The Stench of Luck

This blog documents our Dungeons & Dragons campaigns. 

Our newest campaign generally follows the “Phandelver and Below: The Shattered Obelisk” book. 

I use this blog to record the sessions in narrative form. The entries are written after play, based on what I can remember happened at the table. All of it is handwritten, not AI generated. The images however are AI generated.

Disclaimer: our sessions are played with beers on the table to loosen up roleplay. This tends to impact record-keeping and memory. 

My character's name is Valandra, a half-elf Paladin of Helm. She is a deeply faithful, if not dogmatic follower of the Great Guard. The story is told strictly through her own heavily armored perspective. Expect a narrative filtered through a lens of unyielding zealotry, rigid prayers, noble arrogance, and the quiet, desperate doubts of a protector wondering if her god has averted His gaze, with all the bigotry, prayers and doubts that implies. 

The Stench of Luck

Keeping her focus on praying was hard enough without the whispers of the children, Valandra feels. Having to use a sanctuary of a different god does not help either. Yet the paladin has an urgent need for endorsement, consolation.She kneels before the shrine, eyes closed, head resting on clenched fist, murmuring prayers: "Helm, let your light pierce this darkness.A shield does not exist to protect its bearer, but those who stand behind it. Guide me, Watcher..." 

Valandra at the Shrine (AI generated)

A flicker of irritation rises in her chest, directed at the noise, at the shrine, at herself. Has the Watcher turned His gaze from her? Has she failed some unseen test? Has the Great Guard given up on her? No. The Watcher does not abandon. The fault must lie with the supplicant.  "Guide me, Watcher. Show me the path..." Her prayers seem to no avail, no guidance nor counsel reaches her.

She stands up, salutes the little statue of Tymora, and drops a small coin on the offerings table: “Thank you for your hospitality, goddess. The Watcher remains silent, but I do appreciate your hospitality.” “Why not let luck decide your fate, Paladin? It could be... fun." The voice feels like a cold chill around her neck, like fingers stroking her ponytailed hair . 

She spins as fast as armor allows, only to find a cluster of urchins. Faces staring at her, greedy, fearful, a few in awe. Some brave ones had even made it into the small building, the paladin’s luggage too tempting a target. “Away! Out!” Valandra barks at them, grateful to have a subject for her anger and frustrations. She sees the little creeps scatter: “Like dire rats before the hammer.” She lets out a sigh of relief, yet seeing how thin they were leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

Before leaving the shrine of Luck, Valandra sniffs in the damp air inside, the faint scent of mildew. Memories of her bedroom in a convent far away and long ago fill her mind.The voice of the abbess reciting prayers, the warm feeling of belonging. ”The stench of luck..Let your light burn brighter than this shrine! Hope is no substitute for vigilance."..." 

She spots an inn where a familiar cart and horses are parked upfront. Walking over, she replays the fight with the goblins in her head. “It was an honorable duel.The assassin fought valiantly and skillfully and faced our opponents openly. Even the jester added to the fight. The priest stayed calm and played his part. Helm watched over us.” 

Without noticing she reaches the entrance of the tavern. A diverse group of workers, probably miners, leaving the inn, blocks her way, Customarily her right hand lands on the warhammer hanging from the baldrick. “You're with those men, right? The goblin killers, they’re inside!” The greeting catches Valandra by surprise. The miners step out of her way, holding the door open for her to enter. “Helm’s light be upon you as well." She answers, or so do her vocal cords by themselves, years of training making them speak for her. ‘This is not Neverwinter’ and ‘Stay alert, you’re a guard!’ she yells to herself. 

Inside the crowd, mostly dwarfs and humans,behaves with surprising politeness. ‘Commoners pretending to be at court in a tavern. Miners pretending to be priests, what kind of place is this?’ Her questions remain unanswered as she hears her name. 

At a table nearby sit her companions, Roux, the occultist,is waving her over.  As Valandra approaches he gestures her towards an empty chair, ‘unintentionally’ next to him. Perhaps a bit too warm a welcome, but at least she feels accepted by the men now. “Still owe you one, my lady” Roux hands her a glass of wine. Followed by a series of compliments, insults hidden within compliments and flirting that fuel her embarrassment and anger likewise. The good thing is that at least now her resentment is aimed at someone else. A proper target.

The arrival of food, and more beer and wine, ends conversations and flirtations. The inn’s menu is basic and decent, and fairly priced. So much that Roux pays for the whole group when the bill arrives. By then other visitors and locals have joined their table. And is their story of fighting off a few, at least six, could be more than ten, goblins and finding the horses the highlight of the evening. 

Making sure she's out of the spotlight but within hearing range, Valandra cleans and polishes parts of her armour. Stories and rumours float over the table like the mating flight of dragons. “Lots of huffing and puffing and the only result is hot air!”  She concentrates on a dent in her left gauntlet. A bite mark of a goblin? She should jump up and shout, show the scratch in the metal and claim there were wolves too! 

But another figure is already standing.on table,and has  claimed the floor! “We have to find Gundren! They must have been taken by the goblins! We know where they are. Together we can save him!”Roux (‘Who else?’) gives  the performance of a lifetime! The crowd is cheering and beating their jugs on the tables. “Are you with us?” The occultist looks around, pointing at his companions: “Tomorrow at sunrise we will ride out to free Gundren and Silmar!” 

Valandra shakes her head at him, but one looks at her other two companions, Nox and Ashtar, tells her they are already on his side: “He should have been a performer instead of an occultist, by the Watcher’s shield!” As she looks up, Roux catches her stare: “Will you help me, my friend?” “Helm’s light! Yes! And leave me be.” She waves him off, and off he goes, turning back towards the mob gathered around their table. “Will you help me, my friends? Ride with us tomorrow morning! Free our friends, get rid of those pesky goblins!” A roar erupts, people toast and drink, drink and toast. 

The next morning, four lone figures are harnessing three ramshackle horses in silence. Ashtar priest joins Valandra, riding double, on Silmar’s horse. As they ride off through town, people hide or pretend to not notice them. Once more Roux’ and Valandra’s eyes meet: “Fame is a shadow that fades with the setting sun. Helm’s light is eternal." !” Her moral is met with a grin: “We’re as popular as your god, paladin!” 

The Road Out of Neverwinter

This blog documents our Dungeons & Dragons campaigns. 

Our newest campaign generally follows the “Phandelver and Below: The Shattered Obelisk” book.  

I use this blog to record the sessions in narrative form. The entries are written after play, based on what I can remember happened at the table. Disclaimer: our sessions are played with beers on the table to loosen up roleplay. This tends to impact record-keeping and memory. 

My character is Roux Illomen, a Chthonic tiefling spirit medium who began as a fraud and ended up genuinely haunted. He survives on charm, bad judgment, and the ability to run when necessary. He is not a hero. He lies, avoids responsibility, and has a talent for making powerful enemies. The story is told from his perspective, with all the bias, excuses, and gallows humor that implies.

The story below describes our first DnD session of the new campaign.

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Gundren and I spent an evening drinking, reminiscing about the past. It was strange—despite everything going on, this was the first time in months that I felt like myself. The ale seemed to quiet the spirits, or maybe I had just stopped listening.

The next day, Gundren was up with the first rays of the sun. The morning light stabbed daggers into my eyes and brain; I had forgotten that dwarves drink amounts of alcohol that would kill most humanoids. Gundren still started the day with a hearty breakfast consisting mostly of bacon. The smell coming from the stove made me queasy, I had to run to the chamber pot and retched.

The dwarf’s associate, Sildar Hallwinter, joined us at the house shortly before noon. Sildar was a middle-aged human. I would have dared to wager that he was a veteran of some war fought decades ago. His banter with Gundren betrayed a friendship going back years. We sat down and over a cup of ale, that did wonders for my headache, talked through the plans. The two of them would join Tharden and Nundro Rockseeker at the new prospect site. I was to go to the Beached Leviathan and meet up with the crew Sildar had hired to do a supply run to Phandalin. Our group was to follow the High Road and take the Triboar Trail up to Phandalin to get to Barthen’s Provisions. We’d be paid ten gold pieces each upon delivery of the goods. That worked just fine for me; I got a way out of Neverwinter and got paid a handsome sum of gold to boot. We said our goodbyes. I borrowed some nondescript clothing to hide my appearance and make my way through the Blacklake District without drawing attention. 

