A Tunnels and Trolls® play-by-post adventure run by khara_khang
Shipy grins again. "Why aren't we rich, Master Khang?" His words hang in the surrounding dusky space, which is now filled with mist, the fog's forerunner.
Khang snorts, "Because you dribble away your coins on wenches and worthless schemes. In the meantime I am forced to nursemaid you."
Shipy laughs and retorts, "As true as I have ever heard it said." Suddenly he lifts an elbow and flares his nostrils. Settling again in his chair, he snuffs at the chill moist air. "There's a magical taint in the fog tonight, Master."
The Master Wizard says dryly, "I smell dead fish, burnt fat, horse dung, Khazan sausage gone stale, cheap temple incense, rancid oil, moldy grain, the stink of a wizard's tower full of unwashed servants... and you, of course."
"I bathed this week!" snaps the Hobbit, dressed in brightly bold silk clothing.
"Perhaps you did," Khang's voice trails off doubtfully.
"Anyway, I did as you asked, Master. I put up the fliers at the Ogre Pit, the Blue Frog Café [a reference to the Café Interlude --ed.] and the Prancing Pony for adventurers seeking excellent pay for one night's work to come here, just as you told me."
Strands of fog come questing through small high-set street-level windows and into the lower level entrance of the tower. The ghostly fingers interlace curiously with the soot-trail from a sputtering torch inside, but go unnoticed except by an old wench who pulls her patched cloak closer at her throat as she places newly filled mugs of grog on the table. Steep stone steps lead up from the Khazan street outside to the door across from where they sit.
A dark-skinned well-thewed guard stands alone against the wall behind the full length of the ancient oaken table. His arms cross and he scowls sneeringly. One of the fog-strands, as though itself a devotee of the guard and curious of him, drifts over his shoulder. To the old wench, the inquisitive fog-strand looks veined in red, but surely that is a reflection from the torches. A fog-finger touches the guard's taut arm. He sneers and flexes the muscles of his forearms to double their prodigious thickness.
"They will come. Give them time," offers Khang. He cups his big hands over the brazier that lends its warmth to the space before him and the Hobbit.
A frond of fog floats lazily up from the street bringing with it would-be adventurers, happy and agog with delicious anticipations of riches, but unaware that they are slaves to its misty designs.
Anyone wishing to join my new T&T® game will need a 4th to 6th level character of any T&T® race. The adventure itself will be short (spanning only one night in game time) but very action packed. Real cash prizes (up to $100) will be split between the players who finish 1st and 2nd. Of course your character will have to remain alive to have a chance at winning. As always, hopefully this new and unique adventure will be unlike anything I've GM'ed here before. Joining players need only write themselves into the text offered above (i.e., by entering the tower with a flier wishing to join the adventure).
The fog of Khazan is thickening, but Bela can still find his way. There is the wizard's tower. He turns off the street and up the curving steps, then through the door. Over the smells of dead fish, burnt fat, horse dung, Khazan sausage gone stale, cheap temple incense, rancid oil, mouldy grain, and the stink of a wizard's tower full of unwashed servants, he can smell Shipy the Hobbit.
Lucky told him the flyer was Shipy's work. Since putting up flyers for help is not the Hobbit's normal way, Bela decided to investigate. Finding Shipy here is therefore no surprise, but his Wizard companion at the table is. Bela has never met or seen him, and Shipy, name dropper that he is, has never mentioned him.
With a polite bow, he introduces himself. "Good wishes to you. I am Bela. It is good to see you well, Shipy." He takes a seat and calls to the server, asking for tea.
An Elf Wizard in scale armor walks to the tower, holding the flyer in her left hand. The night air is full of various smells, none of them pleasant. She looks at the flyer again. High pay for one night's work means it is probably very dangerous work. Entering the tower, she approaches the Hobbit and the Mage.
"Good evening to you, sirs. I've come about the job offer. My name is Sweetsong Willowstar," she says politely.
The door swings open and the cold wind comes blowing through the now open doorway. A lone figure stands there with what appears to be a flier in her hand.
