Lost Mine of Phandelver

I Call!
A summons from a smokey mountain.

Hammer 4, Year of Three Sailing Ships, 1492 DR

Discord‘s chest heaved as she tried not be heard gasping for air. She felt the cold stone against her wings as she pressed her back into the stone of the building, trying not to be seen by her pursuers. The warlock wasn’t used to running, and she could already feel her leg muscles ache. She couldn’t risk flying, not in broad daylight, they would see her.

Discord didn’t know what was after her. She didn’t know how many, or if anyone one else could even see them? But that didn’t make them any less dangerous. Wild-eyed, Discord looked around the alley opening for any sign of her pursuers passing by. She didn’t care that she looked mad. She probably was. These idiots dwell in darkness, and they can only keep their sanity because they didn’t know what awaited them.

Instead of a place to hide, Discord was met by the somewhat vacant stare of a man who had stopped pushing his cart to stare at the warlock, panting and pressed into an alley wall in broad daylight.

“Everything alright miss-,” the man begun.

“Piss off yokel!” Discord cut him off with a breathless hiss. “They’ll find me.”

The man stood, mouth agape and watched the warlock, his cart still rested in the middle of the Red Larch road.

“May as well paint a bloody sign,” Th Warlock thought.

“I can only assume that slack-jaws and vacant stares are a state in which you perpetually exist,” Discord hissed. She pulled the wane shadows around her to create a sibilant and cold tone within her voice. “And, I thought I voiced, in the parlance of the peasantry, my desire when I told you to piss off. Yet, here you stand. So, I will try anew.”

Discord slowed the countenance of her speech, annunciating every syllable with exacting clarity. “So help me, if I count to three, and you a still in front of me, I will hurly you into a shadowy hell, wherein you body will be flayed and simultaneous violated, in all your orifices, by creatures of unspeakable grotesqueness and cruelty. You will pray for death to release you. But your prayers will freeze as they leave your abused mouth, and the icy shards that your prayerful pleading formed will be thrust into your eyes repeatedly as your tormentors mock you!”

The man fled immediately, leaving behind his cart and the strong scent of fresh urine.

“Coward,” the warlock thought. “The cunt pees himself at my description, yet I am the one who has been shown this place.”

Even still, the abandoned cart will draw attention. And they were right behind her. She knew it.

“Besheaba’s black tits,” Discord swore, finishing gathering the shadows she had started collecting, and cloaking herself within.

The whispers were already waiting for her. They called to her, some pining for her like a lost lover, other’s mocking her. It was always risky to enter the shadows, one could only hide under their pursuers nose for so long.

Discord raised her hands to cover her ears and block out the whispers for a moment. Seeing her hands, her breath caught in her throat. Her skin swam like the night sky. Tiny points of light winked and shot across her form, and she stood like a celestial skycap amid a sea of deepest darkness.

“Myrkur!” Discord shrieked. “You twat! Is this some kind of joke? I shine like a bastion, how soon before she sees me?”

Panic began to over take Discord. Where was Myrkur? She was alone! She needed to get out of the shadows but what if she looked like this when she emerged. It was cold. Discord was always cold, but this cold was new. Old, and numb, like it Discord resided in cold for an eternity. And she felt sharp. He skin was cool, like steel, and unyielding to her touch. All of her curves were now sharp edges.

“I knew she would get to you Myrkur,” Discord spat at her sword. Her tears sounded metallic as they hit her sharpened cheeks. “She gets to everyone eventually.”

FUCK YOU, MISTRESS NIGHT!” Discord shouted into the abyss. She didn’t know where the words came from. The words were not from anywhere she had been, not from her, but yet she knew what they felt like.

It would only be a short time now before she came for her. Discord was alone.

“Enough!” The voice was imperious, and she knew it somehow. She felt colder, and the sound of crumbling ice could be heard in the distance. “She cannot harm you so long as you are under my protection, yet that wanes with every moment you waste in tantrum and added panic.”

Discord knew to look upon herself again. Already her edges were dulling, and the stars were growing dimmer. Discord surrendered. She felt her whole body swaddled in something like soft leather. It covered her completely, and her nostrils were filled with the scent of oil and a hint of old blood. After a time she was freed.

The warlock hovered again over the mountain that belched forth a steady spume of smoke. The country side beneath her was the same as that from her early dream. Or maybe she had been here before? Was this was her reality, and elemental temples were her dreams?

A brilliant nova shone from inside the mountain, basking everything within a harsh, frigid, light. Discord was bare before the night sky, the lights forcing harsh shadows over her pale flesh and making the spurs upon her wings glisten. Her body mirrored the night sky, not mirrored, replicated, over a smaller area, and she couldn’t see the tips her wings for they spread so far.

Above the warlock the night sky ended abruptly. A vast sea of shadowy, grasping hands and tendrils reached for her. Mouths formed from the umbral mass, seductively calling to her, or screaming at her to comply with their requests. She began to feel the limbs embracing her vast wings, some as gentle as a lover, others as fierce as any grappler. Her wings began to slowly pulse, and then beat, and she began to rise upwards, towards the darkness and the limbs. The warlock pleaded with her wings to stop, yet they continued to pulse, with each beat the wind scattered the stars beneath her like dust motes.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” Discord pleaded through panicked tears. “I didn’t ask for this. I never asked for any of this! I inherited all of this a cruel, fucking joke. And those responsible left me in a desert to die. I am nothing. I have nothing!” Discord shot her head skyward where she stared directly into a swirling mass of darkness, somehow more black than the sea of limbs and appendages that writhed and undulated in anticipation at her approach. “WHY DO YOU WANT ME?”

Suddenly the nova from within the mountain flared brighter. The smoke issuing forth began to coalesce and form a barrier between discord and the mass above. Her wings stopped against the smoke barrier, and she could hear the shadows sob, shriek, and gnash in protest.

