[DnD] Welcome to the Dungeon of Doom!

Basic Attack (Battle Axe): 7 + 3 (miss)

The guard takes a single step back, and Soggy frustratedly hacks away at the air.

The panicked crab rushes past the obstacle that is Bob, and runs headlong into yet another hindrance. Snapping at Gabriel, the animal's claw attack significantly overestimates the paladin's height.

Bob at bat.

MAP

FELIPE NO

Ray of Frost (Staff of Expansion) 19 + 6 (hit): 6 damage, guard killed.

The heavily-battered thug is coated with ice, and his crossbow slips from his hand as he slumps to the floor. Melted by the heat of the brazier, water begins to puddle around his body.

Realizing he has no sensible reason to stand around and be battered by an immobile midget, the remaining guard steps back and jabs at Motsognir with the advantage of his halberd's long reach.

"Eh, look at me! I'm cuttin' up a defenseless man! I'm so bloody brave!"

5 damage, Motsognir 13/4 and marked.

Embarrassed in his attempt at bludgeoning, the mage steps away from Gabriel and fires off another Magic Missile. It strikes Bob square in the chest, knocking the wind out of the elf.

8 damage, Bob 2/5 and bloodied

New round: Motsognir 20, Gabriel 18, Guard 17, Bob 14, Crab 12, Mage 12, Fescue 7, Argumentus 7

Motsognir at bat. Free at last!

MAP

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Bob 10/4, Motsognir 16/4 (miscalculated the earlier Words)

Viper's Strike (Battle Axe): 10 + 3 (miss)

Motsognir pursues the retreating guard, but his axe founders against the challenge that is a moving target.

Gabriel at bat.

Map

Jam it back in, in the dark.

Bolstering Strike (War Hammer): 10 + 5 (miss)

Despite the elaborate promises of Become Thou A Most Excellent Bard In Thirty Days Or Thy Wealth Returned To Thee, Gabriel's jaunty song does nothing to improve his combat effectiveness. The crab, however, does indulge in a brief soft-shoe up until the moment Gabriel attempts to crush its superstructure.

"Ye gods, why do you hound me so?" shouts the guard. "I am sorry to say that I am just not that into you!" He jabs his halberd viciously into Motsognir's throat.

12 damage, Motsognir 4/4 and bloodied

Bob at bat.

M:

There's nowhere I can't reach.

Ray of Frost (Staff of Expansion) Natural 20 (Critical Hit): 10 damage, mage killed

Engulfed in ice, the wizard crumples.

"I just wish I.."

He coughs, wheezing out his last breaths.

"I wish I had time for one more bowl of chili."

Terrified, surrounded, and full of delicious flavor, the crab decides to go down fighting. With Gabriel pinned against the wall, he seems an easy target — but it's not so. The crab merely scratches up the walls, and the massive arthropod's limbs slump in disappointment.

Fescue at bat.

M:

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

Sly Flourish (Dagger) 18 + 6 (hit): 4 damage

"What was that even supposed to be? Are you trying to shave me? I've already made my feelings clear about the importance of beard integrity."

Argumentus at bat.

M:

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>terse

>Terse mode on.

>get behind crab

>Done.

>hit crab

>Done. 6 damage.

>verbose

>Verbose mode on.

>look

You are in a square room. You see two dwarves, an elf, a beardy jackass with a halberd, and a lunatic with a knife. A crab is in front of you.

New round. Fescue 24, Crab 23, Gabriel 21, Bob 16, Motsognir 8, Guard 6, Argumentus 4

Fescue at bat.

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Basic Attack (Dagger) 3 + 5 (miss)

"Oh, this is just embarrassing. Look, if you don't know how to stab somebody, I can provide you with a demonstration."

The crab's internal organs finally stop smoldering. Startled by the fighter sneaking up behind it, it crushes Argumentus in its brutal grip.

Critical hit! 19 damage. Argumentus 3/12 and bloodied.

Gabriel at bat.

M

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

One hand, two hands... no more hands!

Bolstering Strike (Warhammer) 9 + 5 (miss)

Gabriel attacks the crab's Strong Point for... no damage. No damage at all.

Bob at bat.

FELIPE NO

Ray of Frost (Staff of Expansion) 12 + 6 (hit): 7 damage, guard bloodied

The icy blast strikes the bearded warrior square in the face. With an angry snarl, he wipes the ice and snow from his features; his ice-encrusted beard comes away with it, pattering onto the floor with a tinkling.

The bare-faced fighter stares at the floor, then at Bob, then at the floor, then at Bob again. Then he stares at Bob for a long, long time.

Motsognir at bat.

M

How ya doing, buddy?