My luck held up for once; I got to the Beached Leviathan in one piece. The Beached Leviathan was the grounded hull of a ship, repurposed into a tavern and inn. The whole place had a pirate-ship theme; even the proprietor wore a peg leg, a hook, and a tricorne, with a skull and a parrot on his shoulder. Thank the gods working here was not my lot in life. The pirate pointed me toward a table at the back, which offered the most privacy. The rest of the party had already arrived.

A fiery-haired woman in gleaming armor captured my full attention. I had met beautiful women before. I’d met dangerous ones too. None of that prepared me for her. She took one look at me and decided I did not measure up to her standards. I felt weighed, found wanting, and dismissed in the same heartbeat. The dead fell quiet at my back, as if they were hiding from her gaze.

She had the beauty of elves; but her body had the lush proportions of a human woman. She’d be half-elf. I had to stop looking at her, before it became awkward. I focused my attention on two male elves sitting at the table with her. I realized my attention hadn’t only gone out to the woman because of her. It was the contrast. One of the men managed to sit at the table stealthily. In a full inn no less. His skin had a shadowy quality that was typical of the subterranean elves, called Drow. He looked like he could slit your throat the moment you blinked. But he was not the most enigmatic of this group.

The other elf sat out in the open, nothing to obscure him. Yet shadows seemed to cling to him, as if they bent towards him. Or maybe it was the light that fled.
Now that I had broken eye contact with the woman, the spirits seemed to stir and welcome him like a lost brother. Interesting.

He looked like a fighter. Bare, muscular arms, bruised knuckles, no marks on his face – only old scars.

I gave the group a sweeping bow and introduced myself with a flourish.

“My name is Roux Illomen. Some call me the Voice of the Elder Dead.”

I paused just long enough to let imagination do the work.

“I was hired to see this caravan reach Phandalin intact. If you want warning instead of surprises, that’s what I’m here for.” I tapped a finger against my temple. “I’m your shield against the dark forces that haunt the roads.”

The woman snorted. The two elves looked unimpressed. Two of my spirits sniggered. I was sure one was Asta, the little girl who never said anything.

“What might I call my traveling companions?” I deflected.

The assassin called himself Nox Gogghyns, which surprised me. I had expected a Drow to have a more exotic name—if that was his true name at all. The fighter’s name was Ash’tar. He seemed reluctant to give it, as if he were trying to stay anonymous. The woman called herself Valandra, and that was all the introduction she gave.

This group needed a drink to loosen up, so I bought a round of rum. Maybe this came from my dwarven upbringing, but you can tell a lot about a person by how he handles his drink. Nox sipped his as if it might contain poison. Ash’tar downed his in a single gulp. Good man. Valandra left hers untouched on the table. I downed mine and said, “If you’re not keen, I’ll take it.” I met her eyes and raised the glass. “To your health.”

I could see her adding drunkard to my growing list of faults.

Gundren had arranged for us to pick up the oxcart with supplies from the Leviathan’s stables. One person could fit on the bench of the cart; the other three would have to walk. Great.

Of the four of us, I would not be the one driving. For some reason, oxen do not like tieflings. Maybe they consider the horns a challenge. Once, I had nearly been run down by a merchant’s cart while crossing a street a good thirty feet ahead of it. The oxen had gone berserk at the sight of me.

Valandra apparently had means of her own, as she decided walking was beneath her and bought a draft horse to ride to Phandalin. The horse did not look pleased about carrying an armored rider instead of pulling a cart.

As we left, the queasiness returned to my gut. I did not like being out in the open like this. I made sure most of my skin was covered by clothing. Valandra gave me a disapproving look but said nothing. We moved with the crowd; at that time of day, many merchants were leaving Neverwinter with carts. Walking among them, I stayed out of sight as best I could. Our little group made good time, and we came within sight of the city walls without anyone rushing at me. Drawing close to that barrier made acid rise in the back of my throat. The game had to be up. Someone would start shouting—there I was. They must have anticipated I would make a run for it.

But I walked beneath the arch of the city gate. I left Neverwinter. And the blade in my back did not come. I could not believe it. How was this possible?

The rest of the day was as uneventful as our walk through the city. Only my feet grew heavier with every mile. When they began to throb, my ass and lower back tightened up. Even my arms felt heavy. The cittern on my back weighed a ton. Valandra and Ash’tar rode comfortably on horse and cart and kept going. Nox constantly jogged away from the road to scout for danger. He did not seem to tire at all. Bastard.

I asked for a break, but the rest of the group wanted to reach a rest spot that offered better protection than the open road. Someplace near the Triboar Trail, wherever that was. So, I slogged on. By the time we reached it, I could not feel my feet anymore. My legs shuffled through the dirt, unable to lift properly. Exhausted, I collapsed into a ditch and awoke the next morning with a face full of grass.

The two elves looked fresh and ready to leave. Valandra sat atop her unhappy horse and scowled in my direction. I was sure she would someday make some unfortunate mate’s life completely miserable.

The sun was already up, peeking above the horizon. Why did everyone insist on traveling so early? In Neverwinter, I never rose before noon. The group found it strange that they had been unable to rouse me from my comatose sleep. Go figure.

And so we set off again—mile after boring mile, one foot in front of the other, repeat. When the sun was at its zenith, we rounded a bend. The road narrowed as it led into the trees. That alone would have been ominous; the spot was perfect for an ambush. But signs of one lay right in front of us. Two riderless horses stood there grazing. They seemed used to people, at least they weren’t bothered about our approaching group. Bags and goods were scattered across the ground. No bodies in sight.

The group fanned out. Nox slipped toward the tree line. Ash’tar followed halfway. Valandra chose a position from which she could charge anything that emerged. And me? I walked up to inspect one of the bags. My heart sank into my stomach. I had seen this bag just the day before. Gundren had packed one exactly like it.

I looked up at the others and shouted, “This bag belongs to Gundren. I think he was attacked here. We must find him.”

Three heads swiveled toward me and stared as if I had lost my mind.

“What?!”, I asked.

Four small creatures emerged from the tree line. They were foul little things, big ears, big noses, wicked pointed teeth. Goblins.
Neverwinter has some goblins in the shadier parts of town. But these seemed even more feral.

Seeing me they rushed forwards. They missed Nox who’d circled around them. He took a shot but misjudged how short the goblins were. The goblin closest to Nox decided that Nox was easy pickings with an empty short bow in hand. But Nox struck faster than a viper with a short sword, which moments before had been at his hip. In one fluid movement Nox drew his sword, ran the onrushing goblin through, danced around the falling corpse as he pulled his sword free. The other goblins seemed oblivious to the fate of their comrade.

I had heard that you needed to show your dominance with goblins, make them fear you. I stood up, made myself as big as I could and raised my hands to the sky letting out a fierce roar. 

There was one bigger goblin that was clearly the leader. Best to go for the big one, so I pointed at him and started chanting in infernal. A truly guttural chorus. I sometimes used it during my seances if I really wanted to put my audience on edge. 

Stamping my feet and thumping my chest I was making a challenge to him and could feel magic start to build. When they came to within ten feet, I released that magic pressure at the big goblin. He stumbled and seemed distracted for a moment, but then he just shook it off.

Valandra brained the goblin closest to her with a shining mace. I was distracted by the brain matter splattering against my cheek and felt a sharp blow to my side. The leader jumped me and pushed me off. Breath would not come, and I stumbled back falling flat on my backside.

With the fight looming over me, it became carnage. Ash’tar stepped behind the leader, grabbed his head and simply snapped the neck like a twig. The remaining goblin stepping in, shanking Ash’tar with a rusty blade. Dropping to one knee, he lost his grip on the dead goblin leader, who fell across me. Between the tumble of limbs, I got a flash of Valandra striking a sweeping blow with her bloodied mace ending the last goblin.

Pushing the corpse off me, pain lanced through my side and breath wouldn’t come. Looking down there was a handle sticking out of my side. I thought, “That’s strange.” And pulled it out. Blood gushed from the wound, and I felt I would have fainted if it wasn’t for the crippling pain. Valandra knelt over me and inspected the wound. She said, “Hold on.” Most she had said to me all day and gripped my side. I tensed up, but instead of pain I felt a warmth seep into my torso. Breath came back to me and had never tasted as sweet. That may have been due to Valandra’s perfume, or just the rush of life flooding back.

