Pointless Interlude

Somewhere beyond the Shadow Marches, Far From the Demon Wastes, nowhere near the lost continent of Xendrik, and certainly not anywhere near The Forgotten Realms...the DM was lost.

Reluctantly, he focused his crystal ball in on a hilltop in Dargun, where two kobold slaves were picking their reptillian noses while taking a break from harvesting wheat by moonlight.

"Why are we here?" asked the first one, although he asked it in Draconic.

"Is that a philosophical question requiring spatial exposition, dramatic paragraph structuring, and deep analysis mixed with foreshadowing?" the second one asked.

"No, I mean why are we here on this blog, why aren't Tim and Charles playing DnD?"

"Oh. Well, Charles just had a final, Charles' wife twisted her ankle on Friday, and Tim is busy moving. So they haven't really had a lot of time to post."

"Charles seems to be making time to post."

"Well, yes, but he does that when he is procrastinating."

"What's he procrastinating about?"

"He's filing a pro se lawsuit against a newspaper, actually. And he has an article to write for DePaul's law and technology newsletter."

"Ah, I see. Will they be gaming anytime soon?"

"Yes, but in real-time. They're going to get together in a few days, then post a summary, then go back to playing by blog."

"I hope Tim writes the summary, Charles can't write for beans."

Interlude IV

(Yes, I'm procrastinating about studying.)

The carriage rolled forward, flanked by six mounted knights. They flew no pennant, and the coat-of-arms on the side of the carriage was somewhat hidden by the light rain. Nonetheless, in the eastern part of the Kingdom of Aundair, only one man would be riding eastwards towards Lathleer in such a fashion.

Duke Carrington of Aundair reclined on the velvet couch, looking over some reports embedded in a dragonshard. He was in his fifties, and his hair was a mixture of gray and white. He reflexes were still sharp, however, for he had spent most of his life on horseback, directing battles. Only in this last year and a-half of peace since the Thronehold Accords had he been more immersed in the paperwork of the realm.

"Corruption and graft, foolishness leading to negligence," the Duke said, flicking the lights in the dragonshard off and stretching. Despite the House Cannith-made absorbers of kinetic shock in the carriage, the bumps in the road could be felt enough to make a man want to shift his weight. "Tell me again why this needs my personal attention?"

The 'woman' who sat across from the Duke, the only other occupant save the Duke's warforged bodyguard, Shield, played softly on a lute that she held in her smooth hands. Balladeer was the only name that she had ever given or used. She appeared to be in her early thirties, but then she had appeared so when the Duke had first seen her as a young boy in his father's court. She had a thin frame that was far tougher than anyone would suspect, golden blonde hair, and violet eyes whose pupils had a habit of becoming cat-like slits when she was preoccupied.

"You received the reports," she said softly. "You know."

"I know that Lathleer has become a cesspool, but I had been planning on going in there with a handful of selected agents within a month, as you well know." He was tired. Since the end of the war, there had been nothing but scheming. Scheming within Aundair, scheming without, scheming by the Dragonmarked Houses, the new nations, everyone. No one wanted the conflict to be over, it seemed. The peace would be harder to manage than the conflict. You would think we would learn after what happened to Cyre, he thought to himself.

"Aundair is not about to become another Mournlands," Balladeer told him, again in that velvet-soft voice that he found himself straining to hear. She often seemed to be reading his thoughts, even when he wore the magical ring that should have prevented it. Her only response was that after all of this time she could read his body language well. His wife had also been able to -

No, he said, forcing the black despair back. Not now. Do not think of her now. Think of your surviving children and grandchild, and keep moving. "I got the word about the electors, evidence that this Rendell character left behind implicating his cronies and those who had hired him. The civil disruption is nothing that the watch can't handle."

"It will make your people feel better to know that you are in the city," she said, strumming the lute some more. "It will ease their anxiety, prevent hoarding and looting, and it will bring the three remaining electors to heel."

"I'd like to bring them to a noose," the Duke muttered. He turned to look at Shield. "Shield, were there another other reports that came via the Sivis transmitter?"

The hulking warforged with the adamantine-laced skin shook his head, a habit that he had picked up from people around him. "No, your Grace. The gnomes had nothing new to report, only that a special late edition of the Korranberg Chronicle was going to be coming out." Shield's face was impassive, as warforged showed little emotion most of the time. While the living construct was a bodyguard, not a secretary, the Duke trusted him for input and details. Too many made the foolish mistake of thinking that the warforged were dull golems. Several of them were tactical geniuses. Lathleer's inherent prejudices against them were depriving the realm of soem incredible talent. One warforged in the city of Passage had started a clothing retail business just months ago and was already a business success. The unit had been a quartermaster during much of the war, in addition to his fighting duties, and had adapted the accounting skills well to civillian life.

