Chapter 3 / Episode 72 - The Evil Cleric of Gruumsh

Chapter 3 / Episode 72 – The Evil Cleric of Gruumsh

Date: Planting 4, 576 CY
Weather: Steady winds from the west; salt spray on the air. Night falls clear beneath a full, watchful moon.

Players

• Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

• Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

• Slash the Bard

• Oleg, Half-Elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert

• TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert

---

Narrative Recap

The companions pressed deeper into the temple’s darkened halls, their boots echoing across stone corridors thick with incense and the stench of blood. They debated their path carefully, wary of patrols. Two slain bodies were locked away in an office, and Dog finally forced open the great double doors, the party slipping through just as a band of sentries marched past in the gloom.

Time was slipping rapidly away from the companions, its flow carrying with it the chance that their presence within the temple would remain unnoticed. Wary of the regular patrols that kept a vigilant eye on the temple courtyards and grounds, Dog the Ranger, and Oleg, the reformed thief knew that even a casual inspection of the courtyard that had played host to their most recent battle would raise an alarm. Working as a team, the companions quickly tied the body of the half-orc that had greeted them upon their arrival to a chair, establishing as natural a pose as was possible with his mangled corpse, and then stashed the other corpses in a small office adjacent to the courtyard, locking its door to prevent casual inspection. This hasty effort at continued stealth complete, they pressed deeper into the temple’s darkened halls.

Dog managed to force the door open the great double doors at the southern end of the courtyard just as a band of sentries, and his companions quickly slipped inside the hallway beyond. As the double doors swung silently shut, a band of sentries, regular as the workings of a clock, passed on the battlements above. The party held their breath as the echoing booted steps above slowly passed beyond hearing. Their ruse held… for now.

The hallway they had entered was nearly pitch black, and Dog called forth some light from his enchanted bow to aid the vision of those unable to see outside of the normal spectrum. The corridor proceeded for a much greater distance than the light was able to illuminate, its soot-covered stone floor leading onwards into continued gloom. Alcoves penetrated the walls every ten feet, each holding the hideous but well-sculpted effigy of a fearsome Orc warrior. Frustrated by the delay a careful inspection might cause, and knowing that knowledge of their presence was an eventuality if given time, Terry Or cast a Find Traps spell, While Oleg sent a mystical set of lights dancing down the corridor to illuminate its entire length. The corridor extended for another one hundred feet before ending in a large bronze door.

Hurrying forward as rapidly as stealth would allow, the party scrutinized the door. While Terry assured them that no traps were present, Slash, unsure that Cuthbert was truly watching over the rash cleric, checked for himself. While the bard agreed that no traps were present, his inspection revealed a glyph that translated into common read, ‘Evil Servant’.

As the party approached to open the portal, the glyph flared with malignant power. Irving the Paladin, his finely tuned senses honed still further by the stress of their current situation, divined that the level of chaos behind the door was, at best, profound. Terry tried to dispel whatever malignant magic was present within the glyph upon the door, but failed, its power too malevolent to be simply dismissed. Their time slipping away, Slash the Bard, frustrated by the delays caused by these cautionary procedures, strode boldly to the door and effortlessly swung it open.

Beyond the bronze door lay a temple-like room. Thirty feet from the entrance, a towering statue of Gruumsh, the one-eyed god of orcs, sat atop a three-tiered dais that formed a thirty-foot diameter half-circle at the rear of the chamber. The dais was flanked by flaming braziers, the light from these sending shadows dancing about the room like the evil servants of a powerful demon. A coffle of slaves huddled in terror against one wall, their chains and manacles clinking sullenly in the flickering light as the cackling laughter of a woman in black vestments the idol’s base, her presence commanding, her eyes alight with fanatical devotion, accompanied the crackling of the brazier fires. This laughter was quickly drowned by the metallic clanking of plate mail as three armored half-orcs wielding halberds rushed forward to greet the newcomers.

The battle was sudden and brutal. Irving’s mace rang against steel while TerryOr shouldered through the mailed guards to reach the dais. Dog cut down those who threatened the spellcasters, his blade flashing in the firelight. Slash’s conjured lights filled the chamber—and nearly cost him his life as an assassin’s poisoned blade struck from the shadows. Oleg hurled his dagger across the room, burying it in the flesh of a foe before pressing forward with his prayers and arcane gestures.

The evil cleric raised her voice in curses, calling down silence and dark blessings upon her followers. But faith held stronger. TerryOr’s mace cracked her defenses, and with the companions pressing in from all sides, she fell—her lifeblood staining the stone at Gruumsh’s feet.

When the fighting ended, silence fell heavy in the chamber. Ten captives were discovered chained in the shadows, their hollow eyes widening with disbelief at freedom. At the idol’s base, Oleg retrieved his dagger from where it had fallen. The statue itself loomed untouched—but a hidden trap door beneath it revealed three bags of treasure: coins, a gem of remarkable value, and further spoils of the slain. Among the spoils was a strange vial, which TerryOr tested himself—discovering it to be a potion of speed, potent and dangerous if used unwisely.

---

Closing Scene

The torchlight flickered across Gruumsh’s one-eyed visage, casting a baleful gaze upon the weary adventurers. Irving wiped blood from his mace and looked up at the idol, his voice low, heavy with unease.

“Gruumsh… here?” he muttered, shaking his head. “This is no shrine of orcs. This is the Temple of Elemental Evil. What dark hand twists these cults together? Chaos upon chaos, and still it spreads.”

No one answered. The full moon outside lent no comfort, its pale glow slanting through a crack in the stonework. The sense of victory was hollow, and the deeper dread remained: if Gruumsh was worshipped here, what other gods of ruin might already have found foothold in these walls?

