Total length: 23421 words / 100 minute read.
There have been 97 messages posted over 107 days since the first post on July 13, 2022 for a daily post rate of .90.
This is a game that me and the kids in the basement are playing over email.
You can read from the beginning, or jump into the current story arc.
If you’re not on the mailing list and want to keep up with the story, you can subscribe to the rss feed.
Bio
They call me Corraidhín, and while my wisened age may seem an impediment to our expedition I assure you I make up for it with my sharp wit and intellect! By trade I am a scholar, master of the histories of this realm, and a dabbler in the arcane and mystic arts.
I believe my skills naturally lend themselves to this expedition. I’m certain you’ll need someone to elucidate upon the history of these artifacts, and should trouble come our way I’m ready at hand with spells a plenty. I’m not the best with a sword, but can hold my own with a bow staff, but it may be best to leave the fighting up to you younguns. If we encounter arcane ruins or cryptic texts you’ll find my skills just as useful as the finest blade in battle.
I think with my share of the reward I’ll buy more books. Lots and lots of books, a whole library of books! And then I’ll start a library, yes that sounds delightful. And maybe one of those books will have some information on ridding me of that accursed demon, but that’s another story entirely.
Paths:
Bio
I am Glarg, an earth elemental who was conjured by a wizard who was immediately beheaded after summoning me. By some freak accident I was not sent back home to the earth elemental plane when the spell should have ended. While I have learned the common tonge in my time on this plane, I have not developed the ability to speak it, because I have no mouth. I’m a very gentle soul who is misunderstood because of my hard, cold exterior.
I’m pretty durable and good with rocks.
With my share of the money, I plan to hire a mage to send me home, or turn everyone else into earth elementals.
Bio
Inkulos Iridis greets you merrily! Some call me Inky the Tiny because of my slight size (perfectly average for imps, I assure you!) and a fondness for ink.
I may be small and nowhere as battle-hardened as knights in shining armour, but I can skip out of a monster’s grasp before you can say “scram!”, slip through the cracks (often unseen), scout for useful items, and brew all kinds of ink with special effects for discerning drinkers.
What do you plan to do with your cut of the money? Buy lots of ink ingredients, of course! With the money, the very first ink patio with the best paper nibbles will be opening to serve all from far and wide very soon!
Paths:
Bio
A broad-chested, olive skinned human finishes a pint of ale with a long swig. He greets the group with a merry-looking smile, though it doesn’t seem to touch his eyes. He seems a touch distracted, as if something else is on his mind. A feeling of lingering sadness touches his aura.
“Greetings, my friends! My name is Jarrod. And this here …” he taps a heavy warhammer leaning against the back of his chair “… is Gertrude. When it comes to danger, consider us your shield. I will blunt what dangers may come from ahead and protect those who shelter behind. I’m more than good in a fight, specializing in up-close battles and …” he gives a small smirk “… alternative forms of negotiations.”
He leans over and places his elbows on the table, tenting his fingers and leaning in with his chin touching them as he continues. A thin leather cord adorned with small charms carved from bone is draped around his left wrist.
“Other than that, I’m willing to take on cooking chores and spin the occasional tale around a campfire. My cut of the money goes towards opening my own tavern when I retire.”
Paths:
Bio
I’m “Sneaky” Willows (nobody knows my actual name), an elvish pickpocket with a love for sneakin’, stabbin’ and music playin’! Some people say I’m no good at music playin’, but then I go sneakin’ and stabbin’ em!
On this team I think I’m gonna be good at sneakin’ up to those crystals and grabbin’ em right from under the guard’s noses!
With my money I’m plannin’ to hire a bard to teach me more music, so I can really impress people with my playin’ and maybe not even have to stab them!
Bio
Who: Teefoon Filler of the Bucket, Knight of the 3rd order of Balmarlovemeer, Crester of the Golden-Fringed Ridge and 2nd to the Keeper of the Grimoire Glorious. You may call me “Tea.” (Tea is, notably, a giant. ~11ft tall).
What: Retired Cleric turned Archeologist.
Cash: A sturdy wagon and 5 head of oxen to pull it. I wish to travel further than my legs can take me.
Welcome to Basement Quest!
We’re gonna play this by ear, and cross each bridge only when we get to it.
Safety: Practice safe roleplaying.
Cadence: I’ll move the story along roughly once a week. Hopefully that gives everybody time to post something and participate.
Open Table / Inclusion over realism: If you disappear for a while and then come back, your character will immediately reappear as though they’ve been there the whole time. Come and go as you please. Open door policy! Drop in and drop out as you please.
Linearity: Respond only to the most recent email in the thread. (We might play around with time later, but for now, let’s keep it simple.)
Shoes in the Dark:
https://dozens.itch.io/shoes-in-the-dark
To do something, say that you do it, and then it probably happens!
If there is a risk, or chance of failure, we’ll roll dice to determine the outcome. We’ll use a variation of “Roll for Shoes” because it’s probably the most simple system there is. Everybody will start out pretty even skills wise. But you will eventually get really good at really specific things.
Everybody starts with one skill: Do anything 1
So to attempt to do anything, roll 1d6.
If you roll all sixes, you gain a new +1 skill which must be a subset of the skill you just used.
Example:
Player: I kick down the door. I’ll roll Do Anything (1) aaaand, that’s a six!”
Referee: You now have “Kicking Down Doors 2”
Later….
Player: I bust down the door with a flying kick! I’ll roll Kicking Down Doors 2 aaaand, two sixes!
Referee: You now have “Doorbane 3”
Player: Siiiick, doors fear me.
Every time you fail a roll, you gain 1 xp.
You can spend xp to turn any die into a six for the purpose of advancement.
Templates are skills and abilities, organized into paths, that players can discover and unlock through play as their characters learn and discover more about the world.
They are the lambda calculus answer to “classes” in traditional ttrpgs: a kind of anonymous class that everybody has access to, that you can combine and mix and match.
How it works:
Each path has a bunch of templates.
Every template starts with a rank (a number), followed by a name (in bold), a trigger (in parenthesis), and finally a description.
You can unlock any template by satisfying its trigger in-game, provided you have already unlocked at least one template of every rank below it, in the same path. (The exceptions are templates of rank zero, which are the entry level templates for each path, and do not have such a requirement.)
Example:
Path of the Goblin Slayer
- Favored Foe (Slay 100 goblins): You are now an expert when facing this foe. From now on when attacking a goblin, a roll of 5 - 6 is considered a critical success. 4 - 5 is a success. And 1 - 3 is a mixed success.
The path is “Path of the Goblin Slayer”. The rank of the first template is 0, so there are no prerequisites. (If it had been, say, 2, then you would need to have unlocked a template of rank 1 and of rank 0 in the same path before unlocking this one.) The name is “Favored Foe”. The trigger is “Slay 100 goblins”. And the perk is detailed in the description.
The Perks of the Job
You have a unique bond with a sentient sword
You have been cursed to wander this world; half man, half rabbit.
This is the first installment of BASEMENT QUEST.
Jump to: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
“Congratulations!” The slightly tipsy hobbit grins and salutes you with his martini. “On Retrieval Team 43’s inaugural mission! I’m so excited for you, I’m sure you’ll do fantastic!”
You are all seated around a table in the corner at Lucy’s Basement. It is dimly lit and fairly noisy. The walls are covered in red velvet curtains, and the tablecloths have little gold tassels. A cloud of purple smoke from candles, cigars, and pipes hangs in the air. Waiters bustle between tables refilling drinks.
“So to recap, the Benefactor has tasked you with retrieving the five fabled Ginnarak Crystals. I, Blavin Blandfoot, will be your case manager. You will be paid handsomely for each crystal you retrieve. And if you retrieve all 5, you’ll get to meet the Benefactor at be their guest at their glorious mansion!”
“The first crystal has been spotted near a Gnomish dig site in the Tammineaux Forest, just east of here.”
“I recommend getting started right away!” He polishes off his drink and squints at his empty glass. “Well, maybe first thing in the morning. Waiter!”
Blavin provides you with a multibeast for your excursion. “Courtesy of the Benefactor!” You pack it up with food and supplies, and trek into the Tammineaux Forest in search of the first Ginnarak Crystal.
The forest is lush, thick, and green. You have to hack your way through the vines and the brush. There are stinging insects, squawking birds, and dangerous forest creatures a plenty. It is hot and sticky.
How will you ever find your way through this wilderness to the dig site?
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” you remember Blavin saying back at Lucy’s, gesturing carelessly and sloshing a little bit of his fourth drink. “They’re gnomes, after all! Just follow the sound of explosions and screaming.”
Sure enough, before long you hear a mechanical droning and some blasting up ahead, punctuated now and then by high pitched screams, and you guide the multibeast in that direction.
Suddenly you are ambushed by a troop of blahoblins! Awful looking things. Taut rubbery gray skin. Long flat noses stick out way far from their faces. And so do their protruding, lipless mouths full of sharp pointy teeth. You didn’t hear them over the noise of the shrieking parrots and, in the distance, the shrieking gnomes.
“SHOE SHINE!!” the first one yells. It is wearing a gold ring on each finger (minus the three fingers it is missing), two in each ear, and one in its nose. It is dragging a vat of black polish nearly as tall as it is.
“SHOE SHINE!!” a second one agrees. It is wearing a nice waistcoat with large gaudy buttons, and a nice looking pocket watch on a gold chain. It is dragging a comfy looking chair stuffed with bits of fluff and leaves and fur.
A third one screams, “SHOE SHINE SHOE SHINE!” It has several gold teeth and carries a huge block of cheese secured to its back with long loops of hempen rope.
The fourth and final one is wearing what looks like freshly painted red shoes and is carrying a lit torch. “SHOE SHIIIIINE!” it screams. It is wearing a gold medallion on a gold necklace.
“SHOE SHINE!” Bellows Tea, with a full bodied laugh!
With a well practiced move, faster than one would think giant like Tea could move, Tea removes an object from their satchel.
…at first glance it appears to be a flail without a handle, but is actually a spare pair of giant boots, held by their laces.
“These could indeed use a good shining.”
The boot are spectacularly large, probably a 1/2 size too large, in all honest, for even Tea’s feet.
The boots have gold eyelets.
Earrings greedily snatches the boots and start washing, drying, and polishing them to a shine. Waistcoat eagerly tugs on Tea’s wrist and guides him to the comfy chair, which is decidedly too small for his bulky frame. Teeth graciously offers him a wedge of cheese.
Depending on how observant Tea is, he may or may not notice that the boots are returned to him with 1 - 3 fewer eyelets.
Bending down, Inky sniffs the bottles carefully, mumbling, “Creosote, shellac, hopweed … ou, wild cherry liquorice.” Then, a little louder to one of the blahoblins, though it came out not much more than a squeak, “Might I ask from where did you get these?”
“Shoe Polish! We Make! Roots and ash!” shouts Waistcoat. They seem to only have the one volume.
“Beeswax!” yells Earrings.
“Resin!” cries Teeth.
“SHOE SHIIINE!” they all cry in unison.
“And jolly good polish too, it looks like,” Inky replies, squinting a bit at the ichor being smeared onto the boots in Earrings’ large calloused hands. “I hear there be some gnomes hereabouts? A camp? With your remarkable service, I bet they’d be coming to you all the time to get their boots cleaned.”
“GNOMES!?” Earrings interrobangs loudly and questioningly. It brings its hands to the sides of its face, covering its ear holes, and wags its oversized head in dismay, squeezing its tiny eyes shut. In the process, it smears polish around its face.
“Gnomes there!” shouts Waistcoat. Its hands busy polishing, it tosses its head, gesturing with its prodigious proboscis in the direction you were heading. You continue to hear bangs and booms in the distance every once a while.
Glarg gurgles something to the effect of “gluggurguuuurglaaaachhhh?” Its stance is one of surprise as its disposition changes to that of inquisition as its head cranes down to look at the blahoblin carrying the smelly rock on its back.
Teeth looks questioningly up at Glarg and experimentally gargles back up at it. “GURGLE BURBLE GLUG GLUG?” It smiles apologetically (a fearsome sight, its protruding jaws full of tiny pointy teeth) and shrugs and asks, “Shoe shine?”
It attempts to pick that whole blahoblin up and bring the smelly rock to its face for a closer inspection.
“WAAAAAAH!” Teeth kicks its feet ineffectively and is quite helplessly tied to the big smelly rock when Glarg picks it up. The smelly rock smells pungent, sharp, earthy, moldy. Definitely could be food.
By this time the blahoblins have polished the shoes of everybody who has consented to it, and are packing up. Except for Teeth who is being detained by the earth elemental.
Red Shoes reappears from wherever they have been this whole time with a sly smile and rejoins its comrades.
Your pockets have successfully been picked while you were distracted with the shoe shine, but not of anything of particular value.
What small item(s) will you notice is missing in the hours and days to come? How will its absence be a minor inconvenience?
As the blahoblins were packing up, Inky persuades Waistcoat to sell a few small bottles of shoe polish, a roughly round piece of broken glass and scraps of cheesecloth from the mountain of debris previously on the ground. Inky rolls Do Anything 1 and rolls a 4.
Inky successfully persuades Waistcoat to sell a few baubles and trinkets with the first roll of the game!
They haggle back and forth a little bit, and Inky ends up paying a little more than they wanted to, but they get all the stuff they wanted. Yay commerce!
Having concluded business, the blahoblins pack up and disappear into the bushes toting their chair, cheese, and vat of polish.