"Would that we all could," the Duke whispered. "So why the heirlooms?" he asked Balladeer, gesturing to the packages next to him. "Does your prophecy really say that the time will be soon?"

"The Prophecy is fluid," she answered him. He had heard the answer before. "Like water flowing downstream, it will get to its destination, no matter what path it may take." She smiled, sensing his irritation. "Yes, your Grace, the time is soon. If this Kaspar and Castille are indeed the 'Two men who represent three races' then they will be able to defeat the Khyber-spawn beneath the sewers. In that event, we must give them these." She gestured towards the packages with her lute, never a break in her playing.

"So you told my grandfather," the Duke sighed. He did not want to part with the items, particularly the bastard sword, but this Kaspar was supposed to be proficient with it.

"And so I told his grandfather," she smiled. "But the records of that were lost in the opening days of the war due to a firey catapult stone that his your family mansion."

He raised his eyebrows and that, but did not respond.

An hour later the rain had disappated, and his knights raised colors. As they approached the city wall, cheers went up. The Duke opened his window and waved at the populace with a cheery face, but in his heart he was grim. If Balladeer was wrong, these were some very valuable things he was prepared to give to complete strangers...

Interlude III

"Stand back, I said!" the watchman yelled at the crowd, his face turning red. He was a middle-aged fellow who really should have been a sargeant by now, save that his temper sometimes got the better of him. "Stand back or I'll crack a few heads!" His billy club was already out as he said this, and the watchmen behind him looked at each other.

It worked though, for the milling crowd backed up, though still staring at the men being tended to by the healers. The watchman turned around to see Kegga's wife crying softly while staring at the manhole, leaning on Scowlen for support.

"Why are these civillians still here?" grumbled the middle-aged watchman, putting his billy club back in his belt, next to his sword.

"Because I allow them to be here," said the Captain, resplendent in his shiny breatplate. "Now watch your tongue." The captain was 15 years younger than the man that he addressed, but seemed older. Perhaps that was because he spent 10 years on the front with Thrane during the war and lived to tell about it.

A runner came up and saluted. "Captain Tennyson, sir!"

"At ease," the watch captain told the youth. "What is it?"

"Coach coming, Captain," the teenager in the livery said. "House Deneith recruitment manager, Davvett, d'Deneith, he's eager to speak with you."

"Joy," muttered the captain. "Alright then, head off to the Duke's residence and see when he's expected to arrive in the city, then report back." The boy nodded and took off. The Dragonmarked are coming. Whoopt-doo, let's all drop what we're doing and bat our &^%#ing eyelids.

"Did he say a bearer of the Mark of Sentinel would be here, captain?" asked one of the watchmen.

"Hold your tongues, boys, and mind that crowd," the captain barked, walking over to Scowlen. Hopefully the pair that Scowlen had told him about would be up out of those filthy sewers soon, and mister magical tatoo on his skinn would have to turn around and go home.

No

Bailey eyes the manacles, then sits down on the floor with a sigh. He simply doesn't care anymore, he is too emotionally drained.

"I'm not climbing down into that pit," he says dully. "I'm sick of it all, and I'm not going back there. Kill me or shut up with your tongue-baiting. I told you where the stuff is to use against Grallika, if you can't get at it then we're in the same boat. You've got about ten to fifteen minutes before the slaves finish uncovering the obelisk and Grallika slits Kegga's throat."

DM's note. You have not told me that you have examined either the trapped room or the ladder and shaft area.

Tell Me What to Roll

The team is standing in the barracks to the west of the guard room. Kaspar has finished his interrogation and is busy making a quick sweep of the storage room. No one has tried the trapped room, and the boys don't plan on making an attempt just yet. The matter of saving Kegga has taken precedent; speed is of the essence.

"You were wise to speak up Bailey," Castille says as the man finishes his story. "Unfortunately, you'll have to wait here until we return." Castille brandishes the manacles, hoping for an adverse reaction.

Continuing, "That is unless you'd like to help us one last time. Your repentance is admirable, but somehow I still believe you need a more earthly reward. I can promise you gold if you'll travel down the ladder ahead of us. Be as noisy as you like. In fact we'd really prefer if you'd ring every bell on that ladder. If all goes as expected, we can follow you down unnoticed.

But if you choose to betray us..." Castille make a quick flick of his head towards Kaspar as the half-orc emerges from the storage room.

I'll have to post my updated stats next time around, Charles.