The prisoners trembled, the treasure bags sat heavy at their feet, and the shadows of the north wing waited in silence.

---

Outcomes

• XP Earned: 800 each for the session.

• Treasure Found:

  • Magical mace +1 (reserved for Oleg)

  • Oleg’s dagger recovered after being thrown in combat

  • 3 bags of treasure from the trap door beneath Gruumsh’s statue (300 gp each, plus a gem worth 2000 gp)

  • 550 gp from slain foes, plus assorted jewelry and coins

  • Potion of Speed (tested by TerryOr)

  • Bundle of unreadable papers for later study

• Rescued: 10 enslaved prisoners, freed from the cleric’s hold.

• Condition of Party:

  • Irving gravely wounded, restored through Dog’s ministrations and TerryOr’s spells.

  • Slash survived the assassin’s strike but carries the scar of poison.

• Narrative Arc: A powerful female cleric of Gruumsh has fallen, her prisoners freed and her hidden hoard uncovered. Yet the idol of the orc-god still looms, and the temple’s northern passages remain heavy with threat.

• Monsters: 

• 6th level evil cleric (AC 1 due to dexterity, MV 6 \ Level 6, hp 30, *AT 1 D by weapon type)
• 3rd level fighters (AC 3, MV6". Level 3. hp 20, # AT 1. D by weapon type)
• 4th level assassin (AC 7, MV 12", hp 12, # AT 1. Dby weapon type, backstab for double damage)

Writing credits include:

Christopher Clark

Angelo Chiriaco

Excerpt from Slash the Bard:

Slash sighed and moved towards the door. Both Terry, the party’s cleric, and Dog the ranger had been unable to budge the stubborn portal, but Slash was certain they just didn’t have the necessary beef. Grabbing the door handle he pulled against the obstinate barrier and was gratified as it opened with the sound of begrudged grating.

The scene before him was both intoxicating and surprising. Ten manacled slaves cowered against the left-hand wall, a glimmer of hope shining in their eyes at his entry. But it was not the hope of these unfortunates that surprised Slash. He’d rescued victims many times before, and had, in fact, already rescued several similarly bound slaves this very day. To his right, three armored orcs, larger than the standard villains he was used to encountering, rushed towards him, gleaming halberds at the ready. This also came as no surprise to the skilled bard. These three would fall just like all the others. Directly in front of him, a giant statue of a humanoid with a great and terrible blade poised above its head, ready to strike, loomed atop a three-tiered dais that rose some five feet from the floor of the chamber. This too caused Slash little concern. He’d seen far more obscene statues in the Temple of Elemental Evil. The creature that stood beneath this statue, however, gained his full attention, distracting him ever-so-briefly from the task at hand.

A priestess, clothed in close fitting dark robes, beckoned from atop the dais. Her stance was aggressive and hate-filled, and her very countenance communicated evil… but she was gorgeous. “I wonder why the best-looking ones always wind up being evil?” Slash wondered as a sharp pain in his back redirected his attention to the fight at hand. An assassin, originally hidden behind the opening door, had stabbed him with his deadly blade. Slash returned the thrust, skewering the would-be killer and knocking him to his knees. Unfortunately, the assassin retained his grip on what could only be a poisoned blade. Flash mentally registered the presence of Terry, the party’s cleric, to his rear as he avoided another thrust from the dagger of his wily foe. Slash chopped downwards, his longer blade finishing his hapless opponent. He then turned to meet the charge of the orcs he had seen upon entering… and was shocked that the cleric was no longer to his rear; was not preparing to neutralize any toxin the assassin may have administered during his attack!

Terry, the party’s main source of healing and well-known neutralizer of poisons (especially the kind gained from an assassin’s blade), had run forward to the dais to engage the stunningly provocative evil priestess. Slash felt he knew what the crafty cleric would do next… as he always did when faced with a potentially party-endangering foe. Still, would the prudish cleric attempt his almost-trademarked ‘disrobe’ command on a member of the opposite sex? Slash turned half an exceedingly hopeful eye in that direction, as he blocked the first blow from the nearest orc.

The cleric began praying aloud and making passes in the air. Slash almost stopped fighting as Terry attempted to command the priestess. He couldn't believe it! Terry Or, always politically correct and prudish, was going to command this tremendously evil but oh-so sultry priestess to disrobe! Slash returned his attention to the opposing orcs as a near miss with a rather sharp halberd alerted him to the need for concentration.

Over the din of the battle, Slash could swear he heard Terry’s voice rise more than a few octaves as he gave the command, “Disrobe!” Risking a quick glance, he saw the evil priestess making passes in the air and knew that she had turned the tables on the party’s redoubtable healer. She was trying to command Terry to disrobe!

Distracted by this turn of events, one of the orcish blades penetrated his defense, nicking his left arm. Slash returned his attention to the orcs, where, with the help of Irving, the paladin, they rapidly dispatched two of the three orcs. Given the moment’s respite, Slash again glanced towards the priestess. She and Terry were still locked in their “adults only” duel… although one of them was bound to run out of prayers for nudity before the other. Slash felt confident enough that the battle now favored the party of companions that he hollered what he hoped would be both encouraging support his clerical friend, and a distraction for the evil but alluring priestess.

“Is someone going to get naked here or what?”

An arrow from Dog the Ranger and a powerful slash from the paladin’s mace put an end to the last orc as the cleric, Terry, red-faced with embarrassment, gave up trying to pray for the demise of the priestess and resorted to his mace, dropping the woman with a few well-placed blows. “Still fully clothed…” muttered Slash in utter disappointment as he moved to help the rest of his companions free the slaves.

