Stronghold Stress
Episode 90/91 – Inner and Outer Violence
Date: Planting 13, 576 CY — Night
Region: Drachensgrab Hills, south of Highport — Slave Lords’ Stockade
Weather (Outside): Cold drizzle beneath a blanket of low clouds. Mud and mist clung to the hills and the slave road alike.
Weather (Within): Damp stone, stale air, and the lingering smell of blood and confinement.
Players
Dog the Ranger
Irving the Reluctant (petrified)
TerryOr the Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Silversun Ubermage the Magic-User
Slash the Bard
Tiger Wong, Monk of the Eastern Lands
Kern Blackshield of Safeton
Harving
Lady Morwen Ellisar (NPC)
I, Silversun of Greyhawk, write this entry with the dark feelings. I look for guidance in the blood drying upon my robes. My mind screams get out! What transpired in the depths beneath the Slavelords’ Stronghold was not merely battle—it was a descent into madness, treachery, and violence. At what we had done… and by what we had nearly done to each other.
It's only been a day or two in the
stronghold but it's already felt like weeks. After the dreaded Gorgon incident we have continued and pressed deeper beneath the fortress. The rotting stench of the decaying Gorgon head finally overcame the reek of the stronghold itself, so we disposed the head in one of the rooms. The
stone corridors below the stockade were far older than the walls above—ancient
passages forgotten by the sun and abandoned to time.
Dust lay thick upon the floor. The
air smelled of rot and damp stone. Most troubling of all were the webs, they
covered the hallway from ceiling to floor. Great curtains of grey silk hung down
the walls, stretching across the hall like the shrouds of forgotten tombs. Some
were as thick as ropes, others layered so densely they formed pale barriers
that blocked the passage ahead.
Kern Blackshield led the column, his
sword ready, the light from the lantern casting nervous shadows across the
webs. Dog followed close behind him, arrow already knocked to string. Terry Or
came after them, muttering quiet prayers to St. Cuthbert while his eyes
searched the stone for hidden traps. I walked near the center of the marching
order with the lantern held high, Tiger Wong and Slash guarding the rear like
silent sentinels.
The webs were too thick to simply
push aside. Terry solved that problem in typical clerical fashion. He hurled
his lantern forward. The noise it made had us all looking at the Cleric like he
had single digit intelligence,
especially with that smirk on his face. The oil-soaked flame burst upon the
silk with a hungry roar, fire racing along the webs as they shriveled and
burned. The flames crawled along the walls and ceiling in twisting orange
tongues, consuming the suffocating silk.
For a moment, it seemed the path
would clear easily. Then the webs began
to move. Three enormous black spiders dropped from the ceiling without
warning, their bodies nearly the size of shields, their long legs scraping
against stone with a dry chittering sound that made my skin crawl.
Kern barely had time to raise his
weapon before the first spider lunged. It struck him like a falling anvil. The
creature slammed into his shield, its hooked legs clamping around his arm while
its fangs snapped inches from his throat, venom dripping from them like thick
black sap.
Dog reacted instantly. His arrow
buried itself deep into the monster’s abdomen, bursting its slick carapace and
spraying black ichor across the walls and Kern’s armor. That was one, two more
shapes descended through the burning webs.
The two additional spiders scuttled
down the walls, their legs clattering against stone as they rushed us with
terrifying speed. I searched my mind instinctively for a larger spell—but the
narrow corridor and the raging flames made such magic far too dangerous. Instead
I drew a dagger and hurled it.
The blade struck one spider squarely
between its eyes, sinking deep into the chitin with a wet crack. I chuckled
silently at my good fortune. Tiger Wong moved with calm precision. His
quarterstaff snapped across another spider’s carapace with a sharp report that
echoed down the hall like a lightning bolt spell in a wet room..
The fight devolved into brutal
chaos. Terry swung his mace with determination, but the cramped corridor
betrayed him. His weapon glanced off stone and flew from his grip, clattering
loudly down the passage behind us.
I had seen enough. Arcane power surged
through my hands. No Fireball but the ever faithful Magic Missile spell. Three
missiles burst from my fingertips, streaking forward like comets of blue-white
force. They struck the nearest spider with such violence that its body split
apart, the creature collapsing in a twitching heap as glowing energy burned
through its insides. The remaining spider fought savagely.