In the mean time I'll let you in on Castille's plan. While he tells Bailey that he and Kaspar will follow on his tail, Castile is in fact counting on Bailey playing the coward. If he agrees to head down the ladder first and then tells the guards below about the danger above, Castille and Kaspar can pick them off one at a time as they ascend the ladder. The team will be hiding in the wings so to speak. Otherwise, if Bailey refuses, it'll be straight "move silently" checks I suppose -- and make the best of what comes up.

Interlude II

(Warning: This post is a bit graphic in detail.)

Grallika hummed to himself as he stepped into the slave's tunnel. On either side of the tunnel were the cells. In here the halfling children mewed pitifully, some scrubbing the floors as they were told to, but all chained to the wall. This was Grallika's insurance that kept the little buggers working so hard out in the main cavern. One of the halfling females who was assigned to oversee the young called his name but he ignored her. An earlier day and he would have had her whipped for insolence, but time was of the essence.

He came to a solid stone door engraved with the symbol of the dragon below. It was not magical in any way, but as always he waved his hand and spoke a few words so that any slave who might be watching would be cowed. In reality entrance only required a certain mithril key that he always kept on his person. Centuries old, the door still pivoted perfectly when unlocked. He stepped through and then closed it behind him.

Unlike the dim slave's quarters, which were kept lit with only a handful of torches, this chamber was bright with several light stones surrounding a daylight stone set in the ceiling. Grallika had to blink as his eyes adjusted from the tunnels. For someone who posessed low-light vision, as all shifters did, it wasn't too bad an adjustment, but an adjustment it was.

Metal lockers stood at one end of the room, each with a small lock. In the middle of the room was a stone worktable, currently hodling the body of an inert warforged, with the machine's recovered greataxe next to him. Grallika could see the dim light behind the warforged's eyelids that told him the machine was not dead, just mortally wounded to insensibility. Warforged did not bleed to death, however, they merely shut down until repaired.

And repaired it was, or at least mostly. The captive in this room, an especially intelligent halfling smith and potion brewer named Pekah, who had been a respected leader of his tribe - until they ran afoul of Droamm slavers.

"Grallika," Pekah said from the table to the left where he was watching a vial suspended over coals bubble. "What can I do for you, hm?"

"You can get that oil of light repair finished," Grallika said. "Or I can take off another leg."

Pekah glancely briefly down at the stump, his eyes remembering the pain of being held down and watching Grallika saw it off. It made the shifter wizard/cleric grin a bit. Grallika did so enjoy inflicting pain.

"It's almost done," Pekah said. "It will be perhaps another minute or two."

"Yes, yes good. Wonderful. I have something for you Pekah," Grallika said with a broad grin. The halfling looked at him with trepidation, but all Grallika did was go over to a locker, produce another key, and bring out a covered tray. "A prestigidation spell kept it warm and fresh," he explained to the skeptical halfing. He oncovered the tray and there was a bowl of piping hot soup and a piece of grilled mutton and mashed potatoes. Grallika set the plate down on a small table and gestured. "Go ahead, go ahead, I shall watch the potion. I did say that I would treat you better if you got results, didn't I?"

Appetite beat out skepticism, as Grallika had been keeping the halfling on a near-starvation diet. Pekah grabbed his crutch, hobbled as fast as the chain attached to the collar around his neck would allow him to, and sat down to eat hurriedly before Grallika changed his mind.

Grallika kept an eye on the magical oil, waiting for the color to turn just the right shade of amber. He ignored the halfling's gobbling, he ignored the halfling's one or two attempts to question him about the welfare of the other halflings, and Grallika certainly ignored Pekah's gasps and gagging as the poison kicked in. Pekah tried to grab for Grallika's robe, but fell over dead, his skin already turning purplish and blotchy. The Emerald Claw terrorist who had supplied Grallika with the poison had been right about its effectiveness (which was good considering that Grallika's men had to torture the militaristic idiot for two days to get the location of the stash). Said Emerald Claw member was not at the bottom of the waters of the cavern.

"I could have just cut your throat, Pekah," Grallika laughed as the oil finally turned the right color. "But I did promise you better food if you performed, and I keep my word." He grabbed some tongs and took the oil off the coals, setting it on a stand to cool.

"Or at least I keep it when I feel like it," Grallika guffawed, going back to the lockers to pull out the costume and robes of a Silver Flame priest, as well as a potion that would give him incredible glibness for a while. Once he was disguised as one of the Thranish priests and he had drank the potion and magically enhanced his lying prowess he held the oil over the inert warforged.

"Wakey-wakey," Grallika said, pouring the oil into the wound.

Bailey Spills The Beans

Pled is dead. His poor head has bled, as you said.