The sound of mechanical droning and periodic explosions compel you forward to the dig site.
It is easy to find.
It is a large hole blasted deep into the ground. There are drills, and conveyor belts, earth moving machines, and all kinds of gadgets and gizmos, the purpose of which is not always readily apparent. And there is a zip line that seems to be the only way down to the bottom.
The site is absolutely teeming with gnomes. Diminutive humanoids with bright red noses and long, long ears, and long, nimble fingers. All gnomes are compulsive tinkerers and mechanics, and build fantastic contraptions. All gnomes are women, and are all highly explosive. Which makes their combustion powered machines extremely dangerous, both for themselves and for any unfortunate bystanders close enough to get caught in the blast.
A gnome in a white hat comes running up to you. “You there! Hey! Yes, you!”
“Are you the retrieval team? We’ve been expecting you! The whole dig is halted because we accidentally blasted into a whole nest of Kobits, and they won’t let us get near to keep digging! They keep sabotaging our machines when we try!”
“They also stole the Ginnarak Crystal that we found! That thing could have powered such glorious new machines!” She pouts.
In the background, a gnome who had crawled half way into a coal bin in the side of some kind of excavator suddenly scrambles quickly out, smoking, and runs around in circles in a panic. Nearby gnomes dive out of the way as she erupts in a small ball of fire. The gnomes wait for the smoke to clear and then immediately return to working on the contraption.
The foreman continues talking to you as though nothing happened. She leads you over to the edge of the hole and points to the bottom.
“The entrance to their cave is right down there! The zip line is the second fastest way down.”
WHAT DO YOU DO
Suddenly three anthropomorphic gophers come crashing through the trees behind you into the dig site. The first is wearing a sash of many pockets. The second is wearing cargo shorts of many pockets. The third is wearing a vest of many pockets. Each wears a pair of goggles with thick smokey black lenses, and a floppy checkered hat that looks like a waffle.
They march up to the zip-line.
“Out of the way, losers!” Sash cries. It grabs the zip-line trolley, and immediately dives off the side of the cliff and zooms down into the deep, deep hole.
Vest introduces itself, “Retrieval Team 70 here! We are here to recover the Ginnarak Crystal that is reported to be at this location. After we collect all five, then it will be us who get to hang out in the Benefactor’s hot tub! Not you! Ha!”
Sash has reached the bottom of the deep, deep hole. Shorts starts reeling in the pulley.
Vest leans in close and peers at you through its foggy lenses. “You must be the new Retrieval Team 43. Hmmph. Shame what happened to the previous Team 43. Hope you know what you’re doing! Would hate to see you end up like them!”
Shorts grabs the trolley and leaps down into the deep, deep hole. It sails all the way down, and joins Sash at the bottom.
“Welp!” Vest concludes with an air of finality. “No hard feelings, and all that! After we collect this crystal, we just need four more. And then we get to meet the Benefactor! Ha!”
It waddles off and starts reeling in the trolley.
Meanwhile, another gnome explodes behind you.
WHAT DO YOU DO
Inky peers down at the hole, and after some time, turns to the party. “Do you think they’ve cleared most of the gnomes by now, or should we wait until they emerge and grab the crystal then?” Gazing at some invisible spot farther among the trees, Inky continued, “One of the old miners back at the tavern said there used to be a natural maw on the southwestern side, but it was blocked when the tunnel caved in many years ago. The gnomes don’t waste their efforts on blowing up things knowing someone’s already been through them. Chances are there’s only one exit, unless this mine is a decoy.”
Inky peers down the hole and watches Retrieval Team 70 approach the kobit caves.
The maw on the southwestern side did indeed collapse several seasons ago. If you know anything about the industrial and intrepid kobits however, it is that they have probably dug several alternative, secret entrances since then.
Just as the gophers reach the cave entrance, a large erge, muscles rippling beneath its white feathers, emerges from behind a boulder and blocks their way forward.
It raises the feathery crest on the crown of its head, and fluffs up its plumage in a dramatic display. It appears to be arguing with the gophers. All three gophers appear to be arguing back.
The egre gestures angrily at the gophers’ feet, shakes its head, and crosses its arms defiantly. The gophers look down at their own feet and shuffle about as though embarrassed.
They all exchange a few more words and then the gophers retreat away from the egre and the cave entrance. They huddle together briefly and then start slowly climbing the scaffolding back up to the top of the hole.
“Oh yeah,” the foreman remarks absentmindedly. “There’s an egre guarding the kobit caves.”
The egre below preens and struts about proudly having chased off the gophers.
“Stubborn things,” the foreman continues. “Easily provoked to violence. Impeccable fashion sense though.”
WHAT DO YOU DO
Inky blinks down at their pinecrab apple leather boots consideringly. “Tea’s got the fanciest footgear, but at least we aren’t sporting fetid foot fungi like stockings. Maybe we could persuade the egre to let us through? It might set us back half a day trying to find any kobit holes that aren’t just non-portable potties.”
You look down at your boots. How serendipitous that you just had them shined by the blahoblins! You feel confident in your footwear.
Corraidhín: I may have a solution to the Egre problem. I gesture grandly, as it so happens I always come prepared for a fashion show.
With a grand gesture I cast a spell to transform my robes into a stunning suit, complete with top hat, monocle, and cane
I’m certain we can convince the fine fellow to let us pass if we look the part. Or better yet, I’m almost certain I can distract him while the rest of you sneak past, I’ve been told I can be quite verbose and boisterous.
Corraidhín successfully conjures up a stunning suit, surely the envy of every dandy, fop, and gentleman in the southern continent, if not all of Basmentaria!
A nearby gnome gets flush, starts to fan herself excitedly, and then explodes dramatically.
“A splendid idea, with an equally splendid outfit to match!” Inky exclaimed. “Then, shall we proceed? Master Corraidhín, at your signal.”
You proceed down into the gnome hole.
Retrieval Team 70 glares at you from behind their smoked glass goggles as you zip line past them. They continue their slow, defeated climb up the scaffolding. Vest shakes its gopher fist at you and swears, “You haven’t seen the last of us, Retrieval Team 43!”
At the bottom, on solid ground, you approach the entrance to the kobit caves.
Standing guard at the entrance to the kobit tunnels is a massive egre, a fearsome bird beast, muscles rippling and bulging beneath its beautiful white plumage. It turns its head and regards you with one jet black eye and then the other, snapping its sharp beak in the air as it tosses its head back and forth.
It looks you up and down, and its gaze rests on your freshly polished shoes. It huffs and grunts, “Your shoes look clean.” It rests its scrutinizing gaze on Corraidhín’s garments. “And YOU look FABULOUS!” it exclaims as it tosses its head and beats it wings excitedly.
“You may enter.” It graciously steps aside with a flourish.
The smallest of you can stand upright in the kobit tunnels. The largest of you have to crawl.
Kobits are small, vaguely mammalian, vaguely reptilian bipedal cave creatures. They are scaly and furry, and live in tunnels deep in the earth. They have huge yellow eyes, and long fine whiskers on their snouts and faces, all of which help them find their way around in the dark. They also have long, thick, coarse, drooping mustaches. The overall effect is that they look like tiny, monstrous, perpetually startled cowboys.
You follow the winding tunnel down into the earth.
You come around a corner and almost bump right into a kobit. It has eyes like saucers and an awe-inspiring mustache. It wears a name tag (“Corey”) and carries a clipboard. It blinks at you in surprise and then asks, “Who are you? What are you doing in here?” Corey flips through the pages on its clipboard. “There are no upsiders scheduled to arrive today. I don’t think you’re supposed to be here!” Corey glances around nervously with its huge eyes and looks about ready to cry out for help.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
Inky smiles at Corey. “Hullo! We’re the waterworks crew from the neaby town, here to check the outhouse tunnels, inspect all the pipes and so on. We received reports of a blockage somewhere inside the networks. Have the tunnels been flushing well lately?” While speaking, Inky flashes a waterworker’s ID briefly at the kobit before pocketing it and pulling out a pressure gauge, giving the little handle on one side of the device a few cranks, and looking back at Corey expectantly.
Corey slowly blinks its eyes. “Inspektor?”
ASIDE: I rolled for Inky and rolled a six, which according to the rules means GREAT SUCCESS, and also Inky gets to Level Up: they gain the skill Persuasive 2.
“Of course! Inspektors! Yes, yes, right this way! A surprise inspection, how exciting!”
Corey continues to chatter excitedly as it leads you further into the branching, winding tunnels, pointing out particular bits of stonework and engineering, and also baubles and trinkets and fossils and artifacts that the kobits uncovered in the process of digging their tunnels.
Your tour eventually brings you into a large cavern with tunnels exactly like the one from which you just entered branching off in all directions. It makes you dizzy to think of finding your way through this labyrinth without a guide.
In the middle of the cavern is a deep pool with a fountain. At the bottom of the pool, a SWORD is thrust into the ground almost up to its hilt. A large jewel set deep in the pommel rolls around like an eye in a socket and tracks your movement around cavern. A few bubbles float up to the surface of the pool.
And set into the wall on the far side of the room is a massive stone door reinforced with thick iron bands. There is a keypad and a small printer on the wall next to it.
“….and so our tour concludes here in the central atrium!” Corey concludes excitedly. “Behind this door is the VAULT, where we keep all the valuables. Gemstones, gold, crystals, et cetera.”
“Top notch security!” Corey exclaims tapping the keypad. The printer spits out a square of paper. It reads
ed v1.16
*
?
*
?
*e door
19
*,n
1 the door is Locked
*wq“Ha ha!” Corey shakes its head in amazement. “I have no idea how this thing works!”
The eye in the sword watches as Corey clips the small printout to its clipboard.
“Now, I trust you’ll find that everything was in tip-top order! Yes, indeed!” Corey wriggles its mustache proudly. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” it flips through the pages on its clipboard, “I am late for my next appointment. Good day!” Corey turns and walks toward one of the twisty little passageways, all alike.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
Once Corey the Kobit exits the antechamber, you are free to look around a little bit.
The eyesword continues to watch from the bottom of the pool, and the Kobit Ed terminal continues to await you by the vault door.
But also you notice a couple of alcoves along the walls between the twisty little passages. Each of them holds a relief sculpture depicting one of the three deities of Basmentaria.
There is Neddas, the wise god of sages and starlight. Androgynous, clad in purple robes, depicted with a golden third eye in the middle of their forehead. They are shown here stoically bestowing gifts upon the inhabitants of Basmentaria.
And here is Nullar, god of time and tides. A bespectacled male figure with a golden third eye on his forehead. He is dressed in a dapper vest and bow tie, and is adorned with small cogs and gears. He is depicted here looking up at the stars from a mechanical contraption he is working on.
Finally, there is Liandt, goddess of war and flame. A primal, elemental deity, she is depicted as a fiery warrior with a golden third eye. The relief shows her on the battlefield during the Artifice wars. The wars which reduced Ginnarak to the wastes of cinder and ash that they are today. The wars which drained Liandt’s divine energies so thoroughly that she fell into a deep sleep and has been absent from the mortal realms ever since.
But enough of this lore dump! There is something important happening!
You hear a shuffling and a mumbling approaching from one of the twisty little passages.
You’re already in one of the alcoves studying the relief, so your press yourself flat into the recess.
Three gophers with smoked glass goggles spill out from one of the passages. Retrieval team 70! They made it past the egre after all!
They don’t see you, but head straight to the keypad by the vault. They crowd around it and start pressing buttons, arguing and bickering with one another.
The sword at the bottom of the pool seems to roll its eye in exasperation.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
The Retrieval Team 70 gophers are absolutely losing their minds over the ed terminal.
“It just keeps printing a question mark!” Vest sobs.
“Try pushing escape?” suggests Shorts somewhat panicking.
“I’ve tried it! It’s not vi! It doesn’t do anything!” Vest moans. “Here you try it if you’re so smart!”
Sash is balled up on the floor crying, having already had a turn at the terminal.
Shorts carefully steps over them and timidly prods at the keypad.
A throng of beefy guard kobits come charging into the hall, alerted by the gopher racket.
“Here now! You’re not supposed to be in here!”
One of them trips over Sash, still balled up on the floor, and crashes into Shorts’s back, pinning them to wall. They squeal. Another guard grabs Vest by the collar, and after a brief scuffle all three gophers are escorted out of the hall despite their howls of protest.
“I had better check on the vault!” exclaims one of the kobits who remains behind.
They bang a few keys on the terminal and it spits out a slip of paper.
ed v1.6
19
P
*,n
1 the door is locked
*1s/locked/open
?
*H
no match
*1s/Locked/Open
the door is Open
*wq
17There is a mechanical whir deep in the walls, and a click and a gasp of air as the door swings inward.
The kobit slips into the vault and the door swings only partly closed behind it.
The sword in the bottom of the pool pointedly narrows its eye at you.
The gods of Basmentaria observe passively from their reliefs in the alcoves around you.
The door to the vault is ajar, the first of the five legendary Ginnarak crystals presumably behind it.
From one of the twisty little passages, you hear a guard kobit approaching, singing a sad cowboy song to itself.
WHAT DO YOU DO
Harrumph I say as I billow out my mustache. I know exactly what this is, I’ve seen these silly terminals at the wizarding academy. Fascinating little babbles really, not that easy to use, and I find they’re easier to melt with a well placed fireball or two, but I think I can get us past without that. Now I might need someone to cover for me if that Kobit catches onto what I’m doing, and I’ll say the weird sword is starting to creep me out a bit.