“You must be reminded of what is at stake,” The regal voice boomed from the mountain. “Know that Myrkur serves me, and therefore, so to do you. I have use for you, warlock, but it is immediate. The next thing you must do is come find me, and the others. Free us and you will have the power to not just elude Shar, but dissuade her minions from ever coming after you again.”

Discord felt panic at the mention of her name.

“This is my offer warlock,” The voice’s proposition was more command then entreaty. “Release me, and the others, and I will take your pact from my lesser. You will be mine, and I do not easily give over that which is mine. Deny. me, and I will leave you with Myrkur, and I know not how long he can keep you safe?”

Discord’s blinked back bright sunlight that set upon her suddenly. She was back in Red Larch. Once more out of the shadows. The piss-stink still lingered in the air, and the feeling peddler’s back was still in sight. She couldn’t have been gone more than a few seconds. The cart. They would see it, and they would wonder. She couldn’t go back into the shadows. Not now. She needed to find her friends.

Wrapping her wings beneath her cloak, Discord calmed her breathing and began to pick her way forward around the cart. She heard their footsteps fast approaching. Their breath. She could smell them, and taste their oil presence in her mouth. They would come around the corner any second.

Discord threw up her hood against the chill wind and fought to remain composed. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice her this time. or think her someone else. She held her breath, feeling them close on her as she unhurriedly picked her way across the street.

And then they were gone.

“I call,” A distant voice commanded from all around her. “You must come now or scorn me, and forever lose me as an ally.”

Myrkur throbbed at the words, and Discord noticed the presence of her sword had returned.

“Where in the hells were you?” Discord snarled over her shoulder in her sword’s direction. She didn’t even notice the three confused passerby’s balking at the cloaked woman talking to her sword.

First Customer?
Walls in winter

Hammer 4, The Year of Three Ships Sailing, 1491 DR

Mirna Drendar’s eyes opened slowly, as they did every morning around this time. It had had taken her some time to adjust to living beneath the ground, yet her internal clock was now set, and her day was beginning. The ruin under Hillcrest Manor was warm, in most places, despite the biting cold outside, and Mirna was thankful as she threw off her sleeping furs.

It had taken Mirna a month to get Droop to agree to, and actually perform the task of, keeping the hearths burning through the night. At first, the goblin had shirked this duty, and the finally after more than a few mornings of the goblin waking to find a thin film of ice had covered nearly all of his trinkets and alchemy trappings, the goblin begrudgingly agreed. Sadly, the lack of diligence also resulted in Mirna’s daughter almost catching her death. Nilsa was still recovering, and so Mirna, Nars, and Droop did the work of four at the manor, and trading post.

“Bloody Droop,” Mirna muttered under her breath as she slid on her heavy woolen shift with a thick fur mantle. Droop was a habitual pain her arse, yet he had become her “pain the arse”. Although the effort had almost not been worth it, Droop was an integral part of the now functioning Hillcrest Manor. The goblin did his chores, mostly, and spent most of his free time in the alchemist lab tinkering, muttering, and making foul-smelling concoctions.

Mirna hurried to the make-shift kitchen. Nars needed to be up soon. The boy, now fourteen winters, ate as much as three. He worked hard up top, as he and Mirna were the only one’s who could. Nilsa was still too frail from the fever to face the biting cold, and although some in Phandalin knew about the goblin, Droop, Mirna thought it prudent to not flaunt the little monster’s presence among the trading post.

Mirna quickly assembled breakfast, and madder way to Nilsa’s room, stopping to badger Nars to the point of finally getting up, along the way.

Nilsa’s room was sweet smelling from rose water. The girl looked frail, yet cheery, smiling at her mother as she came in. Nilsa toyed with an affection granted to her by a young man, or woman, Mirna wasn’t sure, of the village at the Midwinter festival. Nilsa would be 19 in the Spring, and it was probably time she wed. Thoughts of nuptials forced Mirna’s thoughts to her own wedding, and the time she spent with her husband before the Redbrand Ruffians had killed him. His body was found in a chasm under Hillcrest, not far from this very room, gnawed upon by a one-eyed monster Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren had called a “nothic”. Mirna steeled herself, and pushed the memories back for another time. There was too much to do today, she would weep when she had the time.

“Morning darling,” Mirna cooed to her daughter.

“Morning mother,” Nilsa returned. “I am feeling much stronger today. I thought I might cover myself in a heap of furs and help you, and Nars, up top.”

“Did you now?” Mirna asked with a smile. She had heard this every day for a week from her daughter, and Mirna couldn’t help but admire the stuff her daughter was made of. Despite Nilsa’s “feeling stronger” Mirna knew that it was too soon.

“I think you’ll rest a bit more, love,” Mirna said as she laid breakfast down next to Nilsa’s bed. “But, if you can get these dishes to the tub before I get your thick-headed brother ready, I will let you come up top for a bit while we open up the post, and afore too much of the day’s cold has blown in.”

Mirna could feel her daughter’s smile beam at her back and she hurried to Nar’s room to wake him up, again. Just as she thought, he lay half dressed, sleeping furs thrown over his head, sound asleep.

Once more Mirna battered and chided her boy to rise. Once more, he acquiesced with minimal grumbling. Gods but he was already tall, like his dad. He looked a lot like him too. There were times when Mirna swore a ghost stalked these halls. A phantasm out of time, as her boy looked almost identical to his dad when they had first started courting. They had been together nineteen years before he died, and she had lived with him longer than she had lived with out him. But with him dead, the “without him” would catch up, and then pass the “with him”. The thought saddened Mirna, but it was not the first time she had met it.