Bailey has cracked. The former infantryman, who has been hunted by the law for the last 3 years since he killed a prostitute in a drunken rage, had fallen in with the Dragon Below cult out of desperation. But not because he believed in their sectarian babbling. Faced with a pair of adventurers who had systematically cut through the various guards and monsters protecting the cult's secret headquarters, Bailey gave up. He talks rapidly, but tiredly. He does not want to run anymore. He'll tell you what you want to know, and then he'll face the law.

"I know where Kegga is," he says tiredly. "I am tired of all of this. I'll face the law. I'll tell you where to find some good swag on this level and what to expect below, especially that construct that they got working again."

Bailey fishes in a puch and tosses Castille a flask. It is the antidote. "We had to keep some of it on us in case of an accidental infliction. Whatever." (Sense Motive DC -20, he is telling the truth.) He then takes off his armor. "By the Mockery I am tired of this tin shirt."

Bailey gives you more details here, and sketches some maps. Aside from the food and stuff on this level, and the coins the men were gambling with, Bailey tells you that behind the trapped door is the good swag, and that the shifter cleric keeps some fo his best stuff in there.

There is also a set of masterwork manacles to keep Bailey from going anywhere.

Your decision as to try the trapped door or to go down now. Of course you still have to deal with all the bells rigged on that ladder...

Leveling Up

Well Dear Readers, Kaspar and Castille are now 4th level. I know that I said in a recent Vishtahmba post that PCs should only get free level-ups for levels 1-3, but I'm reconsidering that attitude in light of the fact that this is a 2-man adventure that is taking place within one day. I am sure that Tim will have his details up soon. I'll make our dynamic duo train some other time.

Just One

To start, I'm more than happy to take the extra damage on the crit. Darn my bad math: I forgot about the darkness modifiers.

Now, on the other hand, Castille was supposed to cast Magic Missilie on Pled. As it stands, I'm happy with the way you handled your post regardless, Charles. So let's just leave it as is.

While Pled struggles with the torch, Castille continues to groan. He grips his arm as the poison begins to travel outwards. Than again, even the sorcerer's groans sound as chants to the untrained ears of frightened fighters.

Using the last remaining darkness to his advantage, Kaspar steps towards Pled in a swift display of agility. As the flames begins to flicker, the shadow of a half-orc darkens Pled's vision. There is no need to lunge, as his bastard sword is already cutting through the man's torso.

The torch fires up and then falls to the ground. Kaspar catches it with his open hand. He holds it up high for Bailey's sake; or rather to invoke the fear of the Elders in an already beaten man.

Castille comes forward griping his side. "You're wise to throw down your weapon. I still have half a mind to set you aflame," Castille threatens with a spiked voice, "but my friend has questions indeed."

Kaspar wipes the blood from his blade, and starts, "We're looking for Kegga. We're goin' to rescue him -- and you'll do fine to help us.

"I know you want to live. Still I don't know if you're a coward or confused. But I say you need to tell me what your friends are planning and how we can wreck the whole thing."

To overcome Pled's spot check of 12, Kaspar just barely matches. Then, on his attack roll, a natural 20 will erase all of Pled's hope for survival. Still, the damage roll is a mere 5. Sneak damage, though, brings the total to 5+8=13. He misses the crit chance. Then again, what's the point?

Interlude

Grallika emerged from the tunnel, his low-light vision having already picked out the chief whipmaster, Tommaise, who crouched submissively.

"Report," Grallika hissed from beneath his deep hood, as he stepped out onto the ledge.

Grallika enjoyed the breeze that wafted through the cavern and the dank smell of the deep water. He watched the halfling slaves struggle on the rope bridges and enjoyed the sound of the four waterfalls. Thommaise was saying something about crimnal gangs in the city dying in clashes with the watch, and about the Order of the Emerald Claw being found and driven out. Grallika gave a grunt of assent and caressed his bandolier of scrolls. It meant nothing. They would soon unleash the Livya'Sohn from its magical slumber, and the great serpent's exertions would bring the city down.

Then he caught something that Thommaise was saying. "What?" he asked, whipping his head around so fiercely that the hood fell off, exposing his bestial face with the heavy brows and thick lips.

"B-bane is dead, Brother Grallika, we found him burnt up a few hours ago, the acolytes mrudered, and the sacrifices gone. I tried to contact you, but you were meditating and gave orders -"

"Who did this?!" demanded Grallika.

"We don't know," admitted Thommaise, licking his lips anbd sweating. "There are rumors of dragonmarked mercenaries hired by Fast Eddie -"

"Fast Eddie took his hidden boat and left the city," Grallika said with impatience. "And I have been secretly monitoring the Dragonmarked operatives in this city. They do not know of us - yet."