“Thank you, you saved my life. I owe you.”, elicited a snort in response. As if no good could come from my help. She turned around and walked to the grazing horses.

Ashtar was squatting down, holding his side.

“Let me help.”, I offered. A blade had left a deep puncture. I put my hand on his shoulder and said: “YlghoSoq, Dahbe! “

For a moment there was wind passing over my hand, and the puncture filled with a grey mucus and closed. It was a trick I had learned in my years with Thorga Silvermane. Create a patch where the wound is and let the soul fill it up. I’d gotten a lot of practice back then; Thorga was a mean drunk and a bad fighter. 

Nox was studying the ground. After a while he nodded to himself and called us over. He pointed out a few dark spots on the road. “Blood. There, there and there. Not enough for a kill. Drag marks there.” Pointing at lines in the sand that made no sense to me. “Two men, both alive as far as I can tell. One was kicking as he was dragged.”

Valandra looked astride one of the horses. This is Cragmaw country, we can’t leave the cart with provisions out here. Goblins and their ilk would empty it the moment we’d turn our backs. Phandalin is just a few miles away. We should drop it off first. 

“We need to help Gundren!”, I interjected.

“We will.” she stated, “After.”

“We get our gold first; we don’t owe this Gundren anything.”, Nox whispered. That elf was one cold …. I rounded on him: “You speak for yourself. I owe that man and his brothers my life!”

Ash’tar put his hands on my chest and pushed me back. “Easy there, partner. We go to that town first. Arm up. Come back and get your friend out. If we run after him now, we will likely lose the provisions and our lives. We must be smart.”

I’m sure I was missing something obvious. But I felt drained. Whether it was the wound, the magic I’d cast or continuous walking, the fight leaked out of me.

Valandra had two horses, the draft horse and the taller one of the two that had belonged to Gundren and Sildar. I walked up to the shorter horse that was still grazing by the road and offered an apple from my pack. It gratefully accepted it and nuzzled my chest. It let me get on his back and responded to me urging it to walk.

Nox took Valandra’s draft horse and so we were all mounted. With that Valandra led us on towards Phandalin.

Speaking With the Dead, Running From the Living

This blog documents our Dungeons & Dragons campaigns. 

Our newest campaign generally follows the “Phandelver and Below: The Shattered Obelisk” book.  

I use this blog to record the sessions in narrative form. The entries are written after play, based on what I can remember happened at the table. Disclaimer: our sessions are played with beers on the table to loosen up roleplay. This tends to impact record-keeping and memory. 

My character is Roux Illomen, a Chthonic tiefling spirit medium who began as a fraud and ended up genuinely haunted. He survives on charm, bad judgment, and the ability to run when necessary. He is not a hero. He lies, avoids responsibility, and has a talent for making powerful enemies. The story is told from his perspective, with all the bias, excuses, and gallows humor that implies.

Please find below a short backstory to introduce the character. I hope you like it.

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I knew I was in trouble. I’d known trouble was coming for six or seven months. But it’s easy to pretend you are not in trouble when trouble isn’t about to shank you in the gut and twist your nuts off.

Last week, two ladies of Lady Mirabar’s Coterie of the Dark Veil delivered two beautiful, healthy babies. Both had rosy lavender skin, tails, and nubs on their heads that would one day grow into proud horns. Of course, they would blame me: Roux Illomen, the Voice bound to the Elder Dead. Those kids would need another spirit medium to talk to their late tiefling dad.

I ran into Fast Jax this morning. According to him, Felton Hawkes had caused a bit of commotion at the Driftwood tavern. The shipping broker was asking people to come to him with tips regarding the whereabouts of a certain lavender tiefling. But Felton Hawkes wasn’t the problem; that man had never gone beyond the Neverwinter docks. No, today whispers were doing the rounds about a lavender-coloured cuckoo that had landed in the nest of Baron Olofor. There weren’t many people in Neverwinter who were a worse choice to anger than the baron. I’d heard of his reputation, but his daughter Iarfina—a curvy, raven-haired beauty—had made the risk seem worth it.

Fast Jax wanted to leave as soon as he’d passed on the news. Afraid to be associated with me. That should tell you everything you need to know.

And if only it stopped there. Lady Mirabar would not be amused either; her protégé had just gotten three ladies of her coterie with child. This would reflect badly on her and her social standing. But that might not be the worst part of her disapproval of me. She had been trying to lure me into her bed for almost a year now. I’d been claiming migraines from communing with the spirits, but that excuse had now been disproved. I would probably have to “perform” in private sessions with the old lady. Maybe getting caught by Baron Olofor was the better outcome. Dwarves are kinky; they can make devils from the fourth layer of the Nine Hells blush.

Maribel Pinkering was calling me a shit and a bastard.

When I started out performing séances, I’d given myself the title “The Voice bound to the Elder Dead.” It was all fake, just sounds and flashing lights, until I picked up a prop from a store of knickknacks and trinkets. They had this crystal skull. Either they didn’t know what they had, or the thing was cursed, and they were looking to dump it on the first unsuspecting soul that came by. I think I may have pierced the veil by channeling magic into the thing during one of my shows. Since then, my title has been real. Spirits seem to stick to me; they are always around. Maribel was one of them.

She had been able to hold on to her anger for quite some time now. Spirits are shades of people’s lives, a distilled fraction of a person that stays behind when they pass on from this world. Their emotions are quite one-dimensional. Sometimes they flare in response to what is happening around me, but usually they reset to their “standard” demeanour much sooner. She was riling up the others as well. Elise seemed to share Maribel’s anger. Father Seamus was quoting scripture from the Tome of the Morning. Walt Reinhard switched between laughing diabolically and speaking coherently.

Communing with spirits had opened the doors to the upper echelons of the city’s elites. Privately, they were loud, intrusive, and impossible to ignore. I should practice shutting them out.

If Fast Jax’s fear was anything to go by, I needed to get off the streets. Baron Olofor wasn’t coming after me himself. Unless his men announced themselves covered in Olofor heraldry, I had no way of knowing who they were until they grabbed me. I needed to get my stuff and hide somewhere.

Lady Mirabar had arranged a small but comfortable apartment for me out in the Blacklake District. From my windows, I overlooked the lake; my front door led out onto a plaza with inns, shops, and a small theater. The apartment was a golden cage, somewhere Lucretia could trap me away from prying eyes. After she had shown up in the middle of the night, I had started sleeping at other people’s places, which had led to my current predicament. This whole situation was basically Lady Mirabar’s fault.

There were a lot of people outside, but no face in the crowd looked familiar or paid unusual attention to me. Next to the headache, my guts seemed a bit disagreeable, and my bottom puckered as well. I walked as fast as I could without running. No need to draw more attention to myself. The alley leading up to my door was empty—no mob of angry husbands with pitchforks and torches. So far, so good.

There was something smouldering on the cobblestones next to my door. Someone had stuck a sheet of paper to the door with a dagger. A pressure gripped my chest, but no hidden assailants jumped out with blades drawn. I looked around. There was nothing else to do but read the note.

Damn. I was too late. Lady Mirabar, in language you would not expect from a lady, shared her thoughts about my character. The locks had been changed, and the smoking pile on the street was what remained of my belongings. Worse, Lady Mirabar stated she would enter my name into the Book of Grudges of the Hillborn Clan. Having grown up around dwarves, that was bad. Those bastards took that book seriously. When you looked like me, changing your name meant nothing.

No, I needed to vanish fast.

My best option to get out of sight in Neverwinter was the Chasm District. After the eruption of Mount Hotenow, the district was half-collapsed, lawless, and avoided by the watch. Nobles did not go there, and I could disappear among the scavengers and refugees. It was dangerous, but it worked.

I just needed to steer clear of the old Arcanist Quarter. They say the Scar in that area still glows with blue fires and warped reality. Knowing my current luck, I’d walk up to the Scar with my spirits, and some eldritch horror would reach out and pull me down.

