[DnD] Magnum Innominandum (GFF D&D Adventure 7)

Confused by the strange (yet oddly appealing) sounds erupting from the robot man, the mouther promptly collapses into an immobile heap of its component parts. Whatever fell energy kept the abomination alive has been thwarted — by the power of funk.

Whatever those things had been, there don't seem to be any more of them; the unpleasant noises had come entirely to a stop. There was nothing but the utter silence of a dead town. Without greasy horrors breathing down their necks, there was time to investigate matters.

Victory!
Combat XP + 1 Achievement = 1828 XP, 365 XP each
Cal earns Achievement: Brave Sir Robin

There's nowhere I can't reach.

1 Die Roll Wabbit twacks?

Victory at last!

Having beaten back the abominations, Moo dismounts from his beloved steed, and hitches Denny back to the wagon. Sifting through the sludge heap that was once a gibbering mouther, the ranger scoops up some protoplasm, any lips, tongues, eyes, vocal cords, and a few dozen pieces of teeth. The biological specimens are promptly sealed in various flasks, and combined with some of his unneeded items, stored safely in the wagon.

Each component part in a different flask, naturally.
Inventory Reorganization:
Transfer to wagon: Gnoll fur cloak, Helga's tunic, 10 trail rations, mundane longbow
Take from wagon: 1 torch

Finally able to make a point of comparison, the ranger studies again the inhuman footprints. Did either the transformed villagers or mouthers make these tracks, or are there more enemies to fear? And while the four distinctly human tracks lead out of town, where are they headed? Freeport?

Knowledge Check: 16 + relevant skill mod. I'm guessing Nature (16+10=26) since it's kind of like a tracking skill. Feel free to correct me.

The midday sun was oppressive, and Moo felt the need to micturate. Politely excusing from his fellows, the ranger relieves himself on the eerie curtain, taking care to paint a coherent picture with strategic maneuvers and mid-stream gymnastics. Shaking off the last fulsome drops of amber liquid, Moo lets out a sigh of relief and stands back to admire his artwork

The utter desecration of the yellow sign thus complete, Moo pops his head into the surrounding buildings, searching for any survivors who can explain what just happened, and perhaps something extra perquisites for purging the village of the shuffling aberrations.

He certainly does not expect the ordinary peasant to have any magical loot, but perhaps even the mundane might prove useful. While still unsure what caused those monstrosities to manifest into the world, the ranger has a nagging feeling that the bard they are here to find has something to do with it. And he needs a little insurance to make sure any charismatic bard spells would be ineffective on him.

An old myth about some crazy human warlord named Odysseus and some mischievous female water genasi bards suddenly came to mind.

Look especially hard for any living ponies or horses I can "appropriate" for use. Denny needs company!
Secondary objective - look for beeswax or honey.
Tertiary objective - produce or hay for my horse.

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

Oh yeah, R&R time. After a hard 30 measly seconds of being just too funkalicious to handle, the robot needed to clean some nasty off him.

And why not whistle while you work?

Get the Flash Player to play this audio file:
Song of Rest.
Surges to full.

There was an odd red glow to the north-west. Robot curiosity got the better of him.

When he approached the house, he knew why!

THE DECK WAS MADE OF LAVA

Figure out what the fuck is up with House -H-11.

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

Gheth slumps next to the wagon, patting his wounds down with ammonia strained from places unmentionable, but feeling better now that he had a chance to rest.

Originally Posted by Gheth's adventuring notes, pg. 320

It took me a bit, but once I had recuperated enough to move, I went to the spot where the priest had fallen. It was pathos -- and also a morbid curiosity -- that motivated me to that place. There I kneeled, troubled at this turn of events. How to put closure on...this? The passing of a man, who could not in any sense be considered the same person he once was. An emulsifying puddle of unidentifiable pieces was all that remained, and within, like a dirtied yellow eye, lay the symbol the holy man had dropped.

What motivated me to take it, I know not. Some attempt at righting a cosmic injustice, perhaps. But I knew that it served a purpose in my keeping, rather than falling to dust over a nonexistant grave. I afforded the priest a silent prayer, and moved on.

O, Avandra.