"Well sir, someone killed the kobold."

"Yes, yes, lucky watchmen maybe? No, I think not. By Khyber it is a riddle!" He sighed and turned around, putting his cloak back up. The halfling slaves had almost uncovered the obelisk. Soon it would be time to spill the blood of the shifter, proclaiming to the Dragon Below that Grallika held his arcane and clerical powers well about any racial loyalty. "Go back to your duties," he said, waving a hand at Thommaise. "We are almost ready to awaken the Ancient One, and the mercenaries in the chamber above will kill whatever comes poking around, or at the very least delay them."

"Of course, sir," Thommaise agreed, trotting off to uncurl his whip and lash at a halfling. The poor creature squealed with pain, missed its footing, and fell with a long scream to the water some forty feet below. It was not able to swim with its legs in manacles.

"Idiot," Grallika muttered to himself. He needed the slaves to finish their work on the obelisk before they were to be thrown into the depths.

Now was not the time to remonstrate the fool, however. Now was the time to check on Kegga.

The shifter foreman was suspended in the wicker cage, hanging below the edge of the edge, delirious with pain. He had been beaten and starved for two days to properly prepare him. Now he was bound by his hands and feet, his jugular vein standing out due to the brace that held his head and neck. One cut of the knife, and the blood would spray into the beam that the obelisk was supposed to call forth.

"Why?" Kegga called up to him, as the torches set high on the wall cast Grallika's shadow on the foreman.

"You're awake, how nice," Grallika said, fondling the handle of his magical dagger. It was adamantine, capable of cutting through steel, let alone a filthy unbeliever's throat. "Are you rejoicing in the knowledge that you will bring the Livya'Sohn awake after all these centuries?"

"Go to hell," Kegga spat feebly.

"Oh no, dear fellow," Grallika said with a laugh. "Hell is coming here."

Flee!

Kaspar
Yes you did get a crit on Farvin! His AC in the dark is only 12, remember? Of course he's dead either way, but hey.

Castille
You can't aim a magic missile at what you can't see, and Castille is as blind as the humans. Elves and half-elves have low-light vision, not the darkvision of dwarves and half-orcs, so he'll have to pull out his sunrod a bit to see Bailey.

The problem is that then Bailey can see Castille as well, and then take an AoO because Castille is casting a spell. (You can steo 5 feet, but not backwards, you're in a corner, so your five-foot step still leaves you in a threatened square.) The trick would be for Castille to pull out the sunrod as he nears the end of the spell for just long enough for him to target Bailey, and then stick it back in his shirt.

In other words if you want to do this, it will require opposed Dex checks, and you will have to beat Bailey's.

And yes, you are suffering Dex damage.

I'll roll for you. A 12. And now for Bailey. A 7. Ah well.

And no, Bailey doesn't have spell resistance, he's a felon, not an outer planar freak or a drow.

Onto our show

Bailey blinks at the sudden light, but doesn't have time to orient himself before the magical darts slam into him. He responds by swinging at Castille in the dark, and while he has the right square he failed the 50% miss chance. He takes a 5-foot step backwards, breath laboring as he bleats in pain where his skin is blistering from the spell energy.

Why am I fighting for this damn cult, he asks himself. Why?

Meanwhile, Pled reacts by backpedalling furiously to stand near the fallen torch. He picks it up, but does not have time to get it properly lit yet. (He used a full-round to withdraw so as not to draw an AoO.) "Come on, Bailey, get it together!" Pled yells. "There's only two of them!"

"And there used to be four of us, blast your shriveled soul!" Bailey yells back. (Bailey makes and fails a morale check, mostly due to that intimidation roll earlier, but also due to hsi unfortunate circumstances.) Bailey drops his flail and shield (as a free action) and they clang miserably on the floor. "I surrender! Don't kill me! I know plenty about these religious freaks!"

"Khyber eats the souls of traitors!" screams Pled. "Do you hear me, weakling! Khyber will take you!"

Pled is still trying to get the torch to flare up again.

A Hit!

As the lights sputter down into a mere glow, it's relief that Kaspar feels more than encouragement. But he's not one to let an opportunity pass him by. He takes a deep and silent breath. He manages to catch the faint scent of mildew on his opponent. He can see Farvin tentative and grasping for light, grasping for the door handle. Kaspar takes his sword back and then thrusts it forward.

The blade sinks deep, deep into the chest of Farvin. Blood works its way to the human's mouth and drips first onto the bastard sword and then onto the floor. The only sound is that which Farvin's weapon makes against the cool stone floor. Farvin's body quickly follows as Kaspar allows him to slide off the blade.