Corraidhin approaches the terminal, cracks his knuckles, and enters: 1,$p
The printer spits out a piece of paper:
The door is LockedCorraidhin stares at the paper. Well, that’s not right, the door’s only partially closed. Preposterious thing.
That’s okay, I know how to fix this.
19 c there is no door, there never was, and never will be. Also the Kobit guard forgot to tie his shoes. . w 1,$p
The printer spits out a slip of paper.
there is no door, there never was, and never will be. Also the Kobit guard forgot to tie his shoes.With a soft pop, the thick stone door vanishes.
The sword at the bottom of the pool widens its eye in surprise.
Nothing remains between you and the interior of the vault.
Some light from the hall spills in and glints off what appears to be a mound of gold, gems, and crystals. The rest of its contents are hidden from view unless you venture inside.
You can still hear the guard kobit in the passage, now whistling a warbling, lamentful tune. It sounds dangerously close. Best get a move on if you want to avoid a confrontation.
WHAT DO YOU DO
While the wisened scholar inspects the vault door, Inky walks a few steps from the antechamber to meet the Kobit guard, pressure gauge and tiny notebook in hand. Inky proceeds to ask them about water flow sounds in the surrounding area, water stains, signs of potential pests that could damage the pipes, and other rather boring elements pertaining to modern Basmentia burrow plumbing.
After a while, seeing as they have been conversing for some time, Inky pulls out two small bottles of chilled arrowroot beer from a waist pouch and offers one to the Kobit guard.
The big guard kobit’s eyes start to glass over as Inky goes on about water pressure and structural integrity.
But it does graciously accept a bottle arrowroot beer.
“Well, golly, don’t mind if I do!” It cracks the lid off, toasts to your health and takes a long swig.
“Aaaaaaaah! That hits the spot!”
Corraidhin absentmindedly inspects the terminal and door while Inky converses with the guard. He’s utterly distracted and talking to himself.
By the gods, it’s gone. Just like that! I thought it’d fizzle or something, but it’s gone! I wonder what else I can do with this thing.
Corraidhin wanders back to the terminal and enters another command.
19 c The wise and elderly Corraidhin is now a young and dashing rogue, with a very nice hat. .
The printer spits out a slip of paper:
?Maybe the ed terminal only has jurisdiction over the door to the vault.
Or maybe the machine, the universe, or whatever, is telling you not to push your luck.
By now the big guard kobit, lulled by Inky’s questions and finally sedated by the alcohol, is slumped and snoring softly in the mouth of one of the twisty little passages.
You stand before the open vault under the ever watchful gaze of the sword at the bottom of the pool of water in the center of the room.
WHAT DO
Psst, Inky, can you poke your head into the vault, see if you can spot any crystals. Also, can you tell what kind of gold’s in there? Maybe it’s worth something to nab a piece of two for ourselves, you know, since we’re so good at vault cracking.
While you do that I’m going to take a closer look at this sword, it’s giving me heeby jeebies.
I cast a spell on the sword to identify its physical, magical, and metaphysical properties
“Strange sword, I command thee to divulge your secrets! All that you are of, exist in, and imbue from shall be wrought in words of sorcercy so that the world my see clear what you are!” I chant as I invoke ancient runes with my wand.
Corraidhín commands the sword commandingly. But the sword just rolls its eye and looks at him exasperatedly.
Hmm. Yes, no mouth. Well then.
Corraidhín draws on his mastery of Arcane Lore, and sifts through all the knowledge he has filed away on magical swords. There are so many books on magic swords!
While at first you guessed that it may merely be a common Look Sword, you have since revised your initial assessment. Look Swords are minor magical items, and are not quite as sentient as this particular blade appears to be.
No this must be something a little more special.
It’s hard to tell from here–the water is not perfectly clear–but the pattern on the hilt is kind swirly and whirly. Probably a Sword of Omens.
Unless…
No, it’s so unlikely.
And yet.
If the pattern on the hilt turns out to be more whirly than swirly, then it probably is indeed a Sword of Omens.
But on the other hand, if it is more swirly than whirly, it’s possible that this may be then legendary Sword of J’Son.
If only you could get a closer look…
Inky nods and peeks inside the vault, while keeping an ear open for any sounds coming from the tunnel where the guard kobit is currently sleeping soundly. Small mountains of ancient gold, some as coins and some in nuggets of various shapes and sizes, filled most of the cavern floor. In one corner were a few chests overflowing with rubies and emeralds, with the occasional amethyst and tiny pink diamonds. Whoever had this vault set up has amassed a nice hoard!
Inky whispered back, “Some good old gold! There are also little crystals in one of the chests, but I can’t tell if any of them is a Ginnarak.”
Inky hears the drunken cowboy Kobit guard snoring gently. It whistles adorably a little bit at the top of each exhale.
You peek inside the vault just in time to see the lone Kobit guard that went inside to check on the vault. It yelps and trips over its own feet.
Its shoes were untied.
There are indeed piles of gold, gems, and crystals. Chests full of precious stones. A few suits of armor. For some reason, a giant clam, mouth open to reveal a giant pearl.
And in the center of it all, atop a stone pedestal, beneath a dome of glass, is the blue and gold Ginnarak Crystal. It is the size of a melon, and kind of shaped like one. A lumpy, multi-faceted blue and gold melon.
Flitting around the pedestal are a couple of Aurs. Giant ears with bat wings. Very keen hearing obviously. Usually more of an annoyance than a true deterrent. Unless there’s a Centaur around. Nasty things those. A hundred ears with a hundred wings. The size of a small horse. They can really ruin your day. Luckily you don’t see one around.
Finally, curled up on the ground at the base of the pedestal, hugging a mound of gold coins like a body pillow, is a nude Kobit, sound asleep. It stretches briefly in its sleep and when it does, you are astonished to see that it has large leathery wings.
WHAT DO YOU DO
Jarrod wanders into the vault. Spotting the Aurs and the Kobits, a slow grin starts to spread on his face. Taking a deep breath in, he gestures grandiosely around him and booms: “Ah! Come gather round! Hear a tale of Triumph! Of Heart! … Maybe even a bit of Nirvana!”
He saunters over to the giant open clam and poses grandly nearby. His eyes sweep across the Kobits, attempting to catch the eyes of each one, as he begins to tap the fingers of his left hand rhythmically against his thigh, mimicking a heartbeat.
"Our tale begins with a hero, though one not oft recognized, Weaving bureaucratic mysteries across parchment with zeal, Though held to account, and by all accounts terrorized, By small minded yes-men with power and zeal! Yes, our hero of sorts did not act and avail, He gave others their tasks to be done. No pleasure he gleaned from the mop or the pail, And yet here we begin with the fun!"Thus has the epic begun, and Jarrod is pushing the rhythm of the words hard, attempting to draw all eyes and ears to himself.
Broad-chested, olive-skinned Jarrod launches into the epic, flanked on one side by a giant clam and on the other side by a suit of armor.
The aurs, enraptured, immediately flutter down to rest at his feet to listen to the poem.
The one Kobit that tripped over its own feet rolls over where it lays on the ground and listens with naked admiration.
The naked, winged Kobit rouses from its sleep at the noise with a groan. It grouchily rises to its feet, flaps its wings a few times, and soars up into the air.
“My name,” it cries out, “is HORSE! BhrruUHRHUuHRRh! Behold my majesty! BrUHrhHHHURHuRu! You shall not steal my blue and gold, melon-sized gem! BhrruUHRHUuHRRh! I have such beautiful WINGS!”
The aurs and the clumsy Kobit all start to fidget as Horse’s outburst threatens to break the spell of Jarrod’s captivating oration.
“Excellent!” Corradihin whispers to Inky nudging her gently as he does. “It looks like Jarrod has the Kobits covered, I’m gonna make a break for the sword, I’m decently, somewhat, sort of positive that it’s the legendary sword of Jason. But if I’m wrong and it’s cursed watch my back. I might need a quick save.”
Corraidhin makes a step forward, “Oh and Inky, if Jarrod’s distraction goes awry, shout, I’ll come in fireballs blazing. I highly suggest a rapid retreat if it comes to thay.”
Corraidhin darts towards the sword scrambling over the terrain while the actions on the vault. As he approaches the sword he asks the sword if it wouldn’t mind coming along for a bit of adventure, and he grabs it by the hilt.
Corraidhín wades resolutely into the pool. The water rises up to his knees, his hips, his shoulders, and finally he dives under about 10 feet to the bottom of the pool. The eye of the sword stares at him with great intensity as he descends.
The mage reaches out and firmly grasps the hilt.
You feel a jolt, and the eye rolls back in its socket.
You yank on the sword and it budges not one bit. Not one iota!
You go to adjust your grip. But your hand is stuck fast! Glued to the hilt of the sword!
You look up at the surface of the water, some 10 feet above.
You look down at the sword that refuses to release you.
You look more closely at the pattern on the hilt. Egads! Why did you not see it before? The pattern is neither whirly nor swirly at all! It is in fact kind of spacey and indented.
This is not the legendary Sword of J’son! It’s so obvious! How could you have been so mistaken! This is none other than the infamous Sword of Yam’l. Yam’l is of course a superset of J’son, so it is an easy enough error to make. And perfectly harmless in an academic setting. It is however a costly miscalculation to make while glued to a sword at the bottom of a fountain.
You lungs start to burn a little bit, and you hear a spectral, burbling, significant whitespace voice in your head as the sword makes intense eye contact with you:
---
name: Yam'l
conditions: {"stuck": "true", "sticky": "true"}
greatest desire: stabbing
...And then an expectant pause, as though the sword eagerly awaits your reply.
Inky watches Master Corraidhín make his way towards the creepy sword with two drams of admiration and a tiny dose of apprehension. Taking out a small wrench, a pouch of nuts and bolts, along with some gum twine, Inky crouches near the vault archway, listening in a little on Jarrod’s epic tale about the unsung hero of sanitation while occasionally looking into the pool.
Inky, from the best seat in the house, hears Jarrod launch into an epic poem, and also the beating of leathery wings and a mighty whinny and a neigh.
They also watch Corraidhín dive to the bottom of the fountain, and then thrash about a bit with one hand on the hilt of the eye sword.
WHAT DO YOU DO
Jarrod raises his right hand and begins adding a new rhythm to his beat by slapping his palm against his chest. The resulting beat sounds eerily like a galloping horse. Jarrod pushes his voice outward and upward, directing his vocal energy at HORSE.
"A mighty steed did carry our hero through forest, hill and town: A comely beast with silky mane and smooth and supple hide. One would think that such a stallion needs must have renown, But only our dear hero understood, and so did ride."Jarrod subtly adjusts the rhythm to a fast, regular beat.
"Lightning of the hoof! Fire in the eye! One with blowing wind! Strength of mountain high!"Jarrod slowly calms the beat back down to a heartbeat with his left hand fingers on his thigh again. However, the right now rests close to Gertrude’s handle, at the ready.
"On fated day, our hero does require Underlings for which a task is set. And yet, this day the underlings and squires Have booked their time away from toil and fret."While continuing the epic, Jarrod makes note of two options, should he need them:
- Should he need, he can dive behind the giant clam; and
- He eyes a path back out the vault, should he be able to draw the Aurs and Kobits out with him.
Jarrod keeps his eyes on HORSE, attempting to react to whatever HORSE brings.
HORSE gives a snort, a groan, and a sigh as the beat of the poem accelerates to a trot, and turns its subject to matters of its own interest. Namely, himself. HORSE likes to hear its own name, and it likes to hear people pay tribute to it with verse. Which is 100% what it thinks is going on here.
HORSE beats its wings a few times and then flaps over to where Jarrod is delivering his oration. It stands a little too close, basking in the glory of Jarrod’s verse.
There is now gathered at Jarrod’s feet three Aurs; one clumsy Kobit with untied shoe laces; and one naked, winged Kobit named HORSE.
The blue and gold, melon shaped crystal in the center of the vault has been left unguarded. It hovers, suspended, beneath its glass dome on top of its pedestal, revolving slowly in place. It looks like a weird tiny asteroid. The veins of gold in the stone pulse lightly with otherworldly energy.
Damn it Corraidhin thinks to himself, here I am yet again at the bottom of some insipid pool stuck by some random magical thing all because I didn’t pay enough attention in mythical history class. Bloody hell!
Good thing I paid attention in sorcery and yesteryears secrecry administrivia, this little sword won’t stay stuck for too long! My lungs if I bungle this though..
Corraidhin quickly invokes a spell with his spare hand, casting mystical runes with his hand.
sudo chmod -t sowrd_of_yam\'l sudo chmod 775 sword_of_yam\'l sudo chown corraidhin:party sword_of_yam\'lThat should do it corraidhin thinks to himself. If not I’m going to need to think quick, I’m stuck and there’s no way up without this sword. I might be able to transmute the water into air around me, but probably only a small pocket which will surely disappear in a gasp. Alternately I could try and blast my way down, creating a pocket for the water to flow into, but I’d be willing to bet I’ll hurt myself in the process..
You trace some watery runes, invoking Sudo to bend reality to your will.
The unschooled masses sometimes erroneously assume that Sudo is a deity in its own right. There’s a certain misguided logic to it: an invisible force that governs the relationships between entities, and infallibly predicts how they will behave? Certainly, it must be an all powerful, godlike entity.
