Descending again into the source of our riches, we began hunting down the so-called goblin king who had set up shop in my Dwarven ancestors' home. Following the directions of our fourth NPC caster, we eventually wound up in front of a sturdy, finely made wooden door. The front of our battering ram somewhat marred the beauty of the craftsmanship as we smashed the door down.
Unsurprisingly, a platoon of goblins stood ready before us. They had the numbers, 23 to 4. The green rodents never stood a chance. When at last their 'king' lay before my feet, groveling for his life and spilling the details on every choice bit of loot he had hidden away, I gleefully took my axe and took a good 7" off of his height.
We set about the task of testing the sniveling monarch's information, which the group informed me should have been done before taking his head from him. Still, I couldn't have stood his warty verdant visage any longer anyhow. Turns out, information obtained via means of torture is incredibly unreliable. Who knew?
Taking a 20 on search really helped, and by helped and mean yielded fuck-all for results. Eventually, we came to the conclusion that the closest things to riches were what little wealth the little bastards had on them, though their arms and armour were masterwork. It was a shame that, as a house rule, all non-magical items found out in the world were only worth half their retail price. 23 sets of that, even at half price, was a nice chunk of change for level 2 characters.
Loading ourselves down and quickly realised that having an NPC who couldn't carry anything was just as bad as not having one. The only real upside was that, since Brainburn was our captive, he did not yet qualify for keeping any of our easily earned gains himself. I guess it was a good thing that I was Dwarf and that they are the best pack mules money doesn't buy.
Our return trip to the 'elevator' was uneventful. Pulling the rope, we began ascending. Almost halfway up, our ride came to a painful halt. The metal disc that served as our 'elevator' base angled heavily to the right and the Gobbler went tumbling back to the ground. 6d6 of falling damage later and our rotund friend was rendered unconscious and dying. I barely managed to scrabble to the edge and hang on for dear life. Paddy's Soulknife had the ability to run on walls for a short distance and he safely go to the cavern floor below. I yelled for all I was worth and screamed for the guards to lower us back down slowly.
Once I was on the floor, I found Brainburn flying on his leash, defending Gobbler's downed body like a madman. I think that it was selfpreservation as opposed to loyalty that drove the flameskull's actions, but the end result was still good. His eyebeams of doom were rather effective against our slug-like foe.
I tried to run towards Jabba but found that to be an impossible proposition. I took two steps and found myself rooted to the floor. Apparently, Jabba had learned some tricks from the master of magnetism and was controlling metal. Since I was wearing full plate (a feature that my Pathfinder Clerics mourn the loss of), that meant that I was incapable of moving, leaving our flying companion and Paddy to fight Magneto alone.
They made a decent accounting of themselves until Sluggo threw a tantrum and had all those masterwork items taken from the goblin 'treasury' flying about us as deadly projectiles. Just then, a brilliant idea hit me. I had Soften Earth and Stone prepared as my domain spell.
Barely passing my concentration check (casting when your metal gauntlets make somatic components near impossible is a bitch!), I turned a 20 foot square of cavern just above the Metalmaster into clay, causing a nicely sized clayfall to crash into the greasy slug. The 2d6 damage wasn't too terribly harmful to it, but the Hutt's lungs' inability to process clay did cause it to start suffocating. A few rounds later and I was no longer crushed to the floor like a cockroach under a boot.
Regathering our things, as well as all the metal treasures out of the room that our foe slithered out of, we mounted the 'elevator' once more and again pulled the rope. This time, the trip was uneventful. We broke even with our guard pals on the "who will survive" bets and went about selling our newest phaty lootz. Also leveling, as Magnus-lite was apparently a CR7 encounter due to the nature of the terrain and allowing for the fact we were loaded to the teeth with metal objects.
Deciding to rest for a while aboveground, we put our riches to good use, whoring and drinking our way into oblivion. Brainburn was also a hit with the ladies, strangely enough. Weeks passed by in a drunken haze until my Dwarven clanmates arrived, ready to build an oil empire below Waterdeep. Funds marginally depleted, we agreed to go back down. That, and I was really anxious to become a king...
Anyhoo, the four of us and a cadre of Dwarves carrying all the mining gear and oak casks we could afford, found ourselves before the guards, unable to pay their price. Thankfully, wiser heads prevailed and they lowered us down. The prospect of facing 50 angry bearded midgets did not sit well with them, apparently.
I led my clan towards the oil river, which was back to full capacity, as expected. We boarded our canoes and paddled across. The Jotunbrood Soulknife just waded through. Being under five feet had its disadvantages. Reaching the other side, I took them to the cathedral. Mi familia began setting up camp and expanding the place in the way that only Dwarves can. Hel, even the mummy got into helping. Kinship doesn't end for the stout folk, even in death.
My kingdom's base of operations secure, Paddy, Gobbler (and by extension, Brainburn) and I continued scouring deeper into Undermountain. According to the mummy (a good fellow for a cursed chap going by the apropos name of Thorvald Ragbeard), the section we were claiming had been sealed off from the main kingdom centuries ago. All the traveling we had done? A drop in the bucket of the totality of the Underhalls of Melairbode, the ancient Dwarven kingdom that had since been conquered by all sorts of creatures and was now essentially vacant. Well, vacant like the Mines of Moira, anyway.