I took the fastest route out of the Blacklake District into the Chasm District: the half-rebuilt Dolphin Bridge. I was wearing my lovely bright red cloak with gold trim. In the slums, that would get me beaten, stabbed, and robbed faster than you could blink. So, while walking, I quickly bundled it into my pack. Looking up my nose walked straight into a fist. I landed flat on my ass. Tears blurred my vision, and my hand came away bloody.

“Today must be my lucky day. Yours… not so much,” laughed a gravelly voice.

A seven-foot giant was towering over me. His face appeared to have been sculpted with fists, and something had bitten off half an ear.

“There is a baron offering gold for your head, hell-spawn. And I intend to make that gold mine,” he said with a grin that revealed a collection of brown and black stumps.

I sat up, holding my bloody nose. I planted my other hand on the ground and grabbed a bit of loose dirt. He moved in to grab me off the floor, thinking I was cowed into submission. I looked him in the eye and said: “Wow. You make a plucked owlbear’s ass look pretty.”

My words carried a sliver of power, and the giant flinched as if struck. As he hesitated, I threw the dirt into his face, rolled over, jumped up, and sprinted back the way I had come from. My little ruse had given me an opening, but no more than that. The colossus was pursuing me, spitting curse after curse. There was no way I could outrun this guy; one of his strides was double the length of one of mine. I’d have to use his size against him.

The Blacklake District’s streets are a sensory overload of noise, vibrant activity, and pungent smells. The narrow, winding streets during daytime teem with hawkers, wandering livestock, and overloaded carts. Wooden tables and carts were pushed up against buildings to display wares, merchants shouting advertisements for their food, textiles, and ironwork. I was able to weave my way through passersby without falling. The giant bowled over a monk of Lathander and a boy carrying fresh pastries, leading to angry shouts from the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two Greycloaks looking my way. As my pursuer dumped someone onto a market stand holding fish, they grabbed their cudgels and followed.

“Not good!”

I managed to dodge between two packhorses, that were blocking most of the passage. The stallion was agitated and tried to kick me. I slapped him on his hindquarters and yelled at the top of my voice. My infernal scent must have spooked it badly, because it reared like a warhorse and charged toward the onrushing giant. With nowhere to escape to he spread his arms wide, attempting to scare off the beast. He got kicked in the face, rotten teeth flying everywhere. It wasn’t like he could get any uglier. 

I didn’t wait for the Greycloaks to catch up and detain me for disturbing the peace.

I quickly made my way east to the River District—my place of birth. A place I hadn’t been back to since I had managed to escape it.

======================================

The River District was bustling with every type of humanoid. You were as likely to walk into a goblin as you were to bump into a human. Tieflings were rare in the better parts of the city. Here, I could spot several variations of tieflings among the crowd, but no one I recognized. Good, better to stay anonymous.

I’d grown up in the dwarven quarter. My parents had found an apprenticeship with an old skald named Thorga Silvermane. She was fun, knowledgeable, and kind. I learned a lot from her about telling stories and taking people on a journey through their imagination.

Alas, when she got drunk, she fancied herself a heroine from legend and started to pick fights. She’d picked a fight with bad dragonborn. They’d done the dragon thing and roasted her with dragon breath. Her cittern was the only thing that was salvageable from her remains, and to this day I’ve held on to it. 

Her neighbours had been good folk. The Rockseeker brothers were miners who allowed me to sleep at their place when they were in town.

I decided to look them up. Maybe they could help me out. The Rockseekers were not of the Hillborn Clan and generally looked down on those posh assholes. So there was little chance they’d hand me over to them.

My old street looked just like it did ten years ago. It’s funny how your feet just find their own way back without thought. A new family had moved into Thorga’s house. A woman standing in the front doorway was looking at me with distrust. Tieflings get that look a lot. I greeted her and walked up to the Rockseekers’ place and knocked. It stayed quiet, so I knocked again. The woman was still staring at me.

“Gundren! Tharden! Nundro! It’s me, Roux!” I tried.

“Tharden and Nundro are out. But Gundren should be in,” the woman offered.

“Thanks,” I replied. I was about to knock again when some stumbling noises arose from behind the door. The door swung open, and Gundren looked up at me, his face creasing when he recognized me. He flashed a grin like a problem had just solved itself.

“Roux, my boy. You’ve gotten tall. Good. You’re here. That’s damn near perfect timing.”

“You were expecting me?” I hesitated.

“Yes. No. Of course not. How would I know that you were coming?” He looked at me like I was mad. Without waiting, he turned around and went inside, waving me to follow.

“I’ve got a solid lead. Not a rumour, not tavern talk—something real. This is the one.” He lowered his voice just enough. “Tharden and Nundro are already there.” The room we entered was more office than living quarters. Gundren walked over to a desk, poured a drink, and pushed it across the table.

“Your timing is impeccable. I need men I can trust.” A pause. He downed a shot and added in a measured voice, “If you’re interested, we talk details. If not, finish the drink and forget I said a word.”

I smiled and downed the drink. “Gundren, like you said—damn near perfect timing. I think we can help each other.”

Introspection. A meditating elf

Preface:

In this newly started DnD 5e campaign I play the role of Ash'tar, a Shadar-kai elf monk that has the ability to meditate instead of sleeping, meaning he rarely closes his eyes.

This section is an inner monologue from Ash'tars' perspective in which he reflects on the past couple of days.

------------------------------

Introspection

————

As a young elf, I always slept at night. It felt natural to do so; nearly all my fellow clan members did, so why shouldn’t I? Truth be told, I almost never really slept. Much like Lorsan, a somewhat older guy whom most looked up to. He was also an elf, but his skin was much darker than mine. He was convinced we needed no sleep.

"All elves are born with the natural ability to ignore sleep, but we too need to rest," he said.

Unbeknownst to me, he was talking about meditation. Meditating, or the subtle art of looking inward with your eyes open, much like I’m doing at this very moment.

There is not just a desire to reflect, but also a need. The last two days have been the most bizarre of my life, which is saying quite a lot for someone who grew up the way I did. With a severe lack of schooling, food, care, attention, and proper etiquette, one tends to be completely forgotten.

I nearly died twice. Not like getting beat up, but more like sharp object through skin, bleeding all over the floor, fainting due to blood loss kind of dying. On both occasions, just as I was about to pass out, I heard this soothing voice and all was fine. I must have simultaneously angered and pleased some gods, potentially even at the same time.

Just three days ago I was with the clan. Stealing some food, messing about, mixing with the people, more stealing, preparing for a fight—the works. Life was predictable. Hard, but predictable.

When I made my narrow escape from the fighting pit and had nowhere to go, for the first time in my life I felt lonely. Knowing full well that some people gave their lives for my escape, I owe them big. I will repay them, though—with interest at that!

I managed to land myself a quick job (at least, so I thought) protecting a caravan on its way out of Neverwinter. The bustling city life, constant noise, and strong smells of market stalls—or more like sewage—were left behind and replaced by singing birds, fresh breezes, warm sunshine, and the scent of grass. It took no more than thirty minutes of riding by ox to forget about the city. Odd, but remarkably serene.

I didn’t get to protect this cart all by myself. Three others had volunteered, each with their own stories to tell. A fellow elf who is superb with a bow and knife. He too prefers tactical approaches over pure strength. I reminded myself not to mess with this guy.

Then there is a tiefling entertainer of sorts. He talks in weird sentences, and I swear I can sometimes hear him whispering whilst he’s at least ten feet away from me. He seems to inspire the others a great deal, though, which is probably more than can be said of me. He’s not a great warrior, and I haven’t seen him use weapons, but he does have some tricks up his sleeve. There is likely more to him than meets the eye.

Then there is this half-elf woman. She doesn’t talk very much, has some shiny armour that must have cost a small fortune, and keeps referring to her religion. She does things with prayers. Remarkably, she’s also a lifesaver. I understood from Roux that she healed my very body and soul with a single laying on of hands. I’ve never seen anything like it, and she quickly became my favorite team member.

Team member. Now that’s an odd description. I blindly trusted these people with my life, something I’ve only ever done once before, and that was more than twenty years ago. They also gave me a description. They called me a monk. I never did think of myself that way, but I guess it fits.

I see the others are starting to slowly wake up. It’s time for me to finish my reflection. I feel rejuvenated by this meditation. There is a strange source of energy that I can feel flowing through me.