You and your ilk, of course, know that there’s no more intelligence behind Sudo than there is behind gravity. No need to correct them though. Sometimes it behooves the mage to allow others to think that they serve an unfathomable arcane lord.
There is a dull underwater flash and a muted underwater bang, and you feel the sword slip from its stony clinch like a knife tearing through soggy bread.
You push up off the bottom of the pool and rocket to the surface, helped–surprisingly–by the sword, which remains glued fast to your hand, but which also rises above you as though somehow lighter than water.
You break the surface of the water and hear joyous laughter.
"Oh, yes! Well done, Hardy Bear! So very well done indeed! Oh, I had spent so long trapped at the bottom of that pool waiting for a new bear to come and free me. And now here you are! Oh, what a very good day this is. What a magnificent pair we shall be.
"Now, let's go stab some evil!"You look down at the sword in your hand, and the eye twinkles at you, full of adoration and zeal.
A small wine pitcher splashes into the water next to you. It is attached to a thin hose, at the other end of which Inky sits on dry land, drinking a cup of tea. They wave.
Inky squints at the silhouette underwater, slightly distorted by the occasional ripple on the surface, trying to decipher the odd hand gestures and wisps of light coming from below. Why was Master Corraidhín repeatedly forming semi-circles with his finger, almost like … the handle of a teacup? Was it a request for tea?
After a pause, Inky rummages inside a bag and brings out a large porro and a long rubber hose. The porro is filled with a demi-tasse of black grapefruit pekoe from a flask and the spout plugged with an eldarberry-flavoured gummy pen nib. Inky strings together a handful of brass nuts with twine and ties it to the porro’s handle to act as a small weight, then affixes the hose tightly to the open top of the porro. Casting a slightly apologetic look in the direction of the water for a brew long since gone cold, Inky swings the hose and flings the drinking vessel into the pool towards Master Corraidhín, watching for a moment as the porro sinks down into the water to hover near his arm. The other end of the hose is tied securely to a narrow rock on one side of the pool with more twine, the end sticking up in the air like a wiggling snorkel.
Inky returns to crouching near the vault entrance and looking inside another small pouch for fresh tea leaves. Waiting is thirsty work!
You cast an improvised lifeline to the floundering wizard, and find a cache of very fine fermented tea leaves wrapped in waxed paper that you left for yourself at some point in the past. How thoughtful and considerate of Past You!
From your vantage point, the sleepy guard Kobit still shows no sign of stirring. And Jarrod has a throng of captive beasts listening very intently to his stirring, epic poem. HORSE in particular seems to be gaining some kind of physical sustenance from the words, snorting and whinnying and beating its wings with each new stanza.
If you can slip through the doorway without disturbing them, there will be nothing between you and the now vulnerable Ginnarak Crystal.
WHAT DO YOU DOOOOOO
RETCON!
Before Corraidhín ascended to the surface of the pool….
As Corraidhin finishes his incantation a small porro drifts down bonking him on the head. Startled corraidhin begins to move around in the pool trying to find his assailant.
“By the gods what in the world is in this pool with me!” he tugs frantically on the sword, and as he does so the porro drifts into view. “Oh wait, that..” his eyes follow the rubber hose attached to it up to the top of the pool. “Ah ha!” he exclaims immediately inhaling a mouth full of water and frantically pulling the porro from the hose with his spare hand and teeth. Corraidhin sucks greedily at the air the hose provides as he becomes acutely aware of the burning sensation in his lungs.
The porro drifts wistfully to the bottom of the pool, just out of reach. A dark liquid rises from it as it comes to rest on the bottom of the pool.
And now back to our show!
After heartily congratulating Master Corraidhín on his successful sword acquisition in hushed whispers and finishing off a cup of blackcurrant tea, Inky retrieves the porro from the bottom of the pool with a fishing pole and a few recasts. (Calling that gnarly stick with a line, bottle and hook slightly bent out of shape on one end a fishing pole would be an affont to any self-respecting fisherfolk though.) Inky rinses the pitcher and hose before stowing them away again in the bag along with the pole and other ink brewing paraphernalia.
Refreshed, Inky slips noiselessly inside the vault, edging along the wall on the farther side from the crowd now wholly enraptured by Jarrod’s grand recital. Seeing the crowd pacified and giving Jarrod a thumbs-up, Inky unfurls a long and dusty bolt of dark cloth with the words “UNDER MAINTENANCE — NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY [by order of the Basmentaria Bureau of Sanitation]” in roughly-scrawled letters tacked onto it, and hung the ends of the cloth so it spanned and completely obscured one side of the vault.
Standing behind the makeshift inspection site, Inky proceeds to fill several sacks with gold and gems using a small shovel, before putting one of the sacks into their Hacky Duffer Discette (its capacity for large storage and small weight is a blessing in disguise for both aspiring and afflicted collectors alike).
You successfully cordon off a corner of the vault and set up a very convincing UNDER CONSTRUCTION banner. It looks straight up like a 90’s website.
You start shoving bags of treasure into your HD Discette, but it only accepts 1.44 bags before running out of space. You you leave the remaining bags for the others.
During your excavation, you find a complete set of magnificent, ornate, gold-nibbed quills, and also a small wooden rack of bottled ink.
There are a dozen small bottles all arranged in a row, each one with a different mysterious glyph, the contents all a slightly different shade. As you handle the rack, the ink sloshes around inside. It could still be good!
The fine wooden rack encloses them all and holds them in place by means of the lid, which closes securely around the bottle necks. Once you open the lid, you can easily retrieve and stow the bottles.
You also spot a fine jade teapot. A matching set of small cups—no handles, no saucers—cluster around the pot like nursing pups.
Corraidhin clambors out of the pool, magical pokey stick in hand.
Good show! He exclaims to himself and the sword. Now I can finally get a good look at this sword, though for some reason I can’t seem to let go, I guess for now I won’t lose it.
You said you wanted to do some stabbin right? Of evil things? What constitutes evil my pointy new friend?
The sword does indeed remain steadfastly glued to your hand. As you swish it around you discover that it seems to get lighter when you hold it aloft, and that it trembles and grows increasingly heavy as it descends. The sensation is almost as though it has a hollow core in which some kind of heavy liquid sloshes around. And as though its blow would be devastating.
The sword relishes being wielded and swung, and grows more and more ecstatic. Its eye darts menacingly back and forth, vanquishing imaginary enemies with each jab.
Yes! Yes, I am made for a singular purpose. To RID EVIL. To root out evil, spill its blood, and then do it again! So let's go find some evil, Bear! And then you can just stab it with me.
Oh, what constitutes evil, you ask? In my experience, evil can't help but make itself known. You'll know it when you see it.
For example, see there? That little inky fellow sneaking into that treasure room? Probably super evil. We should go investigate.As corraidhin questions the sword he wanders towards the vault peering in to inspect Jarrod’s performance. He’s really good at that, what do you think? Actually what do I even call you? Do you like nicknames? I was thinking pointy, or stabby, but I’m open to suggestions, respect and all that.
Oh hey, the crystal! It looks like it’s unguarded! Corraidhin slinks towards the crystal muttering to his magical sword as he does.
The sword is momentarily distracted by the Aurs and Kobits. Its eye widens. It almost seems to shudder with anticipation.
EEEEEVIL! Rid. Evil. Spill. Repeat.You are thankful that the voice seems only to be heard inside your own head.
Oh, my name? I'm sure I had one at some point. Long forgotten by now. No matter, I'm not sad about it. One has no use for a name when instead they have a singular, all-consuming purpose!
But, my last Bear called me her Bee. I quite liked that. The bee in her bonnet! Ha! Evil, fear my sting!The sword prattles on in your head as you sneak past Jarrod’s monstrous storytime and approach the pedestal. Or is it a lectern?
You arrive unseen. The crystal is a dazzling deep blue, with pulsing gold veins. It is oddly shaped, somewhat like an egg. And it floats, rotating slowly, suspended in air beneath the glass dome that encloses it.
Drawing on your knowledge of Arcane Lore, you remember that the five Ginnarak Crystals played a key role in the Artifice Wars that once rampaged across all of Basmentaria. They are sources of tremendous power. Some say that, the five of them together, they could kill a god. You’re not sure you believe that. But they did definitely reduce the once lush and verdant island nation of Ginnarak to cinder wastes and deserts of ash. A cataclysmic event that put a resolute end to the Artifice Wars.
You look around the vault. Jarrod is reciting epic poetry and mesmerizing the monsters. Inky is pillaging and looting. You have a bloodthirsty, sentient sword in one hand; and a large arcane battery of a crystal within reach of the other.
WHAT DO YOU DO
While Inky packs the top of a sack with a thin layer of earth from under a loose rock, they feel a heated glare in their general direction for a few beats and surmises Master Corraidhín had entered the vault with his newfound companion. After decades of serving rather … demanding customers as an inkling, Inky knew an evil eye directed at them even when they can’t see it (while preparing a brew with their back turned, for instance) and makes a mental note to give Pointy a wide berth.
Once the sacks were placed close to the vault entrance for a quick haul, Inky returns to the items that had been discovered while digging under the loose rock. The set of gold-nibbed quills were swiftly pocketed — each quill was finely crafted and felt balanced when held in one hand. The malleable tips in a range of sizes would be invaluable for testing ink viscosity and smoothness, among other properties. A felicitously fantastic find!
The jade tea set was next to be admired, its deep green hue reflecting the age of the stone from which the items were carved. With cups for every member of their merry group, the teapot would make a worthy addition to any travelling, crystal-seeking tea party. So thin and translucent were the small cups, having been expertly crafted, that they were almost too fragile to carry around everywhere. A non-shattering charm was often applied to heirloom sets meant to be passed down through generations, but it is difficult to tell by looking whether a set had been charmed unless the spell was a particularly strong one. The teapot and cups were returned to the small wooden box they were found in and stored away. Perhaps a few crockery talismans could be procured at the next town?
Inky pauses at the rack of bottled ink. The first rule that any inkling in training learns is to never trust pre-bottled inks from unverified ingredients or unknown sauces. Inky tilts the rack to better examine the weird yet vaguely familiar glyphs on the bottles.
The first glyph was a circle with three dots. The bottle next to it was adorned with a swirl, followed by a bottle with a circle surrounding a pointing hand or a snail. Another glyph looked like a twisted hook, and was that some sort of sinister grinning reptile on the next one?? Towards the middle of the rack was a bottle with a glyph of what could be a mountain with a tunnel at its base. The bottle beside it bore a glyph of a block broken to three pieces. Yet another bottle was simply stamped with a circle and a dot at its center. Its neighbour held a glyph that slightly resembled a mountain range if someone stared very hard. The next two bottles bore glyphs that looked like a spiky fish and a circle with a pair of horns protruding from it. The last bottle’s contents seemed more gooey than the others, with a glyph of a helmet-wearing hare.
The shade of ink within the bottles varied, but all seem to be derived from the same indistinct hue. None of the bottles had the usual piece of ash paper with bits of string attached to them, but otherwise appear to be intact and the vessels themselves top quality, as shown by the delicate tarring on the caps. The wooden rack was lightly worn but solid in Inky’s hands.
It was certainly an odd collection. “No hash, no stash” though, as the rule of thumb goes. Inky puts the rack down carefully on the floor by the sacks, concluding that if anyone wanted to help themselves to the bottles, they were hopefully not planning to ingest the contents.
Dusting off their boots, Inky settles just behind the banner, closer to the vault entrance and rousing performance, to watch the crowd around Jarrod and listen for any sounds from outside the vault.
You pack up the quills and the jade tea set, and arrange the bags by the vault entrance for quick retrieval.
As you carry the rack of ink bottles over to the bags, the twelfth and final ink bottle, the one with the glyph of the helmet-wearing hare, suddenly cracks. Seemingly of its own volition. A tiny shard of glass slices the palm of your hand and disappears into the meat at the base of your thumb. The gooey ink seeps out of the bottle and paints your hand a muddy, rusty blue.
You jerk your hand back. The ink is swiftly absorbed into your hand as though it were a sponge. Soon it’s all gone: the ink, the blood, all of it. Nothing remains of the scratch itself but a hair-thin line. If you run your finger over it, you can feel the hard nub of the glass shard beneath the skin.
For a moment you can hear the double drum of your own heartbeat rushing through your ears. Your senses seem to sharpen. Colors grow more crisp, and sounds more clear. But then it passes, and the moment is gone.
Harrumph, pointy my friend, that’s just inky. They’re definitely not super evil. That’s the finest ink craftsmen and tea preparer this side of Basementaria. And we absolutely won’t be stabbing them. There are FAR eviler things to stab, potentially that weird naked thing that seems to think itself a horse. I could be convinced IT was evil, but wouldn’t use attacking it unprovoked make us evil? Surely a sword as ancient and wise as you could see the perfectly puzzling philosophical delimna we put ourselves in.
And then this thing, (corraidhin gestures at the crystal), horrible magical item used to create untold death, destruction, and mayhem during the last Artificer war. Definitely probably evil, if used that way, but also filled with untold power that could be used for good! Now would the person weilding it be evil just because, or could someone overcome the magical nature of a device capable of such evil and apply them for good? I for one believe afirmatively that one can overcome such things.
As corriadhin finishes his philosophical prattling to his new stabby friend he pushes the glass case off the crystal and grabs it.
The Sword of Yam’l starts to launch into a long winded reply.