You are beholden to change, but if only you could have forseen the suffering it wrought here.

Surge to full
Inspect holy symbol
Wax a little poetic
Follow Glock

I was speaking idiomatically.

Cal stows some of his gear in the wagon before taking a closer look at the tracks. There's nothing there that can't be explained by the unique anatomy of either the warped villagers or the gibbering beasts — if any other monsters are lurking in Hallowfeld, they've stayed off the streets.

As far as he can tell, the tracks leading out of town stick to the road; whoever left this mess behind them is heading almost exactly due west. Well, as exact as rural roadcutters ever are anyway. Cal ponders constructing a makeshift compass but thinks better of it. Other than scattered farmland or the occasional ruin, the nearest point of interest in that direction is the town of Lamid — a farming community of around 1,000.

Oddly enough, Cal experiences no ill effect from relieving himself on the yellow sign. If it was some obscure god's holy symbol, the god in question wasn't especially attentive. All the same, the "water" washes away some of the still-fresh paint and mars the sign's integrity. It's still unpleasant to look at, but it's as though it's been disarmed somehow.

Immediate needs being resolved, Cal pokes around the nearby houses and shops in search of any survivors but finds no-one. Despite the evidence of animal pens attached to several of the homes, Hallowfeld's livestock are entirely absent. But their troughs are still full, and Denny is soon enjoying fresh alfalfa. Surely no one would mind overmuch.

Without any beehives nearby, Cal joins Garrmondo in the general store. With the door wide open and the shopkeep either dead or in hiding, everything in stock was free for the taking — but that wasn't saying much. The simple folk of Hallowfeld hardly needed the broad range of goods that you'd find in the shops of Freeport, and this was reflected in the goods on offer: animal feed of a dozen types, farming implements... and a handful of overpriced imported goods, mostly liquors and fancy clothes. Still, if they wanted to take the time to pilfer everything they could still line their pockets a bit. The best Cal can manage in his search for wax is a half-empty box of candles. Honey was evidently beyond the aspirations of these poor folks.

Gheth knelt down by what was left of the priest, and gingerly scooped up the chain on which Avandra's symbol hung. The little round stone fairly leaps into his hand, the smooth etched lines of the Open Road providing a familiar comfort in the midst of the horror. The goddess knew what had happened here, and in time she would see fit to let him discover it for himself.

To discover it, and to stop it happening again.



Clutching the sign of the goddess in his fist, he follows the bard to the "suspicious" house in the south of town. His old friend had been seeing things again, perhaps: the wood of the veranda did bear a deep red stain, and it's true that varnish was unusual for such a rustic locale — but lava it was not. It was really nice wood, though. Gheth quietly admires the craftsmanship for a few moments, knowing that the carpenter was probably a local and more than likely a puddle of goo.

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

The robot continues to wonder why the wood was stained such a colour as it could be seen from low orbit, but dismisses it when his sixth sense picks up the vague hint of alcohol.

Jack all that pricey liquor

Glock takes a sniff and tries to deduce what sort of proof they are, and just how fucking shitfaced he's gonna get when it's party time.

FELIPE NO

Oboyoboyoboyoboy, an unattended shop! Never before has such an opportunity presented itself. Sure, there was once when young Moo raided a shop he thought was seemingly abandoned, trying to abscond with a few candies. Unfortunately, the rather harsh proprietress, an easy-to-miss halfling, caught him red-handed. The bare-backed tanning he endured at Conmara Provisions (which left an indelible palm print on his behind*), plus the missing pants taken as "punishment" (which he couldn't explain to Ma Cal), were almost enough to dissuade the changeling from a life of thievery.

Almost.

His perceptive eyes confirming no hidden halflings (other than the clever one playing in the muck outside), Moo felt confident that he could filch with impunity. His eyes bulge with delight at the virtual cornucopia of imported delights that's simply ripe for the taking. He steals a set of fancy clothes and -- as the warforged steps inside out of nowhere to appropriate all of the alcohol -- rescued a couple of expensive liquors from the thieving robot's grasp.