“I was rooting for you Terry! Sorry your command didn’t work.” Slash paused, an inquisitive look from the cleric alerting him that the cleric might understand why the bard was truly disappointed.

Although he knew he shouldn’t, Slash simply could not resist finishing his thought aloud. “Maybe we’ll have better luck next time.”

As the rest of the party (even the paladin!) replied with a hearty ‘Hear! Hear!’ Slash smiled and started to loot the dead orcs.

Chapter 3 / Episode 71 - The Temple of Highport

Chapter 3 / Episode 71 – The Temple of Highport

Date: Planting 4, 576 CY
Weather: Steady winds from the west; salt spray on the air. Night falls clear beneath a full, watchful moon.

Players

• Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

• Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

• Slash the Bard

• Oleg, Half-Elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert

• Tiger Wong, Monk of the Eastern Lands

• TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert

---

Recap

The sea lay restless beneath the moonlight as the companions descended from the cliffside, cloaks drawn tight against the wind. Below, the ruins of the Temple of Highport crouched like a carcass picked clean, its shattered walls lit with the guttering glow of orcish torches. Patrols moved with cruel regularity, their snarls drifting faintly upward. The adventurers had studied their rhythm well—forty-five minutes of vigilance, then twenty minutes of neglect.

Dog’s voice was a low growl. “We move when their eyes turn elsewhere. No second chances.” Slash smirked, tugging at his slave-trader’s disguise. “And here I thought I was done with performing. Turns out I just needed a bigger stage.” The plan was laid bare: Dog and Slash would pass the front gates as false slavers, while the others—bound in false manacles and sacks—would slip free once inside.

The gatehouse loomed, its guards demanding tribute with guttural jeers. When challenged, Dog spat the orcish phrase whispered to them in town: “Slimy humans.” The guards roared with laughter and waved them through, dragging the “captives” deeper into the courtyard. Rank weeds clawed at the bare earth, and a half-orc official barked orders, pointing them toward a processing hall.

But before the charade could hold, fate struck. Chains shattered, TerryOr’s mace was in hand, and the courtyard erupted into violence. Lightning bolts arced from Slash’s lute-born chant, searing through the night. Oleg’s voice carried over the din, his spell casting half the orcish throng into sudden slumber. Irving, even bound, swung a crude weapon with holy fury, while Tiger Wong’s manacled fists struck with the force of iron.

The clash was brutal, desperate, and swift. Blood darkened the dirt. When silence returned, the companions stood amid the bodies of their foes, breathing hard, the rescued slaves clinging to them with wide eyes. The Rod’s whisper pulsed faintly in Dog's satchel, as if urging him deeper into shadow.

TerryOr’s eyes met the others as he wiped blood from his mace. “We’ve cut off one head,” he murmured grimly, “but the body still writhes.”

---

Notes

• XP Earned: 500 each

• Treasure: 1,000 GP gem in loot; +2 Ring of Protection and rescued three slaves

• Injuries: Dog and Irving sustained wounds but no deaths

• Artifacts: The Rod of Six Parts stirred faintly, its whispers growing bolder

• Cliffhanger: The courtyard is theirs, but the temple’s deeper chambers remain unexplored. Patrols will soon notice the silence. The true power within has not yet revealed itself.

• Monsters: 

Half-orc fighter (AC 3 MV 9" Lvl 4 hp 32 #AT 1, D by weapon type)

 5 Orcs (AC 6 MV 9" HD 1 hp 4 each #AT 1, D by weapon type)

 

Interlude: Qucalion of Celene

Interlude: Qucalion of Celene
by Michael S. Webster

 

County of Tillahi, Celene
Snowflowers 21, 5038 OC (Coldeven 21, 576 CY)

Four elves, obviously weary from their travels, approached the crest of a rise in the road. As the other side of the hill came into view, they saw a carriage escorted by several armored figures. The figure at the head of the formation spotted the elves and kicked his horse into a gallop. As he approached, Countess Tillahi waved in greeting to her castellan.

Drawing up to the group, the Castellan dismounted and bowed. “Countess, we were concerned when you hadn’t returned. You were spotted on the road, and we were alerted to your return.”

Sir Juffer, consort to Countess Tillahi, spoke wearily, “Well-met you are, Castellan Finrael. Although coming into sight of home had bestowed wings to our legs, they are nonetheless glad to see you brought conveyance.”

“Well said, love,” Tillahi replied, relief in her voice. “I trust all is well, Castellan.”

The carriage and the entourage arrived at the top of the hills and the mounted soldiers dismounted and offered waterskins and a basket containing bread and fruit to the travelers. “Yes, My Lady. All is well, despite a couple disturbances who are now residing in cells.”

Sir Juffer assisted their two companions into the carriage, turned to assist his Lady. “Lord Castellan, I trust they can keep one more day so the countess may rest and recover?”

“Indeed, Sir Juffer.  They have kept this long, a day or two will not matter.”

“Excellent. After a hot bath, a warm meal, and a cool bed, I should be set aright on the morrow,” agreed Tillahi. Accepting Juffer’s hand into the carriage, he followed her in.

The carriage turned around and headed back to the manor. By the time it arrived at the doors, the four elves were asleep.

 

Prisoner Cells, Tillahi Manor, County of Tillahi, Celene
Snowflowers 23, 5038 OC (Coldeven 23, 576 CY)

Although the morrow upon which Tillahi awakened was a day later than estimated, the rest did much to recuperate her tired body and ease her troubled mind. Now, it is time to return to business. Escorted by her castellan and consort, they entered the cells beneath the manor house.