Oh yes, that winged naked thing is surely evil. Let us stab it, Hardy Bear! Let us stab and stab and stab until --- What's that? Oh no, don't worry. We are unquestionably, infallibly good. I was designed and made for but one purpose, after all. TO RID EVIL! As for the crystal, yes, I suppose you are correct. Wielding a powerful, bloodthirsty, magical item probably does make the wielder evil, and consequently immediately deserving of being stabbed! Say, speaking of stabbing ... that naked, winged thing--But then, before the sword can finish its thought (a thought, you are quite confident, would end with something like, “let’s stab it!”) you knock the glass dome off the pedestal and grab the Ginnarak Crystal.
You brace yourself. It thrums slightly in your hand but doesn’t do anything overtly magical or destructive. In fact it seems perfectly inert.
So there you are. A pointer murder stick attached firmly to one hand, and a potential atom bomb of a crystal in the other. But you think you’re totally going to pull this off!
Then the glass dome hits the ground and shatters into dozens of pieces.
HORSE screams and whips around at the noise. “BhrruUHRHUuHRRh! My blue and gold melon sized gem! Noooooo! BrUHrhHHHURHuRu!”
It flaps its wings and wheels up into the air and swoops down at you! The three aurs get swept up in the excitement and start flapping around, making tiny squeaks of alarm. The remaining kobit leaps to its feet, but then trips over its shoelaces.
WHAT DO YOU DO??
From their spot behind the construction banner, Inky pulls a pewter bowl, a large wooden spoon and a set of silver spoons from their brewing kit. In one quick fluid motion, Inky strikes the bowl with the wooden spoon. The sound reverberates soulfully through the domed cavern of the vault, like a call to meditation. The kobits too, seem to recognise that single, sonorous note.
After a long pause, Inky taps several silver spoons in rapid succession against one another and on a small rock. The result can be barely heard by everyone in the vault except the aurs, for whom the sounds may resemble the soothing trickle of pebbles flowing along the path of a tunnel.
A rich tone permeates the vault. The Aurs cease their squeaking. You don’t hear them say this, but you imagine they’re thinking, “Oh shit, I still need to log my sit for Sitember..” And they flutter down to the ground and sit in a circle and close their eyes and are still.
You also hear a deep rumbling somewhere beneath you in response to the gentle call. Some of the gold coin dunes start to shift and spill. A suit of armor falls over. HORSE and the clumsy kobit halt their advance and look around nervously, and then bolt for the front door of the vault.
“BrUHrhHHHURHu-RUN!”
UH OH WHAT DO!!
Why Stabby, it looks like we won’t need to stab Horse at all, but are you any good at stabbing armor?
Corraidhin stuffs the melon shaped gem into his knapsack and rushes towards Inky and Jarrod. Best to get this party started in style Corraidhin says as he casts a fireball at the suit of armor, followed closely by a second, and a third.
As corraidhin reaches Inky and Jarrod he raises the Sword of Y’aml ready to fight. Stand and deliver you curr!
The trigger happy mage rushes toward the vault exit, flinging a couple of fireballs over his shoulder as he goes.
Stabby is delighted at the carnage as the suit of armor is blown to bits, but also disappointed at the general lack of stabbing.
The Aurs, deep in meditation nearby, get caught in the conflagration. Their kernels swell and pop explosively. Though not as explosively as the fireballs.
The whole Retrieval Team 43 pours into the cavern outside the vault as it turns into an inferno, and they are swept up and away in a throng of kobits evacuating the tunnels.
You are deposited, like silt after a flood, outside the caves back at the bottom of the gnome hole, where the kobits and the lone egre are frantically climbing up the scaffolding, which bends dangerously under their combined weight. The gnomes up above are running around in an agitated state at the sudden commotion, and a few of them explode in the excitement.
The ground rumbles again, and the entrance to the kobit caves, and several feet of the surrounding area, is swallowed up by a sinkhole that spreads across half of the bottom of the gnome hole. From the hole emerges a gigantic moth-like creature made of a hundred ears of corn and a hundred wings. It is bigger than the very largest horse.
You hear a single word repeated fearfully over and over again by the crowd of kobits. “Centaur! Centaur!”
It crawls up out of the pit, and tastes the vibrations in the air with its feelers. It flies clumsily up into the air, flutters, and then crashes back into the ground.
It looks like one of its wings has been singed by fire.
Undaunted, it crawls across what is left of the bottom of the gnome hole toward you, beating its wings as though to bash you with them. Which would hurt a lot.
Yam’l whispers in Corraidhin’s mind.
Now *that* thing is *definitely* evil!WHAT DO YOU DO
Looking around the chaotic scene, one of the vines among the bushes caught Inky’s eye. It was one of several bean plants probably native to the Tammineaux Forest, with strands of faintly glowing pods hanging from the vines.
Inky snatches several of the dried but luminous bean pods from the vines, then sprints a wide circle around the centaur, all the while counting out 43 beans and throwing them into the topsoil, where much of the earth around the sinkhole had already been turned over by the gnomes’ drills and machinery.
Earlier in the commotion, one of the gnome explosions caused a water main leading towards what had been the kobit caves to burst. Water was now spraying across the area with the gusto of a fizzy cold spring and gathering in small pools over the soil. More water sluiced over the moth-like creature’s singed wing, snuffing the remaining embers.
Within moments, long tendrils shot up from the ground, which rapidly thickened at the bases to the size of young southern oak trees, to curl gently but firmly around the centaur. “Sister!” a melodious voice emanating from somewhere amid the beanstalks exclaimed, “What are you doing up? It is not yet autumn. Go back to sleep!”
The pooling water puts out any of the licking, reaching flames that followed the centaur up from below. The dark smoke carries the smell of ash, soot, and burnt popcorn up into the air.
There is no mistaking the climbing vines of the common Tammineaux Forest Bean. If you don’t recognize it by the heart-shaped leaves or the winding stems, then the luminous, dangling seed pods nestled amongst the bulbous pink blossoms are a dead, somewhat obscene, giveaway.
Inky plucks a handful of the pods and rips them open, meticulously counting out a mystical number of individual beans, and sowing them in the ash and the mud.
Vines erupt from the ground and entangle the centaur, dragging it gently back toward the sinkhole and whispering a soothing lullaby in its ears. The centaur struggles weakly before surrendering to the vine’s caress. It is pulled back down underground.
In the aftermath, there is a handful of leftover beans, and also some large, vibrant kernels of corn that flaked off the centaur during the struggle.
You and the first Ginnarak Crystal are able to leave the dig site and the Tammineaux Forest without further incident.
You pack up your faithful multibeast and trek back to the city of Vay’Nullar, where your adventure started.
THE END OF CHAPTER ONE
EPILOGUE: what are you doing in the final moments of this battle? Or on the way home? Or, what are you doing to rest, relax, and recover once safely back in town before reporting back to Blavin?
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INTERLUDE
A glorious victory!
In the interim time Corraidhin studies the sword of Y’aml, and correctly deduces that he needs to remove the sticky bit to be able to sheath the thing.
sudo chmod -t sword_of_y'aml
The rest of the interim is spent studying arcane lore surrounding the Ginnarak Crystals and their purpose. He also strongly urges the party that we should consider very carefuly how we need to proceed with the crystal. It’s obvious people don’t want these things getting out, so we should ensure that Blavin has good intentions, or at least leaves us out of whatever potential evil could occur.
Corraidhin prepares the incantation and, after removing the sticky bit, is able pry his stiff fingers from the grip.
You sheathe the blade, but its voice continues to ring clearly in your head as it prattles on, seeing evil and villainy everywhere and encouraging you to stab, stab, stab.
Your sysorcerous studies, confirmed by the eager and forthright sword, suggest that the blade will be able to rest for a while once it tastes blood.
Your former mentor and rival sysorceror Eccentric Kevin calls on you one day under the pretense of showing you the latest draft of KDL (pronounced “cuddle”), their own “Kevin’s Document Language”, an alternative syntax for incantations and personal pet project of theirs that has thus far failed, much to their perpetual consternation, to gain any traction or adoption in the wider magic community. They are insufferably polite and sinisterly supportive. They complain about how the obstinant gnus keep standing in the middle of the road trying to block traffic, and they demand to know all about your recent exploits and adventures.
Once back in town, Inky had the small glass shard in their palm removed by a harried-looking healer, who merely shrugged at Inky’s account of the disappearing ink and advised them to return if they experienced adverse effects before hurrying off to the next patient. A visit to the local stationery shop did not yield any answers; the stocky human at the counter shook their head apologetically when shown the broken ink bottle. However, they did suggest asking at one of the larger shops in the city.
To celebrate their first successful quest, Inky made torties[1] for their party with flour ground from some of the large corn kernels at the dig site, topped with a sweet nutty squash spread. Babbleberry tea was served from their newly acquired jade tea set, now patched with what Inky had been assured was an unbreakable seal[2] by a merchant with a toothy grin in one of Vay’Nullar’s notorious back alleys.
Master Corraidhín’s cautionary words of wisdom still echo in Inky’s head, though they were secretly tickled by the idea of the crystal being actually a rare and previously unknown species of melon with very potent magical properties. The very thought of melons was making Inky a bit thirsty. Let the warrior and wizard worry about all the potential evils of the world — it’s time for a dash to the market for some beatfruit juice!
[1] Also known as torte-teas, as in “Torte-tea, yas?”, which was how their previous ink maestro used to greet customers entering the brewery. Flat little tea cakes with sugar or spice (or both, which vary by region) and sometimes eaten in a loose wrap. Some humans called them “crabs” for some reason which baffled Inky, since the torties had no pincers … at least none that they could see anyway.
[2] The seal attached to the bottom of the teapot and each cup had a glyph of an unknown object between two hands.
The healer removes a small glass bead from Inky’s palm. It is worn smooth and round like a marble. If you look closely, you can see a small blemish in the center that somewhat resembles either a duck or a rabbit depending on how you orient it.
It is captivating to look at and comforting to hold in your hand. You fidget with it often. Now and then you suddenly notice you have been gazing at it for some minutes without realizing it.
You make your party a delightful meal of torties, serving tea from the magically reinforced jade set.
Cleaning up afterwards, you can’t help but notice the patterns of the tea leaves in the bottoms of the jade cups.
YOU FORESEE AN OMEN FOR THE PARTY. WHAT IS IT?
You dash to the market for beatfruit juice, which you easily find. And you find yourself irrationally drawn to the produce. The kale, dandelion greens, and beans all look especially scrumptious and … plump and juicy?
An old toothy market attendant sits on a stool by the vegetable stand reading the Farmers Almanac. Unsolicited, they mention to you that it is only three days until the next full moon.
Jarrod has two things in particular he wants to do when back in town, with whatever his cut of the gold is. First, he wants to go looking for a cheap, run-down building somewhere in town and buy the property if he has enough money (perhaps negotiating a bit where necessary).
Second, he wishes to seek arcane counsel from Corraidhín, perhaps getting a small invocation applied to one of the charms on his arm band. Something in the realm of a fascination spell (with an activation word) that can be used on occasion to draw attention.
Jarrod agrees that we should not invite trouble. We shall tread cautiously with regards to the crystals.
Yum, torties!
After successfully negotiating the price down a little bit, you are able to purchase a run-down building. You are now the proud owner and proprietor of the Milk Market building in the Wandering Bazzar district of downtown Vay’Nullar.
The ground level is occupied by longtime district staple Enrique’s Empanada Emporium, famous for its signature stuffed pastries and its Terrapin Ale, brewed on site by Enrique himself, who happens to be a very large humanoid turtle.
It’s a little seedy and a little divey, but still draws a fair amount of foot traffic from shoppers waiting for the eponymous, ambulatory bazaar of debatable sentience to wander by. Reliably, a small gang of breadpunks can be found loitering here and espousing the virtues of social anarchy. Enrique allows their presence and on occasion even buys them a round of ale.
The top two levels are unoccupied. Years upon years ago, this space once held large vats for storing and preserving multibeast milk prior to being distributed. Some enterprising individual converted and updated the space some time ago, but was never able to find a tenant. In any case, the space is yours now to do with what you will.
With Corraidhin’s assistance, you are able to enchant your armband by inscribing it with a cross-like glyph with a teardrop-shaped loop in place of the vertical upper bar. You now have a FASCINATING BANGLE that can, upon activation, compel attention and even potentially inspire people to dance about.
WHAT DO YOU DO
Inky gathers up the teacups, trying to remember a few tips about reading tea leaves from a forest fae they had met a few times while foraging and who had insisted on giving lessons to any wanderersby. (Of course he was just being a hospitable host to thirsty travellers and certainly not because he delighted in the confused expressions on their faces the entire time.)
Turning the cups left and right, Inky gradually sees a web-like hub, a looping line attached to an I-shaped apparatus on one end, an abacus, a wide building (possibly a stadium or arena), a feline animal resembling a tiger or lynx, and a long feather. Feathers and beads are commonly added to small trinkets with simple animal designs and sold as lucky charms at the market … an auspicious sign?
Or it should be. Inky’s thoughts circle back to the little glass pebble, after returning from the market with, among other items, more vegetables than they could possibly eat in a month excluding the beatfruits. Inky still hasn’t decided whether accidentally finding out about being cursed — by a potion, the irony! — counts as an auspicious event. One of the produce vendors and attendant at the market had casually mentioned the proximity to the next full moon while Inky had been looking over the leafy greens. Several blatant attempts to boost sales later (“Them barley’s hoppin’ good fer tea!”), the vendor revealed that their little grandson Harry had “got the weres” as a toddler and his parents had found a strange-looking glass marble in his mouth, much like the one inside the bottle hanging from a chain on Inky’s vest, and wouldn’t they like some more tomatoes for a blushing bunny?