Venomous fangs struck again and
again. Kern had planted himself firmly between the monsters and me, his shield vital in our defense. Tiger Wong’s
fists and feet flailing at the Spider’s hook like appendages. Everyone was on the
defense knowing one spider bite would kill any of us, well most of us. Finally
the last spider reared back, its eight eyes gleaming in the torchlight. Dog’s
arrow pierced them all at once. The creature collapsed heavily to the floor.
Victory came—but not without cost. During
the fight one of the spiders had struck Tiger Wong with its nasty fangs. At
first he showed little reaction, standing calmly as ever, but once the battle
ended he swayed upon his feet before collapsing heavily against the stone. Kern
dragged him away from the webs while Terry knelt beside him. For several long
and dreadful moments the monk did not breathe. More than one of us believed the
venom had claimed him. At last Tiger’s chest rose again. A narrow escape. Monk
discipline—and perhaps stubborn fate—had preserved him.
Further along the corridor we found
another grim reminder of this dungeon’s hunger. A corpse hung wrapped in
fairly fresh webs like a cocoon. Kern carefully cut it down. The remains were little
more than leather armor stretched across dry bones. Whoever he had been, the Spiders had erased his name. We left him there.
Beyond the webs we discovered a wide
storage chamber stacked with crates and broken pottery. The contents proved to
be trade goods intended for slaver caravans. Among them were crates of delicate
porcelain. It was fine dinnerware worth nearly four hundred and fifty gold pieces by
my estimation. It was tempting wealth—but far too fragile to carry while
exploring a hostile fortress. Reluctantly we left it behind.
A nearby door revealed something
stranger still. Inside the chamber appeared a pale, translucent figure—an elf
chained to the wall. His, or was it a her?, gaunt face twisted in agony as he
struggled against the shackles. Suddenly he tore free and rushed toward us
screaming, running out the door—then vanished.
Moments later he appeared again in
the exact same position. Chained and struggling. Then magically breaking free
to charge at us once again, passing us then disappearing again. This happened a
half dozen times.
It was no spirit attacking us. It
was a memory—an echo replaying endlessly through time.
Dog even opened the door for him, as
if trying to grant the ghost escape. Terry Or tried to turn the undead creature
but to no avail. The apparition ignored us completely. Finally, in one strange
repetition, the phantom ran down the hall in the opposite direction and stopped
at the northern corner before fading again.
That was where we found the secret
door. Did it purposely lead us there to help us? Or to lead us to a quick
demise? There was a five foot wide
secret passage behind the secret door.
“Let’s rest in there.” I blurted
out. “I need to study”.
“If we’re found it’s a death trap.”
Dog stated. “Let’s go back to the storeroom”
After getting in the storeroom we
discovered another room behind one of the walls. Inside were several cots, a
rough wooden table, and the remains of a crude meal—horse meat and thin beer. A
brass chest rested against the wall, trapped with a thin wire that Tiger Wong
disarmed with careful hands. Inside, hidden under some old clothes, were 450 gold pieces. There was also a
small alcove with machinery revealing the room’s true purpose: a winch
connected to that concealed pit trap in the corner right outside in the hallway.
It was in good condition so we reset the trap.
Our strength was fading. Terry had
spent nearly all his healing magic. I had also already stated my spells were
dwindling. Everyone bore wounds and exhaustion. We decided to take the chance
& rest but not before precautions.
Dog said he would stand the watch, so I cast Invisibility on him.
Dog stepped into the hall unseen and
we barred the door, I immediately reached for my spellbook.
About eight hours later I was the
last to wake, trying to study, memorize and get enough sleep has proved taxing
on my soul and probably my judgment, we will see. Dog was there and told us a
patrol had walked the hallway while we slept. They didn’t open any doors, never
noticed him
We agreed to go immediately to the
secret passage. When we emerged from the room and stepped into the hallway, we
encountered something that froze the breath in our lungs.
At the end of the hall stood Irving,
alive & whole…but shorter. Ready for battle.
Wait.
That’s Irving alright but his ears
are real long. The figure shifted and it was...
Harvey! It was Harvey the rabbit standing upright, uh, with a mace and armor.
Wait.
Chaos had truly struck the
lawful Paladin. Before us stood a strange fusion of rabbit and man.
“I’m back!” the creature declared
proudly. “Chaos beware!” it shouted.
It was Irving Reluctant no more! No,
it was Harvey the Rabbit. No it was Harving.
Ensuring we weren’t cursed or
affected by some fungus…we accepted the fact that Harving was one of us
now…again I mean. Whatever.