“The prisoners here have been well looked after, Countess,” assured Finrael. “On an unrelated note, I have dispatched a messenger to notify her Fey Majesty of your return.”

“Excellent. Know this, Castellan Finrael,” she turned to the elf with a smile, “While I had concerns over whether we would return home, I had no doubts it had been left in very capable hands. Let us meet our . . . guests, shall we?”

“Thank you, Countess, and here are our first two guests. Siblings. Twins, in fact.”

Looking into the cell, she observed a lanky wood elf. He appeared thin, gangly, and disheveled, even having what appeared to be twigs and leaves in his hair. Reclining on the pallet provided, he smiled a grin, not of congenial sanity, but one of insane mirth. Raising a hand, he snapped his fingers and pointed in the general direction of the viewers.

“D…R…T!” was all he said.

“I thought you said there were…”, Tillahi started to speak when from an adjacent cell the countess heard the snapping of fingers followed by “Right there.”

“We had to separate the two. They are given to arguing and fighting each other,” explained Finrael.

“As siblings do!” stated the male elf in the cell, followed by insane giggling from both cells.

Tillahi looked into the other cell and spied a mirror-image, although female, of the male. “What are their offenses?”

“Disorderly conduct, brawling, and attempted murder. They fought others with the same intensity as themselves. Apparently, there was some disagreement over a contest of archery, and they proved their point by placing several arrows into their opponents.”

“They all survived!” said the female elf.

“They can walk it off!” chimed in the male.

“Just rub some dirt in!”

“Their names?” asked Juffer.

“The male is called Arty’ll, and the female is L’ree, surname is Bhrygaid. They originate from the Welkwood. They were tracking a bounty in the Kron Hills when they arrived in the area.”

“Interesting. I may have a job for them myself soon,” stated Tillahi. “You said there was a third.”

“Yes, Countess. This one, you may know…”

Stepping up to another cell, Tillahi nodded. “Ridorr…”

 

A Barn, County of Tillahi, Celene
Tinklingice 7, 5037 OC (Ready’reat 7, 575 CY)

The smell of hay stored for the winter months in the upper level of the barn was fragrant and masked the scent of lovemaking lingering on a cloak in the straw. The lovers reclined in the warmth of the barn supplied by the animals below against the chill of the coming winter.

Airawyn, youngest sister to the Countess Tillahi, lay her head upon the shoulder of her lover, a half-elf named Ridorr of Gomel. “I wish we could be wed, Rid.”

Kissing the top of her head, Ridorr smiled sadly. “If only we could. My bastard heritage wouldn’t be overlooked by your sister. She would never countenance the scandal.”

“We could petition Her Fey Majesty,” suggested Airawyn.

“Our chances would be better with your sister, Aira.” Both sighed. “We can steal these moments and hope for the best.”

The lovers stood and returned their clothing to their allotted positions and climbed down from the hay loft. As they opened the door, Ridorr turned to his love, “If I had the chance to prove my love…”

“It will be difficult to prove from a cell, Ridorr of Gomel!” stated an authoritarian voice. Suddenly the lovers were surrounded by guards commanded by the Lord Castellan. “Ridorr of Gomel, you are under arrest for …”

“…for the crime of being in love above my station?” Ridorr suggested.

The castellan was taken aback by the tacit accusation of class bigotry. Ridorr took the discomfort on the castellan’s face as a minor victory.

“…for the betrayal of your refugee status to the Countess Tillahi, seduction of her sister, and the rape of…”

No one was prepared for the slap to the face of the castellan. Least of all the castellan himself.

Airawyn shook her sore hand and glared at the scarlet handprint she left behind. “Take care, castellan. I may only be the younger sister of the Countess, but I will not truck what lies about me and my love you might make up!”

Castellan Finrael refused to give the satisfaction of rubbing where the young elf maiden’s hand landed. He picked two guards, “You two! Escort the Lady Airawyn home. The rest, place this bastard in chains and take him to the cells. Countess Tillahi will deal with him when she returns!”

Struggling against the grasp of the guards, Airawyn was led away while manacles were placed on the compliant Ridorr. A small smirk appeared on the half-elven face.

“Smirk all you want, Ridorr. We’ll see how well time in the countess’s cells will cure you of that amusement.”

 

Prisoner Cells, Tillahi Manor, County of Tillahi, Celene
Snowflowers 23, 5038 OC (Coldeven 23, 576 CY)

“Hello, Countess.” Ridorr stood and gave a slightly mocking bow. “I am genuinely glad for your safe return.”

Tillahi turned to her castellan. “So, he is in here for his dalliances with my sister, yes? As much as I detest his laying his hands upon her, and how much I would like to seal this cell with stone, I fear…”

Finrael interrupted. “Ahem. Countess, there is a, um… a complication.”

Tillahi turned to him. “A complication.”

“Yes ma’am.” Leaning closer to the countess’s ear, he whispered. The shock on Tillahi’s face matched Ridorr’s!

“She’s pregnant?!” shouted Ridorr in a mixture of shock and joy. “I’m going to be a father! Now you must let us marry!”

Tillahi glowered at the half-elf before turning away and returning to the upper levels of the manor.

 

Council Chambers, Tillahi Manor, County of Tillahi, Celene
Snowflowers 23, 5038 OC (Coldeven 23, 576 CY)

“That damned half-breed bastard!” The anger Tillahi expressed was palpable. Stopping and calmly breathing, she said calmly, “Perhaps I have a way to resolve this in a more noble manner.”

“What do you have in mind, love?” asked Sir Juffer.