With a voice like sweet music, she calls out, "Who has put up fliers at the Prancing Pony Inn?" Her eyes survey the crowd. "I will not ask again."
"I did, at the bidding of my master," says the lone Hobbit, standing.
The stranger approaches and looks squarely at the Hobbit. "And who might you be, and who is this master of yours?"
"Shipy be my name and here is my master, Khara Khang."
The Elf looks up at Khang and asks, "Is it true that you are offering high pay for one night's work? I do presume there will be a chance that I will not come back alive, with this kind of pay on offer."
The year is 1317 A.K.
It has been two years since Jax's brother acted on a hare-brained idea to coax his portal-throwing symbiont to show him the way to his lost loot.
It has been two miserable months since Jax's return from his own fool's quest to retrieve Taran, who never returned. Sure, along the way there was plenty of adventure, some of it shared with his friend Shipy, some with a fellow Agent of Lerotra'hh, the Dragon named Kintrass [cf. Jax's first adventure --ed.], but the quest was a supreme bust. It would seem that Taran vanished from the face of Trollworld. Jax returned to the Warren a mere husk of the proud Warrior that Clan Dracon once knew and loved.
It has been two hours since his otherworldly friend Bela showed up out of nowhere, took him up on his old offer to sample his mother's (in)famous bullfrog bisque, and reminded him that there's nothing like mortal danger to take one's mind off things. In particular, he mentioned Shipy's latest call for delvers at the Blue Frog.
It took two minutes for Jax to agree. As he requested leave of Oother and Kna'gl, his parents shared a look of concern. His father bellowed after him:
"If you don't come back alive, I'll kill you myself!"
Jax sighed and slapped his forehead: not the first time.
He barely noticed the walk into town, so immersed was he in his thoughts.
The Orc throws open the doors to the Blue Frog Tavern and heads straight for the bulletin board to pick up the flier Bela described. The barflies immediately ratchet their banter down a notch. The usually agreeable Orc (if not in odor) hasn't quite been himself lately; in fact, since his return, he's been rather belligerent. Even the busty Centaur bouncer steps aside as he brushes past.
Someone whispers Taran's name and Jax whips his thick neck around to find the source. His eyes glare with bloodshot intensity, but he fails to find the speaker in the crowd. Figures. The irony doesn't escape him as he rips off one of the fliers and heads back to the street.
"Geeze, not even one for the road, Jax?" complains the one-eyed, one-armed, one-legged bartender.
The Centaur frowns at her boss, then cranes her (very) human torso around the swinging doors to watch the Orc disappear into the thick street fog.
The Orc soon arrives at the tower. He is familiar with the Wizard's name, and though he doesn't remember the context, he vaguely connects it with Arahk Gnahk, the legendary Orcish shaman and co-founder of the anti-Zweetz underground. Perhaps this Khang character is a member of the Resistance too?
Once inside, Jax immediately spots Bela's tall frame, and heads toward him at the long table. A few others have apparently answered the summons as well. And there's Shipy, sitting next to the starkly imposing human who can only be the Wizard himself.
"Bela. Shipy."
He nods to the fems. "I'm Jax. Count me in." He tosses the flier on the table, scowls and folds his meaty arms.
I had a few INT points left over from Jax's INT boost back in 1312-13A.K., so in the two years since The Pirate Blade of Rahnian, Jax picked up Hobbit and Dragon. Let's also assume that Jax got himself a new rope and grappling hook. :)
The door opens once more, and from the swirl of the mists, a lean female figure emerges. Walking over to the main table, I put my flier down. "I hear this is the place to be to find a little adventure in this town. Still room for one more, I hope? I'm called Tasyjai. It's a pleasure to make everyone's acquaintance."
Seven days remain in the Month of the Serpent of the Khazan year 1317A.K.
Moonlight does not soften the harsh angular lines of the great stone tower. Square, flat-roofed, small-windowed, three stories high, it stands a little distance from similar houses of wealthy merchants like a rejected hanger-on of a different era. Close to it flow the waters of the Khazan River, angrily churning through this portion of the city, which thrusts out like an elbow into the mighty stream. Abutting and overtopping it on the side nearest the river looms a weightless fog. There is an impression of tight-lipped power about this place and weighty magical secrets closely guarded. Sounds are muffled in the distance. Torches are ringed with smoky halos.