It is certainly puzzling that villagers who couldn't afford honey would somehow make it worth the storekeeper's while to keep some expensive liquor on stock. Oh well, if the ranger can't find some honey in the village to block off his ears from nefarious songs, he might be able to forage for some when the party inevitably heads west to the hick town of Lamid.

Take a set of fancy clothes, 2 bottles of liquor, and dry animal feed. Stow all but one bottle of liquor in wagon.

Strolling up to the dejected human fighter, who was still fretting about his inability to hurt anything during the last encounter, Moo fishes into his pack and takes out one of Gnasc's testicles. Holding the glimmering orb over the human's hand, the ranger hands it over to his friend.

"Cheer up, Car! Everyone can have a bad day! Here's a little pick-me-up, for situations when you can't afford to miss. Just rub this augmenting, uh... gnollstone

over your weapon, and you'll really see the difference!"

Give 1x augmenting whetstone to Garrmondo.

Finding nothing else of interest, Moo steps out to the street to catch sight of the clever halfling, who's inexplicably playing games with ol' Dexter in the mouthers' ichor. Having liberated Dexter from his previous owner, Moo obviously knows who the hand belonged to, but it's a story for another time. Grabbing Cordok by the shoulders, the minotaur shakes him vigorously until the gibbering protoplasm drips off from his wounds, allowing them to close and healing to begin.

Gordok surges to full.

It seems that any answers here can only be found at the manor overlooking the town. The ranger mounts Denny, sidles next to the morose cleric, and, eager to take shelter from the punishing noonday sun, points towards the southern mansion atop the hill as a logical point to begin their investigation of what the fuck just happened.

_____

* Funnily enough, the changeling's ability to craft magic items only came after this indelible mark started to glow a deep shade of turquoise. Perhaps he needs to track down ol' Conmara to thank her, after all!

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

1 Dice Roll *SUDDENLY, BOTTLES

Cal and the bard swiftly raid the general store's liquor stock, making off with:

1 bottle plum brandy
2 jugs cider
1 bottle gin
1 cask watered-down beer
1 bottle raisinjack
1 bottle rum
1 bottle whiskey
1 bottle rye whiskey
1 bottle sour mash
1 cask stout

Cal takes the brandy and the jack for himself, leaving the more bitter brews to the tender cares of Glock. After depositing one of the bottles (and the rest of his ill-gotten goods) in the wagon, he stops a moment to pick up the halfling and shake him violently. Nothing productive seems to happen as a result, but it's satisfying on a visceral level.

Jam it back in, in the dark.

3 Dice Rolls How long the hangover?

Moo is very happy with his ill-gotten gains. This brandy will surely quench his thirst - and since the warforged possesses an icy rod he fondly called "Curry", they have the ability to produce refrigerated spirits on demand.

Sweating profusely, Moo brings over the horse and wagon closer into the mansion, but stopping well short from the manor's front gates. With Gheth in tow, the ranger cautiously approaches the imposing front doors of the mansion. Aware that his unorthodox appearance might cause alarm to anyone who might be taking shelter inside, the changeling changes into a form that any villager would find comforting. Strolling into the ominous mansion doors, Callace ponders the skull-shaped knocker for a moment.

Shapeshift into Wallace Kohl, pre-tentacles.

Verily, I didst assume a guise that would comforteth the villagers of Hallowfield. I sense that any sought answers lie deep within the walls of Lasilaran's manor. Hence, I taketh the knocker most large, and vigorously didst slammeth it against the door.

With my ringing bass, I hereby shoutheth at maximum lung power:

"BEHOLD, I STAND AT THE DOOR, AND KNOCK: IF ANY MAN HEAR MY VOICE, AND OPEN THE DOOR, I WILL COME IN TO HIM, AND WILL SUP WITH HIM, AND HE WITH ME!"

But all the same, Avandra helpeth those who helpeth themselves, so I steeleth myself for anything hostile. With yon Dragonborn battle cleric of Avandra by my side, who wouldst I fear?

Retreat 5 steps, ready Twin-Strike against anything aberrant.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

Gordok manages to finally rid himself of the acid and flings himself into the muck and grime left behind from the carnage moments ago. He must have his filth back.