Setting off, I took the time to make certain that my kin knew that 10 barrels was our educated guess as to how much we could take and still have our river of fortune full the next day. We took off in the direction Ragbeard suggested. After a few uneventful hours, we came across a room that was riddled with tiny holes. Fearing the cause of the swiss cheese at our feet, I detected evil. Before I could shout out beholders-your-uncle, hundreds of the little eyestalked bastards swarmed over us. Beholderkin swarm, we were told, and initiative was rolled.
The fight was easier than it should have been due to Brainburn's 1/day fireball. Swarms never hold up well to radius spells. Sadly, they had no treasure, or if they did, we had no reliable way of getting to it. Looking back, I suppose that I could have molded the earth into clay shapes until we got to the bottom, but hindsight is 20/20.
Moving on, we encountered the Wailing Face; it was a major pain in the ass. It was just a giant demonic face. One that dealt sonic damage. Lots of it, starting 50' out. This fucking thing, we had no way to shut it off and it was the only way forward. We were third level and, even as a hardy character with a high Con score, I only had 36hp, and that was the highest in the group (Paddy, in a rare showing, did not have a great Con for his PC).
Lacking a way to move forward, we picked Brainburn's, uh, brain for information on which way to go. He told us of a hidden passage not far from there that would get us bye. It led us to a room with two exits, one of which was a magical portal to an area a few miles outside of Waterdeep. This would prove the easiest and most reliable way to transport my kingdom's oil into the city.
After walking back into Waterdeep and meeting our friendly neighborhood guards (who were dumbfounded as to how we had gotten back aboveground), we placed our bets on who would make it back up again next. The guards again bet as they did last time. Something in them could not get behind the survivability of a skull on a leash.
Backtracking to my makeshift kingdom, I told my clan of the teleporter and informed them to start building a defensible keep atop the portal's exit point. Also, we needed more Dwarves if this was going to be a proper kingdom. We put out the call to Dwarves that were not of our clan. Also to anyone looking for a better life. If they could follow our laws, they would be accepted. It may not have resulted in the people best suited for the job, but it did get results.
Waiting to see what those results would be, we ventured forth once more. Bypassing the screaming demon, we took the exit that didn't shunt us into a forest. After a bit of travel we came across a fork off of the path blocked by rubble. Wanting to know what was on the other side, we began clearing rocks. Our DM that campaign, Jimbo Baggins, was (as has been mentioned before) lazy. The Undermountain module didn't cover what was on the other side and he had no intention of making something up. He informed us of this; we kept digging. He said that our actions would end poorly for us; we kept digging. Breaking through, he made good on his threat.
By DM fiat, we now faced a Rust Monster. We all failed our appropriate knowledge checks miserably (with Brainburn failing by fiat), and thus had no idea of the threat we faced.
Much to Jimbo's disappointment, we defeated out foe without taking any hits from the creature. Except Paddy, who wore no metal and created his own blade with the power of his mind. Afterwards though, Jimbo got his wish.
Our group has the occasional misfortune of roleplaying ourselves to death. This happens frequently and in hillarious ways. Case in point:
Gobbler was a Gnome. Said psuedo-fey are curious by nature. Drawn to the odd coloration of the beast, the man in the iron suit reached out and touched the creature before us. As soon as the armour had rusted off of the startled Gnome, Gobbler committed ritualistic seppuku before our stunned eyes. The only thing more shocking than the loss of our comrade was the little Germling that came rolling out on an exorcise wheel. According to Gobbler, the little creature was a familiar (the Steamcraft class comes with a familiar?) whose mighty efforts powered his suit. The Gnome's dying words were to take care of his dearest friend. Then Brainburn's screams began.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Thursday, October 25, 2012
It Continues! Part II
Where was I? Ah, yes, the guards. They dutifully lowered us back down to the floor below, but only after we paid them yet again. It would be the last time our coin lined their pockets.
Reaching the floor, we informed the two new characters of the dangers ahead. Yes, their players already knew of the four-armed cyclone of steel, but we do roleplay from time to time.
Rushing past the danger zone, we returned to the chasm. Danger averted, we used two rope ladders, one on either side, to navigate the cavern. To get the one on the far side set up, we used a rope-ladder of climbing. Riches really do spoil PCs. Upon climbing the up the far side, we made it a whole minute before encountering the site of our next would-be peril.
A river stood before us of indeterminate depth. Also, the damn thing was oil. I don't mean 'covered in oil', I mean there was a goldmine in Texas Tea lapping softly at our feet. Knowing this was too good to be true, I cast Detect Evil in the general vicinity of the black flow. To no one's surprise, I detected it. Concentrating long enough, I knew that we faced the bony clutches of the undead. What did we do? We put a rag on the end of our ten foot pole (I did say that we were rich, yes?) and lit the damn thing on fire.
After roasting marshmallows and cloakers for four days, the river and her concealed foes, not to mention her untold riches, had burned away. We hopped down in the stone riverbed, which was about 4' deep, and walked on to our next destination.
A few twists of the hallway behind us, we climbed out of the riverbed and continued onward. We walked on for a little while before we encountered a fork. As is our eternal wont, we chose the leftward path. It led us to an underground cathedral of sorts. We walked along, unhindered, until we reached the main worship room. There, two flaming undead were waiting for us.
Deciding to be useful, I turned them. I wasn't powerful enough to reduce them to piles of burning dust but I did roll high enough to cause both of them to flee. One ran the way we had come and the other unfortunate sod cowered in a corner as we wailed on him for several rounds. Then it was mini-boss time.
