[DnD] The Haunting of Hargast (GFF D&D Adventure 3)

1 Die Roll DOES HE DO IT

GABRIEL HITS THE ARMOR WITH HIS AXE

EDIT: HE MISSES

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

1 Die Roll invisibility recharge

Tired of waiting for Gabriel to fucking do something, Motsognir body-checks the paladin into the last of the armors. The homunculus staggers into the wall and collapses into a heap.

'sup artistic license

Deprived of his guardians the jarbrain does the only thing it can, charging forward in maniacal desperation.

"You'll never take me alive! Primarily because my existence is an obscene parody of living, at best!"

Motsognir, Bob, Argumentus, Garrmondo, Gabriel, Brain in a Jar

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2 Dice Rolls *i assume that hit

Cocky after pushing around the other dwarf, Motsognir strolls over to the brain and tries to kill it.

Bloody Ending

I was speaking idiomatically.

Fed up with the brain's yammering, Soggy swiftly puts his axe through the jar. It smashes into dozens of shards, and the brain splatters unceremoniously onto the floor. The puddle of vile slime spreads over the stones and the brain wriggles pathetically, babbling out telepathic nonsense in its death throes.

Bloody Ending: 20 damage to Brain (destroyed)

Victory! 775 XP (155 XP each)

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

Garrmondo finds strange, faceted chunks of amber inside each of the armor's helmets. Whether these were just decoration or had some purpose in animating the things, he couldn't say — but he could say "How much for these weird rocks, shopkeep?"

And in the end, certain kinds of linguistics are much more useful.

4 chunks amber worth 100 GP each

How ya doing, buddy?

Motsognir moves on to the room from whence came the brain, hoping to pocket something valuable before anyone follows.

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

Argumentus sits for a spell.

Rest and heal to full hp

Jam it back in, in the dark.

stay passed out on floor and rest

There's nowhere I can't reach.

1 Die Roll perception

While the majority of the party comically slumps to the floor as though greatly wounded, Motsognir trots back to the room the brain had been residing in. With the occupants removed, the hall was practically bare save for the little pedestal the brain had been resting on. Still, Soggy takes a good look around just in case he can scratch up a coin or two. But there's nothing to be found.

At the very least, Soggy discovers the source of the moaning — and in the process discovers what's behind the portcullis. A mob of zombies is pressed up against the bars, reaching feebly at the dwarf as he stands irritated several yards away.

Arg wasn't even hurt at all. Gabe/Garrmondo burn a surge and heal to full.

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I stopped to catch my breath, before joining the dwarf in the other room to have a nose about, hoping that my keen eyes might catch something he'd not noticed.

Surge up to full hp

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

Argumentus spots the horde on the other side of the gate and begins searching for a cask or flagon of Ye Olde Flammables in the previously explored parts of the dungeon.

I was speaking idiomatically.

1 Die Roll perception

Bob takes a good long look around the brain room, this time unfettered by the distraction of internal organs flying at his face. Indeed, in short order he spots something the dwarf had overlooked. What seemed at first like a simple metal band set into the top of the pedestal is actually a dented iron crown, driven halfway into the marble block with great force.



Beyond this, nothing seems suspicious in the room, and if any mechanism controls the portcullis it's not apparent. Zombies aside, doors lead north and south.

Argumentus retraces his steps in search of volatile flammables, but finds nothing particularly useful. If only there was some way he could purchase a vial of chemicals which would erupt in a fiery explosion when broken, and carry said vial around with him for situations just such as this. Such a vial would only cost 20 GP at most reputable retailers (in theory).

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

The dwarf rubbed his sore shoulder and stumbled into the back of Argumentus. Looking up at the horde of zombies he chuckled.

"Look. Brigid is back, and she brought only her closest relatives with her.

He chuckled.

"What? Too soon?"

FELIPE NO

Since losing the last hat, Argumentus felt practically naked. With a new crown, however, he'd look proper city-like.

Take and equip the Helm
Pass any feats of strength necessary to wrest it from the marble

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

I wasn't really too keen on wasting any more energy before we fought the vampire but it occured to me that there might be some handy magic loot lying around in this crypt somewhere that'd help us defeat the creature.

I amused myself blasting apart the zombies with a series of fireballs through the grate until they were no more than charred flesh paste.

The legions of the undead defeated once again, I went and listened at first the northern door then the southern, checking each for traps as I was there.

Jam it back in, in the dark.