It is time to redeem myself.

Survival is tough, but I’m slowly getting tougher.

 

Changing dice and character

 Changing dice and character 

For the last two years we have been playing a DND campaign, three, later four, companions on a quest.Travelling just a small distance on the map our Dungeon Master has drawn out, still our characters made a journey of a lifetime. 

The campaign ran off after two false starts, in which different builds of alter egos were tried. The third time, expecting the same result as before: three or max four sessions than a restart, I chose to create my ‘next hero’ with all attributes ‘wrong’: a wizard (I hate fireballs), a gnome (Slightly allergic to the Rien Poortvliet books about them) and female (..). More or less inspired by the Dutch lawyer Inez Weski, I named her Inez and made her solicitor, well, daughter of one. Elera was her second or middlename, probably because that was the initial name I had in mind, and Systemix her family name; a funny (well I thought so at the time) reference to an ill fated project at work. And that was that, I felt at the time, an ‘anti-character’ to play for a few evenings.

To my, and probably our, great surprise the campaign went on for one and half year, for a total of nineteen sessions! And now it is paused, cliff-hangered, waiting to be continued in a far future. And perhaps as an even bigger surprise, I fell in love with this character!

Inez became a true alter-ego, growing on me and in personality! Greatly enhanced by the interaction with her companions, Finn, Jonathan and later on Murk. She grew as wizard and the role of wizard, especially an envious, self doubting one as Inez, grew on me. Writing her diaries and reading the retellings of Finn to Roslynn, became a ritual that took more time than playing! And then there was the part of being an object of attraction, well, let’s not go there. (Sorry, Jonathan and above all, Finn).

As Inez’s story paused, so did my time at my current job. The timing felt symbolic: a new chapter in both my professional life and my D&D adventures. It was time to change campaign, character.. and dice... and job! The latter may look not really related. However, I received a very, very nice set of dice as a farewell gift! Not only are the dice beautiful (and readable); they came in a lovely box! To die for! (Very bad joke deleted). A big THANK YOU to my former colleague Coco who arranged and constructed all of that! 

And a new character: Valandra. Once more a lady, perhaps prompted by Ginny Di’s remark that it would be strange if your fantasy worlds are only inhabited by males. This time I chose all the cool stuff: ‘a half-elf paladin’. At least, that was cool when I was at university... My plan was to join the ‘red team’, be a hunter of wizards doing bad stuff, like hurting innocent shopkeepers, with a particular gnomish one in mind. And to make it an evolutionary step, having several attributes and background features alike. Red hair, middle class, ambitious.

Then, how does this all work out? Perhaps it’s too early to tell after three rounds. Valandra is not the natural match Inez was. Rigid, almost fundamental in her ways and decisions, she felt and feels limited and one dimensional. Somehow there’s a disconnect between my ideas and plans and the way Valandra as Paladin plays out. Or perhaps I underestimated how hard it is to be fully truly convinced of your rightfulness and never be in doubt of your decisions. (That’s why I never became a manager...?)

So what to do? Reimagining and rewriting her backstory, done that. Helps a bit, wonder if it's enough. Reading and watching Paladin stories and guidelines, done that too, hope it will help. Playing and finding a way to truly play her role, hope that will work out. Writing about this and perhaps even blogging our campaign in some form, don't dare to commit to that. Keeping you all posted, sure, fingers crossed!

Session #19 As told by Inez

 Welcome to the latest chapter of our Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) campaign, set in the legendary world of the Forgotten Realms.

This blog is a living novel, a raw, unfiltered chronicle of our adventures, told through the eyes of those who lived them. Each story is based on a true D&D session as played, with no add-ons or changes made by the authors. Our session reports offer unique, in-character perspectives on the perils, triumphs, and unforgettable moments that define our journey.

Our story follows an unlikely trio of heroes:

Finn, the streetwise Halfling Rogue with a knack for finding trouble (and exits).

Jonathan, a devoted Halfling Priest standing as the moral compass of the group.

Inez, a striving Gnome Wizard whose arcane mastery is often or not the saving grace.

Today’s chronicle is told from the perspective of Inez. Step into her mind as we recount the magic, mystery, and unexpected turns of our latest quest.

Inez interrogated by Gordo. Image generated by AI.

Session #19 as told by Inez 

Dear diary,

Not sure if I’m writing this, just thinking it or telling this to you, the Idol or my Spellbook. We seem to be caught in a spell of some sort, in between planes and reality. Don't understand this myself, but let me try to explain.

This morning, though my sense of time was lost after living underground for days, we woke up after a long rest. Even the Idol had allowed me to sleep deeply, not visiting me with nightmares or suggestive lessons. All that despite the gruesome actions that had taken place nearby, and the dead body of a goblin lying in the far corner of the room!

When I opened my eyes, the evil runes on the wall still shimmered, triggered by the aforementioned goblin and my naive companion Jonathan. Speaking of which, he and brother halfling Finn looked like a gnome inventor after yet another explosion when they opened their rations. Utterly harrowed when they found their food wasted, no breakfast for hungry halflings! Spoiled by the dark magic saturating this room. As I tried to explain this to them, I almost took the blame for it. Halflings and their food!

As there was no chance for a morning meal, Finn and Jonathan started debating what to do next. If we wanted to follow the trail of the humans, we would need to pass the monster in the pool. Returning and trying to find our way back was not an option either. Somehow the ‘adventure virus’ had caught Jonathan again, sermonizing and inducing us to finish our task. With general vote and one abstention (Murk did not seem to be interested in the big discussion by the small folks.), we decided therefore on continuing our mission.

Entering the catacomb with the pool, I tried to persuade my companions to be quiet, in the hope to pass undetected. The men had other plans however, and great need to discuss those loud and long. To add to this, the cubs joined in, screeching like leaking steam valves. All in all Murk,  and of course little Gregot, was possibly the quietest of us. As I was scolding, not just in myself, about halflings on the whole, men in general and halfling men in particular!

During their loud and blatant discussion, the two halflings had devised a plan: They convinced Murk to carry them on his shoulders, protecting them from water and tentacles. The plan did not protect them from stupidity and crudeness. With an elegant swing Murk placed Jonathan on one shoulder and launched Finn over the other! The poor rogue landed like a drunk Aarakocra, hard and loud. Looking at his eyes, I did not dare to offer a hand to help him up. Instead I kept my distance and quiet, feigning to shepherd the cubs.

Murk and Jonathan now took the lead, followed by a limping Finn. Two steps later there followed me, Gregor and the three gamboling cubs. “There’s a creature here, that's not from this plane. It’s stuck here, this pool is a prison.” Murk rumbled, his voice like a dwarf’s horn. “What he said.”; Jonathan chimed in; “And it's very sad too!”. Somehow these two had picked up cues that I still was not capable of sensing. I know, I know, dear diary, envy is not my best side!

Not even halfway down the sidewalk, we saw a wave in the water heading towards us! Quickening my pace, I caught up with Finn and hid behind him. Seconds later a limb rose out of the water. Sweeping over our heads, lashing out at Murk! The Goliath did not blink or stagger, but his passenger was tipped off his shoulder and dragged along towards the water!

Seeing Jonathan’s precarious situation, I took my spellbook and opened it. Its pages kept stuck together, I had to force them apart to find and read the conjuration I had read before. Concentrating, weaving energies then directing them towards the creature below the surface. My idea was to speak to the animal, let it know that we were no enemies.  This failed miserably! The creature was mindless or immune to magic or both! The spell bounced back, making me lose control of its direction, landing at the Owl Bear cubs instead! From that moment on they spoke, their barks and cries turned into voices in my head: “Mummy, mummy! Where's food! Look at me! Hungry, hungry!” Pesky animals!

Meanwhile Finn was trying to free Jonathan, attacking the tentacle. Using his magically enhanced knife, he managed to hit the creature several times. The main monster still kept hold of Jonathan, pulling him further into the water! Then Murk stepped in, cleaving the arm in two, this time launching Jonathan tumbling. Murk immediately grabbed the cut off part with Jonathan still rolled up inside. Like that, the priest was carried like a Sourfish Roll. A very loud Sourfish in this case. (Somehow this made me think of home. When I was little, our cook used to roll small silvery fish around pickles and store them in vinegar.She called this dish “Sailor’s parchment” and I would unroll it, trying to find the writings of a seafarer or pirate.This caused my father to laugh: ‘She’s my girl, going for the small print!’) 

