Licheville

Play Report from 8 Nov 16.

11/8/16 Crown’s Hold Play Report

Anatoly, Initiate of the Sciences (Dale)

Hurst, Adventurer Extraordinaire (Dave)

Klaus, Initiate/Disciple of the Flesh (John)

With Zachariah still out on his Intel mission for the Inquisition, and Halbert snoring in an alcoholic stupor under a table in the Slut and Brew, the rest of the party mulled over their various options to assuage their anger after the assault on both Crown’s Hold and Crown’s Stead.  Anatoly and Hurst want to solve the mystery of the un-openable vault beneath the West Anglypur Company’s headquarters, while Klaus just wants to eliminate the personal thorn in the party’s side: the beautiful and insidious Lenora Hatley. They all agreed that descending into the sewers would be their first step in accomplishing their mutual goals.

After the city-wide attack on the Stead, gaping holes were left open throughout town, so our intrepid adventures dropped in to a convenient one just outside of the Slut & Brew.

They immediately noticed something was amiss. Throughout the tunnels, they could see wide swaths had been cut through the muck and grimes leaving only the bare ancient stone used to construct the sewers. Sometimes the clean areas were on the floor, then shift to a wall, then the ceiling. The party didn’t know what could have done it, but just that it had to be huge as the width of the trail was at least five foot. They followed the northwest tunnel up and up, as that way led to the sewers under the Hold itself.

Then they found the crushed and shattered space helmet.

Anatoly filled the others in. They hadn’t entered into the locked down chamber in the buried space ship. They hadn’t seen the thing inside the suit begin to grow and burst apart its seams as the party had re-locked the bulkhead just before something battered against the metal door repeatedly, shaking the entire craft.

Klaus shuddered. He knew. Shoggoth…

Moving even more cautiously, the team arrived to where they assumed the West Anglypur Company Headquarters was located far above them. After some efforts in searching, they found a loose stone, and behind it, a large pull-ring. A door in the sewer walls swung open, leading to a short stairwell down, then to a beautifully crafted marble room. They placed their torches in the wall sconces and searched again, finding nothing but a foot wide circular brass plate seated into the wall opposite the stairs. Klaus could tell the plate held magic, but couldn’t decipher its use. Frustrated, they knew this must be the back entrance into the sealed vault under the W.A.C. HQ, but they could find nothing.

Then, noises were heard on the stairs.

Hurst and Anatoly hid in the corners off to the side of the stairs, while Klaus calmly waited.

A woman’s voice could be heard in the background as three toughs descended the stairs. Recognition crossed Klaus’ mind as he saw the man in the fore. The former Legionnaire who’d quit to serve Lenora Hatley. After a brief attempt at deceit upon both sides, blades were drawn. The assault by the enemy leader was brutal and savage. Mighty blow after mighty blow hacked into Klaus, who crashed to the ground, unconscious, a new scar to add to his body, mind, and soul (- Fate pt.).

Anatoly and Hurst, after some give and take with their enemies, finally began getting the upper hand, particularly after Hurst hamstringed one of the combatants who crawled up the stairway. The ex-Legionnaire, after taking some wounds and seeing the battle turn, pushed his other trooper in front of himself and sprinted up the stairs.

The abandoned thug only half-heartedly fought for a moment before surrendering, then spilling all he knew about the vault. He’d had enough betrayal, and vengeance on his recent employer was foremost on his mind. Lenora Hatley had indeed been accessing the vault from that very room. He didn’t know exactly how she did it, other than laying her palm against the plate. After some discussion on which hand, and if there was jewelry on that hand, the adventurers thought they may be on the precipice of solving the mystery of the vault, but also gained a new ally. Important for the fact that Kyle was may be laid up for some time, and they had no one to guard the party’s hidden (well, not so hidden now) manse.

Heading back to the surface, they entered the W.A.C. headquarters to talk to the new boss, Lady Norah, who promised to get any rings that the disgraced (and executed) Sir Edmund may have had in his possession to the party.

If any of Edmunds worn rings didn’t open the fault, they’d just have to use Hatley’s hand. Whether it will be still attached to her when they use it, the party members seemed not to care at all.

Klaus' downtime tale.

Explanation: whenever the cancellation of the game is my fault and lasts more than a single missed session, I like to whip up a little narrative on what has happened to their characters, and depending on a dice roll each player makes, I access a random table I’ve made up (and expanded significantly over the campaign). This table can contain Faction points, EP (though I post about my Grim Hack rules, we still haven’t converted over except in one-shots), skills, characteristics, equipment, contacts, cash gains (or losses), new adventure locations, and just some bizarre shit. Most of the results are actually a combination of these things, with a scattered big gain for a single thing.