1 Die Roll trap checkin'

Smashing away with his pick, Argumentus promptly frees the crown from its predicament, noting an engraved message in the metal before fitting it onto his head.

Who so pulleth out this crowne of this stone and pedestal is rightwise champion of the first annual Hargast harvest festival. Present this crowne at Barnaby's Tap Room for a complimentary pint (Limit one per visit).

Arg's new position as Harvest Champion does nothing to earn the zombies' respect. Never one to refuse an opportunity to cause mayhem without risk to himself, Bob patiently incinerates the deaders one after the other. It takes a good fifteen minutes before they've all been properly de-animated, and Bob begins to get a cramp in his hand from casting the same spell over and over. Still, it's worth it, since the zombies might have valuable treasure — which is trapped under a heap of smoldering corpses on the other side of an impassable gate.

Hmm.

Nope, not giving you any XP for that. And no, you can't fling around corpses with Mage Hand

Listening at the north door, Bob hears two voices in the midst of a conversation.

"—said they'd be here any minute!", a woman shouts, her voice rasping and irritated. "That was two days ago!"

"Well, that was just an estimate." The response is a calm, clipped baritone, slightly muffled. "How was I to know they'd stop to make friends and take naps? I'm not any happier about it than you are, but we have to bide our time."

"Bide all you want, Martin", the woman growls. "But as for me, I'm getting thirsty and poor Gareth's not exactly a fresh bottle of wine anymore."

A series of pained, awkward grunts follows, like a bear trying to free its leg from a trap.

"Gareth. Gareth. No, honey. You can't hug old Hargastus. He's a ghost. Nothing to hug there. You'll just hurt yourself. Whoa whoa whoa, you can't hug me either. No hugs period, okay? New rule. No hugs. That's a good boy."

The staccato tapping Bob heard at a previous door resumes, and the baritone voice lets out a deep sigh.

"Slowest. Adventurers. Ever."

Bob tiptoes away to the south door and listens there as well, but hears nothing. He gives both door another once-over for traps, and finds nothing suspicious.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

"Adventures? That us! "

Argumentus charges the door and puts his shoulder into it, readying his shield in case he gets any hugs.

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

The dwarf noticed the big man ready himself and immediately moved to stand defensive at the opening the fighter would no doubt create in the door way.

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

I marvelled at how much of the crypt seemed to extend past the room with what I had assumed was the boss in it. This flew in the face of dungeon crafting conventions after all. During my university years I had studied extensively the art of dungeon design, specialising in the work of those practitioners from the far east, most of whom would build a dungeon with an obvious "Right way" to go with a few side routes which led to extra monsters but also additional loot, with the correct path leading to a big door with no other ways to go and probably a place for a quick nap just before you fight the head honcho.

While I was considering this oddity and wondering if we hadn't missed some other way into the dungeon and realising that it had a front entrance in the graveyard and suspecting that we were now heading for that entrance rather prematurely and we could worry ourselves with these guys after killing the vampire, the big guy smashed his way through the northern door.

I prepared for combat.

I was speaking idiomatically.

Argumentus barrels through easily, smashing the iron door aside in his eagerness. In his haste, he very nearly charges into one of the room's several occupants. Compared to the rather sparse decoration in the rest of the crypt, this chamber is practically luxuriant (by vampire standards; it's still stone walls and spattered blood, naturally). Huge tapestries hang on the far wall, depicting scenes of gory combat. Nearby, statues of armored figures flank an oversized sarcophagus. Several smaller sarcophagi stand upright near the south entrance.

Dominating the center of the room is a large raised dais, with steps on all four sides. An elaborate metal framework holds aloft a silver bowl. It's hard to see what the bowl's contents might be while standing on the floor, but judging by the local residents it's probably something unpleasant. Two wrought-iron figures in the shape of little dragons stand to the left and right of the platform.

Argumentus skids to a halt just in front of a robed figure standing between himself and the dais. Clad in black monk's robes, the man's face is hidden behind a golden mask.

To Argumentus' left stand two sorry figures. A drooling, muscular walking corpse clad in overalls stares vacantly at Argumentus, occasionally poking at the exposed brains poking through the gaps in his smashed-in skull. The stench wafting off the deader is indescribable. A few feet away stands a nervous, twitching woman, her face and clothes spattered with blood. As she lays eyes on Argumentus, her face brightens considerably and she reaches for the crossbow strapped to her thigh.

