Lost Mine of Phandelver

Off To White Plume Mountain
How the other side lives

Hammer 5, Year of Three Ships Sailing, 1492 DR

Discord, Redknife Savra Belabranta, and Gundren Rockseeker all met in Red Larch, however Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren was not present. The heat was sweltering, uncharacteristic for this time of year, and the rain that sluiced down was hot and murky. The Called in attendance observed that the cryer-board in the middle of town was filled with recent notifications inquiring about the location of lost loved ones, and warning of monster sightings throughout the Dessarin Valley. They also noticed that a large area outside of Red Larch had become an impromptu refugee camp, as more and more farmers and their family’s were forced to abandon their homes due to banditry and creature attacks.

Gundren said he needed to attend to some business, telling the others that if they accompanied him they would be extended the privilege of being able to enter a place where non-dwarves were not normally allowed. Discord shared with Savra and Gundren some of her past, telling them that she was promised to Share by her parents and that she may have a way to be free of the mistress of loss and sorrow. Gundren, taken aback at first, told Discord that she was a friend to him and his clan, then placed a comforting hand on the warlock’s shoulder stating simply, “Worry not lass, we’ll fix this.”

At that moment, Nitasys, an old friend and Agent companion of Savra arrived with news that the Belabranta’s had sent her to find Savra. Her words resonated with Discord, coinciding with the visions the warlock had been having, and they left for Waterdeep that very morning. Gundren parted ways, wishing them all well, and went off to see into whatever it was he needed to attend to.

Hammer 8, Year of Three Ships Sailing, 1492 DR

Savra, Nitasys, and Discord arrived at the palatial Belabranta estate in Waterdeep. Discord and Nitasys were overcome by the opulence of the manor, and Savra received a fairly cool homecoming from her father, Giovanni Belabranta. There, an old family friend and prominent member of the Waterdhavian nobility entreated Savra’s help in returning a stolen heirloom. In the place of the heirloom, a strange poem was left, challenging any to come and retrieve the weapons. The note was signed with a strange rune. Savra, Discord, and Nitasys agreed to help.

Traveling to the City of the Dead, an expansive and famous walled cemetery within Waterdeep, the traveler’s utilized a teleportation circle located beneath a tomb that is in the care of the Harpers. From there they traveled to another teleportation circle in Neverwinter, located in the basement of a rickety three-story boarding house.

From Neverwinter, the band traveled 30 miles southwest, to White Plume Village in order to stage their expedition into White Plume Mountain. Once there, Discord was able to piece together what was happening to her. She realized that a sword of mythic power had been calling to her, fabled to exist within the mountain. She also was able to recall the legend of the wizard Kerapatis, realizing that the strange rune was the sigil of the legendary wizard.


Nightal 30, The Year of the Scarlett Witch, 1491 DR

A frigid winter wind blew across the scoured stony floor of the Sighing Valley. It tore at the hood of Redknife Savra Belabranta’s hood, pulling it back and cause her black hair to whip into her face. Raising her chin, Savra gathered the errant strands into her hands, and with a quick twist, tied her hair back in a tight pony tail. Out of the corner of her eye Savra noticed Beebo admiring her profile. Beebo was not subtle, about anything, and Savra gave her a acknowledging half-smile.

Ever since Savra had met Beebo, after the heros had hired her to run the stables at Feathergale Spire, Savra had taken note of the woman. Beebo had an understated beauty, and her amber eyes always shown with an engaging intensity. More then once Savra had imagined those eyes alight with passion. What is more, Beebo and Savra were the only survivors of the Cult of Howling Hatred’s revenge attack on the spire. They had both seen the atrocities of the cultist first hand perpetrated on people they had come to know.

Savra blocked out the gruesome memories of the attack, once again looking upon Beebo.

“What would mummy and daddy think,” Savra thought, her internal monologue affecting the highest of Waterdhavian inflections. The scandal would not come from the fact that Beebo was a woman. Savra’s parents had known for some time that her romantic interests were not discerned by gender. No, the scandal would come from Beebo’s station. After all, the Bellabranta family could never be acknowledge a romance with someone as low as Beebo.

“They don’t know the half of it,” Savra said under her breath, flushing with equal parts embarrassment and frustration as she thought of her early and inadvertent involvement with the cultists that now terrorized the Dessarin Valley.

“Was’at?” Beebo asked loudly, trying to be heard over the wind.

Savra was amazed Beebo heard anything at all. And despite her rough inflection, her voice was quiet nice.

“Nothing,” Savra smiled back, restoring her hood. "What is this “surprise” that warrants us being out here in this bitter cold? I am freezin’’ me tits off!" Savra said the last in perfectly inflected low common, like Beebo’s way of speaking, smiling teasingly at the trainer.

“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you,” Beebo turned and continued plodding through the shallow snow drifts that had been blown on to the valley floor. “If your Highness will attend?” Beebo called over her shoulder as she walked.