As she and Nars finished breakfast, reviewing what needed to be done at the post, Droop blew through the kitchen placing a pile of three plump rats atop the table with a squishy thunk. Mirna knew that was Droop’s breakfast, despite her offering to make him some of what the family ate. Droop declined, yet refrained from eating his preferred cuisine until he was alone.

“Morning Droop!” Nars said cheerily to the goblin.

The goblin responded in with something in its own tongue. Although Mirna knew next to nothing of the language, from what she had picked dup, she could recognize the goblin’s response as less than flattering, and likely not anatomically possible.

Shakily, Nilsa made her way into the area they were eating, empty dishes clattering. She looked like she was going to collapse under the weight of her winter furs, yet Mirna kept a firm hand on Nars’ shoulder, letting her daughter make he way to the basin. The dishes landed with a loud clink, and Nilsa smiled triumphantly at her mother and brother.

Nars and Mirna helped Nilsa make her way up the steps. The trap door was cool to the touch, and biting cold over took them as soon as she threw it open. The they climbed out of the ruin, and began throwing back the thick leather tarps that protected the trading post’s inventory. Nilsa brushed away a thin crust of snow that had blown in over night, but even that small effort caused sweat to form on her brow.

“Ehhmmm,” A deep voice cleared it’s throat intentionally loud in order to get the attention of the family busy at work.

Mirna turned to see a stout dwarf entering the trading post. His armor was dulled by a sheen of hoarfrost, and covered in cruel looking spikes and blunted studs. He kept all of his thick red hair piled atop his head in a wild bun. Mirna had never seen a dwarf without a beard, but then again Mirna had not seen a lot of dwarves. Even still, the dwarf before her had a recently shaved, smooth face, ruddy with cold and a little chapped, save some thick chops that covered the tops of his jaw. He wore a broad weapons belt that contained a pick on one hip, and a mace on the other. He bore a round shield on his back, the haft of an axe poked out from underneath the shield.

“Mirna is it?” The dwarf asked raising a thick, red, eyebrow.

“Good morn, sir, the post is not yet opened,” Mirna said with a smile. Looking around, she saw some of the morning patrols in the distance and knew that Sildar Hallwinter’s men would be within shouting distance if needs be.

“I am knowing that lass,” the dwarf thumped to the ground, arse first, is clatter of armor. “Me name is ”/characters/quetson" class=“wiki-content-link”>Quetson, and I were sent by the dwarves of Wave Echo Cave. They aren’t me kin a’course, I got none. I were just hired. Anyway, I am for sitting here, and making sure nothing happens to ye, and them, until they be done."

Mirna was a little confused. She knew of Wave Echo Cave of course, and her master’s involvement with it to an extent, yet she had heard nothing about a visit from them. She looked out on to the road leading up the hill and saw procession of wagons headed toward the trading post.

“Wh-what is all that?” Mirna said a little overcome. Nilsa and Nars were craning their necks to see the strange wagon train.

“What I were sayin’ woman,” Quetson sad boredly. “That is them from Wave Echo. Dwarven mason’s mainly, with a few gnomish and human engineers and fitters. They are a good enough lot. Prone to talking too long for my liking, and not nearly as into breaking things as they are building them. But in total, ye have a good crew in em.”

“I am sorry,” Mirna said, her voice returning to her pleasant, yet prudent registry. "I have no idea what you are talking about. Master Rosch is away, yet I am sure he would have told me if he had ordered a “crew”, as you say."

“He didn’t order it,” Quetson said with a grimace as fished around inside his armor, the confines making him stretch and twist uncomfortably. With a triumphant smile he pulled forth a fist-sized clay pot with a small, stout, neck and rubber stopper. He pulled the stopper with his teeth and spat it into his hands before taking a huge draw. His eye’s began to water slightly, and his cheeks instantly flushed. He offered the black pot toward Mirna and waved it at her. Mirna was over come by a smell like lamp oil, stale beer, morning water, and dill. “Ye be wanting a swig? Maybe some for the girl and boy? It’ll warm ye up.”

Mirna tried not to vomit at the thought. Batting Nars’ eager hand away as he reached for the stranger’s pot, she interposed herself between her children and this so-called “Quetson”.

“What is going on? Mirna exclaimed, "Why are they coming here if my master did not order them?

“Ta build the manor walls woman,” Quetson looked at her as if she was daft. “It’s bloody cold out!”

As if to emphasize his point, a shrill morning breeze picked up, chilling Mirna as she watched the wagons plod up the hill.

“Nilsa, back below,” Mirna said matter-of-factly. “If it is true that you are invigorated, see if you can’t get some water going for tea. We should have something warm to greet our guests. I will be down to help in a bit, and it is fine if you cannot. Oh, and see to Droop. Tell him…tell him not to come up from the ruin for…for awhile.”

Bringing Thunder to Wave Echo Cave
With these, few can fight like many!

Hammer 2, Year of Three Sailing Ships, 1492 DR

The staccato rhythm of the snare drum pattered off the stone walls of Wave Echo Cave, matching the clopping booted-heels of the dwarves who marched in the time with the drum. With a low moan that quickly built to a keen, Gundren Rockseeker’s pipes began to sound the harmony. The dwarf could not help but smile behind his mouth-piece as, tradition demanded he have a return processional, yet the Rockseeker clan was so small, and with so many helping the Bouldershoulders reclaim Tyar-Besil, he was forced to play the pipes in his own ceremony.

The procession lead through the main cavern doors towards the reception chamber. Three stone carvers stopped their intricate work, as each was carving a different ancestral longship, afloat in an underground river. The carving would commemorate the official reclamation of Wave Echo, with the new year. Young apprentices took advantage of the break to clear the area of the fine powdery dust created by the stone work with reed brooms and horsehair brushes, while still trying to watch the procession over their shoulders.