"Ooh, now there's the house claret now. Let me take the cork out, Martin? Please?"

"Patience, Lissa" the man in the mask admonishes. "He might just be here to parley. We must be civilized, or we are little better than your poor husband. Remember how he ended up."

Lissa's face curls in revulsion, and she takes another few steps away from the heap of rotting meat that her husband has become.

The expressionless mask turns to Argumentus, and in a lightning-quick movement Martin suddenly has a vicious-looking spiked mace dangling from his right hand.

"How about it, ox? Would you care to talk this out, or should we skip right to dinner?"

At this, the flickering ethereal form of an emaciated old man in tattered robes appears out of the east wall, muttering incoherently and giggling at nothing from moment to moment.

"And please, do mind your words. The ancient one takes offense rather easily."

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

1 Die Roll Skill

The fight hadn't started quite as quickly as I had expected so I peered over the big guy's shoulder, hoping that some of my extensive training could be of any use in this situation.

Skill check for religion, insight or perception, whichever is most relevant.

How ya doing, buddy?

"Um, yeah. Talk good."

...

"Who you is?"

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

Noticing that the slope had yet to smash anything, Motsognir ran forward, bursting through the human's legs in the hope he hadn't yet arranged a cage-fight. Looking at the new room, he addressed the masked one, "Hey, buddy, I don't want to be a downer or anything but the last party like this I went to didn't end that well."

how the fuck does Motsognir have the highest diplomacy skill in this group

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"Who am I? I was called Martin von Versteckt by my parents, but that was some decades ago. I have little use for names in my present line of work. Not a great deal of written correspondence to do. My companions here are the ever-so-gullible Gareth Giraud and his lovely wife Melissa. Or should I say ex-wife. Widow, perhaps? It's a bit negotiable I suppose. They buried her alive, the superstitious rubes.

You may also have noticed the babbling, incoherent presence of the Lord Protector Ethelred Hargastus, what little remains of him. He'd been down here a good 500 years with nothing but the stones to keep him company until I made myself at home.

As you you, sir dwarf, I think you'll agree that my idea of a good party is most likely quite divergent from your own.

Gentlemen, I have it on good authority from the late Mr. Giraud that you are almost certainly motivated in your incursion by a desire for some trifling bit of real estate, of all things. That's the best they could offer you? And you agreed? Your halfling friend was killed in the pursuit of four tenths of an acre. What was her plan, canary ranching?

Now, gentlemen, I suggest you either beat a hasty retreat or explain to the widow Giraud in very compelling terms why she should not wring out your blood like a sponge."

Bob sticks his head out the door, taking in any small details that might help him keep his neck un-punctured. For starters, the masked man is wearing a golden icon on a chain around his neck; it's the three-taloned claw of Bane, evil god of conquest. Furthermore, those dragon "statues" aren't; Bob can faintly hear the sound of gears grinding within the small reptilian forms.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

Realising that this might be my best chance yet to learn something of the necromantic arts from someone who was clearly rather good at it, I seized the opportunity to ask some questions.

I addressed the man in the mask.

"A field you say? Oh no, that was never our intention in coming here. Far from it in fact.

I had heard that someone in the area was reanimating large numbers of corpses and being something of a reanimagus myself, I thought I'd pop in and say hello, maybe exchange a few trade secrets and that. There was no malice in our venture, simply professional curtesy.

I see now that not only are you clearly a powerful necromancer, you seem to have quite successfully enthralled this poor woman and a ghost. That's no mean feat, believe me I've tried it. It was me who raised this lot and they barely pay me any attention at all, I'd love to know how it is that you're exacting such control over the lady.

And I must say, those are marvellous mechanical dragons. I used to have one myself you know, not a dragon like those, mine was a sheep, an old family heirloom. Sadly I had to sell it but the man I sold it to was very complimentary of it, said it was the first time he'd ever seen a mechanical sheep with a flame breath function. I heard there was a large fire in the district just days later but I'm sure it was just coincidence. After all, I gave him the activation words and everything.

Anyway, I digress. Lovely setup you have here. Nice altar, I'm sure Bane is very pleased with you and we all know he's not someone you want to upset eh?"

I suspected that the only lesson I was about to get in either necromancy or mental domination was a practical demonstration but as my nurse maid had always said, if you don't ask, you don't get and if nothing else, hopefully the man would be distracted enough by our conversation for the Horde to sidle into some tactically advantageous positions.

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