I usually just pass it on through group texts, but others may find some interest in this, if not mechanically, then for entertainment purposes.

Will post these as I finish them.

This time around since we had such a big break, I asked the players what their characters were attempting to do along with the result from their die roll, and tried to integrate, with the following results:

Klaus, Initiate/Disciple of the Flesh (John) – Klaus spits into the dust of the faint trail that he and the team have made over time travelling to their secret manse in the mountains northwest of Crown’s Hold. He’d been planning on getting here before this, but his studies into the nature of magic and particularly the mysteries of Hypergeometry. He knew he was close to cracking it. Just one piece was missing, and he was sure it was just within his grasp. When he’d gotten too frustrated, he’d gotten some satisfaction from tracking Lenora Hatley’s doings. He’d tracked her multiple times entering a heavily residence in the northeastern part of town. She’d be there for a couple hours at a stretch, then emerge with her dress soiled with dirt, and a servant with a bag. He was itching to get in there, but the rest of his compatriots have been incommunicado of late.

Something’s wrong with Kyle.

You start running towards the trail, the hired hands you‘d acquired stop in shock, then begin walking after you faster, but they’re laden down with paint and masonry repair equipment. As you scramble up the trail towards the manse, everything seems the same as you’d last seen it, but you’re tie with Kyle says otherwise. You slow as you enter the large foyer, hands held in front of you, the Rend spell ever ready to be unleashed.

You find Kyle in the middle of the theater. He barely breathes, his armor cracked and shattered next to him. A message has been carved deep into his chest.

“GO BACK TO YOUR EMPIRE”

Kyle’s eyes flicker open, trying to focus on you. “Just missed ‘em, boss. They’re hitting yer town, now.” He fades in and out of consciousness. “I’ll be alright, boss. Just find some strippers-” His eyes close as he falls into a stupor. You work your spells upon the fallen Siddich. Once you figure he’s stable, you give some terse orders to the laborers and leave, your teeth gritting in anger.

From the summit of the trail, you can see flashes of light on the horizon in the direction of the Hold.

Someone is going to pay.

You catch them just north of the Hold. A Mageregime sorcerer gestures and the ancient bars guarding a sewer overflow in the side of the mountain begin to change shape, fade into mist, and disappear. Of course. He’s calling and folding open elsewhere. You know you should write that down, but you’d rather Rend them instead.

Later you wipe the dripping gore from your face. They hadn’t expected you. You know you were lucky this time, but the victory still tastes sweet. You look down and notice that some of the blood is, indeed, yours. A lot, in fact. No magic left in you, you rip some rough bandages from the cloak of the enemy wizard. You pick up the piece of paper that falls out. Well, well, well.

+ Arcane language: Hypergeometric Formulae, + Map of the Crown’s Hold sewers (not to be confused with the map for the Stead’s sewers)

Halbert's downtime tale.

Explanation: whenever the cancellation of the game is my fault and lasts more than a single missed session, I like to whip up a little narrative on what has happened to their characters, and depending on a dice roll each player makes, I access a random table I’ve made up (and expanded significantly over the campaign). This table can contain Faction points, EP (though I post about my Grim Hack rules, we still haven’t converted over except in one-shots), skills, characteristics, equipment, contacts, cash gains (or losses), new adventure locations, and just some bizarre shit. Most of the results are actually a combination of these things, with a scattered big gain for a single thing.

I usually just pass it on through group texts, but others may find some interest in this, if not mechanically, then for entertainment purposes.

Will post these as I finish them.

This time around since we had such a big break, I asked the players what their characters were attempting to do along with the result from their die roll, and tried to integrate, with the following results:

Halbert, Legionnaire 2^nd Class (Doug) – One day after practicing his sword-play with the new Legionnaires in Crown’s Hold, Halbert, sweaty and sore, wandered back into the Legion barracks. Legion Commander Tarrant Bradwyr passed by. “Halbert, watched you in the courtyard, there. You’re becoming quite formidable. I was wondering if you’d like to join us for a few libations at the Slut and Brew in town. It’s an important day for us, the 51^st anniversary of the Legion Founding.”

Visions of alcohol, dancing women, and even more alcohol floated before his eyes. “Sounds great!”

“Did you want to wait for any of your friends?”

“Nah, more for us.” Bradwyr laughed as they headed to the Slut and Brew.

After the fourth or fifth drink, the tavern shook to sounds of laughter and revelry and the sound of an explosion just outside. Glasses rattled and fell off the tables, shattering the sudden silence. The Slut and Brew’s thick leaded glass windows crack into crude and ugly spider-webs.

