Tag: books

ToC03: The Lanternless [with game notes]

On By MagicJMSIn Fantasy Fiction, Tabletop Roleplaying, Tales of Calvenor3 Comments

[prose-only version here]

Artwork by © anaislalovi. All rights reserved

III.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

On the surface, Maelen was thoroughly annoyed. She was adamantly not going to die on the bloody Greenwood Rise, off trail, where no one would know or find her body to bury it. She sure as bastards wasn’t going to die because of a lamed pup of a scribe who didn’t know the pointy end of a sword from the holding one. None of this was worth the promised hundred silver thorns she and Vessa were getting paid (though, to be fair, it was a lot of coin), and she was not going to die in debt to the gods-cursed, bloody Latchkey Circle.

Below the annoyance, though: Maelen was excited. Violence was her purpose in life, her profession. She’d never known her Tideborn father, and her mother was a knife-for-hire who ran numbers for no less than three gangs. From age nine, Maelen performed “errands” for rough men and mean women. By thirteen, she was knocking out the teeth of men twice her age. By sixteen, she was running a gang of canal-cutters who’d dubbed her Marr the Merciless. Truly, Maelen Marrosen was a fighter to the core, and it had been too long since she’d wet her blade.

The lad’s eyes were bulging out of his head, but he was doing a fair job of keeping quiet. Damned if she hadn’t been impressed by his lack of complaining and dogged perseverance up the hill all day. The pace was slow as sap, sure, but the lad couldn’t help that. Maelen had pegged him as a soft book-boy, but he’d shown a spine again and again and again, and she’d reassessed her first impressions. There was iron in his heart, and iron was the only thing that Maelen respected.

Tatter, probably sensing her mood, scampered out of her belt pouch and onto her arm. The mouse sniffed the afternoon air. Maelen paused for a moment amidst her thoughts and grinned down at the mouse.

“You take her,” Maelen whispered, extending a hand towards the scribe. Tatter knew the gesture well and ran along the length of her forearm, across her hand, and onto the boy’s shoulder. He startled, looking dubiously at his new companion, and then nodded silently at her. Good lad, able to roll with the situation. Maelen liked him far more than she expected to.

“Keep her safe or I’ll gut you,” she hissed. His face paled, and she felt certain he’d gotten the message. That done, Maelen gripped her sword with both hands and stepped cautiously forward to the tree with the black circle.

Quiet as a shadow, Vessa appeared out of the brush. The scribe squeaked in surprise but slapped a hand over his mouth to keep quiet. She stepped close to Maelen and the unwashed smell of urine, vomit, and sweat rolled over her. If they survived, she’d drag the girl to a stream and wash her herself if she had to.

“There’s four of them,” Vessa whispered close, lips near Maelen’s ear. “Look like outcasts. Criminals, maybe. Three look like they could fight, one old woman, but no armor and only one obvious weapon. They’re sitting around and drinking, but it’s not a permanent camp. They have black smudges on their cheeks, like a cult or something.”

Vessa darted ahead to scout out the situation. Let’s do a Stealth roll for her to see how that went. She has a 16 Dexterity and +1 for the Stealth skill, for a 17 DC. Meanwhile, the group will oppose her with a 10 Perception and I’ll give them a -1 because they’re eating. This is an opposed roll, which means that whichever party succeeds by more wins the contest.

Vessa rolls a natural-1, which usually makes me wince but in Tales it’s amazing! That’s a Great Success. The group of humans, meanwhile, roll a 10 and fail their Perception check. Vessa could have drunk their friggin’ wine and they wouldn’t have noticed her, and the PCs will gain a surprise round if they want to attack.

Maelen frowned, absorbing this new information. “You think we can get around them?” she breathed close to Vessa’s ear.

The lass shot a meaningful, disapproving look at the lad and shook her head once. She leaned forward and said in a whisper, “They’re scouts, Mae. Talking about a leader they’re scared of: Sarin. If they find us, they’ll loot us and worse. And there was something weird…” Maelen raised an eyebrow and waited. “They seemed scared to make a fire. Said Sarin would be mad.”

Maelen pressed her lips together and nodded. “Not so weird. They’re hiding. Good work, Vess.”

“What’s going on?” The scribe whispered, urgently and too loud, like he’d never once played at sneaking through an alley in his life. Maelen shot him a quick hand gesture to shut him up.

“You stay put with Tatter,” she whispered, pointing at his nose and scowling. Maelen cocked her head and listened to decide whether they’d been heard. Comfortable to continue, she said quietly, “I’m going to talk to these people. Vessa’s got my back. You hear me yell, you hide. Clear?”

Sweat on his face, the lad nodded, already crouching low behind a tree. Good. He wouldn’t be underfoot, then. Maelen jerked a chin to Vessa, who nodded and disappeared back into the brush as quietly as she’d come. She was touched by The Claw himself, Vess was, able to blend into shadows better than anyone she’d ever met. It was one of three truly useful things about her.

Maelen cracked her neck and strode, quietly and purposefully, up the wooded hill, her long blade held out in front of her. She wasn’t nearly as stealthy as Vessa, but she knew how to plant her foot in pine needles and twigs to keep quiet.

Sounds like it’s time for another skill check, this time from Maelen. Her Dexterity is 14 and she also has Stealth, so she needs a 15 or less on her d20 roll. And… ha! I roll a natural-20, which is on the far end of the spectrum from Vessa: Normally in a d20 game I would be psyched, but for this check it’s a disaster, a Critical Failure. I’ll cancel out the surprise round from Vessa’s roll, which will mean that when we get to combat—which is now, since I already determined that the outcasts would be hostile—we’ll be doing regular initiative. I’ll keep Vessa hidden, though, which only seems fair. Despite the lack of surprise, I’ll allow her to Backstab the first opponent she attacks.