Mum had always been rather strict on Gordy being covered proper and would share her excess if she had the slightest inclination that a spot was not right on her little shortstuff. The jeers and prods of the children having recognized such a motherly stink drove the halfling to always figure out how to become completely foul and dusty as quickly as possible.

Dexter G gives him a couple tosses of dirt here and there conditioning and patching new layers to cover up any unsightly baby-soft skin. Making mud angels Gordok thought of home for a moment before grabbing Dexter and tossing him in the air for fun. Mum would have loved his little buddy.

surge to full

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

Cal knocks at the front door of the mansion on the hill, shouting to anyone who might be hiding within. Nobody comes to answer the door, but Cal spots a young girl of perhaps 16 looking down from a second-floor window. She glances down and spots "Kohl" evidently trying to break into the house, whereupon she issues a terrified scream and vanishes from the window.

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

1 Die Roll di-plo-ma-cy

Proceeding up to help the coward, Glock hollers to the girl.

"Hey baby, don't be scared! Your big powerful robot defender is here! Come on out, eh?"

Diplomacy!

I was speaking idiomatically.

1 Die Roll Aid Diplomacy, amen.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Avandra art with me. His rod and staff, they comfort me!

Child, be ye of good faith. You are safe now. Are you not hungry or thirsty? Come, join us as we give grace to Kind Pelor, blessed Avandra, and noble Bahamut."

The child is clearly shaken. So while I try to comfort her with words, I also holdeth up the bottle of brandy, offering to soothe her nerves with it.

Aid Glock's Diplomacy check. 5 + 5 = 10.

Verily did I briefly entertain requesting the aid of yon cleric and warforged to boost me into the second storey window. Upon reflection, I decide that such a brash course of action is counterproductive. Easier it will, and less painful as well, for us to go through the front door.

Test door to see if locked.

Most amazing jew boots

The girl pops the window open and leans out, confusion lining her features.

"Um, Avandra is a lady, thank you very much. You're clearly not any kind of priest, so stop pretending. You're bad at it."

Thanks to Cal's weak grasp on theology, the girl's abject fear of him vanishes — he's obviously not the priest he inexplicably decided to mimic. All the same, she just slams the window shut again and retreats back to wherever she was hiding.

Cal tries the door: unlocked. Ostensibly poor planning on the girl's part, but then it's not especially likely that the mutated villagers remembered how to open doors.

FELIPE NO

Unwilling to give Cal a chance to be the initiator of some surprise sex and organ harvesting (he's not entirely certain on the order of his priorities, but it's best to be on the safe side), Glock shuffles in ahead of him, (but stays behind the fighter apparently).

Calling out "Don't worry miss, this man is too cowardly and stupid to be threat to anything that's not a treasure chest, a cupboard of silverware, or a drawer full of pants."

"Look, your town be all right fucked up in here. You know anything about a playwright?"

How ya doing, buddy?

Yon whelpling has seen through mine guise. 'Tis embarrassing, especially to a changeling. Often had I thought Avandra is a man, for clearly male deities are superior to female ones. For is it not written in the Scriptures, that a Woman is called such, because she was taken out of man?

Indeed, the deity I worship, the Traveler, is far superior to any old Avandra - similar their teachings may be.

My compatriots can handle the girl. Mine belly rumbles for sustenance, thus do I seek a place to eat and enjoy my brandy. If she's hale and healthy, then rest assured no surprises wouldst be encountering us in the manor.

Investigate kitchen for clues. Clues like delicious steak and cheeses. Look hard for honey and/or beeswax. Oh, and fine silverware/china's great too!

Jam it back in, in the dark.

The girl sits at the top of a stairwell, nursing a half-empty bottle of wine and glowering down at the bard.

"My town? No no no no no. My town is doing great. Welcome to Maeganville, Population Six. I'm the mayor! Who wants to be the sheriff? You there —"

She points at Garrmondo, a little unsteadily.

"You're the sheriff. And you with the funny hat, you're his deputy. We are forming a GOVERNMENT! This is SERIOUS BUSINESS! And you, you can be the new justice of the peace, since it's like being a preacher but not quite. That seems to be about your speed.

We'll also need a new village idiot. He was the first to go. Kind of sad, it was."