As one, you and the Legionnaires draw your swords and head outside.

The street before you has collapsed, thick smoke and dirt billow up out of the chasm. Terrorist refugees? Some sort of gas build-up in the newly opened sewers? Klaus drunk again?

Men in blackened Anglypur armor pour out of the chasm. Another man floats above them, laughing. His tongue is split like a serpents, his eyes are also severed in half, hemispherical pupils spinning madly in their sockets. Other explosions are heard elsewhere in the vicinity, shaking the ground.

“Kill the wizard,” someone screams, but the press of the purple and black shod troopers is too heavy. You find your attention divided by two of them wielding spears that have been drawn to you, while reality-bending magics howl overhead, screams erupting behind you.

After long minutes of dodging and parrying, a lucky stab from your blade sinks deep into the throat of one of your attackers, while one of the Legionnaires grapples with the other. The laughter from the Mageregime wizard suddenly changes tone. You look up to see non-descript people in non-descript clothing, shooting a not so non-descript quantity of arrows, bolts, knives, and shuriken into the now cursing mage. Down the street, blue and green alchemical fires show the Monks have also entered the fray.

The sound of a peeling bell rings from the Cathedral, and a mage in the distance falls to the ground into the reaping greatsword of Inquisitor Varus.

The Mageregime wizard howls in fresh laughter and reality shifts, the Anglypur troopers and their master drop back into the pit and simply disappear.

Commander Gladwyr’s hand on your shoulder makes you jump, and you realize just how tired you are. “It was coordinated,” says Tarrant. “I’ve had runners come from the keep. The Guildsmen were able to hold them off. The Guildmistress herself tore a whole cadre of the bastards apart, I hear.” He shudders, then shakes his head. “I think they were only testing us. This is bad. The Mageregime war must be finally over. Emperor save us all.”

You sheathe your sword after wiping it on the corpse of the man you killed. Definitely have some drinking to do.

+Legion, Hidden, and Town faction. +Consume Alcohol skill. +Free Ale whenever drinking in the presence of more than 2 Legionnaires.

Anatoly's downtime tale...

Explanation: whenever the cancellation of the game is my fault and lasts more than a single missed session, I like to whip up a little narrative on what has happened to their characters, and depending on a dice roll each player makes, I access a random table I’ve made up (and expanded significantly over the campaign). This table can contain Faction points, EP (though I post about my Grim Hack rules, we still haven’t converted over except in one-shots), skills, characteristics, equipment, contacts, cash gains (or losses), new adventure locations, and just some bizarre shit. Most of the results are actually a combination of these things, with a scattered big gain for a single thing.

I usually just pass it on through group texts, but others may find some interest in this, if not mechanically, then for entertainment purposes.

Will post these as I finish them.

This time around since we had such a big break, I asked the players what their characters were attempting to do along with the result from their die roll, and tried to integrate, with the following results:

Anatoly, Initiate of the Sciences (Dale) – Smelling of black powder and sweat, Anatoly took a rest from his firearms practice, cleaning his weapon, when Mike Baker, the gunsmith, and Jim Larabee, the alchemist, approached him. “We’ve a new design, Anatoly, but it needs some field testing. As we don’t get out much, we’d appreciate it if you’d take it out with you on your adventures.”

“We’ll also give a quick once-over on how it works in case you need to make any, ahem, excuse me, field repairs.”

“What is it?” Anatoly said, picking up the strange weapon.

“A flame-thrower!” The two monks smiled and Anatoly shuddered. No good will come from this...

Days later, Anatoly hiked over to his plantation. Immediately, he knew something was amiss. Out of his new manse (rough construction completed only), his laborers pile out. “You came quickly to our call!’ “We only sent Olaf off an hour or two ago!”

“What!?! What are you talking about?” Anatoly looked about. Damn, looking good.

“Spiders!” “A horde!” “They spoke!” “They knew you by name!” “Submit or all shall die!”

“What was that last part?” asked Anatoly.

“That’s what that man said,” said Zareth, Anatoly’s youngest laborer, pointing at the tree-line.

The goose-bumps spread across Anatoly’s skin. In the trees was the man who’d identified himself as Snake some months ago. The Spider-Lord.

Anatoly triggered the supposed flame-thrower. Nothing. Those absent-minded bastards. He dropped to the ground, the arcane weapon in front of him. What did they say? Through the combining chamber to the pressure chamber…

He tinkered on the bizarre weapon as the scuffle of spider legs moved towards him. Suddenly, he heard the sounds of two babies crying.

Are you kidding me?