From further inquiries, an ink depot on the opposite side of the city confirmed they sold Flat 12 potions as inks many years ago when showing off transmogrification through letters was a popular pastime, but had ceased carrying them due to limited range, lack of demand, as well as the bottles’ tendency to randomly break or their contents to fizzle out. (That and complaints about the overly persistent effects of said contents on unsuspecting recipients long after the fad that inspired them had faded led ink traders to shun the were-hare potions.) In contrast, the Mountain Range potions were far more stable and instead of shapeshifting, had the ability to stave off the cold under frigid temperatures, though its effects would likely be less enduring. Like the Flat 12, the Mountains are potions, but one in particular of a sparkling deep blue hue became its signature colour among ink enthusiasts.
Sipping a cup of turmeric tisane in a late night tea ritual for one, Inky supposes it hasn’t been much different since the accident than the jars of preserves and the “Now with 25% more celery!” labels on them. While immeasurably better than spontaneously combusting into burnt popcorn, it would be best to keep a Farmers’ Almanac within reach. Who knows when a mail order cure-all tonic will come in handy in the middle of Nowere?
You see a complex vision in the bottom of the jade teacups, and learn a little bit about the inks you found.
You grab a copy of the Farmers Almanac to keep on hand.
On your way back from the market, a small duck waddles onto the sidewalk and starts following you.
・゜゜・。。・゜゜\_o< QUACK!It is small and yellow and cute, and has a little floofy tuft of feathers on the very top of its head.
Meta: one of my best friends name is Kevin, so I find it extra amusing that the sysorceor is named Kevin.
Kev my friend! You know nobodies going to take on KDL until YOU make it a priority to them. A little bit of force, you just need to put it directly into the sysorceory course curriculum while nobody is knowing. Then once it’s in production they won’t have a say whether to learn it or not! That’s at least how I got that delightfully licorice tasting incantation in production laster year, much to the chagrin of those who don’t have a taste for Fennel. I for one was delighted with it.
“Corraidhin, STAB HIM, that suggestion, he’s definitely going to do something evil with it”
Corraidhin mutters under his breath about the swords insistence to stab everything. Soon my friend, soon.
Kev gives Corraidhin as quizzical look, “are you alright buddy? You’ve been off ever since you got back from that last on site deployment.”
Oh yes, yes, I’m fine. A little worse for wear physically, but mentally sharp as a tack! And I got this wonderful sword from the entire thing! Though I dare not unsheath it right now, it appears to be controlled by some sort of sentience, like a magical AI. And it has the damndest urge to stab things. I really need to be careful right now.
After visiting with Kev Corraidhin wanders back into town, away from the spiral towers of the sysoceorers guild. It was nice to be home for a bit. On the way in he spies Jarrod and Inky, the former cleaning up a dusty old building with Milk something on the front side, and the later kicking back and enjoying a cup of freshly brewed tea. Corraidhin hails them both.
“A new /home for you then Jarrod?”
“Aye a /home indeed, though it’s a bit large and empty for just myself. I’ll need guests and patrons, thinking I may be able to setup a shop, but at the least all of our team is welcome here!”
“Delightful! If nobody has claimed it I’ll take the upstairs loft.”
“You most certainly can! But in exchange, I’d be curious to render your services, see I’ve been meaning to get this braclet enchanted for a while now, something to amplify my natural charm perhaps?”
“You sir, have a deal, I’ll even throw in a warding on Milk Base Alpha!”
Corraidhin begins invoking an arcane warding spell:
sudo chown jarrod:team43 /home/Milk_Base_Alpha sudo chmod 770 /home/Milk_Base_Alpha/*“There we go, that should keep out any unwanted critters, though be sure to invite our friends here as well. Corraidhin teaches Jarrod a quick incantation of invitation,
sudo usermod -a -G team43 $user, just be sure to say that making the proper arcane hand signs as you do it, and they’ll be able to enter the house and take up residence!”Corraidhin gathers himself and heads upstairs to his new attaic abode, it’s small, and dusty, but there’s enough room for a simple work bench, a bookshelf, and a bed and a chest. This is exactly as Corraidhin prefers, small and simple, it clears the mind and helps one focus. Invoking another incantation Corraidhin fills the bookshelf, chest, and workbench with his various tools and reference manuals.
scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/bookshelf milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/bookshelf scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/workbench milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/workbench scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/chest milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/chestOnce everything is in place he pulls the Ginnarak crystal from his satchel and places it on a velvet cushion on his workbench and sits down to scry.
“Oh great oracle MidJourney, I bequeath you! I have before me an artifact of immense power, something that could tear the world apart in the wrong hands. May I query your unfathomable depths to determine the nature of our mission, and the risk we face presenting this crystal to our benefactor?”
An image of the oracle appears in Corraidhin’s mind, crystal clear. It appears as though MidJourney is receptive to providing a forshadowing. [ginnarak_shattered.png]
Shortly after an image of the Crystal forms, it appears shattered, broken at its based, placed upon a pedastal. An image of horror fills corraidhin’s mind, it’s the Crystal, but much larger and of the pursest white. It bursts forth on a torrent of blood from the neck of what appears to be a priests body. It appears as though the bowls of the earth open up to greet this horrible image. [premonition_1.png]
As the image of the Crystal and the priest disappears you see a man, cloaked in black robs consorting with demons the like of which words cannot describe. Corraidhin feels sickened at their sight, but at the edge of his mind he feels a tug, a familiarity. Something about this character is familiar to him, but he cannot place it. [premonition_2.png]
Reeling from the scrying Corraidhin falls backward, feinting from the horror he wittnessed. He awakens later speaking feverishly about what he saw to Inky who heard to commotion and hurried up stairs with some reviving tea to assist her friend.
Eccentric Kevin bows and takes his leave, eyeing the Sword of Stabs with naked hunger. He does seem to ponder your anecdote about sneaking Fennel into production. “Yes, yes, all I have to do is embed KDL in the curriculum and then they will be FORCED to use it! Ha!” He cackles in delight as he flees into the dark.
You successfully move into the attic of the Milk Market. Closest thing approximating a wizard’s tower in the building, so it’s a good fit.
On your errands around town, you pass a couple of Gnu Zealots standing on soapboxes in their black priestly robes in the middle of the street extolling the virtues of free and open source magic.
Gnus are large bisonpeople with long beards, long hair, and horns. Very poor personal hygiene. They refuse to use any magic that they cannot freely study, modify, redistribute, and otherwise use however they want. Theirs is a political movement that borders on religion. Or a religious movement that borders on politics. Hard to tell the difference, really.
The purpose of their demonstration is supposedly to halt all street traffic, prevent it from continuing until/unless the travelers vow to join them in their crusade. But in practice the travelers are quite capable of effortlessly stepping around the zealots and continuing on their way. The Gnus seem undaunted though and continue their proselytizing.
You pass them by, and one of them seems to stare at you intensely as you go.
After a long conversation with Master Corraidhín, which included the reassurance that the esteemed wizard was perhaps disturbed but otherwise unharmed, Inky goes downstairs to sit outdoors at the back of the building with more lavender tea and uneasy thoughts.
It had been in the middle of a new pastime (namely, frustrating Enrique at the Empanada Emporium by sneaking unnoticed into the kitchens and leaving little tapas laying around for him and the staff to find) when a terrible cry rang out from somewhere in the upper floors of the building. Inky rushed up the stairs, half-expecting the barrels of battermilk that had arrived that morning had unleashed a flock of the winged rodent-like creatures from which the milk was derived. The sight of the wizard passed out on the floor of his newly furnished quarters sent a chill through Inky, as did his account of a prophecy once the sysorcerer came to and had a mug of invigorating eleuthero tea.
If Inky hadn’t known better, were it not for Master Corraidhín’s mental acuity and fortitude, they would have suspected Stabby of stoking horrible images of beheaded priests into their bearer’s mind in a fit of unbridled bloodthirst. That and Stabby had seemed to be temporarily appeased by the tub of milky blood pudding they had concocted shortly after the wizard moved into the loft.
No, Inky surmises with a frown, whatever Master Corraidhín had seen was likely off the charts by even Stabby’s estimations of evil. They chuckle briefly at the sudden mental picture of the mysterious yet familiar man in black being their mission handler in disguise, but quickly dismissed the notion. Too sober.
So much for the crystal being a rare and juicy honeydew. They would be lucky if it didn’t turn them all into casaba melons in one giant meltdown. At this rate, they would need to do something about these crystals — and soon.
Enrique, the giant man-turtle, is frustrated.
He keeps finding little tapas in the kitchens. He has no idea who made them, or how they got here. But they are delicious.
He sighs, heaving a ball of dough half the size of a grown man onto the ground. He turns to face away from it and removes his apron and tunic, revealing his shell. Its surface is a maze of twisting, scrawling inscriptions. He squats down, and rolls onto his back.
He can’t figure out the flavors of the tapas. Some elusive combination of ingredients that he can’t quite suss out. If he could collaborate with the tapas chef on a new line of empanadas, he’d have a line of customers out the door and around the corner, he’s sure of it!
He starts rocking back and forth, rolling the dough out beneath his large round shell, leaving imprints on the dough of all the glyphs and runes and other symbols carved into his shell over the years. Together, they tell a story. Each empanada destined to hold at most a single word of it.
~
The Sword of Yam’L sleeps fitfully. This is not the deep, black, fathomless sleep it enjoys after a nice, righteous spilling of evil blood. No, the sleep that comes after reluctantly tasting the inkling’s milky blood pudding is brief and restless. And for the first time ever, it dreams.
It dreams of being bound in stone and buried in the earth. It dreams of liquid, roiling fire belching noxious gases. And of slicing through clouds, flying high in the sky on wings of pure thought. It dreams of sinking, plummeting through water into the inky blackness below, only to plunge through some invisible membrane and find themself weightlessly floating suspended in an empty void, alone among the stars.
END OF INTERLUDE.
~
CHAPTER 2: MORE CRYSTALS MORE PROBLEMS
Having gotten your personal affairs in order, you have decided to crack on with your job and check in with your case manager.
So you find yourself once again in a corner booth at Lucy’s Basement—the dim, smokey nightclub with red velvet walls and delusions of grandeur—with the highly spirited Blavin Blandfoot. He laughs uproariously when you tell him about the blahoblins and their shoe shine scam. He listens intently when you tell him about the gnomes and the kobits. And he trembles with delight at hearing how you evaded HORSE and the mighty centaur.
“Well done, well done, well done!” He enthuses, taking another sip of his drink. “I must say that the Benefactor is very impressed with your performance!
“You don’t mind that we have other teams in the field, of course,” he continues, mentioning the team of gophers. “Thought it was prudent to cover our bases since you’re a new, untested retrieval team after all. Besides, a little friendly competition never hurt anybody, did it? Baw-HAH!” He laughs, sloshing his drink.
He gets out a bunch of business cards, punches each one with a small handheld punch, and passes them out to you. Your card has a drawing of a small cuckoo clock in the center, its face divided into 10 hours. Its two hands reach up to the left and right so it looks as though the clock is smiling. Across the top it reads “COMPLETE FIVE ASSIGNMENTS AND WIN A FABULOUS PRIZE!” and is adorned with festive drawings of hotdogs and pool floaties and confetti. It is numbered across the bottom 1 through 5. Blavin has punched a star-shaped hole through the number 1.
“Now,” Blavin beams, gesturing with his drink. “as for your next assignment!”
He brushes some glasses and plates to the edge of the table and rolls out a map.
Basmentaria is a group of island continents that sits between the eastern Sugrin Sea and the western Saldin Sea.
There is Primora, the sparsely populated northern somewhat banana-shaped island. The city-state of Illivas, Primora’s only densely populated area, sits between Harshwind Glade and the mountains of Kelsun Peak.
And there is your current home, Agendell, the southern also slightly banana-shaped island. Its largest city is Vay’Nullar, bordered by the Gnomelands to the south, and the Tammineaux Forest to the east. Beyond the forest is the Rana’For Valley.
The two crescent-moon islands reach toward each other, and in the center is the archipelago of Ginnarak, comprising the Cinderlands, Ashen Vale, the Ember Steppe, and Drakspon Mountain.
Blavin jabs a finger at the map. “We have reports of a crystal sighting by a salvage crew trying to recover a shipwreck at the bottom of the Sugrin Sea.” He then jabs a finger at the eastern half of Primora, the upper banana. “And we ALSO have reports that the zephynos have found a crystal at the top of Kelsun Peak!”
QUESTIONS:
Why no, we don’t mind much about competition, certainly nothing wrong. Can’t imagine someone to put all of their eggs in one basket, especially when whatever it is they desire is so valuable.
That said, our benefactor must be pretty eager to get these crystals if he’s willing to send out team after team. I mean, we’re team 43, that’s a lot of people to pay and a lot of eagerness to find these crystals. Why is that? What benefit are these shiny rocks to them? What even is their purpose in retrieving them?
“Oh, no no no, child,” Blavin titters as he takes a sip of his ever-present martini. “You must understand, the Benefactor is a singularly dedicated collector, and has been for ages! There are—and have been!—many other retrieval teams, yes. But not all of them have been for the crystals. And some of them were formed, active, and disbanded long before you or I arrived on the scene.” He winks at you conspiratorially.