Muriwen, wise woman of the Rockseekers, waited at the center of the reception chamber in her simple garb. The reception hall was a clutter of stone blocks waiting to be used, sturdy built-scaffolding lining the walls, and heaps of tools. The center had been cleared, but a thick layer of stone dust coated everything, sticking to the inside of Gundren’s mouth when he inhaled as he piped. Even amidst the shambles, Muriwen had the countenance of a dwarven queen of old. Her shield maidens stood around her in a ring, and with a ceremonious hand raise, they parted as the music stopped.

Gundren, and all else in the chamber, Muriwen included, fell prostrate on the stone. Gundren, still unaccustomed to the feel of the pistol on his back shifted his baldric. It was lighter now, and the basket hilt of a rapier could be seen instead of the broad hilt of a longsword. Having lent the Gloves of Wave Echo to Redknife Savra Belabranta, the dwarf had been forced to return to a weapon that took advantage of his dexterous hands more then his magically gifted strength. Gundren smirked as he thought of his departed brother, Tharden Rockseeker, the first time he had seen the rapier Gundren had purchased.

“Well, would ye looka’ that,” Tharden had exclaimed in his voice like boulders shifting. “Some fool went and stretched yer dagger into a sword. Sure’n ye can pick yer teeth from afar now.”

Gundren and all in attendance pressed their foreheads against the cool stone, and in sonorous prayer, they offered appellation to Moradin, as was the custom. After a time all rose, the chamber sounded with the brushes and slaps of those in attendance trying to clear stone dust from their garb. Muriwen waved a hand at her attendants as they tried to brush her off. Gundren knew she didn’t mind the dust, and was more eager to conclude the ceremony so she could continue the restoration efforts. Gundren didn’t take offense at Muriwen’s need to speed things along. There was much to be done, and Gundren would have to ride hard to make Red Larch, where he and the rest of the Called had agreed to meet in just three days.

“Wave Echo Cave is bettered by the return of the The Rock Seeker,” Muriwen began with a warm, greeting, nod. Her red-hair was piled atop her head, and almost burned like a torch against her dark-brown face. “We have been told of your efforts in Tyar-Besil, but what is more we are told that you bring thunder to us.”

Gundren smiled at this. He had been home for a few days, and knew that this part of the ceremony was something of a pageant. Nundro Rockseeker and Muriwen had already seen the prototype pistol Gundren now carried. In fact, Nundro wasn’t even in attendance, as he and some of the more skilled craftsmen of the clan were busy at the normal forges around the Spellforge, all ready realizing the weapons displayed in the plans Gundren had returned with.

Gundren watched quietly as a servant brought out a wooden series of wooden planks, held together with cross beams, and roughly the six-feet tall. A comicaly gruesome orcish face had been painted on hastily on the planks, and a general chuckle erupted from those in attendance. Once set, Muriwen nodded to Gundren. The dwarf pulled the pistol from his back with fluid grace and took aim.

A thunderous boom resounded within the chamber, and a sulfuric stinking puff of smoke stung everyone’s nostrils and a small gout of fire shot forth from the barrel. The wooden target erupted in a mass of splintered boards and clattered to the ground.

The dwarves in attendance stood in shock for a second, before they all began to applaud heartily. They witnessed first hand the power their clan now held, and they knew what could be done with it.

“We Rockseekers are small clan,” Gundren growled, turning slowly while holding the pistol aloft. "Yet we are as proud, and fierce, as any Warcorwn or Battlehammer. Me an’ me mates found these, and sure’n your thanks is to them as much meself. With these, we few can fight like many. With these, the Rockseekers can defend Wave Echo Cave! With these we can help the Bouldershoulders reclaim Tyar-Besil! With these, the Rockseekers, small clan that we are, will shake the heavens as Moradin’s anvil blows do!

Gundren let the gathered dwarves cheer for a time, letting their exhilaration peak before he begun a wailing note on his pipes. With a quick wave he indicated for his drummer to begin hammering out his cadence. As he made his way out the reception chamber, he shot Muriwen a quick wink with his one good eye. The wisewoman’s wrinkled face split into the quickest of grins, before it returned to it’s regal resting state.

“Tradition is important,” Gundren thought, quickening the pace of the march by piping a half-step faster in order to conclude the ceremony more quickly, “But I still got me a ruin to reclaim.”

Southeast Tyar-Besil Reclaimed
Hag Lama, not Llama

Nightal 29, The Year of the Scarlet Witch, 1491 DR

The Called, having reunited, returned to Tyar-Besil to remove the monstrous inhabitants. They fought with a sea hag and her minions, although it was obvious they were not from the North. The Called were triumphant, and with their efforts, south-eastern Tyar-Besil has been staged with Rockseeker and Bouldershoulder clan dwarves as they gain ground in the reclamation of Tyar-Besil.

Among the monsters horde, the Called found strange plans for strange weaponry. The plans bore the symbol of Gond, as well as Moradin, and were for black powder arms and explosives.

Advance characters to level 8.
Characters may now select the Black Powder Weapon Master feat.
Four wooden chairs worth *0 gp each. They wear 30 lbs a piece, but Discord has Tenser’s Floating Disc as a ritual so no worries.
190 GP, 8 PP
Potion of hill giant strength, potion of fire resistance.
The Called get the recovered trade goods, 1,000 gp in total.
Longsword +1, grows warm and rubies on the hilt glow when within 150’ of a dragon-type creature.

Fall Back!
Wait to take on monster island until the whole gang is here.

Nightal 19, Year of the Scarlet Witch, 1491 DR

Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren, distracted by events beyond his control, fell back to the gate to southwester Tyar-Besil while the rest of the Called explored what remained of the the northeastern section of the ruins.