Finally! I said FINALLY! Kaspar rolls a 19 with a chance for crit. Modified, the total rises to 24. On the threat check, Kaspar comes up with a net of 13. So no crit, but the damage is harsh nonetheless. 17 points. And that's just his attack of opportunity.

Surveying the room once again, Kaspar is crouched, in a position to lunge. And lunge he does, at Pled. This time swinging his sword from right to left at the human's chest, the half-orc misses. It seems that with confidence comes failure. His blade is too big, or the effort was too hurried. Either way, the job passes to Castille.

A roll of 4 is much more familiar.

Castille is dry heaving, leaning against the wall. He tries to ready his crossbow, but the annoying ping of weakness is much too infuriating. At first, all he can manage is a five-foot step away from Baily. Raising his free hand, he chants loud enough for the humans to hear. His fingertips begin to glow and then two magic missiles erupt towards Pled.

If he needs light, the sunrod can always make an appearance (I'm a bit unsure just how much light is available). Regardless, damage comes up at 6 points total. I don't know if Pled has spell resistance, but I rolled an 8, unmodified.

Put On A Night-Light!

Bailey eyes the half-elf carefully as he stepped in, swinging his flail. He was going to bring this sucker down, he knew he was, he just ahd to think confident thoughts. Already the half-breed was dizzy and lurching from the centipede mandible extract. Out of the corner of his eye Bailey could see that the big half-orc had missed again, and Pled was getting ready to flank.

But then the half-elf started chanting.

"No!" Bailey yelled, not wanting to be a twicthing, charred mass on the floor. Panic ruined his aim, as the half-elf ducked easily despite the poison leadening his limbs. Bailey saw that handsome face smile, and then a glowing something shot past.

With a crash, the torch behind him fell to the floor, and began to gutter out. The only decent light now was from the half-elf's sunrod - and the half-breed was hiding it in his cloak!

"No!" Bailey yelled, swinging the flail again. But he couldn't see anything, and only empty air felt his desperation. Pled swore a profnaity as his flail bounced off of the half-orc's chain shirt. Like Bailey, the darkness had prevented him from striking a telling blow. "Farvin you jag-napes!" Bailey yelled. "Get that bloody, &^%ing door open!" Farvin was scarmbling, searching, and then Bailey thought he saw a shadow shift...

The nightvisioned half-orc was swinging that damn huge sword right down at Farvin's neck!

Rulesy-Wulesy

I thought I might try the dry bones rules explanation as one post unto itself, then the narrative as a second post unto itself. Save me some italicizing. If I like this style I'll continue with it.

Firstly, Castille is standing next to Bailey when he begins to cast the spell, and he has nowhere to go. Thus Bailey gets a AoO on Castille. Fortunately for Castille, the DM rolled rather badly (a natural 3).

Then Castille does indeed have to make a COncentration check. When casting a spell after being hurt, the DC is 10 + damage dealt + spell level. In this case that's 10+2+0, or 12, so Castille's Concnetration check makes it and the Mage Hand is cast.

The torch falls to the floor, but does not go out immediately. It gutters a bit, creating shadowy illumination like a candle in square A5. However in the rest of the room it is too dark for the humans and half-elf to see once Castille hides the sunrod, so everyone is effectively blind (except for Kaspar).

Castille has time left to wrap up the sunrod but not throw it. Still, it hides the light.

The poison casues ability damage, not hit point damage. Castille loses 2 Dexterity points temporarily, affecting his AC, Reflex save, and initiative.

Pled and Bailey start attacking blindly, but being blind in the darkness they have a 50% miss chance even before they roll their attack. One gets 32%, and the other gets 73%, but then that other just misses the half-orc anyway.

Farvin will attempt to open the door to the hallway to let in some light, but he has to spend a round making a Search check. (Big fat penalty for searching while blinded.) This allows Kaspar and his amazing bastard sword that has apparently been enchanted by the Chicago Cubs to get an AoO. As Farvin has lost his Dex mod to AC (like the rest of them, due to the darkness), Kaspar will do sneak damage if he hits. In the darkness Farvin gets no shield or dex mod, and his AC is also at -2. that means Farvin has an effective AC of 12. Should Kaspar hit, Kaspar will do a d10+ 4 + 2d6 of damage. Farvin has 10 hit points. Assuming that Farvin survives, the door gets opened, light come in, no more sneak attack for Kaspar and the others can see Castille again. IF Farvin does not survive, heh heh heh, the NPCs have to make morale saves.