A flaming skull floated out from behind the central tapestry and began his assault on us. Despite his painful eye beams of death, we ignored the flying grinfactory and focused on the poor creature before us until it was nothing more than a smoldering heap. By then, we were pretty banged up but we still had most of our spells.
I focused on healing the party while Nascar loving hillbilly Sorcerer JimBob launched his array of magic missiles at our flying antagonist. As return readers will eventually come to learn, my group rarely plans for the eventuality of 'what if we can't reach our foe?' I was the only one with a ranged weapon, and even that was only purchased after we had hit the magical limit of what DM Jimbo Baggins would let us add to our possessions.
Between JimBob and my crossbow, we managed to deal a fair bit of damage to the smirking bastard, but eventually our hillbilly's foam finger familiar (the horrors it must have seen...) caught fire and died. I think it gave a thumbs up at its own demise. Distraught, JimBob cast Fireball centered on himself. Before he could say anything, Gobbler and I glared down Paddy McRuleslawer, silencing his inevitable complaint. Turns out, his complaint would have helped to save our bacon.
Strangely, the flaming skull was not resistant to fire, much to Jimbo's astonishment. (Side note, the nasty little bugger was immune to fire, as well as cold and electricity, but, as I mentioned, Jimbo was a lazy DM and his failure at English occasionally stretched into reading the written word.) Neither were the rest of us. Large fireball in an enclosed area; you do the math.
We had reached a damage stalemate and our foe flew off back down the direction we had entered from. We, in turn, climbed behind the tapestry from which sir-smiles-a-lot had emerged. It was a small room with a bed upon which the group took turns resting. We had earned enough XP to achieve 2nd level and promptly powered up our characters. That only meant we had more HP to regain however, so we spent about a week resting behind the curtain.
Before you ask, yes, I was casting my healing spells every day. I just rolled really bad. Ones. Every. Fucking. TIME! Everyone else laughed heartily while I about had a conniption fit right there in their (the Gobbler and Jimbo roomed together) living room.
Apoplexy aside, we eventually had regained full health and braved the outer room once more. With no sign of any low-flying flames, we regained our confidence, looted JimBob's corpse, and searched the rest of the cathedral.
We encountered a mummified Dwarf along the way but, me playing a Dwarf myself, we roleplayed ourself out of the encounter and into his burial treasure. Score!
Loaded down with even more booty, we turned back towards the surface. When we returned to what we expected to be an empty riverbed, we were shocked to find the black gold had returned and was about up to half capacity. The others saw an obstacle; I saw gold lions in my future. I insisted we sit and measure the rate of return in the river. After a few days, we determined that you could safely fill about ten barrels of oil daily without depleting whatever stock already existed.
Smelling even more wealth, we were about to heedlessly climb down into the river when our floating foe returned. Grumbling about our mind-numbing chatter covering the intricacies of petroleum pricing, he decided that it was time to strike.
We were a few rounds into him shooting his fiery gaze into our reduced ranks when Paddy came to the realisation that he was really good at grappling, and the skull, being tiny, had a -8 penalty. He also deduced that, being a skull, he would lack strength, incurring a further penalty. The hallway being only ten feet tall, and Paddy being 7+ feet tall with a reach of 3+ feet, Yoric had nowhere to run. Paddy easily passed his grapple check (by 27, if memory serves) and we had ourselves a very angry companion.
After impersonating Hamlet for a bit and then making certain his bejeweled eyesockets were facing away from us, we began to interrogate our captive. Though he did give us his uninspired name, Brainburn, he offered little else. After pouring some holy water atop his crown (well equipped, remember?), our canary sang beautifully. He was lately of Skullport, though he had been exiled for some reason (it has been too long) or another.
Gobbler and Paddy wanted to kill Brainburn, but I thought that he would be a great source of information. Lacking a way to feasibly hold on to him, Gobbler came up the frankly brilliant idea of redesigning the chest piece of his steamcraft armour to hold the flameskull in place facing forward. Then I came up with a stunning idea of my own. Gobbler's armour was powered by steam; what is steam but water? Why not... HOLY STEAM! That would keep the little bastard in line!
On our way back, our new ally informed us of a nearby goblin entrenchment. My ears immediately perked up. I would lick Lady Hel's half-dead nether-regions before I would allow those green-skinned pipsqueaks to have any sort of encampment in my Dwarven ancestors' ancient home.
Brainburn led us towards them post-haste, and thanks to his information, we were able to take them by surprise. By surprise, I mean we went old school and kicked the damn door down.
There were nine of them and only four of us; they were hopelessly outmatched. We mopped them up with apparent glee. Brainburn gained some respect for our wanton slaughter of the helpless, cowering buggers after we had killed the first six. That respect would only grow over time. It's strange how murdering with abandon will bring you closer to the entity that only hours before had tried to melt your flesh from your bones.
The last one to die spoke of a goblin king, a misnomer if ever there was one. He told us about the location of his stronghold and Brainburn confirmed its existence. I of course wanted to head there straightaway but I was informed that we had already reached our encumbrance limit. Dejected, I headed their monetary wisdom but swore that we would return to rain Dwarven fury upon this so-called 'king'.
We returned once more to our primary antagonists, the inn 'elevator' guards. They were hilariously shocked that poor JimBob had not been a winning Clydesdale and grudgingly forked over the money they owed us, which more than covered what we had spent going down across all of our previous trips.