They plodded through the valley all morning. It was rough going over the cold, and uneven terrain. Savra’s armor was frost-covered, and heavy, but she wouldn’t dare traverse the valley without it. She hunted the manticores within the valley with The Society, and seen the knoll packs from overhead. The gauntlets Gundren Rockseeker had loaned her granted her improved strength, which helped. But, come late morning, she was glad to see Beebo stop atop a craggy out cropping, in front of a gash-like crevice, and begin unshouldering her pack.

“If only we had a way to fly,” Savra breathed out as she hauled herself the rest of the way up the ledge.

“Don’t want Jon and Winddancer up here,” Beebo said, removing heavy leather gauntlets like the ones Savra had seen her father’s falconers sport so often. “Perhaps her Highness can use her nose more’n her mouth for a tick?”

“I’ll have you know, her Highness has never had a complaint about the volume of her usage of her mouth,” Savra quipped.

As soon as Beebo mentioned it, Savra registered the smell. Even through the gusts Savra detected the carnal stink of decay. Letting her pack slip, Savra adjusted her great sword just in case, before cautiously approached the crag. Beebo seemed unconcerned and just waited patiently for Savra to come close.

It took Savra’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but she soon saw the source of the smell. Lying within the crag was a the bloated corpse of a female griffon. The majestic body was riddled with long black spines, the wounds around the spines were inflamed and wept viscous green fluid. Savra could only get so close, as the shelter of the cave seemed to store, and compound, the scent of putrefaction.

“Manticore got ’er,” Beebo said matter of factly.

Without further discourse Beebo reached her arms in and grabbed the corpse by the rear leonine legs, then gave a great heave. The bloated corpse jammed in the crevice, and the pressure caused the postmortem gases contained within the corpse to expel loudly in a flatulent-like explosion. Savra would have laughed, but she was too busy retching. Beebo heaved again. The corpse, now deflated, came loose, and Beebo drug it over to the side of the crevice. The corpse landed on the floor below in a squishy thunk.

“So,” Savra mused. "You brought me out in the cold, to brave the manticore and gnoll infested valley, to watch you throw a dead griffon off a cliff. How did you know that was what I always wanted?

Beebo smiled tartly at Savra and tossed her chin toward the craggy opening she had just pulled the dead griffon from.

Savra watched as a beaked head, like an eagle only significantly larger, feebly poked it’s way out of the crevice. The creature’s eyes were dull, and it shook as if straining under the effort of raising its own head. The head was as large as Savor’s chest, only slightly smaller than that of the dead griffon, and bore coarse black feathers in a line down the otherwise stark white plumage.

“I’m thinking’,” Beebo said returning to her pack where she fished out a large leather sack that was darkly stained at the bottom. “This one was still young, or youngish. Mum prolly spat some food into it, but the manticore’s poison was already in her. Weren’t enough to do for the babe, but it is in bad shape.” Beebo undid the bag she held and pulled out a side of raw mutton, still dripping with fresh gore.

“Like as not,” Beebo continued, placing the meat far enough away from the griffon that it would have to come out of the crevice to eat it. “This’un’ll die unless we take it in. What’s more, you and the others have been running aground of some nasty things of late. I seen you gettin’ pretty good at fighting atop Winddnacer, and I get concerned, for Winddancer of course. Winddancer is good, but hippogriffs can only do so much. Griffons, they can do a bit more. If you are inclined, I can help you train this one. It will take some time, and a herd’s worth’a meat, but I figure we can do it.”

Savra was over come with excitement. Ever since she had joined The Society she had wanted to ride a griffon. She grew up on the tales of the famed griffon cavalry of Waterdeep. This was a childhood dream come true!

Beebo could see that Savra was pleased. She focused on coaxing the young griffon out of the cave. After a time, the creature came, and was too weak to put up much of struggle as Beebo slipped on a hood on it’s raptor head. Next Beebo put a hobble on the creature’s legs. Try as it might, the griffon could only thrash weakly when Beebo lashed down its wings. Resignedly, the poisoned griffon flopped on its side, breathing shallowly.

Her work done, Beebo gathered her things strewn about the ledge back into her pack, then shouldered it. Making her way to ledge, she looked back at Savra expectantly.

“What?” Savra said, confused.

“Grab the damn thing,” Beebo exclaimed as she indicated to the bound griffon. “You’re strong as a bloody giant, and I am not going to carry it back.”

Savra made her way to the griffon and threw the creature over her shoulders, a pair of legs on either side of her head. It was heavy, and would have been impossible to carry were it not for her gauntlets. Savra couldn’t help but notice the strong talons on the fore legs, and the sharp feline claws of the rear-legs, so close to her face. She shifted the load a little to get it balanced, then began plodding her way down of the ledge.

“Don’t get used to this little one,” she said to the griffon bobbing ridiculously on her back with each step. “Next time we meet, you will be carrying me.”

Taming the Griffon will cost 1,000 gp in total and take 40 days of downtime. Beebo can do up to 30 of them, but Savra will have to spend at least10 days of downtime to get the griffon used to her.

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.


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