In fact, let’s handle initiative now. In Tales, one PC rolls initiative for the whole party, aiming for equal or under their Initiative score. For Maelen, that’s a 13. This time I roll a 6, which is a critical success (sheesh it’s feast or famine with these guys!). She and the rest of the party will go first in combat, and each character is allowed one action and one move.

Maelen “charges” from Far to Melee (like in Crusaders, my last game, distance in Tales is abstracted, and a charge allows her to cover two move increments plus attack). There are four outcasts, and I’ll have Maelen attack the first one I rolled to give a name and personality: Jassel the Smudged. She will roll 1d20 + 3 (her class bonus and Str modifier) +2 (for the charge), trying to hit Jassel’s AC of 11. I only roll a 7, but with the +5 that’s enough. She rolls a d8 + 2 (her Str modifier) +1 (two-handed) damage: 9 total damage. Since the outcasts only have 1d8 hit points each, Jassel is dead.

“Off camera,” Vessa will sneak up to the second outcast, named Bran, as he charges down the hill and Backstab him (I’m saying that she had already moved to Close before Maelen failed her Stealth roll). With her shortsword, she has a +1 to hit, plus +4 for Backstab. She also rolls a 7, which is also just enough to hit. Her attack does 2d8+1, 12 damage. We will not be meeting Bran.

Also off camera, Alric won’t quite do as told. He’ll use his move to get to Close range, and then hide. Unfortunately, he only has a 7 Dex, though the Stealth skill will help a little. He also rolls a 1! Great Success. Wow. Not even his allies notice his approach.

Because half of their number has fallen, it’s time to do a Morale roll for the outcasts. One of two survivors rolls a Will check, which for them is 10. They roll 3 and will stay in the fight. Maybe they haven’t yet clocked either Vessa’s presence or Bran’s death.

Now it’s the outcasts’ turn, and the first one up is Karn. He brings his heavy cudgel spiked with nails (the obvious weapon Vessa had spied) to attack Maelen and receives a +2 because of her charge maneuver. Maelen’s AC is 14, and Karn rolls a 16 and hits. The weapon does 1d6+1 damage: 6 total, which drops Maelen’s hit points to 10. Ouch.  

The final outcast is Old Yara, the old woman Vessa had seen. Rather than charge in, she’ll keep her distance, draw a small paring knife, and ready an action to attack anyone who gets close.

Round 1 is done and, overall, it went well for the party. Maelen is hurt, but they’ve halved the number of opponents they’re facing!

So, of course, she tripped. Like a bloody amateur. A root just below a cover of fallen leaves snagged the toe of one boot, and Maelen went down hard onto one knee. Worse, she yelled in surprise and pain. There was a series of frantic shouts from up the hill as the four outcasts that Vessa had spied realized her presence.

“There’s someone here!” a woman yelped, her voice cracking. Others cried out as well.

“Get your weapons!”

“Gut ‘em!”

“For Sarin! For the Lanternless!” There was more fear in their voices than faith, but it was no doubt they were coming to fight.

Gritting her teeth, Maelen surged up, rage flaring hotter than the ache in her knee. No more mistakes. Not today. She charged up the hillside, her sword held in two hands. As the first of the outcasts stumbled down the hill towards her, she raised the blade high. Maelen briefly registered a wiry, pockmarked woman with greasy, dark hair tied back in tattered clothes. Her cheeks were smudged by tar or soot to look like black tears running down her face, and her eyes were wide and scared. She carried a rusty knife that looked more like a kitchen tool than a weapon, and Maelen realized with grim confidence that this ragtag group wouldn’t last long against her and Vessa. With a shout meant to attract the other outcasts and distract them from Vessa and the lad, she slashed her bastard sword down, cutting the woman from shoulder to hip in a single, practiced stroke. The outcast shrieked and rolled down the hill past Maelen’s boots, dead.

A man with sunken cheeks and a long, tangled beard, the same black streaks on his cheeks, appeared behind a tree and roared with outrage. For the second time, Maelen’s footing betrayed her and she stumbled. A heavy cudgel wrapped with iron nails slammed into her ribs. Her leather vest caught the worst of it, but the blow still stole her breath and pride. Maelen decided then and there that she’d spent too much time on the flat streets of Oakton and had gotten too soft for these overland jobs. She was going to get them all killed if she didn’t get her bloody feet straight.

It’s Round 2, and it’s Vessa’s turn to roll initiative (yes, you roll every turn as a party, and it rotates through the PCs). Her Initiative is 13, and rolls 19. Ouch.

So, it’s the outcasts’ turn. Karn will try to take out Maelen while she’s recovering her breath and footing. This time he has no modifiers to his attack and still needs to hit Maelen’s 14 AC. He rolls 12, missing. Old Yara, meanwhile, has seen Vessa cut Bran’s throat. She attacks with her knife, rolling 12 and just missing Vessa’s 13 AC.

Maelen is officially furious and will try and cut Karn down. With her longsword, she has a +3 to hit his 11 AC and rolls an 8, which hits exactly. Since she’s still wielding the sword two-handed, her damage is 1d8+3: Only 4 damage (minimum!), and I rolled 7 hp for Karn. Both combatants are wounded, but neither is out of the fight.

…That is, until Alric sneaks up and bashes Karn with his staff. He has no modifiers, so it’s a 50/50 shot to hit AC 11. He rolls a 19, which in Tales is almost as cool as rolling a nat-20. Since Alric is wielding a staff, he rolls 1d12 on the Blunt Trauma table: Broken ribs, which means any time Karn suffers physical damage, he must make a Con or Will check to not lose his next action. I roll 3 damage on the damage roll, however (1d6+1 for wielding the staff two-handed), so it’s a moot point. Karn is down and out – technically dead, but I’ll have him bleed out flavor-wise.