Maegan seems to sink into deep thought for a long moment, rubbing her chin as though pondering a universal truth.

"The playwright! Yes. Sophia went thataway.."

She points in a roughly western direction, although she can't quite keep her arm steady.

"Everybody liked her, you know? Great lady. Great. Then a year or so ago she just stopped comin' out of her house. My house, now. My house. It's a good house, really. Got to clean it up a bit. She left such a mess! Anyways —"

She polishes off the bottle, letting it roll empty down the stairs before reaching into the darkness for a new one.

"So about two weeks ago, it was, she sends out that she's got this great new play! She don't come out of the house, mind you, she sends one of her weird little friends to post the bill. Nobody saw those guys move in, you know? Just one day there's three new people in town and they all live at Sophia's place. So we're pretty excited, we'd all figured she was pretty much retired or else why would she move to some backwater like this in the first place, right?

Anyways I don't know what happened there on stage, exactly. It's just the four of them up there, Sophia and her weird friends with these creepy masks on. I couldn't really follow the story, tell you the truth, so I step away to visit the privy — and well, when I got back everybody was melting into puddles and screaming their fool heads off. Didn't like it one bit, no sir. Anyways I hid in the attic for a while there but I reckon this is my house now so I'll go where I please. I don't expect Sophie's ever comin' back from wherever she went.

You guys can take a powder here if you want to, bein' the heroes of the day an' all. Just don't steal nothin'. This is the mayor's house now, an' I wouldn't want to have to sic the sheriff on you!"

Maegan grins, awkwardly getting to her feet and staggering back into the darkness upstairs.

Cal pokes around the mansion until he finds the kitchen — or what passes for the kitchen, anyway. It's obvious nothing has been cooked here for months. Everything is coated in dust, and the only signs of any food whatsoever are a few loaves of extremely stale bread in the pantry. Sophia evidently took her meals elsewhere. Cal's inexplicable yen for honey goes unsatisfied.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

1 Die Roll Art thou inebriated or insane?

Verily, I hath examined the kitchen, and found it wanting, but for a few loaves of bread. Well, in the sweat of mine face shalt I eat bread, til I return unto the ground; for out of it wast I taken; for dust I art, and unto dust shalt I return.

Though not for a good number of years, I pray.

The stale bread was not to my liking, although I console myself with fine silverware and china that's surely here. Stowing the utensils in my pack, I search ever more fervently for food. Surely in her time here, Sophia must have eaten somewhere? She was still human, wasn't she?

Steal fine silverware and china.
Look for food and wine in any kind of dining room, basement, and bedroom.
Stay away from girl, let the sheriff and deputy mayor deal with her

I hath caught brief snatches of Maegan's babble. I can't help but wonder, hath she been driven insane, or was it just the wine talking? If it were the former, then I suspect yon warforged wouldst findeth a use of his chains, sooner than he expects...

Umm, not sure again, perception or insight. Probably perception (before Pang inevitably corrects me).

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

Try as he might, Cal finds no targets for his larceny. The silverware drawers are empty, and the plates are simple ceramic affairs. The playwright seemed to lack for much in the way of ostentation, considering her large and conspicuous home. Cal stuffs the stale bread in his pack and cases the rest of the house.

Proceeding to the dining hall, Cal finds a wine rack — but it's empty, and emptied quite recently judging from the fresh streaks in the thick dust. There's still no sign of anyone eating in this room, but there are footprints in the dust atop the dining table as well as a single chair standing in the middle of the table as though it were a bizarre centerpiece.

Next, Cal checks for bedrooms, finding four in the manor. Three of them are spartan affairs, bearing the same untouched look as the rest of the house — save for the beds, all of which appear recently used. Whoever Sophia's actors were, they weren't much for tidying up after themselves. The master bedroom is significantly more interesting: it's scattered with props from Lasilaran's earlier plays. The long black veil from The Silent Stranger, the paladin's armor from Cuthbert's Widow: Cal is hardly a major patron of the theatre, but it's hard to pass up the opportunity for an occasional free show when you can impersonate the stagehands with little more than a thought.

Other than the props, the room is dominated by an excessively large bed (unmade, like the others) and a bulky writing desk. Stacks and stacks of scrolls and loose papers are scattered all over the surface of the desk.