Shipy stands and greets Bela with a handshake. The overly tall Elf is a good friend of his. "Good to see you alive and well, Bela," Shipy offers, following him over to the table and making sure he is given the tea for which he asked.
Only moments later, Sweetsong enters and Shipy meets her as well. Her politeness seems to set everyone at ease. She will soften the hard edge of adventuring for sure.
Shipy faces the third adventurer to enter. She doesn't give her name. Maybe her name is a secret. "Yes, yes, high pay and danger is offered," Shipy answers her with a smile. He shows her over to the table where she can relax and select from assorted liquid refreshments.
The Hobbit's eyes suddenly flash at seeing his old Orcish friend. "Grapple-Jax! Have a seat and take a load off. All will be explained in due time," Shipy relates, looking around for Jax's (not-so-ever-stinkin'™) brother, but not finding him. "Did you...?" he begins, but Jax's scowl cuts him off.
A fourth Elf enters soon after Jax. Shipy answers her query: "Of course there is room for you, Tasyjai." The Elf joins the others at the table. She is the fifth to sign up, but will she be the last?
When you climb the steps and enter the doorway, you finds yourself in a large, many-nooked and niched stone room. The misty air is bright, and swirls around the room, which is dominated by a long wooden table. Benches and chairs are scattered about, but the design of the room leads your attention naturally to two overstuffed chairs, one of which is occupied by the Wizard who called you here.
After a few polite words by the Wizard and his Hobbit servant, you are waved to the table to sit and drink, and wait. An old wench brings tea and wine for those who avoid the strong disheartening grog.
Khara Khang is rarely ever seen, and this is indeed a rarity. Dressed in dapper robes of black silk, Khang is a distinguished-looking human man of medium height and build with eyes of a startling deep blue. His skin tone wavers from Elf light to ebony dark depending on how the light reflects off him.
The white fog coils past the walls, brushes the ceiling, unknowingly caresses your backs, and then in turn coalesces and shrinks back a dozen paces whenever you look accusingly at it, cat-quick---like a vixenishly proud woman rebuffed.
The dark-skinned well-thewed guard standing against the back wall seems stronger now. He snarls and chokes back a curse, but he too rejects the fog's masterful lures---if only (to put the worst interpretation on it) because he wants always to be the source of his own evil and will never accept it from another.
The silence is portentous, making you feel uneasy, as if you were contemplating the last futile ripples from from your own beating heart. A fog-bound concentration binds and heightens your senses, as though you were inside the mind of a titanic thinker, or the stones of this Wizard's tower were entranced with brooding consciousness.
Then, as unthinkable as it is to end the silence forever, Khang does so by standing, stepping around a brazier and its pale thread of smoke, walking to the table, and facing you. His eyes sparkle with magic in the light.
"Some of you I know by reputation: Bela, Jax." Khang nods to these two. "The rest of you are new to me. Adversity makes for the keenest appetite, the clearest vision.
"I have a simple task of recovering a lost magical lens from the sewer below this tower. This is the adventure I offer. Accept and complete the task offered and you will be greatly rewarded. If you fail by being killed or otherwise... the enchantment I will place upon each of you will eject you from the sewers back to the Khazan streets where you came, and you will no longer be of any use to me, as the enchantment can only be placed on a person once per week."
"Any objections or questions?" Khang asks.
What do you do?
"Some of you I know by reputation: Bela, Jax. The rest of you are new to me."
Bela cannot resist raising an eyebrow, but manages to say nothing. A power, it seems, is this Wizard, and yet Bela does not know about him, but he knows about Bela. And Jax and Shipy too. He has a feeling this Wizard is okay.
"Any objections or questions?"
Now he opens his mouth. He has two questions. "I did not hear thy name, so please tell and forgive me if you are repeating it. And tell us what you can about the lens, please."
