Session 3 – A Tale of Two Dragons

Twill Bell circled the glittering stone throne. He cocked his head and listened to the echo and thrum of sound rebounding within the stone walls of Bargle’s subterranean redoubt. He strummed his Myrdonic Harmonizer and followed the trail of resonance with an unerring ear of perfect pitch. The acoustical waves lapped about him and crisscrossed his hyperactive brain, triangulating on a specific place in the wall. There, behind the throne, the wall concealed some sort of secret door. Its mechanism was not obvious, but there had to be something. Perhaps the throne! Indeed, a hidden lever at the foot of the throne caused the outline on the wall behind to widen, crack and finally open, quickly when it did; bringing with it a gust of smoke and smell of burning books that swelled into the room and then up out the chimney, following the path of the former master of Old Skull Point. With the smoke came an angry ROAR!

Stephan D’Annunzio D’Annunzio could wait no longer. Shouldering his way past the bard and his other curious companions, the swordsman hustled into the revealed passage. Through the smoke and floating ash Stephan D’Annunzio could see a large painting, a portrait. The other companions struggled to match the fevered pace of the Zingaran swordsman. Iorweth Wolfsblood and the The Finch followed close behind, while the others hesitated, arguments for caution on their lips even as the gallants disappeared into the smoke.

Stephan D’Annunzio burst through the door and beheld a scene of academic opulence and scholarly carnage. A four posted bed, an alchemical work desk, large book shelves, piles of tomes, piles of scrolls, most of these on fire, and perched atop it all was a serpent of black flame and infernal savagery, the size of a warhorse, with jaws like an alligator from the sewers of Asgulan, claws like a courtesan of the Forbidden Court, a tail that swept through burning books like a cavalry charge through peasants. The beast opened it’s mighty jaws wide, it’s tongue lolling, dripping ichor and fetid smoke, feline eyes gleaming with mad intelligence. And yet there was something in the creature’s bearing that spoke of great suffering. The greenish black scales of the dragon hung loose in places, and in others were cracked or missing altogether. Here was an avatar of pain and fury! Stephan D’Annunzio was indeed taken aback by this scene, for though he had spent his entire life preparing himself to battle fiends such as this in his quest for fame and glory, and although his fantasias had more often focused on the glories than the battles, still he did not pause for more than a blink of an eye. Here was his destiny, put before his sword to test his mettle, his skill, the strength of his blood, and a D’Annunzio would triumph so that the bards should tell the tale for centuries! He charged the Dragon with sword held high!

The beast lashed out with claw and fang, battering Stephan D’Annunzio who’s sword was brushed aside. The Finch rushed in and ducked behind a strange sludge filled basin in which stood a milky white sword point down. The boy’s eyes darted fearfully about the room. He set an arrow in his trusty crossbow. Iorweth Wolfsblood followed suit, following Stephan’s charge and stabbing over his shoulder with his long spear. Dog bound into the room as well, howling. Cedric and Twill Bell launched arrows at the wyrm from the doorway and Dyffyd Kinewatcher chanted the holy psalms of a powerful blessing: The Radiant Joy of Existence flooded the battlefield, exhorting the Heroes of Platonic Love to even greater feats of courage. The battle was joined!

Stephan D’Annunzio wove his sword in a pattern of death, jumping like a tiger, striking like the crane of his homeland. With a mighty heave the Dragon launched itself from its perch, toppling a bookshelf and landing halfway across the room. As the dragon leaped Stephan D’Annunzio thrust his sword upward and felt his blade pierce the scaly hide, ripping a long rent along the belly of the beast. It roared again but this time it came from a deeper place, the belly of fire that all dragons hold within them. Flames crackled around its teeth and the beast reared up to disgorge its fiery spew, but at that very moment a spasm convulsed the sick creature and it coughed! The flame erupted in a choking explosion that enveloped everyone in the room. Flesh and clothing burned, even if the shrieking wail of the serpent told true, the very initiator of the blast!