Back in town, Gobbler's character spent some time rigging up his new chestpiece. Per Paddy's suggestion, he added 30' of chain on a kill-trigger. This allowed Brainburn to be able to fly around and attack our enemies as he saw fit but, should he turn on us and kill Gobbler's Gnome, the chain would retract and purge all of the armour's blessed steam directly into the traitorous rat, forcing him to suffer the same fate. Damn, the combined deviousness of our group still gets me sometimes!
While Gobbler did that, Paddy and I returned to the Mage's guild for the third time, the last time (props if you get that reference!). We informed the guildmaster of JimBob's heroic demise and, giving him three rounds to mourn, we were about to ask him for a fourth of his number but he began shouting obscenities and informed of that mage's did not, in fact, grow on trees. When Paddy countered that they did come from seed, we were promptly escorted out.
After spending our newest freshly acquired fortune, we again went to see the bellmen and took new bets on whether or not our two new party members would survive. When I say two, Jimbo had decided that Brainburn would gain XP with the rest of us as our new NPC and he would take either Wizard or Sorcerer levels, once we gained enough to level.
I personally put a call out to all my Dwarven brethren about my ideas concerning becoming an oil barony. This would factor in heavily later.
We returned once more to the Gaping Hole Inn or whatever that rundown dwelling covering the hole which we were constantly descending into was named. The guards now bet on the man in the iron suit and against the melon of fire. Let the fun begin.
Reaching the floor, we informed the two new characters of the dangers ahead. Yes, their players already knew of the four-armed cyclone of steel, but we do roleplay from time to time.
Rushing past the danger zone, we returned to the chasm. Danger averted, we used two rope ladders, one on either side, to navigate the cavern. To get the one on the far side set up, we used a rope-ladder of climbing. Riches really do spoil PCs. Upon climbing the up the far side, we made it a whole minute before encountering the site of our next would-be peril.
A river stood before us of indeterminate depth. Also, the damn thing was oil. I don't mean 'covered in oil', I mean there was a goldmine in Texas Tea lapping softly at our feet. Knowing this was too good to be true, I cast Detect Evil in the general vicinity of the black flow. To no one's surprise, I detected it. Concentrating long enough, I knew that we faced the bony clutches of the undead. What did we do? We put a rag on the end of our ten foot pole (I did say that we were rich, yes?) and lit the damn thing on fire.
After roasting marshmallows and cloakers for four days, the river and her concealed foes, not to mention her untold riches, had burned away. We hopped down in the stone riverbed, which was about 4' deep, and walked on to our next destination.
A few twists of the hallway behind us, we climbed out of the riverbed and continued onward. We walked on for a little while before we encountered a fork. As is our eternal wont, we chose the leftward path. It led us to an underground cathedral of sorts. We walked along, unhindered, until we reached the main worship room. There, two flaming undead were waiting for us.
Deciding to be useful, I turned them. I wasn't powerful enough to reduce them to piles of burning dust but I did roll high enough to cause both of them to flee. One ran the way we had come and the other unfortunate sod cowered in a corner as we wailed on him for several rounds. Then it was mini-boss time.
A flaming skull floated out from behind the central tapestry and began his assault on us. Despite his painful eye beams of death, we ignored the flying grinfactory and focused on the poor creature before us until it was nothing more than a smoldering heap. By then, we were pretty banged up but we still had most of our spells.
I focused on healing the party while Nascar loving hillbilly Sorcerer JimBob launched his array of magic missiles at our flying antagonist. As return readers will eventually come to learn, my group rarely plans for the eventuality of 'what if we can't reach our foe?' I was the only one with a ranged weapon, and even that was only purchased after we had hit the magical limit of what DM Jimbo Baggins would let us add to our possessions.
Between JimBob and my crossbow, we managed to deal a fair bit of damage to the smirking bastard, but eventually our hillbilly's foam finger familiar (the horrors it must have seen...) caught fire and died. I think it gave a thumbs up at its own demise. Distraught, JimBob cast Fireball centered on himself. Before he could say anything, Gobbler and I glared down Paddy McRuleslawer, silencing his inevitable complaint. Turns out, his complaint would have helped to save our bacon.
Strangely, the flaming skull was not resistant to fire, much to Jimbo's astonishment. (Side note, the nasty little bugger was immune to fire, as well as cold and electricity, but, as I mentioned, Jimbo was a lazy DM and his failure at English occasionally stretched into reading the written word.) Neither were the rest of us. Large fireball in an enclosed area; you do the math.
We had reached a damage stalemate and our foe flew off back down the direction we had entered from. We, in turn, climbed behind the tapestry from which sir-smiles-a-lot had emerged. It was a small room with a bed upon which the group took turns resting. We had earned enough XP to achieve 2nd level and promptly powered up our characters. That only meant we had more HP to regain however, so we spent about a week resting behind the curtain.
Before you ask, yes, I was casting my healing spells every day. I just rolled really bad. Ones. Every. Fucking. TIME! Everyone else laughed heartily while I about had a conniption fit right there in their (the Gobbler and Jimbo roomed together) living room.
Apoplexy aside, we eventually had regained full health and braved the outer room once more. With no sign of any low-flying flames, we regained our confidence, looted JimBob's corpse, and searched the rest of the cathedral.
We encountered a mummified Dwarf along the way but, me playing a Dwarf myself, we roleplayed ourself out of the encounter and into his burial treasure. Score!