The sight of Jonathan hoisted by Murk almost bubbled up a laugh, part relief and part hysteria, in my throat. “Must keep my senses together!”; I muttered to myself. And indeed, there was no time for any of this. Opportunistic like always, Finn had followed immediately, setting course for the exit. Leaving us behind! Cursing I gestured towards Gregot and the cubs to follow, the latter ignoring my commands as usual. “There goes your food, attack him!”; popped up in my mind and the cubs picked it up immediately, rushing after Murk with bloodlust in their eyes! (Yes diary, I know that’s a good thing that normally I filter thoughts before speaking. Could improve here too, thank you for that advice.) Poor Gregot and I pursued, anxiously looking at the water. No feeler or monster showed itself and panting we passed the door into the next room as fast as we could!

The first thing I noticed was the smell of fresh air. Looking up there was twilight, shimmering above us were stars, one way or the other we had made it to the surface again! The second thing I noticed were the cubs gnawing at Murk’s ankles. “AI, it’s hard, this food hurts my teeth! Mummy!”; the voices of the cubs barked into my consciousness. “Alright, alright, eat the tentacle, not the man!”; I answered. Luckily for the cubs (and me), the Goliath was stoic as always, first setting Jonathan free from the tentacle, then feeding parts of it to the little critters.

The third thing I noticed were two strange creatures, busy poking spears as if looking for something between the rocks. When entering, I had mistaken the two for larger rocks, but their movements gave them away. Unfortunately they had noticed us too, as we had crashed into this chamber running for our lives. They stopped their work, if that was what they were doing, and walked towards us slowly. As they approached, and I could examine them more clearly, it became clear that their heads were shaped like cuttlefish, with smaller and longer tentacles growing out of a shell-like skull. The spears I thought they were wielding were the longest of these tentacles. Remembering some of the stories dwarfs would tell to impress me, these were without doubt Darkmantles.(And I felt a little regret for the old dwarf that I had laughed at, not believing his stories!)

A welcome warm feeling embraced me, Jonathan had shared his magic powers with Finn and me, blessing us and himself!  Replaced by a very unwelcome feeling, darkness engulfed me, even my gnome eyes couldn’t spot a thing! Superseded by an even worse feeling as a slippery tentacle enveloped me! This unwanted embrace of ice and iron made me furious! For a heartbeat,  I remembered the attentions of a drunk client at home! Pulling myself loose I negated the pain of sharp small teeth cutting my skin. My spellbook made its way into my hand by itself, finding me the words of the spell. All of my anger was transformed into arcane energy, steered in the form of a fireball in the direction of the probing creature. The projectile shot away, illuminating the darkness around for just a moment, like lightning striking a tree! 

For a moment it was all quiet, quiet and dark, then I heard the swirling whistle of Murk’s maul, too nearby for comfort and I instinctively ducked. This was  followed by a mixed eruption of cracking and splashing sounds. After which the darkness left and I was looking at my large companion cleaning his weapon by scrubbing it over the floor, spreading a trail of purple gore. Between us lay the flattened and crushed scraps of a Darkmantle, spread on the floor like a gown trampled during the sale. The sight of a fireball’s patchy burn marks on its hide made me smirk, and I performed a subtle curtsey towards Murk. Who plainly did not notice nor acknowledged. His maul, still dripping with gore, didn’t even pause in its scrubbing. Pesky Goliaths!

Scanning for my other companions, I spotted Finn for just a moment. Near him the feet of a strange little creature stuck out of a pile of stones. Even closer to him was the second Darkmantle! The moment the Darkmantle attacked, a cloud of darkness surrounded them, blocking my sight! Not only my sight was blocked, my mind too, the voices of three Owl Bear cubs shrieking and howling behind my eyes: “Mommy, mummy, can we eat this? Tastes nice! Look at me! “ The critters were gorging, picking and licking up the remains of the flattened and burned Darkmantle. Then hopped over and jumped against me. Purple gore splattered their pelts, and my robes. Wiping it away only made the stains larger! Pesky animals!

Noises coming from within the dark veil made clear that a duel was fought out. My rogue companion was on his own, the three of us (and of course little Gregot) standing useless outside the fog. Not sure what to do, I was relieved when the curtain fell, literally and figuratively, and Finn emerged. Looking injured, but still standing, and the second attacker dead at his feet. He sat a few steps then looked like collapsing, but caught before this could happen by Jonathan. The priest used one arm to support Finn, the other to conjure a healing force, mending the rogue by divine powers. The two halflings slapped each other on the backs and shoulders: “Now, finally, let’s find something to eat!”

“I would like to thank you all!”; as if a dwarven forge had bellowed with a squeak, an unfamiliar voice filled the room. We all turned around and looked up, where a copper colored wyrmling was floating. Not that I had ever seen one before, except maybe that strange day in the cellar of the Drunken Badger. Still it looked as I had imagined how a proper wyrmling should look and its voice combined a deep resonance with a youthful squeak. And it looked like it needed to be hugged by me! You’re right, dear diary, once more, get yourself together!

“Days ago I was flying above mountains near my mothers hide. Out of nowhere a full grown green dragon emerged, attacking me. Slipping away I made my escape by finding a small entrance into this cave and hiding here. But here I was caught in a shower of stones during one of the earthquakes and got caught under a layer of debris.” The hatchling was now glancing at us, sizing us up. “Never been this close to other creatures than animals. You seem friendly, unlike these other creatures that did not help, but probed and poked me.” As it spoke, the frills on the back of its lower jaws fluttered, as if it was wearing a fashionable cravat. “My name is Inez Elera Systemix, noble dragon.”; I stepped in with a salutation that would have made High keeper Ironmantle proud. “And these are my companions and friends.”

After introducing the troupe in hopefully an acceptable way to this noble creature, ignoring the eye rolls, head shakes and sighs of my companions, I asked for its name. “My name is Dub-Shaba, at least, that is how you may call me in the common language, dear lady and companions. My mother was aware of the presence of cities and settlements nearby our lair, so she taught me to speak common clearly and softly. And she told me of their inhabitants as we flew by, of elven, men, goliaths and giants. And of the small folk, dwarven, halflings and gnomes. But she did not tell me that small folk could look as fair as an elven lady.” “Thank you, Dub-Shaba, ..” I managed, heat creeping into my cheeks.. All I could think of was to perform a proper small bow, as I did not know if this dragon boy was serious, flirting or pranking me. Pesky dragons!

Once more I got saved by Finn and Jonathan who started to interrogate the hatchling about its whereabouts and what it had seen during its stay in this chamber. It turned out that it had seen one human, female, moving through, before the earthquake had opened up the roof. It excused itself for not having more information, not having dealt with non dragons before. And despite being very grateful, it longed to return home. Just as it was about to leave, I just had to ask: “Dub-Shaba, before you leave, allow me to make this request. As I live in the small city of Nook, would you be willing to join me at the yearly ball as the most beautiful mantle I could wish for?” A smile formed for a second on its pensive face. “Though I don’t know how far Nook is from here, I would be delighted.” “I will make sure an invitation reaches you in time!”; I answered, producing yet another curtsey. “Farewell my friends!” The wyrmling flapped its manta shaped wings, producing a firm breeze that raised the dust around us, before leaving us with surprising speed.

With the dragon gone and no opponents left, we at last had time and opportunity to search the room. Jonathan was using a small flask to collect some of the purple fluids dripping out of the Darkmantles. Examining and following the different trails, we found a spot covered by rocks and debris. Where it would have taken us small folks hours to clear this, Murk made short work of it. Underneath we found the body of a female human, dressed in the uniform of the city guard, though Magki city crest had been torn off. “This must be one of the two we were looking for.”; Jonathan said as he was searching her; “Nothing in the pockets, all valuables are gone. Someone wanted her dead for sure, she’s been stabbed and strangled." "Poor sergeant Tesh. We should bury her”; I responded, swallowing a sob. Jonathan volunteered to assist, and Murk did the work, digging like a mechanical arm, but much more precise and reliable. (Slightly less fun though, dear diary!)