I'm Just Setting Myself Up for a Heroic Comeback

Kaspar is desperate. He lunges forward with his sword, attempting to take out Farvin. The bastard sword move swiftly, but without avail. The half-orc simply cannot connect despite his best efforts. The fire in his eyes is quickly turning to insecurity despite the charred remains of Vitte.

Castille continues to usurp control of the situation -- this time forgoing an attack though. As he removes the cloak from his back and the sunrod from his sash, Castille steps east five feet. Lifting his hand, he points towards the far wall and mutters to himself. His hand moves towards the ceiling and the remaining torch follows. Castille then lets his Mage Hand drop the torch to the floor with a sputter.

With his last remaining effort, Castille wraps the sunrod in his cloak and tosses it into the southeastern corner.

Kaspar continues to roll poorly: a 7 on his attack roll. Even his action point doesn't save him.

Castille, too, is a poor roller. A net of 9 on his Fort save. He'll take damage I know, but does that prompt a Concentration check on the Mage Hand spell? If so, he nets a relatively paltry 13 (if that's close I'll use another action point). I may have to adjust the above post I suppose. I'm not sure when exactly the poison effect would have kicked in. Feel free to take some liberties with your next post.

Man! The dice are friggin killing me here. However, keep in mind that Castille still has a Potion of Healing that could stave off death another round or two if necessary. It could get close depending on the poison.

Clarifications

First, as Charles pointed out to me, under 3.5 a shocking grasp attack does 3d6 points of damage; not 1d8. Even so, we are going to proceed as if I rolled 8 points on 3d6. No problem.

Next, and finally, I made the mistake of adding the guard's armor into his AC for purposed of Castille's touch attack. Without the armor, no action point was required; so I'll take that back thank you very much.

On with the show...

"Do You Feel Lucky, Punk?"

(Rules Note: The Shocking Grasp spell was already cast, which is why Castille did not have to make a Concentration check.)

Vitte's body falls to floor, smoke rising from the eyelids. Still twitching, his black, putrified form was nonetheless quite dead.

"Dragonmarks..." Farvin said, swallowing. He swung his flail out to trip the half-orc again (and got a lousy 3, so forget it), but was too unnerved to connect the flail's chain to Kaspar's ankles.

"He's a wizard, you idiot!" Pled said, taking a 5-foot step south (to square D2). "Take him down!" He swings his flail low, and catches Castille! (I rolled your opposed check, Castille uses his Dex mod instead of his Str mod, according to Trip rules you use whichever is higher.) As strong as Pled was, Castille hops up and out of the chain, and when Pled tries to yank at it to bring him down, Castille has already slipped out.

In the meantime, the torch that Castille knocked down sputters out on the floor, darkening the corner so that only the torch in the far corner and the sunrod in the half-elf's belt shed light. (The sunrod is actually the stronger light source of the two.)

Red Eyes. "Wait a minute..." Bailey says (making his Intelligence check). "Darnit Farv, open that door back up and let more light in!"

"Are you nuts?" Farvin says, as he and Kaspar clash. "I'm busy here!"

"You'll be busy until you're dead!" Bailey snaps. "They're trying to take out the lights!" Eyeing Castille he drops his flail (a free action), produces and throws a dart (a standard action), and the dart (Ooo, the natural roll was 17) slams dead center in the half-elf's chest. (Damage comes up as only 2.) He then picks up his flail again (a move-equiv action) and takes a 5-foot step (to E3).

And he is smiling grimly at Castille. "You feel funny yet, elf-kin?" he asks, trying to sound brave. His voice cracks when he eyes Kaspar, however.

Castille feels and odd heat spreading out from the dart, stealing energy from his limbs, making the room spin. Poison! (Make a Fortitude save DC 13)

Shocking, Simply Shocking

Reacting immediately to the situation, Kaspar swings his bastard sword around his head and takes aim at Vitte. Nevertheless, fate is with his assailant once again and Kaspar carves a wedge through the air. His sword clangs on the stone floor and resonates back through his strong arms.

Choosing silence now, all war cries of confidence are stifled within the half-orc's lungs.

My dice have failed me. Kaspar rolled a 3 on his attack, for a total of only 8: far short of the necessary 16.

As his companion does little more than provoke defensive maneuvers, Castille knocks the near torch from its bracket, letting it fall to the floor and extinguish. With his hands still engulfed in electricity, he then reaches out for Vitte. Finally it seems, Castille makes contact when it most matters. His sorcerer eyes gleam as the agony of his own hands transfers to the guard. Castille's mouth takes a turn upward. And even as his foe begins to collapse, the excitement of his newfound powers only encourages Castille to tighten his assassin grip.

Rolled an 11, +1 melee, +3 for metal, and then a pitiful roll of one on my action point check, for a total of 16. Just enough. Damage result, however, is beautiful. Natural 8 + 3 caster levels = 11. Toasted.