Loaded down with even more booty, we turned back towards the surface. When we returned to what we expected to be an empty riverbed, we were shocked to find the black gold had returned and was about up to half capacity. The others saw an obstacle; I saw gold lions in my future. I insisted we sit and measure the rate of return in the river. After a few days, we determined that you could safely fill about ten barrels of oil daily without depleting whatever stock already existed.
Smelling even more wealth, we were about to heedlessly climb down into the river when our floating foe returned. Grumbling about our mind-numbing chatter covering the intricacies of petroleum pricing, he decided that it was time to strike.
We were a few rounds into him shooting his fiery gaze into our reduced ranks when Paddy came to the realisation that he was really good at grappling, and the skull, being tiny, had a -8 penalty. He also deduced that, being a skull, he would lack strength, incurring a further penalty. The hallway being only ten feet tall, and Paddy being 7+ feet tall with a reach of 3+ feet, Yoric had nowhere to run. Paddy easily passed his grapple check (by 27, if memory serves) and we had ourselves a very angry companion.
After impersonating Hamlet for a bit and then making certain his bejeweled eyesockets were facing away from us, we began to interrogate our captive. Though he did give us his uninspired name, Brainburn, he offered little else. After pouring some holy water atop his crown (well equipped, remember?), our canary sang beautifully. He was lately of Skullport, though he had been exiled for some reason (it has been too long) or another.
Gobbler and Paddy wanted to kill Brainburn, but I thought that he would be a great source of information. Lacking a way to feasibly hold on to him, Gobbler came up the frankly brilliant idea of redesigning the chest piece of his steamcraft armour to hold the flameskull in place facing forward. Then I came up with a stunning idea of my own. Gobbler's armour was powered by steam; what is steam but water? Why not... HOLY STEAM! That would keep the little bastard in line!
On our way back, our new ally informed us of a nearby goblin entrenchment. My ears immediately perked up. I would lick Lady Hel's half-dead nether-regions before I would allow those green-skinned pipsqueaks to have any sort of encampment in my Dwarven ancestors' ancient home.
Brainburn led us towards them post-haste, and thanks to his information, we were able to take them by surprise. By surprise, I mean we went old school and kicked the damn door down.
There were nine of them and only four of us; they were hopelessly outmatched. We mopped them up with apparent glee. Brainburn gained some respect for our wanton slaughter of the helpless, cowering buggers after we had killed the first six. That respect would only grow over time. It's strange how murdering with abandon will bring you closer to the entity that only hours before had tried to melt your flesh from your bones.
The last one to die spoke of a goblin king, a misnomer if ever there was one. He told us about the location of his stronghold and Brainburn confirmed its existence. I of course wanted to head there straightaway but I was informed that we had already reached our encumbrance limit. Dejected, I headed their monetary wisdom but swore that we would return to rain Dwarven fury upon this so-called 'king'.
We returned once more to our primary antagonists, the inn 'elevator' guards. They were hilariously shocked that poor JimBob had not been a winning Clydesdale and grudgingly forked over the money they owed us, which more than covered what we had spent going down across all of our previous trips.
Back in town, Gobbler's character spent some time rigging up his new chestpiece. Per Paddy's suggestion, he added 30' of chain on a kill-trigger. This allowed Brainburn to be able to fly around and attack our enemies as he saw fit but, should he turn on us and kill Gobbler's Gnome, the chain would retract and purge all of the armour's blessed steam directly into the traitorous rat, forcing him to suffer the same fate. Damn, the combined deviousness of our group still gets me sometimes!
While Gobbler did that, Paddy and I returned to the Mage's guild for the third time, the last time (props if you get that reference!). We informed the guildmaster of JimBob's heroic demise and, giving him three rounds to mourn, we were about to ask him for a fourth of his number but he began shouting obscenities and informed of that mage's did not, in fact, grow on trees. When Paddy countered that they did come from seed, we were promptly escorted out.
After spending our newest freshly acquired fortune, we again went to see the bellmen and took new bets on whether or not our two new party members would survive. When I say two, Jimbo had decided that Brainburn would gain XP with the rest of us as our new NPC and he would take either Wizard or Sorcerer levels, once we gained enough to level.
I personally put a call out to all my Dwarven brethren about my ideas concerning becoming an oil barony. This would factor in heavily later.
We returned once more to the Gaping Hole Inn or whatever that rundown dwelling covering the hole which we were constantly descending into was named. The guards now bet on the man in the iron suit and against the melon of fire. Let the fun begin.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
It Begins! Part I
As I sit here, bored and angry at work because I am forced to miss a movie date with two of my friends (one of whom is an incredibly attractive single lady that I wish was in my league), I am forced to study the life choices that have brought me to this point. Sure, overtime is nice, but so is being able to make it to events that I'm supposed to be hosting!
So, having run out of internet interest (I ceased my porn-viewing activities a little while back; its amazing how much time I spent on the web watching other people having sex...), I was thinking about the next Pathfinder campaign installment that I'll be running. In doing so, my mind drifted to all the crazy shenanigans my group and I have gotten into in 19+ years of gaming (and yes, as I write this, I am a twentysomething male; I started pen and paper rpgs in 2nd grade). We had always talked of someone recording our hilarious misadventures and tonight I decided, "well, why not me?" So, here goes. As I do not yet have the explicit permission of every individual that I may end up describing in lurid detail, assume all names are aliases.