The Finch peaked around the basin of the sword at the raging battle. He felt helpless. His magical darts seemed to hardly bother the dragon, which was busily tearing the would-be knight of Asgulan apart. But now his eye was drawn to the blade mere inches from his face, perhaps the gods were telling him that this was his duty. Gingerly, The Finch stood and placed his hand on the hilt. Gritting his teeth, resigned now to his fate, he tensed his body and yanked the sword, which came free with a loud sucking sound: Glooop! The boy mage held the sword awkwardly in his delicate hands. What was he supposed to do with this? Meanwhile, Cedric had loosed another arrow into the melee when out of the corner of his eye he saw the The Finch but a few steps away, looking like he was holding a baton for the relay races of the summer festival games.

In the heat of battle the ranger thought quickly, too quickly in hindsight to fully consider what he meant to do, but thus are some heroes made. Cedric rushed forward shouting “Bayta!”, hoping The Finch of Delver’s Dale would remember that children’s game. And surely did the clever Finch remember and place the silver bladed baton in Cedric’s passing hand. With wings upon his feet Cedric sped forward and smote the dragon the killing blow. The sword struck squarely and dove deep into the breast of the great black beast. Green ichor fountained over the ranger’s hands as his weight drove the blade ever further in, seeking the corrupted heart. Too late Cedric realized that he had not twisted his blade for a proper thrust and so his blade was pulled from his hand as the dragon collapsed at his feet, its great malignant eyes staring up at him as the spark of life faded. It was all too much for the simple woodsman, and he too collapsed in a swoon.

. . .

In the aftermath of the of the battle, the Dragonslayers of Platonic Love ransacked the smoldering ruins of the wizard’s inner sanctum. Most of the place was thoroughly destroyed, for the dragon had had much time to vent its fury in the place. The wizard’s desk revealed some vials hidden in a lower drawer, and, beneath the precarious wreckage of a mighty bookshelf, spared only by the chance cantilever of the librarian’s ladder, was a tome of tarnished brass covers that caught the eye of Stephan D’Annunzio who picked it up, eager to distract himself from the glory so lately struck from his grasp.

Iorweth Wolfsblood rummaged through piles of charred books with titles such as Analgesia, An Herbalist’s Handbook by Eldest Treekeeper Seneca , Nymphomania: An Affair to Remember by Noblod Rickenbokker , My Adventures in the Astral Plane by Haut the Mysterion , and Book of Baby Names for Folk Common and Noble by Thadeous Hauz .

“Trash! all trash!” cried the frustrated druid.

Casting about the remains of the wizard’s home, Dyffyd Kinewatcher reflected upon the humble endings of such a vainglorious man as Bargle. Reaching down, he picked up a strange golden mobile-like device, constructed of golden hoops riveted together and bound to other shapes and small chains as well. The thing veritably reeked of mystic energy and yet none of the learned folk in attendance (of which there were admittedly few) recognized aught in its construction or intent. “Hey I’ll take that off yer hands there,” said the wily Iorweth, hacking at something viscous in his throat. “No thank you my good man, ” said the decorous priest of Demeter. “I would prefer to carry this burden myself.”

Most exciting of all was the ironbound chest hidden under the bed. This container was dragged out into the throne room where The Finch cast a cantrip of toxic detection on the lock, discovering that there was indeed some dangerous substance hidden within. Twill Bell nevertheless tried his hand at opening the lock, unfortunately receiving a cloud of green poison for his efforts. The entire party was rendered sickly and choking by the gaseous burst. And still the chest was bound shut. It took many beatings with the ranger’s topiretz before the chest revealed its contents. Within the battered chest lay a small black book featuring an arcane sigil and badly damaged by the crude methods of its discovery. This was Bargle’s Journal .

The Platonic Dragonslayers eagerly cracked the spine of this document and set to reading. It was written in an arcane short hand and so the rogue scholar Twill Bell was obliged to apply his lore and a few magical tricks he had learned from Aphra Behn to crack the code. When he did, the last pages of Bargle’s Journal was read aloud and all wondered at the revelations contained therein. So many secret machinations in this most placid of vales! Here was what was read:

Ah, these Kenku serve my purpose the squawking sneaks. I have pulled them out of their great nests and made them guard my territory. They serve as my eyes and ears and soon they shall be my assassins!