Meanwhile Finn was scouting ahead, climbing the slope of ground and boulders leading upwards to the rip in the wall and roof of the cave. Upon reaching it, he took a cautious look outside, and found a city guard standing a few paces away. “Hey you, wake up! We’re here! We found your comrades!” Both the guard and we were fortunate that the poor guy did not die of a heart attack! After short deliberations the soldier went off to the city, and we started hauling our stuff to the surface. A short time later we were sitting next to our trophies, looking at one of the gates of Magki, just a few hundred metres away.

The guard returned with a group of colleagues, together they took us into the city, walking us through streets we had not visited before. As it was still very early in the morning (we had found out), very few locals noticed our parade through the center. All friendly and correct, but leaving us no other options. “You said you were taking us to your office, but we just passed the gate and the keep?”; I asked, a bit worried. “We’re taking you to the Constables’ Court, to the city guards barracks. The officer on duty himself, Captain Trish, wants to handle this himself!” And so we walked through the doors of the barrack, a small fortress standing out between the facades of much more friendly merchants' houses. 

Prepared for the worst, I sat down on a too high a chair, in a small office, facing an empty desk. Next to me Finn and Jonathan faced the same problem. Gregot had rooted itself at Jonathan's shoulder, Murk remained standing, and none of the guards dared to make a point of this. Several guards took position against the walls behind us. All friendly and correct, but leaving us no other options. The walls and floor of the place once were painted white, but had reverted through the years into a puzzle of discolored, washed and peeled off bits and chunks like the dusty gray of kobolds living in the dark. This room was not intended to comfort its visitors.

The clicking of halberds on the floor announced the entry of their officer, a leathery human male, who sat down behind the table facing us. His tight and crisp uniform,  bearing the gauntlet of Helm (which made me think of our home altar for a second), out of tone with his men and the environment. After taking his time to look each of us up and down, he eventually addressed us: “Welcome, adventurers! It’s not often that we see contractors return to claim their reward!” He gestured to one of the soldiers, who handed him a document storage tube. Recognizing it immediately, I hoped my ‘corrections’ on the document inside would not be seen as forgery. “Well, this all seems in order. And you brought in the body of sergeant Tesh. What else do you claim?” 

On that note, Finn and Jonathan started picking stuff from their backpacks, placing all kinds of gory remains on the table like it was jewelry. The captain kept a straight face: ‘Dark mantles, yeah know them, nasty buggers. Two you say, and the bodies were there to prove it, good. Rat tails, how many? But I see less, ah, some were eaten by those animals that are chasing the chicken in our courtyard? Spider legs, quite large. And this a fang of something? Well, well, well. All in all, that makes a hefty sum. If you agree with this list, it’s all worth nine hundred ninety eight gold coins.” There was the sound of three small folk dropping their jaws at the same time. “That’s reasonable and in line with our contract.”; somehow I managed to regain my senses. “Well then, this amount I’m not mandated to approve. We just need this sealed by a solicitor. I will call for one!” Just in time Finn managed to overwhelm Jonathan and prevent him saying anything about solicitors and a sort of borrowed seal. 

We sat there for an uncomfortable length of time, chatting about nothing with the Captain and some of his men. A knock on the door signalled the arrival of the clerk. A black clad stiff and pale male human entered. When he turned his face towards us, I sighed in relief, as it was a different person than the one we met in Ki. His gaze kept resting on us, only when I greeted him (once more thanking my teacher in etiquette) properly, he turned to the captain. The two of them had a short conversation, the contract was scrutinized lightly, subsequently a sigil was revealed showing the same mark as the one I was carrying, wax was heated, the contract was sealed! “Have a safe journey! That Oghma may guide you. ” And with that the clerk left.

“Well, well, all is settled then, still this amount of money won’t be found here.You’ll have to get it from a bank. Hand them the contract and that should work out alright. There’s one bank not too far away, run and owned by gnomes, the Clockwork Treasury. I’ll have the sergeant escort you there. Sergeant, take them there!” The same sergeant that had sent us off into the dungeons appeared, visibly crying. “Sergeant, it’s a terrible loss to us all, sergeant Tesh was a good soldier. We’re all gonna miss Caca. Take these people to the gnomish bank, then take the rest of the day off. Understood?” “Yes sir, thank you sir!” The sergeant droned like some cogs and sprockets sat stuck. “Follow me please, lady and gentlemen.” 

Once again we were paraded through the streets of Magki.The sergeant was quiet, like us, even the cubs hopped along muted. Looking around I noted that the houses in this part of the city were all the same size, fitting tall folk. Mansions that were presumably small folk were living, had the same size and number of floors (based on the size and placement of windows), only ‘half doors’ were placed in the entrances. Looking at the sergeant, I decided not to inquire into the matter. Our walk did not take long either, after some streets and corners we reached our destination. The building that housed the bank was built in tall folk size too, but the bright pink color of its stones and the huge astronomical clock that filled the top of the structure. Besides the time (hard to find amongst all other displays) it featured phases of the Moon, position of the Sun, gnomish seasons and festivals and mechanical animals and scenes, with in the middle a calliope that would have been the centerpiece in any traveling funfair. 

“We’re a bit too early.”; the sergeant pointed out; “The bank is not open yet. In a few moments you’ll hear.” “We’ll hear it open?”; Finn asked. “Oh yes, the minute the vault is opened at the start of a banking day, the organ will play a sad tune. Bankers don’t like spending money.” We waited for a little while, admiring the building and its machinery. As a gnome I marveled at the clock, especially a scene where mechanical dolls depicted cashiers and bookkeepers editing ledgers. My companions were also impressed, yet critical too:“Is that steam leaking from that valve? Is that puddle of greenish liquid dripping from that light bulb?” However the instant the calliope bursted out the ‘Death of a Banker’ tune, all were astonished and speechless. And a little deaf.

With hands over our ears we made clear to the sergeant that we were grateful and his assignment had been fulfilled. Then we made it to the entrance door, finding a polite dwarf, fully armoured, waving us away. Above us, a mechanical owl had dived down, still attached to the clock, and was examining us through a glass eye. Only after I showed the owl the contract and its seal, the creature shot upwards, and the dwarf opened the door. Locking it behind us, opening the next door and leading us through a hallway. Posh gnomes sitting behind counters stared at us discretely. Thinking about how I would look to them, I felt ashamed for all the times I had disapproved of the looks of my parents' customers. My appearance was worse than that of a kobold wanderer, dear diary!

Gesturing and pushing, the dwarf made clear that we had to continue walking until we were again blocked by a door. A huge fancy door, the size of two counters. The dwarf knocked one time on it, soft and politely. Then he stepped to the side, making room for us to enter as the door swung open. Revealing an enormous reception area, lavishly decorated. Looking around in awe, we slowly stepped in. Of course, the instant the last cub crossed the door, it closed itself with a loud thud.

“Welcome, welcome, dear guests! Welcome to the Magki Clockwork Treasury. The bank for adventurers of any species, ancestry or rank. May I introduce myself, the name is Reginald Cogsworth.”; an older gnome introduced himself with a proper bow; “This is my assistant and head of bookkeeping Theodore Goldspinner. And with whom do we have this honour?” Once again a courtesy was performed by myself quite well, as I may say so, before responding: “My name is Inez Elera Systemix, and these are my companions. We were contracted to fulfill a delicate job for the city guard, which we did discretely and to full satisfaction. As is described in this contract.” I handed over the tube to the older gnome, who handed it to the younger one. “Theodore, be so kind and read what this says. In the meantime, allow me to offer you and your, hmm, body guards, some drinks and refreshments. And perhaps some water and meat for these ones?;  pointing at the cubs, the old banker did not show any signs that he was worried that his beautiful salon would be the victim of the little owl bears. Two claps of his hands, and from somewhere a mechanical cart rolled in, delivering water and slices of meat to the animals.

“Please, do have a seat!” One more time he clapped and the chairs started reorganising themselves, smaller ones rolling in, replacing tall folks sized ones. A huge one, driven on tracks instead of wheels, followed, positioning itself behind Murk. The nice armchair that found its way to me was irresistible, I dropped myself in and enjoyed the massage of my back! “Well, little lady, you do seem a bit young to lead such an expedition! Still, talent beats age, and who would follow a great looking leader?” Before I could react he, rattled on: “And the gentlemen, sitting comfortably? What can I offer to drink? And this little shrubbery, what do you like?”