The Called were offered the ability to leave this section of Tyar-Besil unharmed by someone named Thuluna Maah. She had identified herself as the new Mistress of Monsters, and said she only wanted to be left alone to govern her monstrous minions in their new lair. Gundren Rockseeker declared Thuluna’s plan unacceptable, when asked, and the Called endeavoured to discover the rest of the ruins, while steering clear of the middle, which was where Thuluna and her monsters had set up. As well as the area of the underground lake they knew was inhabited by the dragon turtle, Bronzefume.

The Called fought through some nothics and ghouls, however they ultimately decided on not taking on Thuluna and her monsters until they were fully assembled. Instead, they went back to southwestern Tyar-Besil, where they discovered Rockseeker and Bouldershoulder scouts had arrived. The dwarven scouts said forces from both clans would be arriving in about a tenday, and the Called agreed to help the scouts keep an eye on things, as well as regroup and take care of personal matters, until the forces from both clans had arrived.

Nightal 29, The Year of the Scarlet Witch, 1491 DR

Small detachments from the Bouldershoulder and Rockseeker clans arrived and began fortifying southwestern Tyar-Besil. The dwarven scouts had some minor skirmishes with some of the cultists, however the fighting have diminished somewhat since the other dwarves have arrived in force.

With a foothold established in Tyar-Besil, and being fully rested, the Called set out to return to southeastern Tyar-Besil and reclaim the section of the ruins from Thuluna and her monsters.

10 days of downtime for every character.
As a note, Nightal 20 is Winter Solstice, there would definitely be a festival of some kind so, happy Solstice!

A Prophet of Elemental Evil Falls
You can't eat the claw...

Nightal 19, Year of the Scarlet Witch, 1491 DR

Continuing their journey through southwestern Tyar-Besil, in the area the Cult of the Crushing Wave was calling the Temple of the Drowning Wave, the Called discovered the middle part of the ruin was inhabited by monstrous allies of the cult. The Called also discovered huge stores of recently pilfered goods, no doubt the spoils of the recent increase in river pirate activity that had been plaguing the Dessarin Valley.

After a close call with a dragon turtle called Bronzefume, the Called eventually made their way into the Alter of the Crushing Wave. There they stood against the Prophet of Olhydra, Gar Shatterkeel. The Called destroyed the servant of the Princess of Evil Water, a few of her priests, and some lizardmen servants. However, the remainder of monsters within what was once the cultist’s temple remain acutely aware of the Called and their presence within the ruin. The Called found the treasury of the cult, as well as an entrance to a deeper level, guarded by a powerful demon Discord recognized as beyond the adventuring band’s abilities.

Treasure: 925 sp, 742 gp, a silver ewer (100 gp), scrolls of vitriolic sphere and tidal wave (Unusable by anyone in the party but can be traded for Warlock and/or Bard spell scrolls of equal level.), and Gar’s magic trident, Drown, a weapon with qualities unknown, but radiating a malicious cold aura.

The Called will get the benefit of the recovered trade goods, 1,000 gp in total, once this section of Tyar-Besil is cleared.

Into the Temple of the Crushing Wave
Beer-weirds! Truly, the cults evil knows no bounds.

Nightal 19, 1491 DR

The Called, having been rejoined by Discord, made their way into southeastern Tyar-Besil, which the Cult of the Crushing Wave was using as their temple.

Upon entering, the Called did battle with strange a cultist who identified himself as Morbeoth, and seemed to have command of over powers of ice and cold. The Called defeated Morbeoth and the cultists who accompanied him, men and woman who fought with shark-toothed longswords and shields made from the carapace for large horseshoe crabs, as well as bugbears. After the battle the Called discovered some letters written a fairly distinct style, a combination of block letters and script, that detailed the actions of the Called, as well as the Heroes that came before them, as they pertained to what the groups were, and had been, doing in Red Larch. These letters confirmed what the Called had already suspected, that cult had a spy in Red Larch, and these letters might be able to identify who it was. An even more startling discovery was that Morbeoth’s workshop was used for creating strange magical backpacks that radiated elemental magic. The Called discovered that the backpacks were made to contain waterweirds, as they had to fight three that were being kept in the tanks of what was once the Thunderhammer Brewery. These magical backpacks would allow for a cultist to transport the dangerous beats, and even allow them to fight on land, a proposition that could only spell disaster for the people of the Dessarin Valley.

Having taken a short rest, and defeating the waterweirds, the Called pressed further into the Temple of the Crushing Wave.

Treasure- 6 pp, 66 sp each. Potion of healing and potion of gaseous form. Spy’s letters and up to five of shark-toothed longswords which, if used against a target that is wearing no armor, does an extra die of damage.

Remember to take a look at other chars personality, bonds, flaws, etc as I am pretty much making you guys responsible for granting Inspiration to one another.

Southwest Tyar-Besil Reclaimed
Umberhulks are Rosch's Nemesis!

Nightal 18, 1491 DR

Having forced the Cult of the Howling Hatred members to flee the southwestern section of Tyar-Besil by running off their prophet Aerisi Kalinoth, the Called decided to secure the rest of the ruined area that had once served as the Temple of Howling Hatred. Although Discord vanished for a time, the remaining Called pushed further into the ruin, doing battle with strange beast such as a cloaker, and an umberhulk.

Having rid the ruins of cult and monsters, the Called reemerged from Tyar-Besil and sought some much-needed rest among Gyr’Squall‘s conclave in the Sighing Valley. Gyr’Squall was thankful the Called had removed the evil presence from the Sighing Valley, however bore grim tidings. From their vantage on the cliff face that contained the conclave’s cave, Gyr’Squall showed the Called a procession of refugees headed in the direction of Red Larch.

