Post by Wild Weasel on May 23, 2012 21:55:02 GMT -6
The Caverns of Chaos (preview)
“You have got to be kidding me,” Hauk said, disgust clearly evident on his face.
“Well, according to the map, this is the place.” Randal looked up from the curled parchment that he held in his fingers to the others in their party gawking at the joke now in their path.
Wild Weasel stood in the center of the flat, ten-foot diameter stone set flush into a tight collar. He was happily twirling what he liked to call his “Twin Daggers of Stabbity Death”. The halfling didn’t look like he had a care in the world, nor did he at the moment. Not as long as there were others to do the hard work.
Agnon stood to the side, muttering a prayer to his god, Pelor. “And ye saw fit to burden me with these fools whilst I attempt to honor ye name? Bah!” The dwarf spat, feeling much the same way as did Hauk.
Not far from Agnon were Yerond and Loremaster Gareth, conferring with one another. The two eldest among the group, the black-skinned elf and the master mage were privately discussing their current predicament and what should be done.
Draven, the spear-wielding cultist, was making himself busy searching for a nook or cranny between the stone and the collar so that the stone could be lifted, creating an opening to whatever depths lay below.
The mercenary Hauk shot a brief glance in Randal’s direction.
He is of like mind, Prince Randal Silvershield thought. Perhaps we should have continued looking rather than jumping at the first opportunity that presented itself. Surely –
Wild interrupted his thoughts. “Looks like we’ve got a lead,” he said, gesturing to a portion of the stone with the tip of one of his daggers. “Tis a bit difficult to see, but I can’t read it. Gotta be Dwarven.” He shrugged, and stared pointedly at Agnon.
The cleric walked over and knelt before the indicated markings. A few moments later, he cursed a string of invectives that made his companion Yerond twinge.
“Out with it,” Hauk growled. “I’m tired of wasting my time here on this gods-forsaken cliff over the sea with naught but barren shrubbery for as far as the eye can see!”
“Fine, fine,” Agnon grumbled. But ye ain’t gonna like it, that’s for sure.
‘This is the last resting place of Raldorien the Renegade.
He was branded a traitor by the Wizard’s Council and was banned from the realm.
Transformed into a ruthless, inhumane creature by anger and fury, he delved into the world of shadow magic.
Raldorien slew half of the Council with the Rod of Planar Power, an artifact thought to be lost for millennia.
An organization known as the Protectorate rose to end his reign of terror and brought him to justice.
The artifact was seized and hidden away for safekeeping.
Raldorien, friend of the dwarves and kobolds.
Master of the planes themselves.
Rests herein with his greatest treasure.
Disturb them at your peril.’
The halfing stifled a giggle. “Ye never told me ye had kobold buddies, McBelcher.”
Agnon harrumphed. “I don’t.”
By now, Gareth had broken off his conversation with the elf and approached the cultist. “Draven, per the inscription, we could very well find inside some clue as to where the mysterious Protectorate has gone.”
“Aye,” his friend agreed. “Them and my mother.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Hauk said, disgust clearly evident on his face.
“Well, according to the map, this is the place.” Randal looked up from the curled parchment that he held in his fingers to the others in their party gawking at the joke now in their path.
Wild Weasel stood in the center of the flat, ten-foot diameter stone set flush into a tight collar. He was happily twirling what he liked to call his “Twin Daggers of Stabbity Death”. The halfling didn’t look like he had a care in the world, nor did he at the moment. Not as long as there were others to do the hard work.
Agnon stood to the side, muttering a prayer to his god, Pelor. “And ye saw fit to burden me with these fools whilst I attempt to honor ye name? Bah!” The dwarf spat, feeling much the same way as did Hauk.
Not far from Agnon were Yerond and Loremaster Gareth, conferring with one another. The two eldest among the group, the black-skinned elf and the master mage were privately discussing their current predicament and what should be done.
Draven, the spear-wielding cultist, was making himself busy searching for a nook or cranny between the stone and the collar so that the stone could be lifted, creating an opening to whatever depths lay below.
The mercenary Hauk shot a brief glance in Randal’s direction.
He is of like mind, Prince Randal Silvershield thought. Perhaps we should have continued looking rather than jumping at the first opportunity that presented itself. Surely –
Wild interrupted his thoughts. “Looks like we’ve got a lead,” he said, gesturing to a portion of the stone with the tip of one of his daggers. “Tis a bit difficult to see, but I can’t read it. Gotta be Dwarven.” He shrugged, and stared pointedly at Agnon.
The cleric walked over and knelt before the indicated markings. A few moments later, he cursed a string of invectives that made his companion Yerond twinge.
“Out with it,” Hauk growled. “I’m tired of wasting my time here on this gods-forsaken cliff over the sea with naught but barren shrubbery for as far as the eye can see!”
“Fine, fine,” Agnon grumbled. But ye ain’t gonna like it, that’s for sure.
‘This is the last resting place of Raldorien the Renegade.
He was branded a traitor by the Wizard’s Council and was banned from the realm.
Transformed into a ruthless, inhumane creature by anger and fury, he delved into the world of shadow magic.
Raldorien slew half of the Council with the Rod of Planar Power, an artifact thought to be lost for millennia.
An organization known as the Protectorate rose to end his reign of terror and brought him to justice.
The artifact was seized and hidden away for safekeeping.
Raldorien, friend of the dwarves and kobolds.
Master of the planes themselves.
Rests herein with his greatest treasure.
Disturb them at your peril.’
The halfing stifled a giggle. “Ye never told me ye had kobold buddies, McBelcher.”
Agnon harrumphed. “I don’t.”
By now, Gareth had broken off his conversation with the elf and approached the cultist. “Draven, per the inscription, we could very well find inside some clue as to where the mysterious Protectorate has gone.”
“Aye,” his friend agreed. “Them and my mother.”