Putting that aside for a moment, Cal heads downstairs to the basement and promptly discovers where the household's food was stored. Great stacks of rice sacks lay heaped in a corner next a large bucket full of tepid water. A single torch is mounted in a bracket on the wall, burning brightly as though it were just lit. Beneath the torch sits an overstuffed armchair, next to which stands a small occasional table containing a half-finished bowl of rice and a hefty-looking tome left open to a page somewhere near the end. Even from across the room, Cal spots the fine gilt edges and the high-quality binding. It seems like such a nice book.

Setting aside the unusually attractive book for a moment, Cal heads back upstairs to report his findings. He's troubled by the ravings of the peasant girl; she seems more than a little unhinged. But then who wouldn't be, in her shoes? Left to her own devices, she would probably starve to death — provided the wine didn't kill her first. Cal wasn't too enthused about the idea of dragging dead weight along when he could use that space in the wagon to store interesting rocks and carcasses, though. The matter would bear some consideration.

Meanwhile, across town, Gheth continues to stare at that one house. It really was a nice varnish. He could admire it for hours.

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

1 Die Roll Arcana dat book

Glock checks to see if there is some sort of attic the chair on a table was meant to give access to.

People hiding and shit. Maybe took some food up there. Fruit snacks would be good. Haven't had a fruit snack in a little bit.

It wasn't long before that intolerable shapething came back, no doubt hiding vast quantities of pencils and other useless junk in it's rectum.

When he came waddling back suspiciously, he did mention a book. Glock likes books. Let's go find that book.

Go find that book
Look at dat book
Wonder about dat book
DEDUCE about dat book


Most amazing jew boots

As always, Gheth's propensity for remaining low-key had allowed him to take a more leisurely look at their surroundings. But now, to work! Sure, varnish was good and all, but who could be immaculately absorbed in the detailing on that deck when there was do-gooding to do!

Gheth sidelines the girl, hoping to glean more information from her as to where they should be looking.

"Excuse me, little gi- mayor. Since that play, have you heard any noises coming from a certain part of town, or seen any odd creatures coming from a specific place? Perhaps a cove or grotto somewhere nearby?"

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

This is far too comfortable. Soon enough Gordok falls asleep in the mud. Dexter G strolls back and forth for a while looking pensive but before long he too flops down in the mud to rest. What a great town.

FELIPE NO

1 Die Roll Take that, bed!

Forsooth. Perhaps I misjudged the poet. Despite her excessively large house, everything here simply indicates austerity.

Going by her bedroom, I espied stacks upon stacks of scrolls and paper. Might there not be any usable ritual scrolls among these?

Take scrolls and paper. Here's hoping I get a free 50-gp ritual book.
Are there drawers in this desk?

Her excessively-large bed intrigues me. It must hide something mysterious, to be so excessively large. I investigate the mystery by carefully attacking it excessively.

Rip 'er open! Careful Attack on bed with sword.

But oh, the basement was where Sophia had kept her food. I am intrigued at the stacks of little white worms, and with great effort and risking my lumbago and a hernia dragged two back to my wagon.

Two sacks of rice to wagon, please.

Returning to the basement, I espied a handsome everburning torch mounted on the wall. Was it not the holy book that admonishes us to let our light so shine before men, that they may see our good works, and glorify the Traveler who is in the plane above? If so, it would be a sin to let such a bright light remain here.

Let's steal that torch.

I thought I've found something valuable at last. Alas, I was too late. Already the bullying warforged is all over the beautiful tome, caressing it as he would a lover. But perhaps the manor has a library which holds more of these handcrafted things. Thus doeth I go out in search of it.

Go to library and look for shiny things.


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

Glock hustles to the dining hall, suspicious of the chair atop the table there. Perhaps it was a clue to a secret passage! But in the end he discovers nothing and very nearly goes ass-over-teakettle trying to get his bulk atop the chair in the first place. It must have been put there for some less obvious reason.