Redknife Savra Belabranta and Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren flew out to meet the refugees atop Winddancer, Savra’s hippogriff companion. Upon meeting up with the refugees, the Called discovered that the battered and tired procession was from a small mining village called Shalesburg. They refugees spoke of how strangers, adorned in robes and jewelry of shells and driftwood, walked into the village square with a strange metallic orb. The strangers opened the orb as they chanted, and then a monsoon began battering the village. Although land-locked, suddenly a giant tidal wave appeared ,and and laid waste to the village.

Savra and Rosch went to the site of the what was once Shalesburg, to see the devastation first hand. Rosch could not help but notice the similarity of the village that now lay in ruin, and his adopted hometown of Phandalin. It was as the survivors had said, and though hard to believe, the village had been destroyed by a tidal wave.

Rosch and Savra flew back to Gy’Squall’s conclave and regrouped with the members of the Called that remained behind. While in Tyar-Besil the first time had discovered an access gate to the southeastern section of Tyar-Besil, which they had a suspicion was being used by the Cult of the Crushing Wave as a temple, as the Cult of the Howling Hatred had used the southwest section of the ruin. The Called decided they needed to take action, and on the morrow they would try and stop the water cult from doing any further damage to the innocents of the valley.

Nightal 19, 1491 DR

Having rested for the evening among Gyr’Squal’s conclave, the Called readied themselves to once again enter Tyar-Besil in hopes of striking another blow against the evil elemental cults. While they slept, Gyr’Squall had flown to Red Larch and acquired the supplies the Called had requested of him. Still another aarakocra from Gyr’Squalls enclave departed with three missives written by Gundren Rockseeker. All three told of the discovery of Tyar-Besil and contained a call for dwarves to return to the lost ruin and establish a foothold in the southwest section, as the Called worked to reclaim the lost ruin. One missive was to be delivered to Wave Echo Cave, to the Rockseeker clan, another to the dwarves of the Vale of Dancing Waters, and the last to the far away Bouldershoulder clan, the closest relatives of the Flametongue clan that was decimated when Tyar-Besil was lost.


Treasure: 3,342 gp. Ancient dwarven figurines, keepsakes, and funerary masks x26 (50 gp each), miniature electrum anvil with etchings of funerary rites in honor to Moradin (150 gp), and an immovable rod.

Prophet of Air
Finally, a boss!

Nightal 18, 1491 DR

The Called were able to rescue some captives the Cult of the Howling Hatred had taken from Yartar, and another man named Bero Gladham who claimed that his wife, Nerise, was “taken below”. They left the recused captives in Gyr’Squall‘s care, as the druid called upon a couple of griffons to return the freed torture victims and return them to Red Larch. Unfortunately, Gyr’Squall needed to accompany the griffons to prevent them from eating those that had just been rescued.

The Called returned to the part of Tyar-Besil that the cultists had claimed, and were calling “The Temple of Howling Hatred”. They were reacquainted with an old friend, Gundren Rockseeker. Gundren had left Wave Echo Cave, to pursue the location of lost dwarven ruins in the north. Tyar-Besil was the first in his quest to reclaim. Fighting their way through the temple at times, posing as cultists at others, and often a combination of both, the Called finally arrived at the center of the temple. Which was surrounded by a huge moat with an occasional glint of ancient coin resting deep beneath the water.

Arriving within the throne room of of the pyramid, the Called had an audience with Aerisi Kalinoth, leader of the Cult of the Howling Hatred. Aerisi bored of the Called’s charade at beings members of her cult quickly and ordered her drug-addled cultists in the chamber, as well as her invisible stalker servant, Whisper, to attack. Once the scrap began, Aerisi summoned a djinni named Ahtayir, bound to a horn in the throne room since the days of Torhild Flametongue, king of Tyar-Besil, to aid her against the Called.

Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren, remembering an early conversation with the djinni, used his mastery of psychic powers to transport himself and Redknife Savra Belabranta to the ancient djinni’s horn, allowing Savra to destroy the ancient device. With the device sundered, Ahtayir was freed of his forced servitude, and left Aerisi to her own devices.

With her djinni gone, and her cultists falling quickly, Aerisi fled the chamber, leaving Whisper and her remaining cultists to cover her escape. The Called ended up defeating Whisper and discovered that the remaining cultists within the Temple of Howling Hatred had fled..

The Called took a brief reprieve in the throne room while they prepared to finish exploring this section of Tyar-Besil. While they were resting, Ahtayir the djinni returned form his home plane with slender, azure crystalline vials, the contents of the vial looked like swirling air, and emanated the sound of the slightest breeze. When their rest had been concluded, the Called set out once again in the remains of Tyar-Besil.

All characters advance to 7th level.
Treasure: 38 gp each worth of lose coins, small gems, and trinkets of value. 1 bottled breath each.

The Rockseeker
Gundren Hears the Stone's Songs

Nightal 15, 1491 DR

Gundren Rockseeker squeezed the last of the air from his pipes, the final notes of his somber dirge echoing sonorously off the walls of Wave Echo Cave. Wave Echo Cave had not been under Rockseeker for control for a full two months, yet already the tombs of two Rockseekers were being crafted. The first tomb was that of Gundren’s older brother, Tharden Rockseeker. Tharden was killed before he ever entered what was now Clan Rockseeker’s home, by the drow mage, Nezznar, the Black Spider.

The second tomb, which was not yet started although the slab that would be the tomb had been selected, was the tomb of Gundren’s cousin, Orsic. It was Orsic’s death that was the reason for the somber clan gathering. The whole clan was here, save those that were sent to the Allfaith’s Shrine in Phandalin to retreibe Orsic’s body. Were it not for Orsic, the Rockseekers would not be in Wave Echo Cave. Likely Gundren would have died at the hands of the Cragmaw Goblins if Orsic and his friends hadn’t saved him.

Gundren stopped letting his mind race toward the memories of his captivity, instead focussing on the eulogy being offered by Muriwen Rockseeker, wise-woman of the clan, and the oldest living Rockseeker. Muriwen stood strong as she gave her praiseful oration to Moradin and the life of Orsic.

