Chapter 3 / Episode 8 – The Village of Dunmarsh
Description: Cold
Temperature: 24.4°F to 48.7°F
Wind: Light air (S)(1–3 MPH | 1–3 KN)
Precipitation: None
Clouds: Clear
Players:
Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley ForestIrving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert
Dixon, Dwarven Fighter
Slash the Bard
Oleg, Half-Elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert
Coldeven 23, 576 CY – Morning
Into the Marshlands
The sun was still low when the party set out, their breath clouding in the crisp morning air. The ground was hard from the night’s frost, but the promise of a warmer day lingered on the southern breeze. The Gnarley’s familiar woods gave way to a patchwork of open fields—barren and furrowed, awaiting the spring planting. Here and there, half-thawed puddles glimmered in the furrows, and the sound of distant gulls hinted at their proximity to the coast.
Dog rode ahead, eyes scanning both ground and horizon. The land ahead dipped toward a low, mist-veiled basin—the approach to Dunmarsh. Known to sailors and traders for its small port and to adventurers for its rumors, Dunmarsh was a place where river and sea met, and where strangers rarely went unnoticed.
Reconnaissance
Before committing the group to the main road, Dog proposed a 20-minute scout. He slipped from the saddle, leading his horse into a side path while the others waited in a small copse of leafless aspen. The ranger’s trained eyes noted no immediate danger—just a few distant farmhands moving slowly in the fields, their motions purposeful but weary.
By the time he returned, the plan was set: Dog in the lead, Terry second, Irving third, Dixon fourth, Slash in the rear, Oleg riding alongside when the road widened. The column moved toward the village proper, the air faintly tinged with saltwater and the briny scent of tidal flats.
First Impressions
Dunmarsh was a patchwork of weathered timber buildings, their roofs heavy with damp moss, lining a central lane that sloped toward the docks. The marshland around the village was crisscrossed with narrow, weather-beaten footbridges and causeways, some leading to isolated homes built on stilts above the mud.
Children stopped their play to watch the strangers pass, and more than one curtain twitched as a villager peered from behind it. The party’s boots clicked on the planks of the main boardwalk as they made for the Welcoming Hearth Inn, the largest and most central building in the village. A battered sign swung above the door, its faded paint depicting a gull wheeling over waves.
Supplies, Temples, and Magic
While Dixon and Irving negotiated private rooms and stabling for the night, the group split up to handle other business.
Irving and Terry visited the Temple of Heironeous, whose austere, salt-stained stone facade stood near the central square. There, the priests offered bandages of light healing—potent but usable only by the good-hearted. Ten were purchased at great expense, their linen rolls bound with silver thread.
Dog sought out the modest Shrine of Ehlonna, a whitewashed structure tucked behind a row of fishmongers. The air inside was perfumed with pine resin and saltweed. There, a priestess laid her hand upon his short bow, blessing it with divine radiance—its enchantment now humming at a potent +3 and able to shed a warm light for 20 feet.
Oleg browsed the House of Mysteries, a cramped, aromatic magic shop run by the hedge wizard Riddith. Shelves sagged beneath scroll tubes and dusty wands. Prices were steep, but Oleg left with a clutch of new spells, including lightning bolt and fireball. Dixon eyed a curious wand but balked at its 10,000 gold price tag.
Shadows at the Welcoming Hearth Inn
As evening fell, the Welcoming Hearth Inn filled with villagers, fishermen, and the occasional sailor. Slash mingled with a group of farmers, gleaning bits of gossip about Narwell and rumors of Greyhawk’s political reach into the coastlands. Dixon chatted with the barkeep, who hinted at “strangers who don’t belong”—men who came to town with no fishing gear, no goods to trade, and too many questions.
Irving’s watchful eye caught a tall man in a salt-stained cloak drifting toward their table. With a too-friendly smile, the stranger offered him a drink “on the house.” Suspicion prickled; Irving declined. The man’s smile froze before he quietly withdrew, the untouched cup left behind. A quick inspection revealed a faint acrid scent—poison.
The Assassin in the Night
In the still hours before dawn, Dog woke with a start. A tall, looming shape stood in the far corner of his room—its form indistinct, a living shadow over six and a half feet tall, its presence as cold as a winter grave. It reminded him of something from a dark legend, like the Nazgûl of old tales.
Dog’s hand went to his weapon, and in that heartbeat, the creature moved with impossible speed. A flash of steel caught the lamplight, and the poisoned dagger found its mark, driving into his shoulder with a sickening burn.
Before the shadow could strike again, the door burst open—TerryOr charging through, mace of St. Cuthbert in hand. With a single, decisive swing, he struck the assassin square in the head.
The blow landed with a crack of divine force, and the figure froze, then seemed to unravel. In a moment like Obi-Wan’s final stand, its form vaporized into drifting shadow, leaving only an empty, tattered cloak and the poisoned dagger clattering to the floor.
Dog sat back against the wall, blood warm on his shoulder, his breath ragged. They exchanged a grim look—neither certain whether the creature had been real flesh and blood or something far worse.
What Lies Ahead
With private rooms secured, supplies purchased, and weapons blessed, the group settled in for the night, each keeping their own wary watch. Dunmarsh’s clear skies glittered with stars above, but in the stillness came the sense of something unseen watching back.
Come morning, they would leave for Narwell—but the cult’s shadow was growing long, and the road ahead promised no peace.
XP Award: 250 each
Treasure: Blessed +3 Short Bow (Dog), 10 Bandages of Light Healing, Elemental Dagger (unidentified)
Goblets of poison don't hold themselves.
ReplyDeleteGoblets of holding
DeleteI still say the Elf will regret not purchasing more lower level scrolls when he had the chance.
ReplyDelete