I’ll use GM fiat here and say that at this point, Old Yara surrenders.

The bearded outcast’s next swing with the spiked cudgel was a competent one and would have caved in one side of her head if she hadn’t brought her sword up to block it. Maelen thrust low, the tip of her blade slicing clean through his thigh muscle. The man shuffled backwards, trying to get out of her sword’s reach, and Maelen saw in his eyes that he knew he was going to die here. That leg wound would kill him if he didn’t tend to it, and Maelen was the better fighter, with the better weapon. She knew it, and so did he. With a malicious grin, she caught her breath, straightened, and leveled her longsword at him.

The last thing she expected was the soft-footed scribe suddenly looming behind the man, walking stick clutched tightly in both hands, Tatter riding along on his shoulder. The lad gave a wordless yell and swung hard, his stick slamming into the outcast’s ribs with a crack. It wasn’t elegant, but it did the job. The bearded man went down, curled in a ball and bleeding out from his leg.

The lad, Alric, panted like he’d run from a troll, staring wide-eyed and crazed down at the fallen outcast between them. If possible, Maelen found even more admiration for the scrappy lad for joining the fight. It was a pathetic swing, but at least he’d swung.

“Are you mad, idiot?” she barked. “I said hide.”

“But…” he said, confused.

“Come on,” she huffed, stepping past him to continue up the hill. As she passed the boy, she extended a finger and Tatter scampered onto her arm. “Let’s go find Vess.”

“By the Herald…” she heard him whisper in horror as he stepped past the dead woman and dying man.

“Heh,” she chuckled darkly. Doing so hurt her side. Damn her fool footing and getting herself clobbered by an idiot outcast. “The gods don’t come to the wilds, lad. The Herald isn’t watching. Now keep up and stay sharp.”

They strode up the incline of the wooded hill, slipping around trees and bushes with weapons raised. In no more than ten paces, the hill leveled briefly. In a small glade, dirty, ragged packs were strewn about. A smudged green bottle lay on its side between two rocks, a few drops of whatever was inside soaking into the dirt.

Standing at the edge of the clearing were two women. One was an elderly, bent-backed woman with wild white hair, the same black streaks on her face as the others. She wore a stained, simple shift and a blocky necklace of some kind. At her feet lay a small paring knife. Clutching the old woman from behind, one arm wrapped around her shoulders and another pressing a short, chipped sword—more oversized dagger than proper blade—beneath the old woman’s chin, was Vessa.

“Look what I found,” the young woman grinned at her, looking smug.

“Good,” Maelen nodded, and sheathed the bastard sword onto her back. She cracked her neck and stepped closer, studying the old woman’s wide, unblinking eyes. “Let’s hope she knows how to talk.”

Before we sign off, let’s do some housekeeping on my first Tales of Argosa combat. First, each PC receives 1 xp for the fight, which is Maelen’s first and Vessa & Alric’s second (the PCs will reach level 2 at 10 xp).

Second, it’s time to look to our Mythic GM Emulator clean-up activities after a scene. I’ll keep the Chaos Factor at 5 (what it had been once they left the Root Gate). The PCs now have someone to question, which means they’ll have information about the area before plunging forward, but they’re still in the wilds, with more of the outcasts’ gang around somewhere.

Finally, I take interesting bits of the emerging story and add them to my a) Threads List, a growing table of plot threads I can pick up if I’m inserting a random event, and b) Characters List, a growing table of people, organizations, and things that I can use when needing a tie to someone. These two lists are getting beefy enough already that I will make a mental note to start asking more Fate questions, starting next week! That’s right, unlike Age of Wonders, my “reflections” posts are going to be fewer and farther between in Tales of Calvenor. Less personal rambling, more story.

Next: Old Yara [with game notes]

Age of Wonders, Issue 6b: The Offering

On By MagicJMSIn Age of Wonders, Fantasy Fiction, Superhero Fiction1 Comment
art by Roland Brown (drawhaus.com)

In the precious few moments of respite they experienced after she and Maly had killed the last of the monstrosities in Sami Suttar’s basement, a truth had wormed its way into Emah’s mind:

She had, without a doubt, been poisoned.

Her mouth was dry as a bone. Emah felt hot everywhere and couldn’t seem to stop sweating. Her hands trembled slightly, the same tremble that threatened her legs and back. For a moment, her vision blurred, as if she’d spent the night carousing in a local tavern.

She assumed it had been that creature’s quill, the one it had launched at them like crossbow bolts. The place on her shoulder where it had embedded was an angry red sore, and searingly painful to the touch. The ratfolk priest had two of the things protruding from its body, and Emah guessed that it wasn’t the impact of the quills that had killed it, but the toxin.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t dwell on it now. No sooner had she taken stock of her symptoms than Maly gasped and pointed with one dagger. The shambling, rotting, scaled creature with the fish head was stirring despite its many grievous wounds. Worse: Emah noticed the bones of the child-sized skeleton and the maggoty pulp of the quill-thrower also quivering, like ripples in a pond of something lurking beneath.

“Damn it all to the Nine Hells,” she swore, and planted her feet. “What are these things?”

“Demons, Destiny says,” Maly whispered, wide-eyed and frozen at the creatures’ movements.

“Okay,” Emah exhaled, then swayed on her feet. She shook her head to clear it. “So how do we kill them for good?”

“He… hasn’t answered me,” Maly scowled. “He’s been silent. I don’t know.”