Sondra the Fox is easily manipulated by one of my great intellect. She was so grateful for a single Philtre of Love that she gave to my the shards of the shells of Sygoth. She knows not what she meddles with in the Halls of the Savage Kings but I will leave her to it and remember not to care for the schemes of women and foxes. It is only slighted pride.

My Kenkus have discovered the Fox’s prize wandering about the forest. They retrieved said “prize” from the savage Rascal and now we shall double our profit with a quick sale… or perhaps more. I have sent a message to the Beasts of Balean Nakt. A bidding war would be most delicious. We shall meet at the base of the Scarp in three days’ time.

The birds report swords at my doorstep but they bother me not. The stars align tonight and I cannot waste the opportunity. Tonight the Aperture of Mamuthek will be awakened and Stygoth will be my prize! Then shall the folk of the Dale tremble before me! And the palaces of Men shall shake! And the Magus Halls of Nemedia will open their doors for fear of my might! But first I will take great pleasure in crushing that gnomish Voldor and his wife. And maybe Thalia too… Revenge is a delicious dish best served cold, as they say in Asgulan.

The time is nearly here. The shard of Stygoth’s shell will provide the path, and the Aperture, if my translations are correct will provide the connection across the Astral Plane. Enough there is no time. Soon those fools who thrash about above my head shall have their faces melted by the righteous wrath of my might!

All paused to ponder and then began speaking at once. The Map of Delver’s Dale was pulled out and read again with all the new ins and outs that had come to light. It soon became clear that despite some confusion as to exact dates and time frames it seemed that this bidding war was to take place somewhere below the Scarp where lurked the ancient monastery of Balean Nakt. The deal could take place this very night or the next. They would have to hurry across the very breadth of the Dale! The Platonic Lovers also determined that perhaps there were dwellers in the Darkwald Forest that might provide them assistance as well, such as “Voldor” and “Xan”.

“It will take us a full day of travel to get to the Scarp. We must move quickly!” said Cedric.

The day dawned steel grey with overhanging cloud as the Slayers of Platonic Dragon Love made their way down from Old Skull Point, their boots crunching in newly frosted ground. Swiftly, they crossed the Trade Way and Cedric led them to the rope bridge which crossed the swiftly flowing River Eamon.

The tilled fields around Diamond Lake were covered a thin layer of snow. A few small homesteads could be seen down by the shore. There was one brave shepherd about with his flock. “Keeping them fit,” he said, introducing himself as Neffyd the Erder . He was happy to gossip, relating word related to him by the fishwife’s teenage son that the late King’s Captain, Sir Bors had formally taken control over the regency of Delver’s Dale until such time as the Princess Helen can be summoned from Zingara with her royal husband. It is rumoured that Sir Bors has locked many members of the court in their chambers in order to better control potential rivals.

And a new song is being sung in town!

Winding—winding to the sea,
Ever on, goeth the river free.
Here he bends, and there he goes,
Here he stops, and there he flows.

Onward—to the sea
Goeth the stream so blithe and free.
And so floweth the River of life,
Onward thru peace and strife,

Here it turns and there it goes,
Here it stops, and there it flows.
Onward—to the ocean of eternity,
Goeth the river of life so blithe and free.

The sheepherder also admitted that yes he believed the wee folk of the forest were friendly, that indeed he often left a bit of elderberry wine in a wooden shoe by the doorstep at night and just as often the wine was gone in the morning! Stephan D’Annunzio offered Neffyd the Erder a platinum hat pin found in the halls of Old Skull Point in exchange for a flask of elderberry wine and a sheep. After experimentally biting the pin, the man happily turned over his flask and sheep and hastily drove his flock back to his home the qucker to make his way to Pewter Cup Tavern.

Iorweth Wolfsblood drew his knife and quickly drew it across the throat of the sheep. He bathed his hands in the resulting red spray, then cut open the belly and pulled out the entrails arranging them with care about the snow white meadow, an abstract augury in red ink that only the deranged druid could read.