Bela has read much about lenses, and has used some. The Lens Master developed many in the Old World and used them to gain power and start a terrible war of persecution and acquisition among the Old Eastern Kingdoms. He hopes that there is no connection. He asks the Wizard for details about it: its description, where it came from, when it was made, and what its powers or uses are.
"Grapple-Jax! Have a seat and take a load off. All will be explained in due time. Did you...?"
The Orc sits down roughly, but refuses drink. He sits arrow-straight, with folded arms. And he tries not to drip Orc saliva on the table (you know, first impressions and all...).
"Some of you I know by reputation: Bela, Jax."
Behind his scowl, Jax searches Khang's face for the recognition the Wizard seems to withhold. There is something familiar about his startling eyes---they are like gems.
"And tell us what you can about the lens, please."
"And what is guarding it," he adds gruffly, cracking the knuckles on one fist like a pine log freshly thrown on the fire. In his experience, magical items do not just go and lose themselves. They are stolen.
He is not surprised that Bela did not ask about the reward, for the Elf has demonstrated ample wealth in the past; but even Jax is beyond the point of being motivated purely by monetary means. His reward would simply be distraction itself, and like most rewards, it would only be ephemeral. He momentarily entertains the stray hope that this Mage would be grateful enough after his lens is returned to help him find Taran. But he dismisses the idea as so inconceivably optimistic that it must have originated from that annoying portion of his brain occupied by Arnn-Gaxx, the last of the ancient Haroouugh race, who infected him with an empathic psyche when Jax euthanized him four years ago in Gristlegrim's torture chamber [cf. Agents of Lerotra'hh --ed.].
Shipy faces the third adventurer to enter. She doesn't give her name. Maybe her name is a secret. "Yes, yes, high pay and danger is offered," Shipy answers her with a smile. He shows her over to the table where she can relax and select from assorted liquid refreshments.
Shipy seems to be a little too friendly; maybe he's just desperate for help in this little quest.
"Some of you I know by reputation: Bela, Jax. The rest of you are new to me."
The Elf replies, "I would understand that as I am not from the surrounding area."
"Tell us what you can about the lens, please."
"And what is guarding it."
These are two of the three questions that need answers. She looks thoughtful for a moment and then asks, "And how did you lose it?"
Sweetsong nods at Khang and says, "I'm up for an adventure. Tell us what it looks like and where to look for it and anything else we need to know about it to retrieve it safely."
Just thought you all might like to know, or be reminded if you already knew, that there is an extensive series of caverns beneath Khazan (extending much lower into the earth than the sewers), which were probably dug by the Dwarves. Are the sewers and caverns connected? They must be, although probably not in any obvious way. I meant to do something with those caverns one day---probably this year---I've been dreaming of a new solo set there. Now I have sewers to contend with also. Thanks a lot, khara_khang! (wry grin)
"Of course there is room for you, Tasyjai."
Tasyjai gives Shipy a small smile as she takes a seat at the table where the others are seated. She reaches for a glass of wyne, then turns the main part of her attention to listen to Khang when he begins to speak.
"Any objections or questions?"
"Tell us what you can about the lens, please."
"And what is guarding it."
"And how did you lose it?"
Tasyjai smiles to herself. They are good questions, all of them. She takes a sip of wyne and waits for the Mage's reply.
It is an impressive scene, but behind some of your eyes, skepticism hides fear. A frond of fog comes wreathing between the blue drapes concealing the small high-set windows, and circles close to Jax as if filled with indecision.
The Wizard is tempted to present half a dozen additional arguments in favor of his plan to retrieve the lens, but he does not. Instead, he prepares to address the adventurers' concerns. An anxious crease appears between his eyebrows as his head tilts up and his menacing blue eyes search the room.
"Ok, I am getting ahead of myself. I am the Wizard Khara Khang, to those of you who don't know me---not that I would expect you to." His voice rumbles softly in basso overtones as he continues to eye those seated before him.
"The unique lens I have lost is the creation of a combination of science and real magic. To the uninitiated, it would look like a common lens lost from a pair of reading glasses. The power it holds is to see beyond what normally should be seen or understood. To me it holds great value. It would also be quite an unfortunate event if it were to fall into the wrong hands."