Before Tillahi could relate her plans, the doors to the chamber burst open as a herald stumbled in and started to announce the guest who barreled past him.

Her Fey Majesty, the Faerie Queen, Lady Rhalta of all Elvenkind, and Ruler of Celene, Yolande had entered the room like a storm. She immediately embraced the her cousin with the force of a refreshing summer storm.

“Cousin! We had feared the worst but are most joyful our fears were for naught!”

Returning her embrace, “We were fearing the worst as well.” Both Tillahi and her consort, Sir Juffer, became visibly calmer and more relaxed. “We were rescued in time before our fates could be decided. Such courage must be rewarded.”

Yolande stepped back and took her Tillahi’s and Juffer’s hands in hers. “I look forward to hearing your story. We must celebrate.”

“Thank you, your Fey Majesty…” began the countess.

“Please, we can forego all the honorifics, Tillahi, Juffer. Taking care of you two after your traumatic experiences is more important than protocol.” Yolande embraced her cousin again.

“Thank you, dear cousin,” sighed Tillahi wearily. “We’re grateful for your generosity as much as we are grateful for being back in Celene.”

***

A small feast was prepared, and the four noble elves shared in it. Countess Tillahi and her consort, Sir Juffer sat across the table from each other.  Taking the remaining side was Queen Yolande and Castellan.

Yolande contemplated the wine in a crystal goblet. “I wholeheartedly agree these souls should be rewarded for their gallantry. I also think sending those three to deliver the reward to its destination is a good plan. However, I would like to make a small change…”

 

Reception Hall, Royal Palace, Enstad, Celene
Snowflowers 21, 5038 OC (Coldeven 21, 576 CY)

“Mother…”

 Queen Yolande was adamantly against her son’s plans for adventure. She was well aware of the dangers the Flanaess proffered, and noble status was no safeguard. “Qucalion, I cannot have you become a vulgar ‘adventurer’ and risk your death.”

Qucalion sighed. This was a common argument between him and his mother. It didn’t help she was the Queen, not only of Celene, but of all Elvenkind. He felt restless and a burning desire to see what was over the hill, and then the next and so on. Wanderlust.

“Mother, I have no real responsibilities in your realm. I have four brothers and sisters who will ascend the throne before I would. All the titles and honors have gone to them, and rightfully so.  I’m not jealous of them. I just want to explore the world. Like my father did.”

“Qucalion, I can accept you have more of your father in you, but I do not want to lose you like I did him. It is out of the question, and I will sooner consign you to house arrest than allow you to go ‘adventuring’. I have spoken!”

Qucalion recognized the Official End of Discussion. It came earlier than normal this time. Perhaps the worry over her cousin Tillahi disappearing had something to do with it.

As the young elf strode to his quarters, he planned his escape…

 

Courtyard, Tillahi Manor, County of Tillahi, Celene
Snowflowers 27, 5038 OC (Coldeven 27, 576 CY)

Countess Tillahi looked over the motley group. If anything, they looked like the part adventurers. 

Castellan Finrael addressed the group. “You have been selected to carry out a promise the Lady Countess Tillahi has to reward her rescuers. While each of you have your own separate reasons for going, you will go nonetheless to carry this reward to the Heroes of Hommlet.  Some of you have additional missions which you will carry out.”

Finrael waved to the guards holding the manacles of the two wood elves, who then removed them.  “Arty’ll and L’ree Bhrygaid of the Welkwood.  You will serve as guardians of this party, leading them to Hommlet.  After your mission is accomplished you WILL return to the Welkwood and stay out of Greater Celene for the remainder of your lives.”

Arty'll (or is it L'ree?)

The twin elves shouldered their bows and quivers and shrugged noncommittally. “Whatever,” they spoke in unison.

“One, two, three – jinx!” shouted L’ree. “The next round is on you!”

Arty’ll simply grumbled.

Shaking his head, he turned to a young grey elf in the liveries of a cleric of Corellon Larethian. Shorter than most elves, Finrael looked down at the cleric, almost apologetically.

“Tyroc, you have been charged with escorting this group to Hommlet after which you will return to Tilac to continue your ministrations. Hopefully, some of your wisdom will be absorbed by these others.” Tyroc simply nodded.

Finrael approached a young grey elf and bowed graciously. “Prince Qucalion. You have been included in this party by decree of Her Fey Majesty in order to represent the nobility of Celene. You have the responsibility of leading this group to their destination as well as to distribute the rewards to all involved.”

Qucalion simply nodded with a wry grin.  He understood this was to “cure” the wanderlust he felt. His own suit of elven chainmail and the magical shield once wielded by his father was for his protection, as well as the longsword and bow he carried. Being a fighter and magic-user, he also had his spell book to aid in the defense of his party. After this delivery to Hommlet, Qucalion was expected to return…

Finrael turned to Ridorr as the half-elf was checking the gear on his horse. Before the castellan could speak, Tillahi stepped forward.

“Ridorr Fenbalar of Gomel,” Tillahi’s voice cold and stern. “As we have discussed, you will continue past Hommlet and join the Heroes of Hommlet in their quest and bring honor to you and your house. After which I will positively consider your petition.”

Countess Tillahi used other language in private conference with Ridorr. “If you have any honor, you will go to Hommlet where you will join the Heroes of Hommlet in their quest.  Should you earn the Badge and Title of Fencing Master, I will knight you as Protector of Celene and grant you leave to marry my sister Airawyn’s hand including her dowry.  I hear rumors you have about 100 of your people still scattered about.  They live here and there as refugees.  Bring honor to Celene and my sister Airawyn and they shall be granted citizenship here in Celene.”