One of our more memorable adventures took place in a playthrough of some module Wizards had put out in relation to Undermountain. Paddy McRuleslawer was playing a Jotunbrood Soul Knife, trying out our freshly acquired Psionics book. I was running a Dwarven Cleric, because it would be a warm day in Hel before I passed on taking a Dwarf into an ancient Dwarven hold. The Gobbler, a man well deserving of his pseudonym, was a Duergar Fighter. That left our DM for that campaign, Jimbo Baggins, running the arcanist, however he insisted that we roleplay gaining his services.
So, we began in a bar (hear me out, it isn't as cliché as it sounds) which contained one of only two known entrances to our destination. We had all received a vision about some evil presence lurking below the surface and, being level 1 and full of bluster, thought that this was one best left to the authorities. Said lawmen laughed and made us go and investigate anyway.
Knowing that we needed someone to fulfill the spellblitz role, we went to the local Mage guild and sought out one of their number to employ. Enter Billy the Wizard. To our advantage, because Jimbo was a lazy DM (as most of us were), Billy the Wizard had spells-as-needed. This meant that Jimbo was able to pull any spell out of his ass, so long as it was the appropriate level. Paddy informed him that this was against the rules. Gobbler and I told him to shut the fuck up and that if the DM wanted to help us out, so much the better. He quickly saw things our way.
Party complete, we headed back to the bar and tried to get down into Undermountain. The 'elevator', an open shaft with a metal platform controlled by an 'elaborate' pulley system, was guarded by two immense men demanding payment for use of their services. Apparently, they were the operators of the 'elevator'. We tried informing them that the Law was on our side and we had been ordered to explore below for threats. Said guards laughed and held out their hands anyway. Peering over the side and seeing that the floor below was well out of the range of my 120' dark vision, I easily calculated that jumping was an unsurvivable proposition.
The party had sunk the majority of our funds into our gear and what little we did have left had gone towards Billy's services. So we did what any normal party should; we forced Billy to pay the men in order to get below. Jimbo grumbled a bit but we promised his NPC an equal split of the treasure. The PC in him appeased, Jimbo let the game resume with Billy the Wizard coughing up enough to cover four trips below.
Upon reaching the floor, the squeaky, unstable metal contraption upon which we rode made a confidence-killing shriek and was still. The guards above could be distantly heard to be laughing.
Looking around, we found ourselves in a cavern with two exits. One read "horrible death", the other "much horrible death". Jimbo's mastery over the English language frequently left much to be desired. So, being the morons that we are, we chose the later. Big mistake.
We reached the first room to find a giant, conveniently four-armed statue wielding blades in each meaty hand located in the center of a vast, domed opening with three exits. Intrigued, we investigated the statue. When we were all within arms reach, the speckled slab roared to life and we faced a whirlwind of stabbity death.
The first blow fell on Paddy, who survived with enough life to flee down one of the three new corridors, as the death tornado blocked our entrance. The second sword went through the Gobbler, who had one hit point left. He, too, fled down a new corridor, though sadly not the one Paddy had taken. The third swipe of the surprisingly spry statue went to Billy, who was cleaved in twain. After eating the fourth and final blow myself, I followed after Paddy.
The statue, while quick with his hands, had leaden feet (well, marble, actually) and couldn't keep up with even my slow 20' per round. We quickly outpaced our pursuer and eventually wound up in the same hallway as Gobbler.
The corridor was full of paintings and mirrors, most of which were ruined in one way or another. We came to one on the end, which Gobbler was staring at. Suddenly, the mirror came to life, becoming a hulking goo-creature.
Initiative was rolled, and Gobbler won. Shouting, "Enuck-Chuck," Gobbler used his Duergar's ability to double his size and attacked the doughy monstrosity, dealing a fair amount of damage. The thing's response was to swallow Gobbler whole. While the rest of us were in shock, the now vaguely fighter-shapped creature chose to parlay with us.
"I eats this one and we no more fightz?" Seeing as how we were all in pretty bad shape, we thought this a prudent trade and made our way back to the 'elevator', stopping along the way to loot what was left of Billy the Wizard's corpse. The Gobbler was too busy laughing to be mad and quickly began work on his second character, a Halfling Rogue, while the rest of us rode back up the rickety contraption to the sweet, sweet daylight. The guards heartlessly mocked our loss and wanted to know when we would return to further line their pockets. Little did they know just how inaccurate they would be.
Paddy and I promptly went to the Mage's guild, telling them the bad news about Billy. Giving them ample time to mourn, a whole round, we then asked for the services of another wizard. Astounded yet impressed by our gall, the headmaster offered up Jimmy, fledgling necromancer, to our groups rotating clutches.
After a food break and waiting for Gobbler to finish his character, we returned to the 'elevator' and our 'friends'. We paid their blood-price and returned to Undermountain. Having learned nothing from our previous jaunt into the Abyss, we again chose Much Horrible Death, because it is always better to go with the devil you know.
Double-timing it past our marbley nemesis, we found a chasm with a rope running to the other side. Having ranks in Balance, Gobbler's Rogue was sent in first. He made it halfway to the other side before a globe of darkness overtook him and his screams were quickly punctuated by crunching noises. The rest of us stood on the bank, deciding whether or not avenging his loss was a worthy goal while Gobbler began work on his third character.
Deciding that vengeance was the true Dwarven way, I led the charge against our inky foes. We ended up on the ground below fighting cloaker bats. Jimmy the necromancer met a quick fate when one of the flying manta rays hugged his face predator style and quietly shushed him until the poor bastard quit squirming. Paddy and I hid behind my shield until we had killed them all.