Khang flares his nostrils and slowly swings his face from side to side. "I can't say what might be found guarding it because I don't know. You have been selected for your trained to overcome such obstacles. Good strategy demands good tactics. I will send you to where the lens was lost, but you will have to be the ones to find it."
Raising a finger, the Wizard continues. "Don't think for a moment that I don't expect a lot from each of you, because I do. A person is only as good as his word these days. To be respected is to be honored."
The usual noises from outside have diminished some time ago; within the lulls of Khang's preamble, the room is absolutely silent. Some of you take longer than others, but eventually you all realize that you should be listening intently to every word and carefully stowing away each aphorism that the Mage utters. Khang speaks of thoughtfulness in giving and punctilio in keeping your word, of following your heart, of setting and unswervingly striving toward a high, romantic goal, of self-honesty in all these things but especially in recognizing your own aversions and desires, and of the need to close your ears to the fears and naggings that creep into your thoughts.
At one point, the Hobbit smothers a guffaw during his employer's rambling pep talk. It is Shipy's knee-jerk reaction to an unvoiced plea for guidance in quelling the inexplicable intuitions that have been engulfing him during the recent string of occult events rocking his little world. It seems ironic that for all Khara's calculated wisdom, the master Wizard is advocating that he trust his instincts, and do without calculation whatever the inspiration of the moment moves him to do.
The frond of fog suddenly jabs Jax on the temple. For a moment, his whole being is bathed in ecstatic sensations. Visions of daggered Elvish princesses and skewered serving maids dance in his head before fading.
The Wizard, as if to add one last bit of emphasis, leans forward across the table and draws down his lower lip. His voice becomes more fatherly, and matter of fact: "I will judge each of you by your performance and reward you in kind. Unless there are more questions, we should get on with the mission at hand."
What do you do?
"I'm ready to go. Is everyone else ready?"
"The unique lens I have lost is the creation of a combination of science and real magic.... The power it holds is to see beyond what normally should be seen or understood."
"If you are as powerful as people say, why did you not try and recover this 'lens' yourself? From what you have just said, it seems to me that it is a scrying glass, but I have heard that those are not easy to make."
"I will send you to where the lens was lost, but you will have to be the ones to find it."
"Seems the most logical place to start."
The frond of fog suddenly jabs Jax on the temple. For a moment, his whole being is bathed in ecstatic sensations.
The Elf takes notice. There is more to this mist than meets the eye. "What manner of fog is this?" she asks, pointing to the expression on Jax's face.
"Unless there are more questions, we should get on with the mission at hand."
She steps up to Khang's table, whips out a strange looking dagger and before anyone realises what is happening, pricks her left thumb. "I swear to you a blood oath that I (we) shall find this scrying lens of yours or die trying." A solitary drop of blood drips from her thumb and lands on the table in front of Khang. She turns around and says (to shocked expressions, presumably), "Shall we get started? The sooner we've begun, the more time we have of this night."
Here, Midnight has used Oath Bane. This dagger is used to seal an agreement. If any of those bound by the dagger break the oath, they shall forever be cursed. If you do not wish to be bound by this blood oath, please state so and you shall not be bound. If you wish to be bound, step forward and raise your left hand above the table. This is tradition in the lands Midnight calls home. But beware that this decision is not to be taken lightly.
"I swear to you a blood oath that I (we) shall find this scrying lens of yours or die trying."
Placing his hands out of sight, Bela says, "My father taught me to let my 'yes' be 'yes' and my 'no' be 'no.' Nevertheless, I do accept the job."
Many things here strike Bela as being interestingly unusual. At seven feet, he normally stands out in a crowd and is the tallest Elf around, but here there is another Elf in the party a head taller than he. It will be nice not to be the only one getting the tall jokes. More interesting is that Khang said this group had been selected, but yet he had sent out public advertisements. It would be very clever indeed to arrange for such a public advertisement to have been noticed by the right people. He thinks, though, that the Mage is neither giving empty praise nor making light of the situation, for such behaviour would run contrary to the Khara Khang of Khazan legend, if indeed this be the man.