I would postulate, based upon the magical wards we had to bypass, the cadre of gaurds that needed to be dispatched, and the gigantic moth monster that rested beneath it, that these crystals aren’t meant to go anywhere.
Now I’m not trying to point fingers here, morality is many shades of gray, and it isn’t really my job to suss out what you’re doing. But I’m a curious sysorceor, and when I see a chance to learn I seize upon the moment. There’s something here you’re not telling us, and I for one and keen to know it.
“I wouldn’t worry your wizened old brow about it,” Blavin chuckles, sloshing his drink. “The Benefactor’s concern is precisely the same as yours! These items are of enormous cultural and historical significance, to say nothing of their well of concentrated arcane energies. They’re dangerous just sitting out there in the world. Who knows who might come across one and use it for nefarious purposes.”
Yam’L’s eye widens and it seems to shudder at the mere suggestion of evil.
“Did you say this one was in the hands of a giant moth?” Blavin shudders with revulsion. “My word, man! Do you really think such an overgrown insect is an appropriate guardian for a beloved and dangerous cultural icon such as the Ginnarak Crystal? Surely not!”
“No,” he sits back with a satisfied smile, “I think we must all agree that they are safer in the public collection of a competent and benevolent curator. Then everybody can enjoy them safely!”
META: I’m gonna preface the sword speech with this to make it quicker to write
Y’aml
I like what you’re putting down here, this guy is DEFINITELY evil. Nobody asks loads of people to steal things for them without being evil. I say we stab him, nice and good, right in the gut. Maybe 6 or 7 times. I’m positive nobody will mind. Evil people steal things, we saw that inky creature stealing things from that vault, definitely evil. (singsong) Evil evil evil, stab stab stab, make the evil go away with every little stab~Corraidhin to Y’aml
Dear sysadmins, once again, inky is not evil. They were borrowing something that had been cast on the ground, abandoned. Giving a tea set a good home is far from evil. But you might be onto something about this Blavin fellow, but we can’t just stab someone in a busy pub! Besides you’re a sword, and stabbing someone in a pub is the job of a dagger. So unless you can transform into the Dagger of Y’aml I think we’re out of luck here.
Yam’L gets a curious look in its eye at the suggestion. “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!” it cries directly into your mind. It squeezes its eye shut and trembles with intense concentration. With great effort, the sword shrinks itself down to the size of a dagger, shunting its extra mass off into yamlspace.
“There!” it says breathlessly, opening its eye wearily. “Now, Hardy Bear. You promised..” it continues, its eye glinting with growing ferocity. “Let’s. STAB. THE HOBBIT!”
While the wizard pressed Blavin about the crystal’s secrets, Inky let their attention wander slightly around the table.
They had agreed that Master Corraidhín and Jarrod, being most wise and well-spoken, would question Blavin about the crystal before they set off on their next mission. The party had also befriended the duck unofficially dubbed their marketing manager after the fluffy little creature had trailed Inky all the way back to the Milk Market. Said creature now occupied a small office to one side of the building complete with a fountain, feathered up pillow and all the rummy worms it can eat. Inky had tried getting the duck to communicate with words by making them little croutons etched with letters, but the only ones they would gobble up were Q-U-A-C-K.
Your marketing manager moves into its office at the Milk Market and seems to really be enjoying itself. It joins you at Blavin’s table at Lucy’s Basement, cleaning its feathers and chortling merrily to itself.
You and your tablemates take turns feeding it croutons and bits of soft pretzel, and it seems very happy and content with that.
A familiar prickle, but passed quickly — Inky had gotten used to the glares directed at them by the sysorceor’s gleaming sword and resisted returning the stare with an eyeroll. Watching Stabby eyeing up their case manager over Master Corraidhín’s shoulder reminded Inky of a conversation they had overheard a few evenings ago between two pale coffin sleepers about a new product from the hemogoblins that was said to quench the thirst for longer than the leading brand. They might be able to find some at the town of Plasma, which sits by the Hartlands on the way to the shipwreck. It seems the milky blood pudding could do with some improvement.
You note on Blavin’s map that the Hemogoblin region is indeed on the way to the shipwreck. At least, it’s not that far out of the way. You reckon their synthetic blood product would indeed be a much better substitute for the real thing than the milk you’ve been feeding the thirsty sword thus far.
Or, at the very least, you’ll get a new variant of the blood pudding recipe you’ve been working on!
Maybe someone else’s mood will be improved in the meantime? Before setting out for their meeting with Blavin, Inky slipped into the kitchens downstairs and left the empanada chef a trick-and-treat. A plate of honeyed breadfruit and ghost pepper tapas sat on an icebox atop a new pair of Blueberry oven mittens with a pattern of tiny smiling green turtles. Tucked inside one mitten was a slip of paper (regrettably inedible) that simply read “BACK SOON :)”. A tapa recipe, which included a note on adapting the toppings for pan frying, was printed on the reverse in neat blocky letters and sandalwood ink.
Enrique wakes in the middle of the night to start baking the next day’s breads and empanadas. He frowns thoughtfully when he sees yet another mysterious gift from across the room. Again? What little elf must have taken up residence in his shop? But his face cracks into a smile when he sees the presentation and the oven mitts. And the smile becomes a bonafide grin when he tastes the fare and finds the recipe.
He taps his chin thoughtfully with one green claw as he skims the note and looks through his pantry. He chops some veggies and starts pan frying them.
Later, when the oven dings, he smiles to himself as he pulls on the new turtle pattern oven mitts and opens it.
> A) MORE QUESTIONING, OR B) TIME FOR SHIPWRECK?
Corraidhin
Well I’ll be! You can turn yourself into a dagger. And I did say we could stab blavin if you could do that, it’s much more stealthy this way. But let me posit this, is the act of stabbing a hobbit unprovoked not itself evil? Or perhaps more convincingly, would it not be better to use the hobbit for whatever information he has so as to lead to this mysterious benefactor, who most assuredly must be evil.Someone who would send out myriads of teams to pillage and plunder cultural artifacts is truly evil, that must be our target.
Now this isn’t to say that we won’t stab him. I’m convinced that’s probably a good idea in the long run, but we know nothing of the true evil that motivates him! We would kill him just to lose track of the true evil we must smite!
Y’aml
But YOU said if I could turn into a dagger we could STAB him. HE’S EVIL. YOU said so! Not keeping your promises IS one step away from PURE evil! Make a choice Hardy Bear! Stab the evil hobbit, or stab the inkling, or stab SOMETHING evil this minute!Corraidhin
I most certainly cannot abide with stabbing Inky, it’s entirely off the table. And in a city like this there aren’t any evil things that just jump out for the stabbing.(Corraidhin tries to silently control Y’aml during the discussion. However in so doing the party has fallen silent, aghast even)
Corraidhin stands, Y’aml held in hand, red gem eye gleaming a wicked joyful grin as it’s raised high, poised to strike. The party around him is silent, and Blavin stares up in shock. The tavern around them has died down and you can hear the bustle of the proprietor calling for his strong men to deal with this ruckus.
The table—and all of Lucy’s Basement within earshot—sits in tense, uneasy quiet at Corraidhin’s one-sided conversation with the Sword of Yam’L. Blavin giggles nervously and sips his martini, willfully forcing himself right up to the very last moment to believe that it is all some sort of jest.
But then the sysorcerer stands and raises the blood crazed dagger over his shoulder, and Blavin squeals and writhes in his chair. Lucy’s bouncers scramble forward from the corners of the room to intercept.
Y’aml
We STAB Hardy Bear! We STAB NOW!!Against Corraidhin’s control, as though he’s in a trance, the dagger comes down. A swift stabbing motion strqight to the neck, as he lunges across the table at Blavin knocking the map and his martini to the side.
Corraidhin once again feels the same peculiar quality of the blade, that sensation of a hollow core with a heavy liquid sloshing inside. Held aloft, the weight of it feels concentrated at the grip, the blade light as a feather.
He stabs down—Yam’L cries out in wordless glee—and the weight flows into the tip of the blade, the blade itself now drawing Corraidhin’s hand downward in a rising crescendo of stabbitude.
Blavin flinches at the last second, and instead of burying itself in his throat, the blade plunges into his shoulder and pins him to the back of the chair. A red mist fills the eye and threatens to cloud it over entirely. It rolls back in ecstasy as it drinks deeply. It sings out, “MORE! MORE! MORE!” and Corraidhin feels the tides of madness rising inside of him, threatening to wash over him wholly, to pull him under and carry him away on thundering waves of bloodlust.
Corraidhin struggles to pull the blade from the chair back. Blavin whimpers and mewls as he yanks on it, and clutches his wound and, incredibly, takes a large gulp of his drink.
The sysorcerer still has the wherewithal and the presence of mind to be aware of his surroundings. He is not yet so overcome by the bloodlust. He sees his companions, his fellow residents of the Milk Market, seated around the table. And he sees the musclebound bouncers now nearly within reach.
Finally he draws the dagger. Blavin sinks in his seat and slides to the floor with his drink, blabbering incoherently, and starts to slither away.
WHAT DO YOU DO
Corraidhin Shit, shit shit shit shit shit. This is NOT good. Damn it Y’aml what was that? It wasn’t even slightly stealthy
Y’aml STAB, delightful blood. Stab the flesh, tear the skin, pierce the fruit that gives us strength. Drink the blood, consume their soul. More more more more more more more more more
Corraidhin (internal thought) Ugh my head, it’s heavy, hurts. Misty and red? I can’t see straight, it’s hard to think straight. That blasted sword, I thought for a moment it, no, not think, it definitely did move on its own. It became lighter and heavier. Pulling against it and it just weighs itself down. This little magical bauble is definitely cursed..
Y’aml CURSED?! Rude Hardy Bear. All we did was stab that evil hobbit. And it’s getting away! Stab him again, taste his blood! The tavern gaurds are closing in, they look like they’re trying to get rid of us, EVIL. Them trying to stop us from getting that evil hobbit is EVIL, STAB THEM.
Corraidhin raises his free hand to his head as though holding a wound and he groans in dismay as the dagger rises again. It travels swiftly down towards Blavin, missing as he slithers of the booth. And again, digging deep into the wooden seat.
Y’aml Disgusting wood, stab the flesh! Stab the Hobbit Hardy Bear!
But Blavin was inching further out of reach towards the gaurds. In desperation the dagger begins swinging side to side, making furtive slashing moves in the direction of the guards. The party is safely behind Corraidhin, but innocent patrons and the guards are directly in their sights.
Corraidhin grabs his other hand and pulls hard, steadying the swinging. STOP! I command you you blasted toothpick, STOP. You’ve had your fun, now STOP. These people are innocent, this man has done us no harm despite his potential “evils”, this is entirely uncalled for!
Y’aml NO!!! EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB.
The dull voice of the magical dagger rises, angry, insistent. It consumes the last of Corraidhin’s mental strength. All he hears is EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. Yet he clings to his spare arm trying desparately to resist. At this point the party and the tavern has cleared a wide path around the sysorceor as he struggles with himself, mumbling, sometimes yelling. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. NO WE WILL NOT. EVIL. INNOCENT. STAB BLOOD DRINK. EVIL. EVIL EVIL EVIL STAB IT. MAKE IT BLEED. I WILL NO.. STAB IT. STAB HIM.
The voice seems to change, it dies down. Not yelling, but commanding. Firm, calm, sane.
Stab them, stab them, make them bleed. Drink the blood, consume the soul, free them from their evil being. Stab them, stab them… over and over and over, as the sysorceor approaches Blavin and the guards with a malevolent look in his ruby red eyes.
~
Inky moves to stand next to Blavin and the nightclub bouncers. Tossing a tiny “see-eye” container they had borrowed from Master Corraidhín at him, Inky looks the sysorceor in the eye and says, “You are not your sword.”
Watching the wizard’s expression, Inky continues, more quietly, “If Master Corraidhín truly wishes to end the hobbit, a mere imp would not stop him, but likewise, whatever he sets his mind to do, a dagger cannot stop him either.”
~
Jarrod steps gently into the fray and activates his FASCINATING CHARM, attempting to draw all eyes to him. He carefully avoids the wild swinging of the once-sword-now-dagger.
“I think,” he rumbles gently, “we could all use a drink over the other end of the room. I’m buying, and I’ll spin you all a tale of wonder! A tale of a wanderer, and of a war hammer, and the first of their wild battles together!”
Leaning over to whisper urgently in Corraidhín’s ear: “Friend, I do not know what occurs here, but pull yourself together. We can later sate our blood lust in more appropriate places!” Jarrod lends a sly wink in the sysorcerer’s direction, one that promises adventure later.
The tavern guards tense, but pause their advance, as the crazed mage’s friends position themselves protectively around him and try to placate him. They wouldn’t want to engage a master sysorcerer on the best of days, much less one with some kind of malevolent blood dagger in the middle of a psychotic break. If his compatriots can handle him without them having to interfere, all the better.
The duck waddles up next to Inky and quacks softly, pleadingly at Corraidhin. Only the Ornithologer in the corner can understand its words when it says, “As your marketing manager I must strongly advise against this course of action!”
Seated in the corner next to the Ornithologer is a shaggy groll dressed in a dusty, faded poncho and a wide brimmed hat; and a greasy, matted gnu, dressed in black ceremonial robes.
The groll discreetly draws its poncho back revealing a bandoleer of wands and draws a cracklestick and points it at the sysorcer. The wand starts to hum and glow as it charges up for a blast.