Abruptly, Kami stepped forward and hammered a fist onto the rising demon. It went down in a heap, unmoving. They were all silent, Emah holding her breath. One heartbeat. Two. Three. And then the rotting, scaled demon began to stir.

Maly whimpered in frustration and kicked the scattered bones further apart. The other two demons felt a long way from reemerging as threats, but the fish-headed monstrosity was unrelenting.

Emah cast her blurred gaze around the room, mind working slowly. Sweat fell into her eyes and off her chin. She released one hand on her sword to wipe her face with the back of a glove. That done, a thought struck her.

“The box!”

Kami stared at her in the dim basement light. “What of it?”

“I don’t know,” Emah gritted her teeth. “The priest did something to summon them from the box, right? So can we put them back?”

Kami hammered another fist down upon the rising demon. It stilled momentarily.

“But how?” Maly asked, her voice higher in pitch and closer to hysteria than Emah had ever heard it. “What, we just put the hand back in the box and shut it?”

“I don’t know!” Emah barked, then swayed. She wiped her face again. How had it already gotten coated in sweat? “Do you have a better idea?”

She felt herself rapidly succumbing to poison, so a lengthy debate was out of the question. Instead, while Kami stood over the fish-headed demon and Maly sputtered in surprise, Emah stepped forward, sheathed her blade, and scooped the mummified hand from the dirt floor of the basement. She intended to, with her next step, grab the bejeweled box and shove the macabre trophy inside.

Emah never got the chance.

The world around her blurred and, quite suddenly, she no longer felt on the verge of collapse. The trembling of her limbs and feverish burn within her abruptly vanished. Even the dull ache of her ribs was gone. Emah closed her eyes, straightened, and exhaled a long and even breath. She felt herself again, better than she had in weeks.

“Ah, another one, and so soon,” a pleased, male voice said.

Emah snapped open her eyes. The low-ceilinged basement had been replaced by what she somehow knew was a vast underground chamber even though its perimeter disappeared into darkness beyond her perception in all directions. The air was cool and wet. In front of her, perhaps ten strides away, was an ornate throne of gold, encrusted with jewels. The seat itself emanated light in a broad halo around it. Emah thought that it all reminded her of something, the throne and light, but she couldn’t place it, so distracted was she by the dizzying change of scenery and her newly revitalized health.

Upon the throne sat a man.

He was entirely ordinary, old enough to be a young grandfather, with an average build and pleasant face. His short, dark hair started high on his forehead and grayed at the temples, becoming completely white across his jaw in a close-cropped beard. Emah had trouble immediately placing his family origin, though he was probably Mescan by his olive coloring, full lips, and dark eyes. He wore a flowing, colorful shirt and well-made, stitched pants. Emah didn’t see any weapons on the man, and his posture showed interest rather than threat.

Still, she drew her mother’s sword. “Who are you? Where am I?” she demanded.

“I assure you,” the man chuckled, finding her display somehow charming. “That won’t be necessary. There is no fighting here, only negotiating. So,” he raised his full eyebrows. “What are you offering?”

Emah faltered, confused. “What am I… what?”

“Oh!” the man sat back, surprised. “You’re here by mistake! I see! Oh! Please, please: Spare no details. Where were you when you opened the box and touched my hand?”

Emah kept her sword in one fist and took a cautious step backwards. “Your hand?” she narrowed her eyes.

He followed her gaze and looked down. Confusion creased his brow for a heartbeat and then he barked out a full-throated laugh. He clapped his two hands together and rocked in his seat with glee. “Oh! My, my! You truly are here by chance! How wonderful!”

Emah had had quite enough of this madman, she realized. While he tittered, she edged further back, away from the glow of the throne and into the graying gloom of the cavern.

The man suddenly sat up straight and barked a sharp warning. “Ah! Go no further, my lady. Come back to the light, now,” He licked his lips, genuine concern on his face. “You won’t like what lurks in the darkness.”

As if in response to his words, something brushed her back. She spun, blade up defensively. Emah squinted and peered, but she could only make out the faintest of details. What she glimpsed, though, terrified her: A squirming, writhing mass of what looked like bloated tentacles, moving in a living wall just beyond the light. It was either one massive creature or an enormous pile of smaller ones, shifting and overlapping to make her mind reel. As far she could see, the darkness was filled with undulating tentacles.

She yelped in surprise and horror, stepping back towards the throne.

“There’s nothing but pain beyond the light,” the man said gravely, all humor gone from his voice. “Come closer, please. The only way out of this place is negotiation, and we can’t negotiate until you understand the terms. Come, come.”

Emah frowned. Once she had taken several steps away from the darkness, she could sense nothing but the two of them. Everything beyond the light was simply still, silent shadow.

“Please,” the man repeated. “This must all be overwhelming for you. Come closer and speak with me and all will be made clear.”

Sword gripped tightly, she moved within several strides of the man. Close enough, she reasoned, to impale him if needed but far enough away to not appear able to do so.

“Good,” he smiled, exhaling with relief. “Now, let’s start over, shall we? I am Salo Jaena. What is your name and from where do you hail, my dear?”

She frowned. “Emah. I’m from Oakton, within the Kalee Empire. Where am I now?”

“Oakton,” Salo mused. He smiled with white, straight teeth. “You know, I’ve met one other man from there! Two visitors before you, in fact.”

“Was his name Sami Suttar?” Emah asked.

“It was!” the man clapped his hands in surprised glee. “Do you know him?”

“I do not,” Emah said cautiously, her mind still stumbling frantically over this impossible situation, trying to fit the pieces together into something that made sense. But Emah Elmhill was first and foremost a scholar, not a warrior. Despite herself, she was intrigued. “We—my companions and I—found the box with your…” she cleared her throat. “Hand in it within the abandoned Suttar home.”