Wolf Pack Tactics (Battle Axe) 16 + 5 (hit): 9 damage

The companions simultaneously flank the infuriated babyface, leaving him wide-open for an axe in the gut.

And the guard's bowels were smote, and the smiting did injure them greatly, and the man did contract a serious infection. And the man said "Oh, those are my bowels, how unfortunate this is" and his bowels in their condition of having been smote did emit a foul odor, and all nearby were greatly displeased and held their noses.

And the man, being grievously wounded, did attempt to flee, clutching at his wounded guts all the while. But whilst he fled the thief did jam a knife in his back, and the man fell, and his bowels were spilt most unpleasantly around him, squish squish.

Guard killed, Argumentus at bat.

M

Jam it back in, in the dark.

Reaping Strike (Warhammer) 14 + 7 (hit) : 10 damage, crab killed

The warhammer smashes deeply into the crab's primitive little brain, utterly pulverizing it. The monstrous animal's grip on Argumentus slackens, then the crab utterly collapses into a chitinous heap.

VICTORY! 800 XP (160 XP each), which should put everyone at 705 XP total by my reckoning. 2nd level is only a few brushes with death away!

There's nowhere I can't reach.

Peeking through the partly-open doorway, Fescue sees a small room roughly 30' x 15'; seemingly someone's office. A flimsy attempt has been made to create comfort in the stony environs of the dungeon; the granite floor has been smoothed down and polished, and a dingy carpet lies atop it. The room is lit by a small candelabra atop a desk littered with various documents. Crude statuary flanks the desk, and a bookcase and water-barrel lie just behind it.

Against the east wall stands a mirror and wardrobe, and on the west is a rack of more than a dozen various polearms.

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

Inventory of phat lewtz:

leather armor, three sets
cloth armor, two sets
chainmail armor, two sets
halberds, two
crossbows, two
crossbow bolts, thirty-three
quarterstaff, one
wand, one
gold pieces, two hundred and fifty
golden bracelet, one
black velvet gloves, one pair
chainmail belt, one
Potion of Healing, one
serrated dagger, one
weathered parchment tied with ribbon, one

(Motsognir's HP 22)

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

Argumentus now wears the Belt of Vigor.

Fescue has retrieved a Vicious Dagger.

On the rack: javelins, spears, glaives, halberds, scythes... no hammers.

Fescue examines the scroll found in the wizard's robes. The parchment is nothing but a long, long list of names under the title "Roll of Prisoners". Fescue's own name and those of his companions are near the bottom of the list, but there are hundreds of others. Dwarfish names, elven names, goblin names, halfling names... the majority of them have been scratched out with jagged lines, including a fresh mark over the name "Hieronymus Gustafsson". Judging from his place on the list, the cranky old bastard had been down here a long, long time.

Fescue's HP 20

I was speaking idiomatically.

Fescue's casual examination of the wizard's study turns up little of interest. It stands to reason that a mage powerful enough to corral the undead would have accrued several powerful items, but nothing more powerful than a stack of stultifying paperwork is in evidence.

The bookshelf is absolutely packed (save for a gap between How To Wander Aimlessly and How To Whittle), but none of the books seem particularly interesting.

Whatever enchantment may have lain in the wizard's staff has died with him, but a weak and flickering spark of magic yet remains in the wand. The power to occasionally make an painfully loud noise — is yours!

Rifling through the dead man's wardrobe turns up nothing but robe after robe after robe, all in the same unflattering gray. The man clearly had no sense of the sartorial.

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

Fescue rifles through the rest of the wizard's loose paperwork. Payroll, accounts receivable, outgoing payments, inventories, order forms. One sheet simply reads Mirtul 17th - DO NOT FORGET!!!

Bob flips the book open to a dogeared page.

How To Wander Aimlessly, pg. 7

but this simply isn't so! While many simply wander, true aimlessness comes only after a deep and subtle understanding of what it means to be without want. Aimless wandering is not for the weak. You will grow weak with hunger, but you must not seek dinner! You must bumble into the dinner, by happenstance. You may be in danger, but you must not flee in terror. You must escape death purely by a series of unlikely coincidences. This is not a life for the impatient.

The most famous perhaps of all aimless wanderers was Garlo Sand, who meandered pointlessly from one ludicrous incident to another for a period of over 40 years. His long career of avoiding accomplishment came to an abrupt and bloody end when he wandered directly over a cliff. This illustrates only one of the dozens of hazards that threaten a committed wanderer, and this fate befell Sand not in spite of his vast experience but as a direct result of it. You must be prepared to meet death at any time; seeking to avoid danger is a gross violation of the wanderer's code.