Wait a minute! Of course! Those idiots…

The spiders sprang forward, in the distance, Anatoly could hear the laughter of the Spider-Lord.

This had better fucking work. Anatoly depressed the trigger and fire bloomed forth, blue-white hot. The spiders were engulfed, their screams echoed through the trees. In a matter of seconds, six spiders, including two baby-headed spiders, are incinerated, their blackened chitin falling to the ground in ashes.

The laborers stood with their mouths open in shock.

“Holy shit,” said Zareth.

“Holy shit,” said the Spider-Lord, and disappeared.

I am Shiva, destroyer of worlds…

+Schematic: Flame Thrower, + Skill: Specialty Weapon: Flame Thrower, +Flame Thrower (3 fwooshes of ammo) Str 5, Cone 25’ length, 15’ apex (after successful research: Str = 6).

Hurst's downtime tale.

Explanation: whenever the cancellation of the game is my fault and lasts more than a single missed session, I like to whip up a little narrative on what has happened to their characters, and depending on a dice roll each player makes, I access a random table I’ve made up (and expanded significantly over the campaign). This table can contain Faction points, EP (though I post about my Grim Hack rules, we still haven’t converted over except in one-shots), skills, characteristics, equipment, contacts, cash gains (or losses), new adventure locations, and just some bizarre shit. Most of the results are actually a combination of these things, with a scattered big gain for a single thing.

I usually just pass it on through group texts, but others may find some interest in this, if not mechanically, then for entertainment purposes.

Will post these as I finish them.

This time around since we had such a big break, I asked the players what their characters were attempting to do along with the result from their die roll, and tried to integrate, with the following results:

Hurst, Adventurer Extraordinaire* (Dave) – Hurst, the fate of the refugee/slaves in the mine to the north weighs heavily on his mind, and he gathers a group of Legionnaires and heads north. Caution being the better part of valor, Hurst and his team slowly approached the mine entrance. The ground in front of the entrance is scorched in a roughly thirty yard circle. Evidence of booted footprints with a tread unlike anything he’d seen before go towards the sere ground, but there are no bodies to be found. Odd. Similar tracks lead both in and out of the adit, so Hurst told his men to tread carefully. Investigating the ground he’d previously covered, he found the strange stone past the wizard’s lab to have been destroyed, shattered. Again cautioning his men, they descended down towards the underground city. Finding evidence of a heavy battle and the remains of bio-mechanical spider-like creatures, he had some of the men pick up the most undamaged pieces and ascended back towards the elevator.

Descending down the mine elevator towards the deeper levels he’d not adventured through, the team were attacked by feral (and cannibalistic) refugees, their hands turned black. Twenty-two half-starved souls were put down, but, despite heavy wounds, none of the Legionnaires were lost. A group of six survivors, barely alive, had boarded themselves up in one of the slave pens. After some water and a bit of rations, the Legionnaires fashioned stretchers and began transporting the survivors to the surface.

Returning to the surface himself, Hurst realized there is one more level below the slave pits. How was the elevator still functioning? A survivor, more alert than the others told him “No one went deeper. Not even the Mageregime wizard.”

The survivors, to a man, pledged their undying gratitude to Hurst, while Sergeant Piva pulled Hurst aside. “It’s been an honor, sir,” shaking Hurst’s hand. “We know you’re not officially Legion, but you are to us. We’ll follow you anywhere, anytime.”

Hurst descended to below the WAC headquarters, getting nods and smiles along the way towards his infrequent visits to that damn vault door. Nothing had changed. No fresh ideas came to him, the he heard something on the other side of the door. Was that a woman’s voice? He heard a door close, then nothing. Of course…

The fucking sewers.

Once the survivors from the mine had recovered their health, Hurst was able to find them work around the Stead. Most in the new businesses that had opened up with the coming of more refugees and new investors from the Empire. Needing a second apprentice, Frank Waite the blacksmith, gladly took on Michael to work with him and Jerome at the forges. Frank thanked Hurst but seemed to be holding back laughter. Hurst nodded his head and went back to the barracks for a long deserved rest.

On returning home, on his rack sat a suit of heavy black plate mail. Trying it on, it’s much lighter than it looks… Obviously Siddich in origin, it had been painstakingly adjusted to Hurst’s exact measurements, and of any symbols of Anglypur there is no trace, only the crest of the Legion.

++Legion and Refugee Faction, + unique Legionnaire/Siddich plate mail.

*Note, Hurst is following his own career-less advancement system that Dave developed. I hope to post that here with Dave’s permission sometime in the future.

Zachariah's downtime tale.