"To the uninitiated, it would look like a common lens lost from a pair of reading glasses. The power it holds is to see beyond what normally should be seen or understood."
"I didn't hear him say portals or time travel. First good news I've heard in a long time," he mumbles to Shipy through gritted tusks. The Hobbit smothers a guffaw which seems out of place, but Jax assigns it to Shipy's odd sense of humor.
The frond of fog suddenly jabs Jax on the temple. For a moment, his whole being is bathed in ecstatic sensations. Visions of daggered Elvish princesses and skewered serving maids dance in his head before fading.
Inexplicably, Jax suffers a waking dream. He is walking in a grayscale underground, through a long tunnel flanked as far as he can see by two rows of foreshortened flour-white infravision-cold She-Elf corpses covered in white hoodless robes of varying status, and aligned head to toe like iron filings obeying a lodestone's silent command.
"I'm ready to go. Is everyone else ready?"
As he walks, each maiden's fatal wounds glow crimson and gush anew. He feels a strange elation as he starts running down the corridor, but the Elves' blood continues to flow at his passing, and soon he hears a roiling, malevolent tidal wave amassing behind him. He dares not break stride to look back.
"What manner of fog is this?" she asks, pointing to the expression on Jax's face.
Even as he is lost in the grip of the vision, Jax searches for some logical explanation for it all. Is it a repressed memory from Arnn-Gaxx? Or a present left behind by Harvey? Did the corpses look like any Elf maiden he'd ever met? Cambrea? No. Freya? No. Certainly not Lerotra'hh. Whoever killed them used a stabbing implement of some sort. Where was the killer? What could precipitate or justify such a slaughter of innocents? [Sheesh, that's a lot of name-dropping. See Jax's previous adventures: Agents of Lerotra'hh (Arnn-Gaxx), Lizardmen in Red Water Bay (Cambrea), Oblique Streams (Freya), Dangerous Creations (Lerotra'hh), The Pirate Blade of Rahnian (Harvey, Cambrea) --ed.]
"Shall we get started? The sooner we've begun, the more time we have of this night."
The tunnel grows longer even as he strains to see an end. The corpses seem to stretch toward the nexus at infinity, adding desperation to his pace. He wipes the sweat from his brow only to discover that his right arm is even wetter. In his upraised hand is a bich'wa and bagh nakh, drenched with blood.
"My father taught me to let my 'yes' be 'yes' and my 'no' be 'no.' Nevertheless..."
"FRAK!" he yells, frantically waving his gloved hands in front of his face as if to ward off an unseen swarm of angry insects. Losing balance, Jax falls backwards off the bench. With a Warrior's reflexes as he falls, he unsheathes both bich'was from his boot-scabbards: left hand to right boot and vice versa. Landing hard, he draws the blades up to his face. They are bloodless. He relaxes, and they drop to the stone floor with a clatter. He then examines the bear claws at his belt. They too are clean.
"...I do accept the job."
The Orc looks up. The as yet nameless She-Elf holds a blood-tipped dagger, but her expression shows no pain or malice; only resolve. Bela looks on. It must be some kind of unfathomably grave Elvish ritual.
"I uh," he recenters his thoughts as saliva drip-drips out of his tusky maw onto the cold stones. "I don't... know what... just happened." Still on the floor, he searches each of the Elves' faces for answers, then Shipy's, then Khang's. "I'm OK," he grunts, collecting and resheathing his daggers, then standing. He absentmindedly bats away some of the annoyingly coherent fog still swirling around his head. "Let's go."
"I swear to you a blood oath that I (we) shall find this scrying lens of yours or die trying."
Knowing that it is wrong to laugh at others' customs, she watches the younger Elf's blood oath ritual in silence.
"Nevertheless, I do accept the job."
"I too accept the job," she states after Bela. "My word is my honor."
"Shall we get started? The sooner we've begun, the more time we have of this night."
"Agreed. Let's get on with the mission at hand."
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