants, who deal mainly in information and flesh, and mainly outside the law. That contact is closer than you may know, however, for he is in fact my father."

"He is currently the lieutenant of a certain Cord Lanner. This human has recently caused some difficulty for the Tyrants, embroiling them in a turf war with ogre gangs in the Lower Dura. He's on thin ice, and, as he once bade me kill this same father of mine who is now under his command, I bear him no love."

"Were Lanner removed, my father would assuredly take his place, giving us a most trusted, loyal, well-placed and grateful ally among the Tyrants."

"Now that you know the players in this drama, if I may style it such, shifting slightly from our musical metaphor, allow me to begin to recite for you their lines."

*ahem*

"The Schema we possess will be "stolen". Burglarized as it were. It will find it's way to my father, who will broker a deal with a "buyer" for the item, and be about to arrange delivery, when Lanner will "overhear" about the deal and decide to usurp control of the proceedings, and keep the profits and prestige for himself."

"Lanner, or his designees, will rendezvous with the "buyer" to make the exchange. However, they will be ambushed during the meeting by Warforged in service to the Lord of Blades. During this imbroglio, several members of the "Emerald Claw" will also appear, and these will make off with the Schema, making the whole thing a bust."

"Lanner, IF he survives, will be seen to've very badly botched it, which should be the last straw for his employ. If need be, my father could "recover" the item, strengthening his own position. The Lord of Blades will beleive that the Emerald Claw have it, thus potentiating a fued between the two. They'll also both then think that the Wolves no longer possess the Schema, and perhaps leave us be about it."

"Sharri d'Deneith will also take a blow, because the Blademark bodyguards that the "buyer" hired from her will fail their duty, thus compromising her and making her less able to seek her revenge."

*pause for breath and a sip of wine*

"Obviously, all is not as it seems. Now, would you like to hear the rest of the song, or can you name that tune?"

Lysander:

Lysander rises from his chair, walks out onto the terrace, whistling, then laughs as he turns back to Pel, returning to his seat.

"I almost believe I begin to perceive the theme. In fact, I am utterly convinced of it! And we happen to possess all of the proper instruments! What a stroke of providence that you should compose such a melody at this time! Ah, yes, that will make them dance! So, I understand rhythm and the step, but what of the players? Our friends can play, but would they ever consent to such a merry tune? Or is this to be a duet, supported by hired players who are talented enough to play with the leads? In any case, the score suits my style, bar by bar. Yes, friend Pel, I had believed that our relationship would prove beneficial, and now, well, I almost convinced of it! We should start this little ditty smartly, as our lives have been anything but predictable of late."

Pel:

"Our friends will have their parts to sing to be sure, but only you and I will know the full score, being the producers and conductors, as it were, of this little opera."

"The first act is pre-production. We'll make a forgery (or perhaps two) of the Schema, secreting the original safely. This facsimile will be the "stolen" item. It will differ only slightly from the original, not enough to be detected, but enough that it wouldn't function should it get away from us."

"The theft will have to appear genuine to our comrades. It's possible I may need to be "mugged". These details can be worked out later. The important part is that it's heard about."

"You and I will "investigate" the crime and "discover" the rendezvous. One of us, probably you, being the more persuaive, will suggest the Wolves disguise themselves as Emerald Claw to affect the items recovery."

"These Emerald Wolves will arrive on the scene, well-heeled, as the battle between the Warforged, Lanner's guards and the Deneith guards is well underway. We'll join in this three way fight, win, recover the "Schema" and abscond away."

"The "buyer" should be an undercover agent from your House who arrives from afar with lots of gold, and some bodyguards. He (or she) will stand back in the fight, but his gold will be taken (by us) and he may have to receive some small injury, for veracity sake, before escaping (especially from us) with his life. Afterwards he'll complain loudly and publicly about the inadequacy of his hired protectors. Black eye, Sharri."

"The Warforged will be actual real agents of the Lord of Blades. After the "schema" is "stolen", intelligence will reach their metallic ears about the time and place of the meeting, and the strength of the forces there. They won’t be able to resist such a temptation."

"It's important that the Warforged hear about it but the actual Emerald Claw don't - at least until the Lord of Blades comes knocking on their door. I think my contacts should be able to affect the proper flow of information, as this scheme is, after all, in their best interests."

"We will of course have all the necessary information from the "buyer", as he is our creature."

"The expense of this little venture should be split between your House and mine. Think of it as a signing bonus, bridge-building."

"All of this will take a little time to set up, of course - all the instruments will need to be properly tuned before we can begin to play - but if we manage this symphony of deception, my friend, oh, can you imagine?"

Lysander:

"Not only can I imagine it, my brother, I can very nearly taste it! Your deity should be proud of his spokesman! Trickster, indeed! I will begin the necessary preparation for my part. Do we have an artificer in mind for this job? Or should we be looking? Persuasion should not be a problem as at that point I can reveal the expected effect of the "Claw" retrieving the "Schema." Nicely planned, my friend, and soon, nicely played I am sure."

There was more discussion into the night, but alas, the song was left unsung, thwarted by the the treachery of the evil Emerald Claw. I hate those guys!

Eberron Campaign Notes & Questions - PLEASE READ and COMMENT

First of all, one last move on the schedule. We're going to go ahead and start Cthulhu on the last week of November, so that hopefully everybody can be there. Character creation shouldn't take that long, and I think Mat is hoping to get us started that same night, so it's best if everyone who is going to play is there for it. Also, there is apparently a "credits sequence" of sorts not unlike the Eberron slideshow I did for you guys originally, and you'll all want to be there for that. So hopefully everybody can make the last weekend in November?

So check the schedule. I changed the last week of October to be sort of a casual hang out day, watch movies/DVDs, play some D&D miniatures maybe, play some PS/2 games, that kind of thing. First week of November Borat opens, and I'm definitely going to see it at the Drafthouse... anyone who wants to come is welcome.

Now then... since we have some time before the next Eberron game, I wondered if y'all would answer some questions in the comments. Help me figure out what to do next in the campaign!

Favorites:
Do me a favor and indicate your favorite, and feel free and include a least favorite as well.

Favorite Villain: Doesn't matter if they're alive or dead, it'll help me figure out what you guys like in a villain

Favorite Location: Specific (the Ruined Giant Citadel in VOTGD) or general (Trolanport, The Mournland) equally welcome. Please feel free to name more than one.

Favorite Adventure: Self-explanatory here

Moments:
If y'all could give me five of your favorite moments from the campaign thus far, either ones that happened to your character, someone else's character, or the party of the whole, that would help me in developing the future adventures.

I'd Like to See:
Tell me about any monsters or organizations you think you'd like to run into, which nations of Eberron you'd like to explore and anything you'd like to see more of. Dragonmarked House intrigue? A mission from House Phiarlan? Trouble and strife in the crime families of Sharn? Dungeon crawling through ruins in Xen'drik, the Mournlands, the Demon Wastes, etc.?

Character Goals:
If any of you have goals for your characters, whether short-term or long-term, let me know so I can plan for those as well.