Explanation: whenever the cancellation of the game is my fault and lasts more than a single missed session, I like to whip up a little narrative on what has happened to their characters, and depending on a dice roll each player makes, I access a random table I’ve made up (and expanded significantly over the campaign). This table can contain Faction points, EP (though I post about my Grim Hack rules, we still haven’t converted over except in one-shots), skills, characteristics, equipment, contacts, cash gains (or losses), new adventure locations, and just some bizarre shit. Most of the results are actually a combination of these things, with a scattered big gain for a single thing.

I usually just pass it on through group texts, but others may find some interest in this, if not mechanically, then for entertainment purposes.

Will post these as I finish them.

This time around since we had such a big break, I asked the players what their characters were attempting to do along with the result from their die roll, and tried to integrate, with the following results:

Zachariah, Legionnaire 2^nd Class (Bob) – As part of his plan to forge closer ties between the Inquisition and the Legion, Zachariah has spent time shuffling between the Hold and the town. Seeking to also plum some of the mysteries of Inquisitorial Magic, he was approached for a mission. As he has developed some ties with the Swamplanders, he’s asked to spend some time with them and investigate. Varus, Inquisitor In Station, is particularly curious about their agendas, if any, and in particular, the nature of their god(s).

After some abortive attempts at firearm training, he headed towards the docks. As has been usual, the Swamplanders greet Zachariah as a welcome friend. After a few days of wandering about the docks, getting to know the Swamplanders has proven difficult, as they are quite secretive despite their amiable feelings towards Zachariah. More strangers are appearing at the docks as the quality of life in Crown’s Hold has increased over the past few months, and the quality of the fish vendors’ product just gets more and more delicious.

The two Swamplander young women that had accosted you before have been much less ‘forward’ but are far more open than most dockworkers. You get some basic information about the worship of the Gods-In-The-Seas, but don’t seem to know much more than after a while, most Swamplanders ‘retire’ to waves once they begin to feel the aches and pains of old age. They convince you to come see their grandfather who hasn’t heard the call of the seas yet despite his advanced age, and who would be much more up on all this ‘religion junk.’

The girls lead you to a section of ramshackle huts on the shore of the river outside of town. Despite the appearance on the outside, the furnishings and condition on the inside, while not opulent, shocks you in their quality.

Their grandfather presents as a wrinkled but massive man, bent over from years of fishing off docks and boats. His eyes are wide and all-encompassing, and his grip when he shakes hands with you is incredibly strong. After a scrumptious meal, you talk long into the night with the affable man. As the light of dawn creeps into the windows, you see a twinkle in the man’s eye. You realize you cannot remember his name, nor the name of the girls. You try to hold on to what the man had been telling you all night, but it slips slowly, steadily from your mind.

“As you have been trying to increase the ties between your outsider factions, we, too, shall increase the ties with them through you…”

You awaken, groggy and naked, in a dark rocky tunnel. The way behind leads only into blackness, ahead you see a murky light. You get up only to realize you are underwater. You panic for a second, then realize you’re breathing fine. You remember the potion and the sunken city of Greymire and you quickly relax. You swim through the tunnel and swim easily up to the surface. The shore of the river is only a few yards away. You test to see if the potion is anywhere close to wearing off. You clear the water from your lungs and can breathe fine. That’s different. You submerge yourself and can immediately breathe the water again. You make it to shore feeling quite comfortable. Your gear is there, cleaned and neatly pressed. Extra coins in your pocket. You look around and see no one, a strange hill lies south off the shore. Something about that hill… You shake your head and what you’re thinking escapes you. You run your hands over your body. No wounds, but thick creases in your neck. Are your toes and fingers webbed? Hmm… Not really. Or are they?

After dressing, you make your way north to the town. You have brief glimpses in your mind as of a vivid dream of great underwater vistas, a great city of cyclopean stone, a submerged cylinder of metal that draws your curiosity, but are warned against visiting. A great ceremony, peoples half man, half fish. Nubile bodies, some human, some not. And names…

Father Dagon. Mother Hydra.

You make it to town. What should you tell the Inquisition? The Legion? You know you have offers to make. More rations of salted fish the Legion can handle. Information for the Inquisition on the quickly strengthening Anglypur Wizards and their movements along the waterways and coasts of southern Anglypur. And for a select few, immortality. Of sorts.

As your stomach rumbles, what you do know for sure is that the Swamplanders really need to open up a restaurant.

+50 GCs, + Swamplander, Legion, and Inquisition faction. You are now amphibious, and your swim speed has increased significantly.

My Lame excuse for not posting lately.

My Lame excuse for not posting:

I’ve moved 1500 miles and got a new job. J

To make amends, going to skip my usual 'well, I need fresh artwork to post with' rule.