Ridorr made a courtly bow to the countess. He understood the mission.

The party then mounted their steeds and Qucalion was about to give the order to move out when Arty’ll spurred his horse onward.

“Last one to Hommlet is a dirty, stinking, goblin-whore!”

“You mean your mom?”

“She’s your mom, too!”

Qucalion shook his head and motioned for the others to move out at a more relaxed pace.

Entering the open countryside and catching up to Arty’ll and L’ree, “I must ask a favor of you all.  Do not call me “prince” or any such honorific. I am simply Qucalion and I hope you treat me as an equal with you all.

Ridorr smiled sadly. “You casually cast away what I would have for myself and my love.”

“Ridorr, I will help you earn the honors for the sake of you and your love.  This I promise you.”

“Humility is a good lesson to learn for pauper or prince,” said Tyroc sagely. “Hopefully this adventure will bring us humility as well as experience.”

 

Gratitude is expressed for the use of their characters:

 Mark F. Anderson
         ·        L’ree Bhrygaid

Fredrick J. Rourk
         ·        Ridorr Fenbalar of Gomel

Michael S. Webster
         ·        Arty'll Bhrygaid
         ·        Qucalion of Celene
         ·        Tyroc of Tilac

Chapter 3 / Episode 70 - Highport

Chapter 3 / Episode 70 - Highport

Date: Growfest 7 - Planting 4, 576 CY

Weather: Cold seas, steady winds from the west, clear skies at night under the full moon

Players:

• Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

• Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

• Slash the Bard

• Oleg, Half-Elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert

• Tiger Wong, Kung-Fu Monk of the Eastern Lands

• TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert

---

The Mission

Dame Gold’s request still burned in their minds: infiltrate Highport, the festering den of orcish slavers, and rescue her captured brother. The party accepted under no illusion of safety—this was a plunge into the Pomarj, a land of shadows and treachery. Disguises as slavers would be their cover; the Rod of Law and the favor of St. Cuthbert their only true protection.

---

The Ghost

Growfest 7, 576 CY

At dawn, they boarded their vessel—the Ghost. Her timbers groaned with age, the sails patched and weather-stained, yet her crew moved with the ease of men long accustomed to dangerous waters. The captain, a scarred veteran with one clouded eye, met them on the deck.

“You keep to your cover,” he rasped, tugging at his salt-stiff beard. “In Highport, words cut deeper than steel. Speak too clean, or pray too loud, and you’ll not see another sunrise.”

Dog nodded silently, while Terry concealed the mace of St. Cuthbert beneath his cloak. Even Irving, resolute as always, covered his tabard of faith with a roughspun surcoat. The crew gave the adventurers wary glances but asked no questions. Gold had been paid, and the Ghost sailed for the Pomarj.

The voyage lasted three days. Salt spray lashed the rails, the sea heaving under a pale moon. Orcish corsairs shadowed them once but never struck—perhaps mistaking the Ghost for another ship in the slavers’ trade. Irving spent the nights with the captain, learning the ways of the stars and sea, and by journey’s end had gained the first touch of a sailor’s craft.

---

Highport

Godsday 4, 576 CY

The port city revealed itself at dawn on the third day, rising like a wound upon the coast. Blackened walls, half-ruined towers, and docks crowded with chains and cages marked Highport as a place of misery. Orcs and men mingled in equal measure, their commerce bound in shackles.

The Ghost moored without challenge. Disguises, kept guards from asking too many questions. For now, they were just merchants come to trade in flesh.

---

The Phantom

Planting 4, 576 CY

Their first step was contact. In the smoky bar called the Phantom, the party found Roderick—a bent man in a threadbare cloak, face lined with suspicion. Dog showed the badge discreetly, and the man slid a folded parchment into his hand.

“Not here,” Roderick muttered. “Read it when the shadows are your only company.”

The adventurers blended into the crowd, drinking sour ale while the sounds of dice, laughter, and distant screams mingled beneath the low rafters. They did not linger long.

---

The Plan

Roderick’s message confirmed what Dame Gold had feared: her brother was being processed through the temple, the heart of Highport’s slaver operations. A secret southern entrance, half-forgotten, offered their only chance of entry. To reach it, the group purchased a small rowboat and planned to land under cover of night. They would approach by cliffside, climb to the hidden path, and strike when the moon was high.

---

Watching the Temple

From the ridgeline above Highport, the adventurers crouched low in the brittle grass, their cloaks drawn tight against the sea-winds. Below them, half-shrouded in mist and shadow, the ruined temple loomed—its broken walls jutting like the bones of some long-dead giant. The faint glow of torchlight flickered within, betraying signs of orcish activity, though no guards were visible at the shattered gate.

Dog’s keen eyes traced the movement of shadows across the courtyard while Irving muttered a prayer to St. Cuthbert, fingers tightening around the haft of his mace. Oleg adjusted the hood of his cloak, his gaze drawn to the jagged cliffs that concealed the hidden path Roderick had whispered of.

The party exchanged tense glances, knowing the true path lay not in bold entry but through the secret way spoken of in hushed tones. They lingered in silence, the brittle grass hissing in the sea-breeze, watching as the sun bled into the horizon. Only when the valley surrendered fully to darkness would they dare their move toward the temple of chains.