Gundren looked over at the chest that contained Orsic’s belongings. Nundro Rockseeker, Gundren’s oldest and only remaining brother, was the one who had received the chest from the angelic messenger who called herself Moda. Nundro offered Moda rest amidst the cavern, as he had said she looked weary from flying through the night to bring the clan the news. Moda had graciously declined, saying she had more pressing matters to attend to, but expressed gratitude and condolences for the clan’s loss.

“…and such a loss,” Gundren caught the tail end of Muriwen’s words, a little surprised at how well they echoed his own thoughts.

Such a loss indeed. The Rockseeker’s were not a large clan. Nor were they famous like the Battlehammers or the Warcrowns. Their ancestral histories had heroes aplenty, and Gundren had no doubt that he lived longer, Orsic’s deeds would have certainly rivaled those of any iconic Rockseeker of ages past.

“Or maybe not,” Gundren thought. “Maybe we can’t help but remember the dead as better than they were because we hope those that survive us will do the same?”

“…and let those that survive him do the same,” Muriwen was saying. “For in following in this young one’s example, we bring honor to the clan, and Moradin.”

Gundren watched Muriwen give the rest of the eulogy, refusing to get lost in his own head. Although she was venerable, the wise-woman was solid as the stone walls that surrounded them. Muriwen was from one of the line of the clan that had darker skin, like polished teak wood. Yet her hair, now streaked with gray, was the forge-fire orange of the fairer complexioned members of the clan, and gathered into ropey strands. Muriwen leaned heavily upon the clan hammer, a symbol of the clan, but in no way ceremonial. The Rockseeker Maul was still very much an instrument of war, and currently resided in the hands of arguably one of the greatest warriors of the clan, even at Muriwen’s advanced age. Voices solemn and hoarse from regret and refrained use, echoed a final prayer to the Forge Father under Muriwen’s guidance.

The prayer concluded and Muriwen looked to Gundren, her eyes shining like emeralds in the dim light of the chamber that had been repurposed as a tomb. “Play,” Muriwen’s voice echoed hollowly. “Play the song of our clan on yer pipes to ease the journey of our fallen clansmen to Moradin’s forge.”

At this wise-woman’s command Gundren begun to fill the bladder of his pipes after dipping his head to recapture the mouth piece. Gundren began to squeeze and play, his keening pipes thick with loss and solemnity. Nundro’s snare drum joined Gundrens pipes, the staccato notes falling to the stone floor like tears. And Clan Rockseeker bid farewell to Orsic.

Nightal 16, 1491 DR

Gundren was exhausted. His head was still a little fuzzy from Orsic’s death vigil last night, and
this morning. The water clock on the stone desk told him it was evening again, and Gundren realized it had been too long since he had slept. He piled the loose sheafs of parchment splayed across the desk and tucked them in into a stone box whose joints were so well disguised it looked as if the whole thing had been formed from a single piece of highly polished agate.

Gundren had just finished reading missives from his friend Sildar Hallwinter, now the town master of Phandalin. Sildar was in communication with a small enclave of Waterdahvian wizards that had expressed an interest in relocating to Wave Echo Cave.

Another correspondence now secured in the box with the others, was from the famed gnomish artificer, Luftvarger Von Listleschlepin. Luftvarger and his acolytes had accepted a temporary residence at Wave Echo, eager to learn about the Forge of Spells.

Phandelvers Pact would be renewed. Wave Echo Cave would again be a place of creation and discovery for the finest artisans of three races, all under the vigilant protection of the Rockseeker clan. Gundren knew he should feel excited that he had resurrected a piece of history. Yet he didn’t.

Gundren loved the history of his people. He had spent as much time in his life studying books, maps, scrolls, and songs of Delzoun’s past as he had at the forge. That love for the lost things of the dwarves was what had led him and his brothers to find Wave Echo in the first place. And now that it was coming together, Gundren felt as if he should be more…something. But what was coming next was not exciting to Gundren. Statecraft would be necessary to appease the visiting human and gnomish artisans. Stonecraft and smithing would be used to restore Wave Echo Cave to its original splendor after decades of neglect and the attack that destroyed the original inhabitants. And while Gundren appreciated all these things, they did little to captivate him.

“Sure’n I have seen some things me day young Rockseeker,” Muriwen’s voice echoed warmly off the chamber walls, her brogue thick like summer honey and just as sweet. “Ye be hearin’ the stone’s call or I am maid fresh faced and new”

Gundren dipped his chin respectfully to the wise woman and stood offering her the only chair in the chamber. Muriwen declined with a wave of her gnarled hand, and instead leaned heavily on the haft of the Rockseeker Maul as one might lean on a walking stick. “Evening clan mother,” Gundren offered, careful to use the honorific due the wise-woman.

“Ye can be stowin’ all that formality lad,” She smiled. “Tis’ too late in the evening, and has been too long a day. But ye can’t hide from me Gundren. Ye have heard the stone’s song. Ye have heard it all your life. It is in your songs, and in the tales ye tell. Ye be blessed and be cursed, for ye be a Rhok seeker.”

“I am not fer follwin’ ye Muriwen,” Gundren said. “Sure’n all the Rockseekers in this halls are Rockseekers brave and true.”

“Aye, lad,” Muriwen said behind her tired smile. “But I said ye be a Rhok seeker. In all your tales did ye ever come to know how this clan got it’s name?”

“Aye Muriwen,” Gundren began, “In the time of Regnir-”

“That was six three centuries past,” Muriwen interrupted. “Twas, but a little more than yesterday. Sure’n ye be knowing our clan is older than that?”

“I suppose,” Gundren said. “I was fer thinkin’ we had another name in those times.”