The gnu slaps the groll’s wrist, and immediately launches into a tirade against the cracklestick’s manufacturer’s proprietary spell slotting algorithm, and honestly how can you possibly justify your choices when there are open source alternatives available?
The groll rolls its eyes, obviously having been on the receiving end of this particular lecture before, and tries to slap away the gnu’s grasping hands. The ensuing scuffle threatens to turn this powder keg of a situation into a full blown conflagration until Jarrod actives his FASCINATING CHARM, commanding the attention of the entire room.
The gnu freezes with its hands around the groll’s throat. The groll halts with fists full of the gnu’s beard. A grub smoking a hookah pauses with the mouthpiece raised to its pursed lips. A distracted waitress on roller skates crashes right into the bar.
As though in a trance Corraidhin continues to yell STAB. THEM. STAB. IT. cutting wildly at the air before him. As Inky whispers to him his expression changes, first a grimace, then a whimper. As Jarrod leads the patrons away from the sysorceor he begins to tremble and cower away from himself, away from everyone. His ruby red eyes dart back and forth between his friends and the patrons, like a frightened animal searching for an escape. He pulls the dagger into himself, as though sheilding it from his surroundings.
What.. what’s going on, he mutters feebly to himself. Everything is a blurr. Uncertain of where he is or what’s going on, Corraidhin thumbs the dagger, caressing the large ruby embedded in the hilt. Y’aml, you’re still here, good good, the syscoreor croons.
Standing up straight his eyes lock with Jarrod as the Bard glances over his shoulder, momentarily distracted from his oration, worried about his companion.
I.. ugh, Corraidhin grabs his head as though in pain, and collapses to the floor.
Corraidhin hits the floor and the dagger, now bereft of the well of emotion it had been drawing from, grows still. The eye closes and it seems to sigh happily. “Good job, Hardy Bear. You have spilled the blood of evil.” And it sleeps, inert, lifeless.
Corraidhin is on the ground cradling the dagger.
Most of the patrons are still fascinated by Jarrod.
Blavin is squirming around on the floor gibbering about reassigning your case.
The duck has found a toppled plate of corn chips and is happily snacking away.
You feel like your welcome at Lucy’s Basement has been, for the moment, overstayed.
WHAT DO YOU DO
Inky slowly approaches Master Corraidhín and taps lightly on the sleeve of his robes to get his attention. Between Inky’s tugging and Jarrod’s strong, steady hand, they manage to hoist the wizard to his feet.
With a brief glance at the hobbit on the floor then a nod to Jarrod, Inky leaves the nightclub with the wizard. The duck, having emptied the plate of corn chips in record time, follows them shortly after.
The trek back to the Milk Market is mostly silent aside from the occasional mutter and stumbling curse, the mage seemingly having fallen asleep as soon as he landed on the cot in the loft. Inky retreats downstairs after leaving a jug of water, a mug and a small packet of kuding leaves beside the bed.
Exiting through the back door into the night, Inky finds a dark corner in a dusty abandoned house, and cries.
~
” … and then the Orc Maiden said: ‘That’s not my club!’”
The room roars with laughter, and Jarrod moves to the bar and puts a bag of coin down. “Serve drinks until this runs out!” Leaning over the bar to the bartender, Jarrod adds in a whisper: “I owe a favour to Lucy’s Basement for the trouble. Call it in when needed.”
Jarrod saunters over to Blavin, on the floor in pain. From his pack, Jarrod retrieves a med kit and begins to bandage the wound.
As Blavin opens his mouth, likely intending to raise all kinds of hell, Jarrod pulls tight on the bandage he is currently applying, drawing a curse from the hobbit. “Shut it! Let’s be clear. You’ve hired us for a dangerous set of jobs, with the understanding that we’re dangerous people. There may be ‘accidents’ on occasion. You’ve learned something today, and what’s more, you lived to absorb your new wisdom.”
Jarrod grins as he finishes with the bandage. “We will finish what we have started. We’re probably the team with the best chances, I’m sure you’ll agree. Are you going to back the winning play here? Either way, your decision won’t change our plans. I’m sure you know how to take the win.”
Jarrod pats the hobbit’s good shoulder in a friendly, but dismissive, way, then turns and saunters out the door, trading small quips with his new (and now very drunk) tavern friends.
You are at a small port town on the northern tip of Agendell, just past the Rana’For Valley. The sun is bright and the wind blowing in from the Sugrin Sea to the east is cool and salty. The floating island-city of Vay’Neddas, bridging Agendell and Primora, can be seen very faintly in the distance hanging in the northern sky.
Your faithful multibeast is carrying all of your supplies and gear, which were generously provided to you by the indefatigable Blavin Blandfoot. His arm in a sling, he kept up a constant nervous chatter as he saw you off on your journey to recover the second Ginnarak Crystal.
From here, you can easily provision a boat to take you out to the site of the shipwreck just off the coast.
Or, optionally, you are very close to the Hartlands. It would be quite easy to make a quick visit to hemogoblins and pick up some synthetic blood for your experiments with the Sword of Yam’L.
The sword, incidentally, after finally tasting the blood of “evil”, has remained sated and entirely inert and unresponsive this whole time.
WHAT DO YOU DO:
Inky stares down at the package, weighing it on one hand.
It was lighter than it should be given the density of the contents within, wrapped in straw and thick brown weight-absorbent parcel paper for dry goods. Most of the clientele were merchants and cultists from other parts of the continent who ordered pallets to be shipped back from the port town and sold to select boutique grocers or spilled on altars. Inside was a block of congealed synthetic blood shaped like a mud brick, the dark crimson almost black under the shop’s dim light.
It was sheer happenstance that Inky had found this particular supplier. Having been informed heir boat to the shipwreck would not arrive for several hours, the members of their merry tea party had wandered off to enjoy the local sights while they waited. Inky had inquired about the hemogoblins and learned in passing that there was a district at the western edge of the town where a smaller group had set up warehouses, which would save them a two-day trip deep into the Hartlands. The hemogoblins in the district were primarily wholesalers, and it had taken some convincing before one of the proprietors agreed to sell a block of it, along with assurances Inky would purchase exclusively from him next time and in larger quantities.
Thin fingers fiddle with the string before the package was set to one side.
What were they doing?
If quenching the thirst were so simple, wouldn’t any student of magic have already thought of it, let alone an experienced sysorceror? In all likelihood he had already known the inevitable, but was too polite to refuse Inky’s funny concoctions. Maybe deep down, Inky already knew too, but didn’t want to say it out loud. That the long feather they thought they had seen among the tea leaves was actually a dagger. That they hadn’t wanted to admit some problems could not be whisked away with some tincture or another. That they had failed, again.
They hadn’t searched enough for better ingredients to go into the pudding, hadn’t reacted fast enough after noticing the sword had abruptly disappeared, hadn’t thrown the large platter of mouldy meat the terrified waitress next to them had been holding at Blavin’s head, or something. The sword had gotten what it demanded, and Inky couldn’t be angry with it — it had never been subtle about what it wanted. Had the blood pudding worsened the effects? Potions had never been on Inky’s menu. Brewing inks and teas with certain mild effects was straightforward enough, but curing chronic ailments was firmly in healers’ territory and just as bewildering. While it may be true nobody could be held to account for the actions of another not in full control of themselves, and hardly those of a rogue weapon with a mind of its own, sticking their nose in other people’s affairs was the surest way to get into trouble, a fact Inky still has difficulty learning after decades of wandering the continent.
Would this substrate even work? Maybe it acted differently for cursed objects than coffin sleepers. Having brought it back and now aboard the ship, how would they even give it to the wizard? Should they wait and made sure Master Corraidhín was truly rested and recovered, despite his insistence he was more than fine? Would it be an insulting reminder of weakness, despite the wizard having proven unusual mental fortitude in staving off the screams for blood as long as he had? Was this more of the same, adding to what they had (not) done?
After a long moment, Inky rolls the package with the producers’ leaflet haphazardly in an old sailor’s rags still reeking of cheap alcohol, and passing by the wizard’s empty cabin on the way to the deck, places the messy bundle on the floorboards two steps from the door. Let the fates decide this one, because Inky’s magic 0 ball sure doesn’t make the best life choices.
Blavin has arranged transportation to the shipwreck ahead of time. All you have to do is head down to the docks and meet your contact, Three-Fingered Gerald, at a seedy dive bar named Inquire Within Upon Everything.
Inquire Within is as eclectic and gaudy as the name would imply. The bar serves as an extensive and impressive piece of living documentation, drawing heavily on the port town’s cosmopolitan mixture of culture. Every kind of style, cuisine, decor, and beverage can be found here mishmashed together irregardless of good taste. Its contents are encyclopedic and claustrophobic. And yet it is not without its own peculiar brand of overwhelming, garish charm.
You find Mister Three-Fingered at the bar entertaining his fellow patrons with a grotesque sleight of hand routine that involves passing his gold-plated false eye from its socket, to either hand, inside his mouth, and back with lots of flourish, fanfare, and misdirection along the way.
He is a merry, boisterous sailor short one eye, half an ear, several fingers, and—he confesses to you—the heel of his left foot. “It’s why I walk so slow, you see.” The other barflies call him “Lucky” Three-Fingered Gerald. Because a certain kind of man—and Gerald is one of them—can never have enough nicknames. After you buy him a drink or three, he escorts you out of Inquire Within and to the slip where the sloop Diamond Howler is docked. Its captain, Enid Barlow, welcomes you aboard.
Before long, Diamond Howler pulls out under the command of Captain Barlow and First Mate “Lucky” Three-Fingered Gerald. The site isn’t too far off the coast, and you arrive fairly quickly.
“Aye, here she is. The SS RSS.” says Captain Barlow mournfully. “You can’t see her from up here. But you rest assured, she’s down there, resting on the seabed. She was the best cargo runner on the Sugrin back in her day! Distributing goods up and down the coast. Until the day she disappeared. Nobody knew what happened to her, not for sure. Still don’t. But at least we know where she wound up!”
While the captain reminisces, Three-Fingered Gerald drags a large water tank across the deck, sloshing water over the edge with each step. Translucent orb-like jellyfish wobble around and bump into each other inside the tank, releasing little effervescent bubbles that fizzle and pop when they collide. “Here we go!” announces Mister Three-Fingered, depositing the tank of jellies in front of you. “Sailed through a big bloom of breathing bells just last week, didn’t we! Managed to scoop up a whole bunch of the little suckers. You ever use a breathing bell before? No? Aw, it’s easy! Ya just pull one on over your head like a hood, and it’ll breathe for ya while you’re below the waves!”
WHAT DO YOU DO
NOTE: We just covered a lot of narrative ground. Feel free to react to anything that happened between arriving at the docks, meeting Gerald and drinking at Inquire Within, boarding the Diamond Howler, and sailing to the site of the wreck.
Some of the creatures who inhabit the world of Basmentaria
Map
Basmentaria is a group of islands that sits between the eastern Sugrin Sea and the western Saldin Sea.
There is Primora, the sparsely populated northern somewhat banana-shaped island. The city-state of Illivas, Primora’s only densely populated area, sits between Harshwind Glade and the mountains of Kelsun Peak.
And there Agendell, the southern also slightly banana-shaped island. Its largest city is Vay’Nullar, bordered by the Gnomelands to the south, and the Tammineaux Forest to the east. Beyond the forest is the Rana’For Valley.
The two crescent-moon islands reach toward each other, and in the center is the archipelago of Ginnarak, comprising the Cinderlands, Ashen Vale, the Ember Steppe, and Drakspon Mountain.
In a fantasy setting where there objectively are deities who walk the earth and interact with humans, “atheism” is sometimes erroneously used to signify an indifference to the gods. This is more accurately called “transtheism”:
Transtheism refers to a system of thought or religious philosophy that is neither theistic nor atheistic, but is beyond them. … [A system] is theistic in the limited sense that gods exist but are irrelevant as they are transcended by … a system that is not non-theistic, but in which the gods are not the highest spiritual instance.
That is, gods are sufficiently powerful enough to mold the earth and shape the destiny of man, but are no different from man in that they are fallible, flawed, and able to die.
They may be greatest power, but are not necessarily the highest spiritual or moral authority. Nor are they endlessly enduring or lasting.
THE TRINE:
Neddas – Wise god of sages and starlight. Androgynous, clad in purple robes, depicted with a golden third eye in the middle of their forehead. They are often shown stoically bestowing gifts upon the inhabitants of Basmentaria [1].
Nullar – God of time and tides. A bespectacled male figure with a golden third eye on his forehead. He is dressed in a dapper vest and bow tie, and is adorned with small cogs and gears. He is depicted looking up at the stars from a mechanical contraption he is working on [1].
Liandt – Goddess of war and flame. A primal, elemental deity, she is depicted as a fiery warrior with a golden third eye. The relief shows her on the battlefield during the Artifice wars. The wars which reduced Ginnarak to the wastes of cinder and ash that they are today. The wars which drained Liandt’s divine energies so thoroughly that she fell into a deep sleep and has been absent from the mortal realms ever since [1].
[1] episode 00010
In the days of old, the Artifice Wars ravaged the lands of Basmentaria.
They reduced the once fertile lands of Ginnarak to ash and embers.
I don’t know what I’m going to put here, but I didn’t want this document to just abruptly end. So here you go: a kind farewell and a more gentle conclusion.
Thanks for reading.
dozens@tilde.team