Looking around, we dutifully looted the corpses of fallen friend and foe alike. Upon returning to the room of stabbity death, we high-tailed it back to our gooey friend, to see if the corpse of Apache Chief was there. The mirror was back to its previous state, although the bottom sagged as if it had eaten a horse (which, to be fair...)
"You here for fightz?" it asked, obviously not enjoying that prospect in its tryptophan bliss. Paddy and I, again being quite depleted in the HP department, declined. We told Squeemish, as he politely informed us of his name, that we just wanted the effects of his previous meal.
"The unfleshy bits? This way!" He led us to what could only be considered his toilet of horrors. We stared in awe at the vast collection of riches therein.
"Uh, what do you want for this, uh, waste," Paddy asked, already calculating the worth of what Jimbo had described to us.
"A foodz pact?"
"You... want us to feed you?" Squeemish's eyes lit up and he nodded, his head wobbling disturbingly in unnatural ways.
"Well, we did just kill some cloakers..."
Paddy and I braved the whirlwind twice more, the second time with a few cloakers each loading us down. Squeemish sated, he allowed us to take his droppings. Loaded down with something else entirely, we rushed past our four-armed friend once more before pulling the pulley strings on our way back up. We stoically ignored the jeers of the pulleymasters.
We quickly sold our new treasures and the belongings of our fallen compatriots and equipped our selves more spectacularly than any 1st level character had a right to be. Then, swagged out, we returned again to the Mage's guild to break the bad news.
Giving them ample time to mourn, two rounds this time, we again requested a replacement. Shocked and appalled, the headmaster still acquiesced to our request when we slipped him a platinum. Enter JimBob the hillbilly Sorcerer, complete with Nascar hat and WWE foam finger familiar (don't ask).
Meeting up with Gobbler's third character, a Gnomish inventor in a steamcrafted suit of armour, we returned to the pulleymasters. Before going down, Paddy and I had worked out a charter for how many trips into Undermountain one had to survive in order to get a full share of dead party member loot. We even took out bets with the two bellmen on what the odds of the new party members' survival rate was before they lowered us back down. They liked the odds of the stick-figure sporting a wheat stalk from his buck teeth but strangely not those of the guy walking around as a primitive Iron Man. Go figure.
So, having run out of internet interest (I ceased my porn-viewing activities a little while back; its amazing how much time I spent on the web watching other people having sex...), I was thinking about the next Pathfinder campaign installment that I'll be running. In doing so, my mind drifted to all the crazy shenanigans my group and I have gotten into in 19+ years of gaming (and yes, as I write this, I am a twentysomething male; I started pen and paper rpgs in 2nd grade). We had always talked of someone recording our hilarious misadventures and tonight I decided, "well, why not me?" So, here goes. As I do not yet have the explicit permission of every individual that I may end up describing in lurid detail, assume all names are aliases.
One of our more memorable adventures took place in a playthrough of some module Wizards had put out in relation to Undermountain. Paddy McRuleslawer was playing a Jotunbrood Soul Knife, trying out our freshly acquired Psionics book. I was running a Dwarven Cleric, because it would be a warm day in Hel before I passed on taking a Dwarf into an ancient Dwarven hold. The Gobbler, a man well deserving of his pseudonym, was a Duergar Fighter. That left our DM for that campaign, Jimbo Baggins, running the arcanist, however he insisted that we roleplay gaining his services.
So, we began in a bar (hear me out, it isn't as cliché as it sounds) which contained one of only two known entrances to our destination. We had all received a vision about some evil presence lurking below the surface and, being level 1 and full of bluster, thought that this was one best left to the authorities. Said lawmen laughed and made us go and investigate anyway.
Knowing that we needed someone to fulfill the spellblitz role, we went to the local Mage guild and sought out one of their number to employ. Enter Billy the Wizard. To our advantage, because Jimbo was a lazy DM (as most of us were), Billy the Wizard had spells-as-needed. This meant that Jimbo was able to pull any spell out of his ass, so long as it was the appropriate level. Paddy informed him that this was against the rules. Gobbler and I told him to shut the fuck up and that if the DM wanted to help us out, so much the better. He quickly saw things our way.
Party complete, we headed back to the bar and tried to get down into Undermountain. The 'elevator', an open shaft with a metal platform controlled by an 'elaborate' pulley system, was guarded by two immense men demanding payment for use of their services. Apparently, they were the operators of the 'elevator'. We tried informing them that the Law was on our side and we had been ordered to explore below for threats. Said guards laughed and held out their hands anyway. Peering over the side and seeing that the floor below was well out of the range of my 120' dark vision, I easily calculated that jumping was an unsurvivable proposition.
The party had sunk the majority of our funds into our gear and what little we did have left had gone towards Billy's services. So we did what any normal party should; we forced Billy to pay the men in order to get below. Jimbo grumbled a bit but we promised his NPC an equal split of the treasure. The PC in him appeased, Jimbo let the game resume with Billy the Wizard coughing up enough to cover four trips below.
Upon reaching the floor, the squeaky, unstable metal contraption upon which we rode made a confidence-killing shriek and was still. The guards above could be distantly heard to be laughing.
Looking around, we found ourselves in a cavern with two exits. One read "horrible death", the other "much horrible death". Jimbo's mastery over the English language frequently left much to be desired. So, being the morons that we are, we chose the later. Big mistake.