---

XP Award: 500 each for roleplay and planning
Treasure/Items: Parchment map from Roderick, rowboat, Irving gains Navigation proficiency (1 slot)

Chapter 3 / Episode 69 - The Feast of Edoira

Chapter 3 / Episode 69 - The Feast of Edoira

Players

• Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

• Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

• Slash the Bard

• Oleg, Half-Elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert

• Tiger Wong, Kung-Fu Monk of the Eastern Lands

Date: Coldeven 25 576 CY - Growfest 4

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Territory of Narwell 

Leaving Narwell behind, the company turned their eyes east. Maps were unrolled, coin purses counted, and supplies taken stock of as the road stretched before them. The journey would carry them through Zulern and Blue Bay before finally reaching Dame Gold’s summons in Safeton.

Coldeven 25 – The adventurers reached Zulern by nightfall and lodged there, taking rest from the road.

---

Journey to Blue Bay by Horse

The question arose of whether to take the river barge eastward or continue overland. The cost and dangers of the river swayed them to remain on horseback. Dog offered to cover the expenses for others, and with determination they rode hard across the plains.

By the end of the day the salt air reached their nostrils as they approached the small fishing town of Blue Bay.

---

Blue Bay Arrival and Rest

The town, walled and modest, bore a cheerfulness despite its vigilance. 

With the toll paid, they entered, lodging at the Fish and Chips Inn. The long ride weighed heavily on Tiger Wong, who found little ease in his rest, but morning promised better fortune. By noon the next day, the adventurers made ready for Safeton.

---

Arrival at Safeton’s Walled City

Coldeven 27

At the gates, the company was greeted with the sight of a sign:

“Use No Magic Here!”

The fortress city of Safeton loomed before them, its battlements scarred from the long war against the orcish hordes of the Pomarj. 

Guards inspected the group, collecting a silver tax for entry. A grizzled watchman studied them carefully, offering his warning:

“There be law in this town—good law made by good folk. Profit by my words, or ye’ll find thyself in a cold, wet gaol. These whelps look troublesome to mine eyes…”

Amid some confusion as to their purpose, they recalled the summons from Dame Gold, an invitation extended from the Church. Slash considered turning charm to advantage, and the guards relented, granting them entry.

---

Dame Gold at Windy Crag

Their path led them to the manor of Dame Gold, known as Windy Crag. Servants met them at the entrance, taking their horses with care. And then she appeared herself: a tall woman of middling age, finely dressed, with a natural grace that commanded attention.

“Why, greetings, wayfarers! Welcome to my hearth and home. Most guests will not arrive until tomorrow, but some have come before you. I am Dame Gold, and I welcome you warmly to Windy Crag. Would you be weary of road and riding, and wish a hot bath? Of course!”

Clapping her hands, she summoned attendants to guide the company to their quarters.

“You heroes have two rooms among you—Windy Crag will be crowded this week. Be well!”

With that, she bustled away, overseeing the preparations for the feast to come.

---

The Feast of Edoira

Growfest 4

The festival began in splendor. The halls of Windy Crag filled with the nobility of Safeton, priests of St. Cuthbert, and guests from afar. Tables bent beneath the weight of roasted goose, baked hare, and fine wines of the domain. Revelry and good-natured banter filled the festive hall, but not all were a part of these celebrations.

Yet amid the celebration, Dame Gold drew the adventurers aside. In her private chamber, she revealed the truth of her summons. Pacing the floor, her voice was heavy with concern: her brother had been captured by slavers and taken to Highport—a city fallen to orcs, ruled by cruelty and peril.

The governor of Safeton entrusted the party with diplomatic immunity badges of Safeton, though with a stern warning:

“Keep them hidden. In Highport, they would be a death sentence as swiftly as a blessing.”

Her plea was clear: infiltrate Highport in disguise as slavers, locate her brother, and bring him back alive.

---

Highport Rescue Mission Planning

The company agreed to the task, though the dangers were plain. They spoke of disguises, of charting a ship, and of gathering supplies for the journey. The governor of Safeton pledged aid—maps, herbs, and even a rumored ring of regeneration—to aid their quest.

The path ahead was grim, but the mission was set. Highport awaited.

Absence

Terry Or shuddered. The mental blackouts were still anomalous, but they were becoming more severe. Nearly a week had passed and yet he had but little recollection of any activity during that interval. It was as though his brain had simply shut itself down to shield him from a power, perhaps an evil, he did not yet feel ready to face. The unfortunate result was that he had missed the entire celebration of St. Cuthbert at Windy Hall, and the meeting with its rather important hostess, Dame Gold. He was certain that neither were impressed by his notable mental absence.

Terry could only thank Cuthbert for the stout companionship of good and worthy friends. Dog, Irving, Tiger, Oleg and Slash, by now used to his occasional bouts of catatonia, had cared for him admirably during this last lapse. Their kindness and protection knew few limitations, and Terry knew he would need to find some method of repaying them to balance the scales of justice. Unfortunately for now, meaningful recompense to friends and colleagues would have to be postponed.

As hinted at by her letter, Dame Gold had an ulterior motive in inviting their adventuring party to the festival at Windy Hall. While her other guests had exchanged stories, insights and japes, she had asked them to accompany her to a private room where their conversation would be safe from prying eyes. She had painstakingly described a heart-rending scenario and her need for help. None of this managed to find lodging in Terry’s memory. Once again, his friends rescued him from his obscurity.

When Terry emerged from his stupor, Dog and Irving explained, in detail, the topic of their meeting with Dame Gold. They had received a righteous mission from her, and lives were at stake. Shame and atonement would have to wait.

