Finally, the party arrives at the slave pens and the latrine in question. It’s … well … a latrine, which is to say, an inglorious hole in the ground that smells about as good as one might expect, surrounded by a floor that is none too clean (it appears that not all of the slaves bother to aim). After expressing the requisite amounts of disgust (Yrisi launches herself into the air, while Raven scoops up Fling and places the goblin on his shoulder) the party gets down to the business of investigating.
Not that there’s much to investigate; the only possible way into or out of this room, aside from the door that the party entered by, is the latrines themselves. And so, because every adventure has to start somewhere, the party peers into the toilet.
It’s been long enough since I posted the first “episode” of this campaign (although these posts are actually all from the same session) that I feel obligated to link it again.
Xeroz continues towards the slave pens with Vashra, Yrisi and her raven trailing along. Needless to say, they attract more than a few odd stares as they make their way through the city. None of them are exactly common sights in Candle’s End, and Yrisi is still glowing, although the latter state of affairs lasts only until Vashra says irritably, “Hey, bird. Would you tell your mistress to put out the damned light? If this migraine gets any worse I’m going to have to give it a name.”
Yrisi obligingly dims the light and they trudge on. They do so in relative silence until Vashra, gazing ahead, says, “Oh, look. More freaks.”
A large group of people seems to have just dispersed near one of the city entrances. They’re a mixed bunch, from a variety of races and, as far as their clothing indicates, a variety of walks in life. Of course, some of them are more varied than others, and the pair that Vashra is focusing on certainly falls into that category. One of the two is an ogre, uncommon though certainly not unheard of in Candle’s End.
The other one is an alien.
The moon had been out and shining over New York City, but soon after leaving the perimeter of the metropolis, Ghost Diver became lost amoung the clouds and the darkness of the night.
He had no need to waste time gathering belongings, seeking out and informing family members, or all the other concerns, trials and tribulations that accompanied moving from one city to another. Such tedium was for the living. No, he departed immediately, and at great speed. Encased in his bubble, the spectre could fly at hundreds of kilometers an hour. Night had not yet passed before he had followed the eastern seaboard to Central City.
This is a story that starts in a volcano … and ends with the party covered in crap.
Candle’s End is a mining city carved into, yes, the guts of an active volcano. Most of the PCs are just arriving, but one, a gnoll, has been here for some months already. Xeroz works at a Temple of Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead, retrieving the bodies of those who’ve died and preparing them for burial.
So it’s business as usual when Vashra, another Temple worker and a half-fiend (a rather foul-mouthed one; reader, consider yourself warned) returns lugging the body of a dead slave. There are a couple of oddities about this one, though. The first, as Vashra’s complaints immediately make clear, is the fact that this particular slave died in a latrine. The second is that he died from a terminal dose of mace to the face.
“I swear to God, Slate. If this one is anything like the Ghost Diver, you can find yourself another Tempest.”
Ariel was again dressed as a civilian, though she had been requested to ‘doll up for this one’. Men. Honestly.
The offending Agent Slate was seated next to her, and they were both getting chauffeured by Agent McGuinty, whose own comment on her appearance had earned him a quick slap to the face. The Irishman had simply chuckled in response. They were rolling down a glitzy drag in Illinois, looking for a nightclub which had recently advertized a night of boxing and entertainment for its patrons. Continue reading →
“You can’t go in there, Steven.”
Agent Slate turned. Shamus had a pistol leveled at him.
“You can’t go in there anymore. The power’s gone, Steven. She’s gone. You go in there, and it’s a paradox. No-one knows what will happen. You said it yourself. Step away.”
Slate turned back. He was staring at the green door. He had to have passed three layers of security to get here. How did he do that? Continue reading →
Shamus turned down another suburban road. The rows upon rows of identical housing, interspersed with development projects to create yet more identical housing were loathsomely boring, and the Irishman was quick to take note of this. His breath smelled of the whiskey that he occasionally weaned from his flask as he allowed the long tank of a car to slowly glide down the streets.
“I’m telling you, lad. Were I this Tempest lass, I’d knock down a tree or two just to give this place some semblance of excitement. Can you imagine living out here? The silence would drive me to the bottle.” He took another sip of his beverage. Continue reading →
It was a mild summer’s day in Washington as Agent Slate pulled into S.P.L.I.C.E. (Society for Persons Licensed to Investigate and Contain Extra-humans) with his partner, Shamus McGraidy. The top level organization was a relatively recent creation, but had proven to be an utterly necessary arm of the Pentagon. They dealt with the superhuman problem so that the average patriotic American could sleep at night. Continue reading →