“We are on the right track! Let us go forward!” cackled the dirty man. Then he spit on the ground. The wolf called Dog howled. Stepping into the Darkwald was not a thing done lightly in Delver’s Dale, but the Men of Trousdale were in no frame of mind for hesitation. Quickly Cedric led them under the ‘wald’s leafy bowers to a grove where he thought he might find the “Foxbane” mentioned on the Map of Delver’s Dale . There some of the heroes laid down to rest while others ranged about in their somewhat frantic search. Iorweth Wolfsblood found a bit of the herb he was seeking at the base of a gnarled tree. A soft clearing of the throat made him look up, into the quizzical eyes of a very small man with a hooked nose. “Lookout!” said the little man, looking with alarm over Ioweth’s head. The druid turned and saw large warty man like creature trundle out the underbrush.

The broad headed brute carried a burlap sack over his shoulder and a knotty pine club in his hand. He tramped and snorted as he walked but did his eye did not fall on Iorweth! Instead he looked companions beyond and bellowed a challenge. Dragonslayers that they were, the companions made short work of the ogre (whose name they learned was Berg before they lopped off his head). A 5 foot long wide mouthed bass was discovered in the ogre’s sack. They then turned their attention to the gnome, for a gnome he was. “I am Voldor,” he said. “And you folks should really come to my tree so Lema can brew you up a wee bit of tea.”

So the Heroes of Dragonslaying Platonic Loves trooped around the dell to a rather elaborately rooted tree with a nice round door hidden amongst its entanglements. There they were met by Voldor’s wife Lema, who gave them all cups of sweet dandelion tea. Upon drinking the tea, each man found himself reduced to the size of an inconspicuous gnome which made it very convenient to accept an invitation inside the gnomes’ home for a proper reception. There they all got to talking, and eating delicious stew. Dyffyd Kinewatcher struck up a fruitful conversation with Lema about favorite recipes! They even invited the friendly neighborhood dragon to stop by for some delicious bass and friendly conversation. Soon they were all fast friends, bartering good-naturedly for Voldor’s various alchemical libations and supplicating Xan to be their guide to the presumed “trade” that evening. Heartened by their fortuitous meeting and cheered by the friendship they had found, the Company of Dragonslaying Lovers of Platonic Dragons made their way swiftly through the woods, led by the glib tongued Xanxuiloxozzyr, who ceased not to regale his baffled companions with whatever sorts of trivia passed through his head. On request, the wyrmling led the way to a rocky outcrop at the base of the towering Scarp of Insanity! Topping the rise, the party found themselves a perfect vantage to spy upon the proceedings less than quarter mile down a gentle slope.

There in the clearing below a nightmarish consortium had gathered. There were two clear sides. One one was a mass of more than a dozen small hooded creatures grouped behind their leader, a tall man in purple robes. In their midsts was a large wagon and beside the wagon a trio of humans sat bound together.

The opposing side of the tableau was decidedly more fearsome. Large and shaggy, these were beastmen from beyond the map. One held a battle standard attached to a long pole while another. All carried axes and vicious flails. In the back, one stood head and shoulders above the rest, an ogre more fearsome than the gentle Berg slain earlier that day. In one hand ogre held a flail from which dangled three rusted chains capped with spike iron spheres. In the other, a club of knotty oak. A single horn protruded from the beast’s forehead. Amongst these fell creatures huddled one miserable creature, whose bedraggled state belied his princely bearing. Could it be? Had they found their missing prince? The heroes could not be sure and so they waited moments more, hands gripping the hilts of their swords.

It took little time for diplomacy to deteriorate. One of the goatheaded beastmen lunged at the robed man with his bare hands and was rewarded with a blinding flash of eldritch light and a smoking hole where his heart once was. It is best not to attack wizards. With that the battle was joined. The kenkus danced around their larger opponents jabbing with their spears and swords while the beasts of Balean Nakt laid about them with their flails. The purple robed wizard rose straight into the air to hover above the trees from whence he released his ire in blazing fury.