That avenue of inquiry exhausted, Glock heads down to the basement to investigate the suspicious book. Immediately he understands why the changeling had been so taken in by it; it was surely the finest book he had ever seen. The binding is some kind of odd leather, and the symbol he'd seen outside on the curtain is inlaid in gold on the tome's front cover underneath a single word: "Carcosa". The book is massive, easily 500 pages or more: it would take days to read through the entire thing if he had a mind to. Not that he could, since a cursory examination of the first few pages reveals the book to be written entirely in some ancient dialect of Common that he can barely parse. It's all "thees" and "thous" and the occasional "ye" and beyond that he's lost. A few common words pop up in block capitals here and there: CARCOSA, HASTUR, HARBINGER, KING. Flicking through some more pages, Glock finds the book has a few illustrations:

pg. 56: a blank, featureless mask like the Comedy and Tragedy masks of classic theatre, but this mask's expression is utterly neutral.

pg. 149: A figure in flowing robes reclining on a throne. The robes are so voluminous that not even the hands or face of the robed figure can be seen.

pg. 376: a cluster of tall, narrow structures not unlike termite mounds. Tiny humanoid figures are shown flinging themselves from the tops of the structures, while figures standing on the ground are clutching at their ears.

pg. 445: The robed figure from page 149 is shown reaching through an archway, where he has grasped the arm of a man wearing one of the masks from page 56.

The book seems completely useless, but Glock can't shake the notion that he should do whatever he has to do in order to understand it. He should probably read the whole thing as soon as he possibly can. It's so interesting!

Meanwhile, Gheth and Garrmondo see to Maegan, inquiring as to a possible origin point for the strange forces that had wrecked the village.

"Noises? Hell, the poor bastards never shut up until you lot showed up. Hissing and screeching and gobbling like a clutch of hens, all damned day. If there was anything else to hear, I wouldn't have been able to make it out over all the racket.

As for your coves and grottos, nah. We're 50 miles inland, you silly! You want some water, get it out of the well like everybody else. And by everybody I mean, uh, me."

That matter settled, she promptly passes out again.

Gordok falls asleep in the mud It would certainly be tragic if he were to choke on the mud. If he were to choke and die. Or if a huge rock were to fall on him from the sky. That would be unfortunate.

Cal rifles through Sophia's papers indiscriminately, looking for nothing in particular. So far as he can tell, it's mostly a bunch of rough drafts from various plays. Maybe Sophia held on to them for reference, maybe she was paranoid about her work being stolen from the garbage and plagiarized — maybe she was just a packrat. Other than the reams and reams of abortive dialogue and stage direction, Cal finds one item of potential interest: an official census document for Hallowfeld, dated to two weeks ago. All 63 of Hallowfeld's former inhabitants are listed, and someone has scratched in check marks next to each name. On the bottom of the census tally, someone has added: "Likely not enough. No backing out now. How many eyes? Lamid?"

You can't just "take" a disorganized heap of papers. Are you just going to wad them all up?

Shrugging, Cal hacks open Sophia's mattress. Valuable chicken feathers are revealed!

His investigations stymied again, Cal resorts to his specialty: petty theft. Swiping the everburning torch from its sconce even as Glock attempts to comprehend the book, Cal stuffs it in his pack and stumbles out of the basement in the dark.

Finally, Cal wanders into Sophia's private library in search of more such rare and valuable tomes. Alas, nothing immediately catches his eye like the Carcosa tome had. Still, a few of the older-looking books might be worth something to collectors if he can get them back to Freeport in one piece.

Ecology Of The Gnoll: A Study In Three Parts, Vol. 2
Whitecleaver's Lexicon of Dwarven Curses
The Life Of Bombastus Hamfist, As Told By Himself
The Monster At The End Of This Book
Poore Xandowel's Almanack


That's it in terms of rooms with anything interesting in them, just so as you don't sit here for weeks checking the Solarium and the Veranda and the Clock Tower

Most amazing jew boots

Glock's put up with a lot from this Shapeshitter.

But this is the final straw.

Here he was. Spending time with his new best friend, Betsy the book. Things were just about to get nice and intimate when this asshole shows up and jacks the light.

Glock stows the book, stands up and goes upstairs. He also finds the chair from the table-chair shenanigans. He takes it.

He then finds Cal.



There's nowhere I can't reach.