“Ah, I see. Yes. Poor Sami was unwilling to make a deal, I’m afraid. I thought sure it would work with him, but he was more of a collector than a giver. Shockingly stubborn, that man.” He must have seen Emah’s face scrunch in confusion, because he quickly added. “But enough of that. It’s not important. So, what then? You found the box, opened it, saw the hand, and… picked it up?”

“What? No!” Emah shook her head. “The box had been spilled open, the hand lying next to it and the body of a ratfolk priest–”

“Ratfolk?” Salo raised an eyebrow. “Ah, my last visitor, yes. They don’t call themselves that, of course, but it’s an apt description from one’s point of view.” He smiled encouragingly. “But I interrupted you, please. What next?”

She licked her lips. “There were… demons there. In the basement and standing over the box and body.”

“The First Three, yes.” The way the man said the words, it was a title rather than simple description. “Xapha, Kavac, and Vakal, if I’m not mistaken. Interesting that you identify them—quite correctly, I might add!—as demons. You must have had a force of warriors like yourself to still be alive. Ah, and I’m seeing it now!” He looked up and made a grand gesture with his hands. “The demons defeated, you stooped to retrieve the mysterious hand and box! A blink later, and here you are, Emah. What an unfortunate turn of events for you! Most who seek the box do so deliberately. Yet here you are with a monumental choice you never intended to make. Such tragedy! The stuff of poems and theater, truly.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me again, sir,” Emah scowled. In the brief pause that followed, her ears strained. Nothing but silence, except their echoing voices.

“Yes, yes of course. So now we reach the agonizing decision you must make. The box is called the Raft of the Nine Gates, and it is ancient. No one I’ve spoken to knows its true origin. Yet, when opened, it demands an offering.” He opened one hand, palm facing her. “Provide something of true sacrifice, that is most dear to you, and you gain power.” He opened his other hand with the same gesture. “Fail to do so, and, well…” Salo shook his head, his face mock sorrow.

“And it releases demons,” she finished the thought.

“Oh, it’s much worse than that, I’m afraid. The supplicant dies, of course, but the demons look to ruin the entire community as well, wiping it from existence. Whole cities have fallen to the Raft’s vengeance.”

“But,” Emah said doubtfully, interested in the fable despite herself. “My companions and I defeated these demons. Yes, they seemed to wish to rise, but we could… we could cut them to pieces… scatter those pieces… keep them from reforming. How could they destroy Oakton?”

“Those were merely The First Three, Emah,” he said with a tone of gentle admonishment. “Then will come nine. Then twenty-seven. Each wave will be three times as large as the next, and each demon stronger by three than the ones before. So it will go until everything the supplicant holds dear is gone. And there the Raft will sit, waiting for another to come along to offer a bargain.”

Emah’s mouth went dry, but not from poison. If what Salo Jaena said was even remotely correct, they would all die. The army of monstrosities would carve into the ratfolk warrens and Oakton alike. Maly and Kami would be gone. Her father. Her mentor. Would anyone survive? She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Ah, I see you working it out,” he said sadly. “Truly, you stand between the death of everything you know and power. There is no middle ground with the Raft.”

“I’m not here for power,” Emah said, frowning.

“I see that. And yet, it is that or endless horror for you and all you know,” Sado’s voice sighed.

Perhaps she was not a scholar, first and foremost, Emah thought. In the same moment, she opened her eyes and thrust her sword forward, into the chest of the man.

It was a well-timed attack and her aim was true. The tip of the blade pierced his breast, exactly through the heart.

Except that the sword passed through Salo Jaena as if he were a ghost. She stumbled with the lack of resistance. He merely chuckled.

“It was worth a try,” he said, smiling wistfully. “I don’t begrudge you the attempt, truly. But I’m afraid there is no avoiding the choice, and there is no killing me. I’ve already said that there is no fighting in this place, only negotiating.”

Emah regained her balance and shouted at the man. “And who are you then? Are you also a demon?!”

He blinked, surprised. “Me? No, no, no. I was a painter!” he said with a wide smile. “Merely an overlooked, poor painter who wished for his work to be recognized. I wanted fame, Emah, which is why I sought out the Raft. Unlike you, I knew exactly what I was doing when I opened the box and spoke with the person in this throne.”

Emah scowled. “You… offered your hand. Your artist’s hand. For power,” she said slowly while he nodded encouragingly. Her cheeks burned with the embarrassment of her failed attack, and for the growing fear at the situation Salo was describing. She still refused to sheath her sword, though. There may yet be a way to fight her way free, she thought, though not with much conviction.

“I did, I did. My most precious possession, and the Raft delivered. I had great fame and wealth until my death, despite my missing hand. And I hid the box so no one else could find it. You see, I worried that if someone else made the bargain while I lived, that the gains it gave me would disappear. Instead,” he shook his head ruefully. “I trapped myself here for hundreds of years, waiting for someone to find my clever hiding place. Truth be told, I’m grateful that the Raft is being passed around now, in this Oakton of yours. Whether it’s you or someone else, I suppose my time on this chair is finally nearing its end.”

“You’re saying that if I make a successful offering… I take your place there?” Emah realized now that the throne looked like the Raft itself, reconfigured into a seat instead of a box. The jewels and gold were the same, however. It’s what she had recognized upon first seeing the throne.

The painter Salo smiled a pleasant, unassuming smile. “Not right away. Only upon your death would you take my place, and then… yes, you would sit here, having this same conversation with anyone else who opened the Raft and touched whatever you’d offered to it. You would provide them the same bargain: Death for them and all they hold dear, or the power to change their life.”