Another cart rolled in, bringing all kinds of drinks and snacks. Before we realized or even acknowledged it, we were drinking wines and beers, Gregot some water, sandwiches, pastries and cheese were on the table and in our mouth. “Well, well, well.”; Reginald continued following Theodore’s return and whisperings in his ear; “It all seems in order. The city wants to pay you Nine thousand nine hundred ninety and eight gold pieces. Theodore here checked it, there’s enough gold in our safe, so no problem there. However, I would not recommend walking the streets of Magki with that amount of gold. Allow me to make a suggestion: We do have a counsellor on investments, not only gnomish, all kinds of things. Good yield and profit and entirely safe. That way your gold is safe and will grow. What do you say?”

We were looking each other in the eyes, flabbergasted, it took a while before I dared to answer: “ Nine thousand nine hundred ninety and eight gold pieces, you say?” “That’s correct, little lady!” Well, could you divide this in four equal parts. And could you send two hundred gold coins to the solicitors office that signed our contract? They will receive a bill from a clothing shop in Ki that needs to be paid on my behalf.” Looking to my side, I saw Finn rolling his eyes at me. “And we would need some pocket money for our stay in the city. Like a hundred gold coins each, could you arrange for that?” That changed the frown on the face of my rogue companion into a smile. Not only on Finn’s face, the others were showing grimaces of joy and anticipation  “Very well, of course, of course, little lady. Theodore come with me, we have work to do.” With that the two bankers opened a hidden door in a wall and stepped out of the room.

To be replaced by a third gnome, showing up like a glimmer of Garl. “A thousand excuses for my late arrival. The name is Gordo Battlegold, just Gordo for highly esteemed guests, just Gordo for our highly appreciated clientele and just Gordo for friends.” This bombastic gnome had a shadowy, almost misty apparition. On the other hand he sure was handsome, slightly taller than most gnomes, and dressed in exceptionally fine, be it a little on the flashy side, outfit. His age was hard to guess, but he sure was a gnome to behold, dear diary!

As a master illusionist he presented a decanter in his left hand, filled with a red liquid, and a goblet in his other. After filling the goblet, he presented it to me: “Here you go, fine lady, this will taste so much better.” Somehow the glass of wine I was holding was on the table and I had accepted Gordo’s goblet. Bringing it towards my nose, I enjoyed the bouquet of the liquor. “You’ve got the nose for it, lovely lady. And now your cheeks blend in with the wine.” This Gordo was quite the jester, if this had been a ball in Nook I probably would have slapped him. But in some way I could not truly get angry with him. Pesky gnomes!

In similar fashion Gordo led all of us into temptation, accepting his goblets appearing out of thin air, drinking his wine, becoming languid and slow, feeling groggy and tipsy, still in a pleasant and pleasurable way. Around us the room appeared to blur or fade out. Our tongues felt quiet, tranquilized, no steam left in our brains to start a new conversation. “Are you sitting comfortably?”; Gordo skipped, or even floated, around us, topping up our goblets the second you emptied it. “Good, good, then we’ll need to find answers to questions that no answers were found for yet. But no stress, no need for answers right away!”

He stopped right in front of me, moving his index finger towards me, stopping just in front of the tip of my nose: “Inez, what are you running away from?” Blurry images of my parents, our house and office, the hag presenting me the Idol, raced through my mind even faster than the tears made their way across my face. Our scrutinizer had already lost interest in me and had moved over to Finn: “ Finn, what could be found in the forbidden wizards booklet you sold?” The rogue casted a furtive glance in my direction, but kept his mouth shut. What did he know about my spellbook that he had not shared with me, dear diary?

Subsequently Gordo arrived at Jonathan’s chair, a huge wingchair  he shared with Gregot: “Jonathan, the magical pig, the goose, what do they mean to you?” The gnome placed  his finger on the lips of the priest in time to prevent him from answering. Advancing towards Murk, the interrogator grew taller or levitated upwards, mitigating any height advantage the Goliath had on him: “Murk, do you slay mummies, or are you one? Made of stone, or out of iron, mummy dear?” If Murk felt addressed or annoyed or anything by this challenge was not clear, as always his face remained an indecipherable mask. 

“And, how are all the moonstones doing?” That truly jammed my cogs. Who was this gnomish inquisitor raking up the episode with our finds and my lifeline? “And what do Golems' metal feet and tales of old battlefields mean to you all? While Gordo shot his questions at us, the room around us behaved oddly: Fading in and out of focus like I was looking through a double-telescope. The lights started flickering like we were in an inventors showroom, colors absent or vague as if watching through translucent alchemical glass, like a shadow-play performance at the Nook market.

Blinking my eyes, I found a Golem watching over me, where Gordo had been standing seconds before. Mummies were standing against the walls of the room! A stampede of monstrous metal feet circled around us! Raven landed on the arm- and back- rests of my chair! Around the Golem stones grew out of the floor! The overwhelming honking of Geese hurt my ears! Above me the shadow of a dragon filled the room, or sky, or was it a shadow dragon!? Closing my eyes I tried with all of my might to break out of these haunted dreams and hallucinations! 

Opening my eyes, the Golem was still there, and so was the constant shimmering and flickering. A huge holed stone stood between the construct and us. Next to me Finn stuck a finger in the back of his throat, trying to get rid of the red fluid inside him. Not wanting to witness the result, I stepped out of my chair. Walking over towards Murk, who was examining the hole inside the stone. It was hard to tell if the crack in the stone was man-made, naturally formed or a product of magic, to me it looked like an eyelet or keyhole. 

“We need to fix this!”; I said or thought,having the feeling that this was all that mattered now. Finding the moonstone in my pouch and trying to fit it within the hole. To no avail, as the gem did not fit, or better, was rejected by the rock. All of a sudden Finn was there with me, sticking his medaillon into the opening. Squeezing it in somehow! “It’s an ill fit, it needs something to make it stick together!” He yelled in my ear; “ Do something!” We both stared at the necklace, glowing like it was steaming hot, pulsating in the same rhythm as our surroundings were flickering!

Holding in a remark about his previous doubts of my capacities, I took a deep breath and kneeled down. Finding my spellbook in my hand as if it had never left, pages flapping towards the wished for spell. Weaving arcane energies into a magical hand, guiding this artificial hand towards the hole, pressing the necklace deeper into it. A magical force far beyond my powers and knowledge erupted! 

The last thing I heard was the loud honk of a Goose. Then quietness, abruptly. A sudden, unnatural stillness, as if the air itself has thickened, surrounded me. In a way it was like resting on the water in a bath in one of Nook’s bathhouses, surrounded by steam. And I was alone, the only things present besides myself were the Idol, my spellbook and you, of course, my dear diary! 

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The ink flows oddly in this place, but I 

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What or who has set up this trap for us?

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What or who has set up this trap for us? Though gnome bankers are known for their excessive security measurements, this was far beyond that. And even farther beyond my arcane skills and potential. The only explanation I see is that a sorcerer, necromancer or powerful wizard that I annoyed, or even one of the Gods whose chapters and verses I neglected or violated, intervened and wanted to chastise and punish me. And my poor companions share this punishment because of me. 

If we’re lucky this all is just to atone and put me back on the right track. 

Small chance that it’s Azuth, he would frown at my attempts at magic and lack of discipline. Even stricter, Mystra could interpret my actions as misuse of the weave, a personal insult. Not to mention Oghma, who would approve of my learning but not of the mayhem caused. And let’s not forget Garl Glittergod, my own gnome god, who loves clever magic, but hates dangerous non whimsical magic. And who has probably some things to say about a young gnome leaving her parents and community too. And talking about my parents, Helm was the god my father served as solicitor, this god (and my father) would surely want to punish me for my petty thefts and fraud cases. And rightly so! And Helm is just one of the Gods of Justice and Law!

Then there is my spellbook and the Idol. Is the Hag involved in any of this? Or the former owner of the book or its heir? A truly talented and highly skilled wizard could have pulled this off too. And what does Finn know about the spellbook? Dear diary, I’m afraid this is all a bit much for a small gnomish lady.