“We did,” Muriwen said distantly. “And we didn’t. Long ago, when our kind first came to the north, before time was recorded, Moradin knew that we would be needin’ a stronghold to fortify and a place for our forges. He called this place Rhok, and within its sunken stonewalls the first of our kin made ready to face the north. It didn’t take long for the other ancient races, then new to the north as we were, to become jealous of the things we made within the stone halls of Rohk. They wanted our steel for making war on each other, and our stone to shelter them from the cold winds above. And so the jealousy caused those defilers to unite, at least for a time. They raided the Rohk as they have done for many centuries since, and the stronghold fell, as so many of our halls have since.”

Without interrupting, Gundren poured Muriwen a cup of cool water from a clay pitcher on his desk. Being a story teller himself, Gundren knew her voice would be getting hoarse, and he didn’t want her tale to stop. Muriwen received the cup with a grateful nod and continued.

“Eventually we ended up forming Delzoun, and those tales be vast and well known. But those that remembered Rhok remembered the great gift the Forgefather had given us. They didn’t want to forget, and so it was said that tasked a skald to sit with the stones for one hundred and one tendays to teach them the songs of Rhok. Once the skald had taught the stones his songs, he died. With his dying breath the Sklad asked that the stones to sing to those that could hear them, and through the old songs, help our people remember Rhok and what we had lost. As time went on, we lost more of our ancestral homelands, and though it took place over centuries for us, that was but as a second to the stones. The stones that had learned the songs grew confused, unable to remember which dwarven halls were to be sung about, as so many had fallen in so short a time.”

“And so,” Muriwen continued after another sip of water. “Each stone began to sing about the hold they liked best, for our homes are always pleasing to the stones. As they sang, their songs became confusing, and many stopped listening to them. The people were convinced the stones were old and senile.”

“Yet, some among them still listened to the stone’s songs. A very few would hear their words, and go find the halls lost, and forges too long cool. Ofthose few that heard the stone’s song, even fewer would hear the songs of Rhok. Those few strove for nothing more than to find Moradin’s original gift to the dwarves of the north. They were called the “Rhok finna” which in the old tongue means Rhok Seekers."

“After a time even our clan became distracted from the quest for Rhok, Because we were well traveled from our journeys to find lost halls, were well suited to the task of King Regnir that
eventually earned us the place we have today. Yet every once in a great while, there is still one in our clan that hear’s the stone’s songs. That feels the call to find the lost halls of our people, and perhaps even one day, rediscover great Rhok itself.”

Gundren found himself exhaling slowly as Muriwne finished her tale and he realized he had held his breath through most of her legend. How had he never heard this tale before? There was so little dwarven lore Gundren hadn’t at least encountered, let alone studied. Gundren had so many questions, yet as he looked up he could already see Muriwen disappearing down the dim light of the hallway.

“Go to the place where stones sing Gundren. Listen to them as the call your cousin home. See what song they sing to ye.,” Her voice echoed back to him.

Nightal 17, 1491 DR

Gundren awoke not the least bit sore from his slumber upon the stone floor of the tomb. He had done as the wise-woman had said. He had come to the tomb and tried to listen, yet he had been so tired. He had slipped into sleep quickly. Yet during that sleep he had dreamed of a place called Tyar-Besil. He had heard the songs the dwarven craftsmen sang as they built it. And he had heard the mournful ballads that had been sung when it was lost.

Pushing himself off the floor and springing to his feet Gundren made his way to the two chests in the room.

“Brother, I’ve a journey ahead of me,” Gundren said reverently. Kneeling before the the stone slabs that would soon be tombs “I’ll be needin’ yer boots, the same that Orsic wore, to carry me far.”

“Cousin, I will be needing yer gauntlets, the same ye claimed when bravely you cleared Wave Echo Cave for our clan, to carry me load and make strong me sword arm. I’ll be swearin’ to ye both that I will return em to ye once I have found the lost halls and forges of our ancestors. Until that time, I will carry a piece of both of ye with me, and together, maybe we three Rockseekers will find Rhok.”

Gundren didn’t know what to expect, but as nothing seemed adverse to his request, nor was nay ill omen given, he rifled through Orsic’s chest as he had the guantlets and the boots. Gundren considered carrying Orsic’s axe, Hew, as well. But that thought was short lived. Hew had been too long among the Ruins of Thundertree. The blade deserved to rest back with its people for a time.

In just a few short hours Gundren had provisioned himself for his journey. He gathered a few works or lore, and some maps with potential information about the location of Tyar-Besil. It was close, he knew that, and somewhere to the east. Gundren would start with the Bellows Road. The underdark path went under the mountains and Wyvern Tor, and although somewhat dangerous, would be the fastest way to what was called the Dessarin Valley on the surface.

Taking his baldric off the hook in his quarters that contained his longsowrd and dagger, Gundren shouldered his weapons and secured the straps. Lastly he gathered up his pipes. they had not been used since the funeral, and the deflated bladder hung familiarly at his side once he had thrown the instrument’s strap over his as opposite shoulder.

“Sure’n ye are damned fool,” Nundro said from Gundren’s door, his face split with a grin and naught but pride showing in his eyes and he surveyed his younger brother once again in his adventuring gear. Gundren wasn’t sure how long his brother had been standing there “Ye’ll never find a place that’s lost,” Nundro’s voice was heavily steeped in sarcasm.

Gundren grinned at his older brother thinking again of the recently reclaimed Wave Echo Cave, now bustling with activity, and soon it would be restored to its former glory. He remembered those same words being said not too long ago to himself, Nundro, and Tharden before they left for the lost site of Phandelver’s Pact by some of their clanmates that now resided with the halls of Wave Echo cave.

Gundren flung his chin Nundro’s way with a wry look, “That’s what I be hearin’.”


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