They were silent for a long while then. Salo was a patient audience, studying her face and grinning warmly. Emah glanced at him every now and then, yet she mostly fixed her eyes on the throne. Thoughts crowded and careened off one another, working over what she’d heard.

“And once you’re free?” Emah finally growled. “What then? You’re off to the Nine Hells?”

“Well,” he cleared his throat, gesturing wide. “That’s the unknowable question, isn’t it? If you know what happens to this shade of me, I would truly love to hear it. But alas, I suppose that neither of us are priests, Emah. I’ll find out when it happens.” Salo sighed, shook his head, and then sat straighter. “So! Enough of me. You’ve heard the terms. What do you offer, and what do you seek?”  

For a moment, she wondered what was happening within the basement while this conversation occurred. Was she standing transfixed, with Maly and Kami attempting to shake her out of it? Had she disappeared from the room? Or was all of this happening in the instant she touched Salo Jaina’s hand? Truly, in the last several days she had witnessed so many things she would have deemed impossible. An age of wonders had swept into Oakton.

“Emah?” he asked.

“I have a few more questions,” she said numbly, looking down at her mother’s sword, held firmly in one calloused hand.

In her heart, however, she already knew her offer.

Next: Emah’s choice

Age of Wonders, Issue 6b: The Offering [with game notes]

On By MagicJMSIn Age of Wonders, Fantasy Fiction, Superhero Fiction, Superhero Gaming, Tabletop Roleplaying1 Comment
art by Roland Brown (drawhaus.com)

In the precious few moments of respite they experienced after she and Maly had killed the last of the monstrosities in Sami Suttar’s basement, a truth had wormed its way into Emah’s mind:

She had, without a doubt, been poisoned.

Her mouth was dry as a bone. Emah felt hot everywhere and couldn’t seem to stop sweating. Her hands trembled slightly, the same tremble that threatened her legs and back. For a moment, her vision blurred, as if she’d spent the night carousing in a local tavern.

She assumed it had been that creature’s quill, the one it had launched at them like crossbow bolts. The place on her shoulder where it had embedded was an angry red sore, and searingly painful to the touch. The ratfolk priest had two of the things protruding from its body, and Emah guessed that it wasn’t the impact of the quills that had killed it, but the toxin.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t dwell on it now. No sooner had she taken stock of her symptoms than Maly gasped and pointed with one dagger. The shambling, rotting, scaled creature with the fish head was stirring despite its many grievous wounds. Worse: Emah noticed the bones of the child-sized skeleton and the maggoty pulp of the quill-thrower also quivering, like ripples in a pond of something lurking beneath.

“Damn it all to the Nine Hells,” she swore, and planted her feet. “What are these things?”

“Demons, Destiny says,” Maly whispered, wide-eyed and frozen at the creatures’ movements.

“Okay,” Emah exhaled, then swayed on her feet. She shook her head to clear it. “So how do we kill them for good?”

“He… hasn’t answered me,” Maly scowled. “He’s been silent. I don’t know.”

Abruptly, Kami stepped forward and hammered a fist onto the rising demon. It went down in a heap, unmoving. They were all silent, Emah holding her breath. One heartbeat. Two. Three. And then the rotting, scaled demon began to stir.

Maly whimpered in frustration and kicked the scattered bones further apart. The other two demons felt a long way from reemerging as threats, but the fish-headed monstrosity was unrelenting.

Emah cast her blurred gaze around the room, mind working slowly. Sweat fell into her eyes and off her chin. She released one hand on her sword to wipe her face with the back of a glove. That done, a thought struck her.

“The box!”

Kami stared at her in the dim basement light. “What of it?”

“I don’t know,” Emah gritted her teeth. “The priest did something to summon them from the box, right? So can we put them back?”

Kami hammered another fist down upon the rising demon. It stilled momentarily.

“But how?” Maly asked, her voice higher in pitch and closer to hysteria than Emah had ever heard it. “What, we just put the hand back in the box and shut it?”

“I don’t know!” Emah barked, then swayed. She wiped her face again. How had it already gotten coated in sweat? “Do you have a better idea?”

I am again finding myself somewhat stuck plot-wise, so let’s go back to the handy Mythic GM Emulator and its Oracle tables. I’ll focus on the Action tables and roll twice, hoping that the words there conjure some sort of solution to the PC’s predicament. I get Succeed & Extravagance. Okay, let me contemplate the mysterious oracular words and see if inspiration strikes.

I’ve said all along that the box is bejeweled and gilded in gold, so whoever first created it clearly valued extravagance and success. It has a mummified hand in it… maybe it belonged to a ruler of some kind—ooo, or a skilled and wealthy artisan who works with his hands!—who severed his own hand to place in the box as an offering to an otherworldly entity? I like that, but then how did Tatter “activate” the box to summon these demons? Maybe she didn’t know the trick to appeasing the thing, and releasing these demons is the punishment for not providing an offering, or maybe she was stuck in the basement and didn’t have anything significant to offer. It doesn’t really matter which. The important point is that the box is a two-way sword – provide an appropriate offering, and you gain power. Fail to do so, however, and the demons come for you.

Now the question is: How do the PCs find out this information? I let Destiny provide the names of the demons, which felt a little cheesy, but I liked that solution better than them speaking their own names (I didn’t want them able to speak Oakton’s common language). I’d rather avoid that same fallback here. Oh! I’ve got it…

She felt herself rapidly succumbing to poison, so a lengthy debate was out of the question. Instead, while Kami stood over the fish-headed demon and Maly sputtered in surprise, Emah stepped forward, sheathed her blade, and scooped the mummified hand from the dirt floor of the basement. She intended to, with her next step, grab the bejeweled box and shove the macabre trophy inside.