Finally, A Post!

(Sorry, dear readers, but I started work last week and things have been hectic.)

Bailey watched, his mouth going dry, and then his training took over. You can beat any enemy. Any enemy. You just have to strike first, and strike well. In the span of a heartbeat he had repeated that mantra to himself thrice.

Farvin was first to react, he had always had the best reflexes of the group. The dour man let out a war whoop and shoved his full body weight against the door, seeking to knock the half-orc over onto the half-elf. Strong though the half-orc was, he was caught off balance, and he stumbled into the half-elf's embrace. The half-elf swirled and dodged, trying not to touch his half-breed compatriot with the blue sparking hand.

(This is a 25 foot by 25 foot room. Using battleship grid terminology, Farvin has entered square C1, knocking Kaspar to square D1 and slamming the door shut. Castille avoids accidentally tagging Kaspar, but stumbles into square E1, which he shares with a wall torch.)

The light from the torches in the hallway was cut off by the slamming door, leaving only the two torches in the gaurdroom, plus a glowing wand tucked into the half-elf's belt. Bailey remembered something about orc eyes, but Farvin's yelling distracted him.

"Gatekeepers!" bellowed the dour man, struggling to get his flail into play. "They must be Gatekeepers!"

(The Knowledge Local Eldeen Reaches check and the Knowledge Religion check fold into the successful narrative device that follows as Bailey's thoughts tell us some stuff about the cult.)

Gatekeepers! One of the five druidic sects on the ELdeen Reaches, gatekeepers were primarily orcs and half-orcs. Their druid sect started in the far-off swamps at the western end of the continent, and had been enemies of the Dragon Below cults for millenia! Bailey didn't know much about the cult, he had joined only to avoid the reach of the law, but Farvin was a nut, a real beliver who bowed at the idols and kissed the hands of the dark clerics, even Bane whom Farvin had despised as the man hated elves. Farvin was figuring that this half-orc was connected to the Gatekeepers. Bailey didn't think so. Nature priests didn't wear chain shirts for one thing. Is that mithril?

"Shaddup!" growled Pled. "Follow yer training! Be they Gatekeepers, Dragonmarked warriors, or Followers of the Silver Flame, they'll fall to us!" Pled crouched suddenly, and whipped his flail around the half-orc's feet. They had all been taught how to take an opponent's feet out from under him, and Pled was a master at it.

(Pled stands in square C2.)

The half-orc jerked his leg free, and Pled stumbled. Red eyes again. That trick would not work on red eyes. The half-orc was too strong.

Why am I fighting them? Bailey asked himself again. It's not like he really believed in the cause. And the odds were good that this was the pair that had killed the gator, the kobold sniper, the elf dark cleric, the initiates, the goblin and orc hirelings, and had incapacitated that warforged. What chance did a man such as he have?

What if they were Dragonmarked? He'd be a fool to take on the scions of the great Dragonmarked Houses.

"The Silver Flame," laughed Vitte as his jowls shook. It was his shaky, little laugh, the kind he gave right before dishing up pain. Vitte liked to dish up pain. The man tortured lizards when he was bored. "Right. These men of Aundair worship the state religion of Thrane, Aundair's enemy across the border." Vitte moved in quickly (to square D2) and swung at the half-elf. Blood flew as the whirling, spiked ball cut the half-breed's shoulder. "That's for trying to peg me with a crossbow bolt!" snarls the cultist. (Castille takes 5 points of damage.)

"Damnit, Bailey, get in here!" roared Farvin, as the half-orc adjusted his grip on the huge sword.

No need to be stupid, Bailey thought. He flipped over the card table to clear the floor, then stepped to the side a bit. "Oh, I'm coming in to crush some skulls!" he yelled. It sounded hollow, even to him. (He moves to square D4 and observes.)

A Rash of Rolls

...what I need from you to finish the post is a strength check (and a Reflex Save if you fail it) from Kaspar, then a Knowledge Local Eldeen Reaches DC 12 from Kaspar, then a Knowledge Religion DC 10 from both Kaspar and Castille, then another strength check from Kaspar.

Kaspar makes a 6 on his Str check; a 12 on his Reflex Save; a 17 on his Knowledge Local check; a 11 on his untrained Knowledge Religion roll; and a 7 on his second Str check. Castille gets a 12 on his Knowledge Religion roll.

As I understand it, that's a fail, success, success, success, and fail for Kaspar. Castille's is also a success.

Kaspar will use an action point for the final Str check, bringing his total to 10: a success.

The rash of unspectacular rolls continues for the team.