Chapter 3 / Episode 68 - The Town of Narwell

Chapter 3 / Episode 68 - The Town of Narwell

Players:

Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest
Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert
Slash the Bard
Oleg, Half-Elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert

TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert

Coldeven 24, 576 CY – Morning
Weather:

Description: Cold
Temperature: 23.4°F to 48.6°F
Wind: Light air (SW)(1-3 MPH | 1-3 KN)
Precipitation: None
Clouds: Clear

Into the Domain of Greyhawk

The morning sun weakly spilled its faint gold over the frost-hardened rode as the party rode east., leaving the shadowed edges of the Gnarley Forest behind. The land here rolled gently toward the coast, its fields bare and waiting for the first sowing of spring. The air was sharp with the promise of thaw, and from far away came the faint cry of seabirds.

Narwell lay ahead—a walled port town and the first true taste of Greyhawk’s direct domain. The banners above its stone gates stirred lazily in the breeze, the sight both welcoming and watchful.

Dog rode point as usual, scanning the road for trouble, but the way was quiet. The group kept their usual riding order, wary from recent events in Dunmarsh but eager to reach the town before nightfall.

---

Gates and Negotiations

At the main gate, a grizzled sergeant stepped forward, hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. “One gold each for entry,” he announced.

Before anyone could reach for their purse, Terry’s voice rang out in the authoritative tone of a cleric of St. Cuthbert. He explained their purpose, invoking the saint’s name and pointing out the holy symbol upon his breast. The sergeant paused, scratched at his beard, and after a moment’s thought nodded gruffly.

“One gold for the lot of you. See that you cause no trouble.”

With that, the gates creaked open, and the bustle of Narwell spilled into view—narrow lanes, high-gabled houses, and the smell of saltwater mixed with smoke and baking bread.

---

Streets and Splitting Paths

Once inside, the group fanned out.

• Dog handed coins to the ragged poor in the shadow of the walls, asking after Madam Neldez’s apothecary but receiving only vague directions to “the center of town.”

• Irving sought a bookseller.

• Slash kept his eyes open for unusual goods and stranger rumors.

• Oleg slipped into the crowd, his sharp gaze watching for thieves.

The streets were tight with merchants, hawkers, and the press of sailors on shore leave. Narwell was a place where a careless hand on your coin purse could leave you lighter by the end of the block.

---

Treasures in Print

On Market Street, the bell above Madame Zelda’s Hardbound Books gave a delicate chime as they stepped inside. Dust hung in the air, and the walls were lined with heavy shelves bowing under the weight of age-darkened tomes.

• Irving purchased Migration of the Flannes.

• Slash charmed the shopkeeper into parting with two rarities—The Underground Slave Trade (its clasp locked) and Hidden Staircases and Secret Doors.

• They also secured A Knight’s Guide to Arms and Armor, and for a dear 250 gold, The Letters of St. Cuthbert, a work that could grant +1 wisdom to a follower who studied it for a week.

Slash found another volume on finding and removing traps—a week’s study would grant him the skill of a novice thief. The discovery left him grinning like a man who’d just been shown the keys to someone else’s treasure vault.

---

The Broken Arrow Inn

As dusk neared, the group gathered outside the Broken Arrow, a higher-end inn set on a corner where three busy lanes met. Its stone lower floor and timbered upper story looked solid against the sea wind. Inside, the smell of roasting meat and mulled cider filled the common room.

Dornthel, the elderly elf innkeeper, welcomed them with the menu of the night—baked hare or goose, served with strong local cider. Private rooms were available for one gold each, dinner included.

At a corner table, Terry skimmed an orc labor manual. Its pages revealed that slave traders often referred to themselves as “snaggers” and used a code of terms that might prove useful in breaking into their network.

---

Thieves, Rumors, and the Sapphire Tale

During dinner, a female elf with a bandaged shoulder caught Terry’s attention. He offered healing, but she declined with polite firmness. Later, Oleg spoke with her; she told him of a legendary sapphire locked in a tower on Narwell’s northern side, its guardian unknown.

The evening’s bustle turned darker when Oleg felt the subtle tug of a pickpocket’s hand. A quick glance revealed a nimble elf thief slipping into the crowd with his gold. The loss was noted, but the thief was gone.

---

Plans for the Road Ahead

As the night wound down, maps were unfolded, and plans were laid. Safeton lay two to three days south along the coast. Between the cult’s reach and the growing web of clues—the elemental dagger, the code words, and whispers of slave traders—Narwell was but another step in a larger and more dangerous journey.

For now, they rested. Tomorrow, the road called.

---

XP Award: 500 each
Treasure & Items:

• The Letters of St. Cuthbert (+1 Wisdom to followers after 1 week’s study)

• Hidden Staircases and Secret Doors

• The Underground Slave Trade (locked clasp)

• Trap Manual (Thief ability after 1 week’s study)

• Migration of the Flannes

• A Knight’s Guide to Arms and Armor

A Letter to Lady Tillahi of Celene on this fine Day of Coldeven 23, 576 CY

 

A Letter to Lady Tillahi of Celene on this fine Day of Coldeven 23, 576 CY from her friend and servant Dixon Lumlir son of Haxor Lumlir the Sheriff of the Lumlir Bridge in the Duchy of Ulek.

The Heroes of Hommlet made it to the Village of Dunmarsh after many exciting adventures.  Dear Lady of Celene it is with great sorrow that I must inform you.  It is my belief that the Sealing of the Temple of Elemental Evil is premature.  All week we have seen and fought forces from there.  You were once a target of those evil forces.  I felt it urgent to inform you.  Please double up your guard and trust no one.  They seek revenge as well as the restoration of their foul temple.  

Be vigilant and be on guard!  Your friends the Heroes of Hommlet are on their way to the festival put on by the Lady of Gold.  Pray we make it in one piece.  

Your Servant and Friend,

Dixon Lumlir the Dwarf

PS:  This letter cost me three gold.  With interest you will owe me five on our next meeting.