Emah never got the chance.

The world around her blurred and, quite suddenly, she no longer felt on the verge of collapse. The trembling of her limbs and feverish burn within her abruptly vanished. Even the dull ache of her ribs was gone. Emah closed her eyes, straightened, and exhaled a long and even breath. She felt herself again, better than she had in weeks.

“Ah, another one, and so soon,” a pleased, male voice said.

Emah snapped open her eyes. The low-ceilinged basement had been replaced by what she somehow knew was a vast underground chamber even though its perimeter disappeared into darkness beyond her perception in all directions. The air was cool and wet. In front of her, perhaps ten strides away, was an ornate throne of gold, encrusted with jewels. The seat itself emanated light in a broad halo around it. Emah thought that it all reminded her of something, the throne and light, but she couldn’t place it, so distracted was she by the dizzying change of scenery and her newly revitalized health.

Upon the throne sat a man.

He was entirely ordinary, old enough to be a young grandfather, with an average build and pleasant face. His short, dark hair started high on his forehead and grayed at the temples, becoming completely white across his jaw in a close-cropped beard. Emah had trouble immediately placing his family origin, though he was probably Mescan by his olive coloring, full lips, and dark eyes. He wore a flowing, colorful shirt and well-made, stitched pants. Emah didn’t see any weapons on the man, and his posture showed interest rather than threat.

Still, she drew her mother’s sword. “Who are you? Where am I?” she demanded.

“I assure you,” the man chuckled, finding her display somehow charming. “That won’t be necessary. There is no fighting here, only negotiating. So,” he raised his full eyebrows. “What are you offering?”

Emah faltered, confused. “What am I… what?”

“Oh!” the man sat back, surprised. “You’re here by mistake! I see! Oh! Please, please: Spare no details. Where were you when you opened the box and touched my hand?”

Emah kept her sword in one fist and took a cautious step backwards. “Your hand?” she narrowed her eyes.

He followed her gaze and looked down. Confusion creased his brow for a heartbeat and then he barked out a full-throated laugh. He clapped his two hands together and rocked in his seat with glee. “Oh! My, my! You truly are here by chance! How wonderful!”

Emah had had quite enough of this madman, she realized. While he tittered, she edged further back, away from the glow of the throne and into the graying gloom of the cavern.

The man suddenly sat up straight and barked a sharp warning. “Ah! Go no further, my lady. Come back to the light, now,” He licked his lips, genuine concern on his face. “You won’t like what lurks in the darkness.”

As if in response to his words, something brushed her back. She spun, blade up defensively. Emah squinted and peered, but she could only make out the faintest of details. What she glimpsed, though, terrified her: A squirming, writhing mass of what looked like bloated tentacles, moving in a living wall just beyond the light. It was either one massive creature or an enormous pile of smaller ones, shifting and overlapping to make her mind reel. As far she could see, the darkness was filled with undulating tentacles.

She yelped in surprise and horror, stepping back towards the throne.

“There’s nothing but pain beyond the light,” the man said gravely, all humor gone from his voice. “Come closer, please. The only way out of this place is negotiation, and we can’t negotiate until you understand the terms. Come, come.”

Emah frowned. Once she had taken several steps away from the darkness, she could sense nothing but the two of them. Everything beyond the light was simply still, silent shadow.

“Please,” the man repeated. “This must all be overwhelming for you. Come closer and speak with me and all will be made clear.”

Sword gripped tightly, she moved within several strides of the man. Close enough, she reasoned, to impale him if needed but far enough away to not appear able to do so.

“Good,” he smiled, exhaling with relief. “Now, let’s start over, shall we? I am Salo Jaena. What is your name and from where do you hail, my dear?”

She frowned. “Emah. I’m from Oakton, within the Kalee Empire. Where am I now?”

“Oakton,” Salo mused. He smiled with white, straight teeth. “You know, I’ve met one other man from there! Two visitors before you, in fact.”

“Was his name Sami Suttar?” Emah asked.

“It was!” the man clapped his hands in surprised glee. “Do you know him?”

“I do not,” Emah said cautiously, her mind still stumbling frantically over this impossible situation, trying to fit the pieces together into something that made sense. But Emah Elmhill was first and foremost a scholar, not a warrior. Despite herself, she was intrigued. “We—my companions and I—found the box with your…” she cleared her throat. “Hand in it within the abandoned Suttar home.”

“Ah, I see. Yes. Poor Sami was unwilling to make a deal, I’m afraid. I thought sure it would work with him, but he was more of a collector than a giver. Shockingly stubborn, that man.” He must have seen Emah’s face scrunch in confusion, because he quickly added. “But enough of that. It’s not important. So, what then? You found the box, opened it, saw the hand, and… picked it up?”

“What? No!” Emah shook her head. “The box had been spilled open, the hand lying next to it and the body of a ratfolk priest–”

“Ratfolk?” Salo raised an eyebrow. “Ah, my last visitor, yes. They don’t call themselves that, of course, but it’s an apt description from one’s point of view.” He smiled encouragingly. “But I interrupted you, please. What next?”

She licked her lips. “There were… demons there. In the basement and standing over the box and body.”

“The First Three, yes.” The way the man said the words, it was a title rather than simple description. “Xapha, Kavac, and Vakal, if I’m not mistaken. Interesting that you identify them—quite correctly, I might add!—as demons. You must have had a force of warriors like yourself to still be alive. Ah, and I’m seeing it now!” He looked up and made a grand gesture with his hands. “The demons defeated, you stooped to retrieve the mysterious hand and box! A blink later, and here you are, Emah. What an unfortunate turn of events for you! Most who seek the box do so deliberately. Yet here you are with a monumental choice you never intended to make. Such tragedy! The stuff of poems and theater, truly.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me again, sir,” Emah scowled. In the brief pause that followed, her ears strained. Nothing but silence, except their echoing voices.