The narrow passage soon opened into
a small chamber containing a table and strange playing cards. Old crates and
empty barrels were in the corners Then Harving announced he heard screaming as
he ran for the door.
“Hold on rabbitman” I yelled. “No
more opening doors to quickly, this is why you look the way you do.” I stated. I also grabbed the cards off the table.
When we were ready Slash opened the
main door and we saw a descending staircase. We rushed down towards the moans
and screams and found a room of death.
It was a wide room with thirty-foot ceilings. The torture chamber was complete
with braziers, holding cells, an iron maiden and a man stretched upon a rack.
No less than sixteen goblins laughed as they turned the crank, pulling the
prisoner’s limbs from their sockets.
I found the screams unbearable.
Suddenly a chandelier crashed from
above, goblins clinging to it as it nearly crushed Dog and Harving.
That was enough.
“By the Nine Hells,” I roared, “die, you vermin!” I stepped forward
and unleashed Fireball.
Flame devoured the chamber. Goblin
bodies burst apart like overripe fruit as their burning flesh splattered the
walls. The rack exploded and the screaming ended in seconds.
The smell of burnt hair and wood was
intense but I still smiled at the devastation. That’s when the Worgs burst from the corner stalls. Three
monstrous wolf-beasts came charging at us. Everyone drew their weapons as Slash
and I tried to jump out of the Worg's path.
The Bard easily dodged the beasts
but Wizard robes aren’t meant for graceful jumps and one Worg slammed into me.
Its jaws tore into my side, bright red blood sprayed the floor. I screamed and
stumbled toward the stairs just as Bugbears
appeared above with crossbows.
Once again Slash and I were under
fire. One bolt missed Slash, whizzing by his head as the other struck me directly
in the backside. I collapsed, barely alive with a fucking crossbow bolt lodged
in my arse.
Chaos exploded around me. Dog, Tiger
Wong, and Harving cut down the Worgs. Terry Or attempted a spell on the
Bugbears but was struck by another attack mid-casting. I rose and was lucky enough to blast one bugbear with Magic Missile.
Then Slash noticed the bugbears had
frozen. Terry’s Hold Spell had somehow
succeeded. Slash pointed to his dagger and then to mine. We climbed the stairs
and slit their throats. The amount of dead bodies was incredible. The smell of
burnt flesh and fresh blood was intense. The scene was truly chaotic…and chaos
is never finished with fools.
I got the worst of it and had to pull the crossbow bolt out of my own back side myself. Terry Or had come over and just finished healing my wounds when death came for me again. Harving, insane with rage, raised
his mace.
“Chaos must be beaten! You are a
murderer!” He announced as he swung for my skull. I was dead and he & I both knew it, but…
Slash intercepted the blow at the
last instant.
“That will not happen today, young Paladin,”
the Bard declared calmly. Slash's sword of chaos parrying the death blow from the Mace of Cuthbert!
I immediately cast Invisibility on
myself. Someone wants me dead and I can not make it easy for them. Tiger Wong
snapped with rage. Not understanding how another lawful good humanoid could act
like this he attempted to knock Harving
unconscious.
Slash was already there and easily
maneuvered his sword and tried to block him—but the monk’s kick smashed through
the defense and struck Harving square in the head. The rabbit paladin died instantly
and silence filled the chamber.
That saved me from having to attempt my own assassination
of Irving. I was going to try while I was invisible and the scene still chaotic.
Terry rushed to resurrect him but
not before I grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Let me slash his throat Cleric, I
will rid you and myself of this scourge of Cuthbert”. I whispered.
“Watch your tongue mage!” Terry Or
hissed. “He is still my ward.”
A furious debate followed with everyone involved. I pleaded
to kill the traitor before he killed me or another one of us! Others said
banishment was the answer. I scoffed then threatened to abandon them while I
slipped out of the stronghold invisible.
Then St. Cuthbert himself judged the
matter as Terry Or went under a trance and holy light engulfed Harving. Radiant light over took our sight and the smell cleanliness revived us, but it was temporary. When it faded Harvey's transformation was
gone and the creature that stood before us was no longer a paladin.
No longer the reluctant knight.
Before us stood Irving the Fighter and beside him a rabbit.
Judged, changed and forever altered by the wrath of
the gods.
Thus ended that cursed chapter
beneath the Slavelords’ Stronghold.
And I, Silversun of Greyhawk, write
this with the uneasy certainty that I alone have a new true danger that may no longer be the slavers.
It may be the company I keep.