We reached the first room to find a giant, conveniently four-armed statue wielding blades in each meaty hand located in the center of a vast, domed opening with three exits. Intrigued, we investigated the statue. When we were all within arms reach, the speckled slab roared to life and we faced a whirlwind of stabbity death.
The first blow fell on Paddy, who survived with enough life to flee down one of the three new corridors, as the death tornado blocked our entrance. The second sword went through the Gobbler, who had one hit point left. He, too, fled down a new corridor, though sadly not the one Paddy had taken. The third swipe of the surprisingly spry statue went to Billy, who was cleaved in twain. After eating the fourth and final blow myself, I followed after Paddy.
The statue, while quick with his hands, had leaden feet (well, marble, actually) and couldn't keep up with even my slow 20' per round. We quickly outpaced our pursuer and eventually wound up in the same hallway as Gobbler.
The corridor was full of paintings and mirrors, most of which were ruined in one way or another. We came to one on the end, which Gobbler was staring at. Suddenly, the mirror came to life, becoming a hulking goo-creature.
Initiative was rolled, and Gobbler won. Shouting, "Enuck-Chuck," Gobbler used his Duergar's ability to double his size and attacked the doughy monstrosity, dealing a fair amount of damage. The thing's response was to swallow Gobbler whole. While the rest of us were in shock, the now vaguely fighter-shapped creature chose to parlay with us.
"I eats this one and we no more fightz?" Seeing as how we were all in pretty bad shape, we thought this a prudent trade and made our way back to the 'elevator', stopping along the way to loot what was left of Billy the Wizard's corpse. The Gobbler was too busy laughing to be mad and quickly began work on his second character, a Halfling Rogue, while the rest of us rode back up the rickety contraption to the sweet, sweet daylight. The guards heartlessly mocked our loss and wanted to know when we would return to further line their pockets. Little did they know just how inaccurate they would be.
Paddy and I promptly went to the Mage's guild, telling them the bad news about Billy. Giving them ample time to mourn, a whole round, we then asked for the services of another wizard. Astounded yet impressed by our gall, the headmaster offered up Jimmy, fledgling necromancer, to our groups rotating clutches.
After a food break and waiting for Gobbler to finish his character, we returned to the 'elevator' and our 'friends'. We paid their blood-price and returned to Undermountain. Having learned nothing from our previous jaunt into the Abyss, we again chose Much Horrible Death, because it is always better to go with the devil you know.
Double-timing it past our marbley nemesis, we found a chasm with a rope running to the other side. Having ranks in Balance, Gobbler's Rogue was sent in first. He made it halfway to the other side before a globe of darkness overtook him and his screams were quickly punctuated by crunching noises. The rest of us stood on the bank, deciding whether or not avenging his loss was a worthy goal while Gobbler began work on his third character.
Deciding that vengeance was the true Dwarven way, I led the charge against our inky foes. We ended up on the ground below fighting cloaker bats. Jimmy the necromancer met a quick fate when one of the flying manta rays hugged his face predator style and quietly shushed him until the poor bastard quit squirming. Paddy and I hid behind my shield until we had killed them all.
Looking around, we dutifully looted the corpses of fallen friend and foe alike. Upon returning to the room of stabbity death, we high-tailed it back to our gooey friend, to see if the corpse of Apache Chief was there. The mirror was back to its previous state, although the bottom sagged as if it had eaten a horse (which, to be fair...)
"You here for fightz?" it asked, obviously not enjoying that prospect in its tryptophan bliss. Paddy and I, again being quite depleted in the HP department, declined. We told Squeemish, as he politely informed us of his name, that we just wanted the effects of his previous meal.
"The unfleshy bits? This way!" He led us to what could only be considered his toilet of horrors. We stared in awe at the vast collection of riches therein.
"Uh, what do you want for this, uh, waste," Paddy asked, already calculating the worth of what Jimbo had described to us.
"A foodz pact?"
"You... want us to feed you?" Squeemish's eyes lit up and he nodded, his head wobbling disturbingly in unnatural ways.
"Well, we did just kill some cloakers..."
Paddy and I braved the whirlwind twice more, the second time with a few cloakers each loading us down. Squeemish sated, he allowed us to take his droppings. Loaded down with something else entirely, we rushed past our four-armed friend once more before pulling the pulley strings on our way back up. We stoically ignored the jeers of the pulleymasters.
We quickly sold our new treasures and the belongings of our fallen compatriots and equipped our selves more spectacularly than any 1st level character had a right to be. Then, swagged out, we returned again to the Mage's guild to break the bad news.
Giving them ample time to mourn, two rounds this time, we again requested a replacement. Shocked and appalled, the headmaster still acquiesced to our request when we slipped him a platinum. Enter JimBob the hillbilly Sorcerer, complete with Nascar hat and WWE foam finger familiar (don't ask).
Meeting up with Gobbler's third character, a Gnomish inventor in a steamcrafted suit of armour, we returned to the pulleymasters. Before going down, Paddy and I had worked out a charter for how many trips into Undermountain one had to survive in order to get a full share of dead party member loot. We even took out bets with the two bellmen on what the odds of the new party members' survival rate was before they lowered us back down. They liked the odds of the stick-figure sporting a wheat stalk from his buck teeth but strangely not those of the guy walking around as a primitive Iron Man. Go figure.
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