“Yes, yes of course. So now we reach the agonizing decision you must make. The box is called the Raft of the Nine Gates, and it is ancient. No one I’ve spoken to knows its true origin. Yet, when opened, it demands an offering.” He opened one hand, palm facing her. “Provide something of true sacrifice, that is most dear to you, and you gain power.” He opened his other hand with the same gesture. “Fail to do so, and, well…” Salo shook his head, his face mock sorrow.

“And it releases demons,” she finished the thought.

“Oh, it’s much worse than that, I’m afraid. The supplicant dies, of course, but the demons look to ruin the entire community as well, wiping it from existence. Whole cities have fallen to the Raft’s vengeance.”

“But,” Emah said doubtfully, interested in the fable despite herself. “My companions and I defeated these demons. Yes, they seemed to wish to rise, but we could… we could cut them to pieces… scatter those pieces… keep them from reforming. How could they destroy Oakton?”

“Those were merely The First Three, Emah,” he said with a tone of gentle admonishment. “Then will come nine. Then twenty-seven. Each wave will be three times as large as the next, and each demon stronger by three than the ones before. So it will go until everything the supplicant holds dear is gone. And there the Raft will sit, waiting for another to come along to offer a bargain.”

Emah’s mouth went dry, but not from poison. If what Salo Jaena said was even remotely correct, they would all die. The army of monstrosities would carve into the ratfolk warrens and Oakton alike. Maly and Kami would be gone. Her father. Her mentor. Would anyone survive? She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Ah, I see you working it out,” he said sadly. “Truly, you stand between the death of everything you know and power. There is no middle ground with the Raft.”

“I’m not here for power,” Emah said, frowning.

“I see that. And yet, it is that or endless horror for you and all you know,” Sado’s voice sighed.

Perhaps she was not a scholar, first and foremost, Emah thought. In the same moment, she opened her eyes and thrust her sword forward, into the chest of the man.

It was a well-timed attack and her aim was true. The tip of the blade pierced his breast, exactly through the heart.

Except that the sword passed through Salo Jaena as if he were a ghost. She stumbled with the lack of resistance. He merely chuckled.

“It was worth a try,” he said, smiling wistfully. “I don’t begrudge you the attempt, truly. But I’m afraid there is no avoiding the choice, and there is no killing me. I’ve already said that there is no fighting in this place, only negotiating.”

Emah regained her balance and shouted at the man. “And who are you then? Are you also a demon?!”

He blinked, surprised. “Me? No, no, no. I was a painter!” he said with a wide smile. “Merely an overlooked, poor painter who wished for his work to be recognized. I wanted fame, Emah, which is why I sought out the Raft. Unlike you, I knew exactly what I was doing when I opened the box and spoke with the person in this throne.”

Emah scowled. “You… offered your hand. Your artist’s hand. For power,” she said slowly while he nodded encouragingly. Her cheeks burned with the embarrassment of her failed attack, and for the growing fear at the situation Salo was describing. She still refused to sheath her sword, though. There may yet be a way to fight her way free, she thought, though not with much conviction.

“I did, I did. My most precious possession, and the Raft delivered. I had great fame and wealth until my death, despite my missing hand. And I hid the box so no one else could find it. You see, I worried that if someone else made the bargain while I lived, that the gains it gave me would disappear. Instead,” he shook his head ruefully. “I trapped myself here for hundreds of years, waiting for someone to find my clever hiding place. Truth be told, I’m grateful that the Raft is being passed around now, in this Oakton of yours. Whether it’s you or someone else, I suppose my time on this chair is finally nearing its end.”

“You’re saying that if I make a successful offering… I take your place there?” Emah realized now that the throne looked like the Raft itself, reconfigured into a seat instead of a box. The jewels and gold were the same, however. It’s what she had recognized upon first seeing the throne.

The painter Salo smiled a pleasant, unassuming smile. “Not right away. Only upon your death would you take my place, and then… yes, you would sit here, having this same conversation with anyone else who opened the Raft and touched whatever you’d offered to it. You would provide them the same bargain: Death for them and all they hold dear, or the power to change their life.”

They were silent for a long while then. Salo was a patient audience, studying her face and grinning warmly. Emah glanced at him every now and then, yet she mostly fixed her eyes on the throne. Thoughts crowded and careened off one another, working over what she’d heard.

“And once you’re free?” Emah finally growled. “What then? You’re off to the Nine Hells?”

“Well,” he cleared his throat, gesturing wide. “That’s the unknowable question, isn’t it? If you know what happens to this shade of me, I would truly love to hear it. But alas, I suppose that neither of us are priests, Emah. I’ll find out when it happens.” Salo sighed, shook his head, and then sat straighter. “So! Enough of me. You’ve heard the terms. What do you offer, and what do you seek?”  

For a moment, she wondered what was happening within the basement while this conversation occurred. Was she standing transfixed, with Maly and Kami attempting to shake her out of it? Had she disappeared from the room? Or was all of this happening in the instant she touched Salo Jaina’s hand? Truly, in the last several days she had witnessed so many things she would have deemed impossible. An age of wonders had swept into Oakton.

“Emah?” he asked.

“I have a few more questions,” she said numbly, looking down at her mother’s sword, held firmly in one calloused hand.

In her heart, however, she already knew her offer.

Next: Emah’s choice