“D’Anunnzio! For Honor!” cried Stephan D’Annunzio and he threw himself down the hill, for he could not delay a moment longer. There was battle to be had! And so far too run! As always Iorweth Wolfsblood followed. Cedric followed as well but he ran at an oblique angle to the fray, aiming to circle around behind. Dyffyd Kinewatcher cast a blessing, and Twill Bell struck a rousing chord that echoed down the hill.

The Finch cast a spell of speaking, focusing on the prisoner of the beastmen. “We’ve come to rescue you.” Wondrously the boy felt a dazed response, “Finch? Is that you? By the Gods I must be dreaming. It is so hard to control the BEAST!”

“Father!” screamed The Finch. He sprinted down the hill.

The battle was a thing of legend. Twas a three way melee of which the bards would sing a song of every hero who lifted sword or spear in defense of the uncrowned king of the dale. The scion of house D’Anunnzio was first in the fray, crashing into the beastial horde like a bull of Mithras. Mightily he struck the Ogre, and mightily it struggled but could not but succumb to the Zingaran’s onslaught. Iorweth was close behind jabbing with his spear while his wolf called Dog harried their flanks. The unheralded bard of Trousdale, Twill Bell, unleashed his grave voice of whoa at a pitch and tenor that startled the wizard Bargle from his highflying spells, sending him to distraction. Cedric, Dyffyd and the wyrmling Xan circled around to rescue the prisoners and found themselves in hand to hand combat with the birdbeaked Kunku who were more stalwart than their stature belied. And then all hell broke loose. There was a heartrending shriek that grew deep and guttural. Bursting his shackles, the cursed prince rose to his full height growing as he did and bursting with fang and claw for he became a mockery of both man and beast, a creature from the heart of Danzig’s Temple, a were-wolf or perhaps a were-bear, such was the size of this fearsome prince! In a frenzy he lashed out, tearing apart beast and bird alike.

In the swirl of combat Stephan suddenly found himself face to face with the transformed prince. There was no recognition in his eyes, only bloodlust. And yet, D’Anunnzio could not bring himself to raise his weapon against he who he had strove so hard to discover and so he looked into the eyes of the savage beast and raised his hand in a warrior’s salute. There was a terrible moment, pregnant with anticipation when all the world seemed to balance on the head a pin, the tip of a sword, the muzzle of a half-man, half-bear monstrosity. And then it was over. The Prince Caradoc moaned and collapsed at the knees of the Zingaran warrior, clasping his boots in relief. Around him the battle seemed to settle all at once. The remaining Kenkus bolted for the trees as the saw their master drifting down out of the sky, an arrow shot by Twill Bell piercing his throat, his eyes darting desperately.

And so the Battle of the Scarp ended. Dyffyd Kinewatcher rescued the helpless Bargle from the less charitable nature of Iorweth Wolfsblood, claiming him the rights of a prisoner. This did not however, save him from being stripped of his weapons and jewels, including a Torque of the Bare Berserker and a Twisted Knife. Stephan D’Annunzio found a strange horned helm half buried under a fallen beastman. More prisoners were discovered in the covered wagon as well. Indeed two of the lucky souls were the old peddlar and his daughter, Lamdamon and Zappora, for this was their wagon, captured only the day before on their way to Dun Eamon. Others included the dwarf Elder Goodwagon, Jeb the Careless Woodcutter, and Nell, the Fisherman’s Daughter. By the time the battlefield had been looted and the prisoners rescued the sun had long set and flurries of snow were coming down in great gusts. Sweat soaked armor chilled the bones of weary heroes. So, once again, the followed Xan to a redoubt of warmth and safety, if not comfort: the cave of the late ogre Berg. As the Company of Solid Draconic Love and the many refugees began to settle in for the night, who happened to arrive at the door? Voldor and Lema Goodman! bearing an ample pot of hearty stew and a keg of spirits. And so a fire was lit, cloaks and blankets taken from the peddlar’s wagon were strewn about and the party truly became a party.