You must be prepared, as well, to cut all ties to your mundane life. Friends and loved ones rarely understand the call of wandering, and will try again and again to seek you out and drag you home. It goes without saying, but aimless wandering demands that you shed not only your own aims, but those of others! Once you've committed to aimlessness, it will be impossible to truly resist them. You must destroy these entanglements before you begin. While this period of divorce from ordinary life may be painful, you can persevere. You know that your calling is far more important than any ordinary life. This is your chance to become a creature of legend, without all the destruction and theft that accompany the life of an ordinary "hero". You can be a beacon to all the world that unnecess-

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This room is dark, but the multiple fires in the connecting room make the major features of the room dimly visible. The door opens onto a room of marble, with the sign of crossed hammers emblazoned onto the floor. Two crude statues of roughly dwarven proportions stand side to side, holding out empty bowls. The smells of mildew and rancid grease are barely perceptible.

M

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

The space in the bookshelf where a "How To" book is missing seems suspicious. Careful examination reveals a small round hole in the shelf, just large enough to fit a tightly-rolled parchment inside.

Jam it back in, in the dark.

With the benefit of Gabriel's low-light vision (and the sunrod still tangled in his beard) the room's details are much more visible. Both statues (carved of sandstone) are badly worn by the ravages of time. The southern figure is dotted with scorch marks, concentrated mainly in the bowl. The northern figure is badly stained in various pale yellows and greens, and spattered here and there with various damp-looking fungi.

With the benefit of the light, Fescue notices a discontinuity in the southern wall; a slab of the stone wall is actually just painted-over bricks, and the mortar around them still looks fresh.

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Reaching bare-handed into Scary Bob's old-fashioned literary barbecue, Fescue grabs several flaming volumes and hurriedly deposits them into the northern bowl. Bright light bursts from the bowl, and the flames bloom well beyond the size their fuel would afford them.

Dunking his filthy, soot-covered hands into the party's only source of drinking water, Fescue scoops up a handful and deposits it in the northern bowl. The same bright light bursts forth, and the water begins to roil violently.

The ringing of a gong sounds in the distance, and with a great rumble the brick portion of the wall slowly swings into the room. A long, dark corridor is opened, and a small humanoid, no taller than a halfling, stands astonished on the opposite side of the newly opened doorway. Covered in scales from the end of its snout to the tip of its wiry tail, the creature looks like nothing so much as a particularly ambitious and well-dressed iguana.

The creature stares at Fescue for a long moment, then flees down the hall at a sprint, yelping in terror. It disappears into the dark corridor, and moments later there is a distinct clank.

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

The scroll goes down into the circular hole and disappears from sight. A moment later, the faint ringing of a bell is heard below, and high-pitched voices begin chattering excitedly. This must be the same language that was written on the doors earlier — the words are unfamiliar, but thanks to the ritual you understand them perfectly. Most of the dialogue is an array of various epithets, but one phrase is repeated over and over in a dozen different voices — "The talking-hole has been compromised!"

As you listen to the panic below, the note shoots back up the tube, fluttering into the air. Written on the opposite side, in crudely-written Common:

du yu rily think yu haz a chans aginst uss, mister cow hurd?

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

You step in the gloomy hallway and trudge forward, squinting in the darkness. Just as your eyes begin to adjust, you stop dead in your tracks just as you're about to blunder directly through a wire strung across the hall. Peering down the hall, the glint of at least a dozen similar wires are revealed at various heights. They're probably not there to dry laundry on.

A faint light filters through a portcullis at the opposite end of the 40' hallway, and the silhouette of a rod or lever juts from the wall just in front of it. The lizard-midget stands behind the portcullis, giggling at you.

I was speaking idiomatically.

Bob's HP 14

Gabriel flings the mirror down the hall. It rips easily through the ragged tripwires, but more significantly it sets off the array of crossbows the tripwires are connected to. A dozen bolts come screaming down the hallway. Fescue flings himself to the floor reflexively as soon as the wires snap, but Bob catches two bolts in his chest.

11 damage, Bob's HP 3.

The little creature (which Bob finally identifies as a Kobold) yips disapprovingly and runs off, disappearing from sight.

M

650 XP for the puzzle and "defusing" the trap; 130 each

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

Bob's HP 13

Fescue pulls the lever, and the portcullis rises up into a recess in the ceiling. Beyond the doorway lies a cluttered room; statues of pike-wielding kobolds and large crates flank several raised panels on the floor. As Fescue enters the room, he spots the frightened kobold as it darts into a narrow gap under the southernmost statue and disappears below. The space is much too small for anything larger to enter, though, as long as the statue is blocking it.


M

FELIPE NO