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Grudger Tom, Sherrif, and the Tree Top Road
Chapter Seventeen of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
“Thanks be to Mother Beory! If not for you children, sure as seven hells, I’d be lying there dead with these me two fellas!” The survivor gestured toward his fallen companions.
“Tut, tut,” I drew up my steed alongside the man. “We are servants not of Oerth Mother such as the heathen adore but of the proper gods of Old Aerdy.” As an afterthought, I added with some reluctance, “And also, by some commission, Ehlonna, Lady of the Wood.”
He looked on me quizzically and then cast his eyes to Bruin. When his gaze fell last upon William, his face darkened with suspicion. “Whatever and whoever you serve, help me now to bury me kinsmen, these good men of the Geoff Lands, lest they be food for beast and fiend. I’ll raise a mound atop them ‘til me fellows return for their pyre. Then will I be on me way and leave you to your business.”
“No need to fear,” I assured him. “We too are Geoffmen and men of the March. I see by your colors, tunic and cloak, you are one of the duke’s bowmen. Perhaps a member of the Lea scouts?”
Friends or Foes?
The ranger gestured toward William, pointing at the goblin with his naked blade, “That’s no Geoffman nor man of the March! Nor are these woods fit for child and a little hobniz lad less they be slaves and sacrifices under the Goblin Trees.” Still brandishing the sword, he turned toward Bruin, preparing to face off with the big warrior, for he supposed him a flesh trader.
Continue reading “Grudger Tom, Sherrif, and the Tree Top Road”The Bone Grinders
Session Two of GRNC 2 – The Bone Grinders
A GREAT NORTHERN CRUSADE ADVENTURE from Greyhawkstories.com
(Campaign Notes and Adaptation by Thomas Kelly)
Prelude
Sir Harrasin stands post near Grabford’s Morsten gate. He guards the encampment of the crusade from what terrors might come. Alert and wary, weary-eyed he stares into the third watch of the night. The hours pass. The undead fog rolls out again, blanketing all around the city under siege. Would a ghost or ghoul creep in those shadows, how should he know? Shadows gather about. Harrasin swings the torch back and forth, here and there. The flame and light casts them back; they recede into mist. He shivers in the chill damp air. Hours pass. Heavy eyelids. His head nods. The woman draws near. Estell. She moves through the dream, smooth-skinned, long-limbed, and alluring in all that finery, silk, and perfumed scent. She presses one slender finger to the dazed knight’s forehead. “Protect me always.” Yes. She must be protected. “Seek the Vetha.” He wakes with a start. He muses over the dream, “The Vetha is dead. We found her body. Dina is dead.”
Scene One: Round the Pyre
Morning roll call reveals three men missing. A quick search reveals three more corpses. Men murdered in the camp. Three bodies, bloodless and limp.
Each morning, more victims. Who can endure it? Fear stalks the crusaders. The morale of the men falters. The strong arms of the Great Norther Crusade hang limply at their sides. Always the damn fog and mist, the rain and the mud, the gnawing apprehension, the shadows and nightmares, and the wail of tormented souls from within the walls of the city under siege. Ghouls skitter about and gibber at the edge of the camp, pawing the dirt for bones and remains. By night, the pounding of orcish drums and blood curdling yells from within the walls. Who can endure it?
The bodies of the victims must be thoroughly burned lest they rise undead in the service Maskelyne or his dark master, the Old One. Such is the outrageous sacrilege of these dark days. They gather lumber and build a pyre. Crusaders and Knights of the Shielding surround the pyre to recite lamentation. Oily smoke stings the eyes. The stench of burning flesh turns the stomach. Oleini, shieldmaiden of the sacred order, recites a lament from the book of dirges. Flames mount higher, and up from the flames rise a dark plume of smoke.
A horse and rider approach. Iron shod hooves splash the mud. The Lady Katarina, mounted upon her charger, draws near. She dismounts and doffs her warrior’s helmet. Fiery braids spill out over her shoulders, red and unruly like the flames curling up from the pyre. Her keen eyes flash with dragon’s fury. No man meets that gaze. She solemnly charges her hero knights, round about her, “Take ye vengeance for this hurt. Hunt these blood-guzzlers before they kill again.”
“As for that, what vengeance can I serve up if I should find them? My axe bites not against undead flesh!” Sir Harrasin kneels before the lady.
“Nay. Unless your blade be blessed or enchanted! Take it to a smith. One that can ensilver it to bite the flesh of devil, demon, wearbeast, and undead.”
“Behold! I have blade that will bite well enough,” Sir Flynn boasts. “This fine weapon I took from the hand of the wraith, and sufficient is the dweomer enscorcerling it.” He proffers the sword to the lady commander of the crusade.
The Lady Katarina takes up his blade and examines the make and the steel. Round about she turns it. She eyes the hidden runes etched upon its shaft. She purses her lips as she considers their read. She returns the blade to Sir Flynn, “Have a care soldier man, lest an evil blade betray the one that wields it.”
Continue reading “The Bone Grinders”Children of the Wood
Chapter Sixteen of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
The dim morning found me waking lost in the enormous folds of my cloak and bed roll which had grown inexplicably larger in the night. How strange! My tunic now draped loosely over my shoulders and twisted about me, and my trousers too had become several sizes large. With a head still full of sleep, I puzzled over the mystery until I heard a child’s voice near at hand asking, “What deviltry now?”
A Straight Read
I wriggled myself free of the enormous cloak to behold the dim lit shape of a boy, a human child of ten years or so, swagged in a grown man’s undercoat and waving his arms about. The unfilled loose ends of his sleeves flapped comically back and forth. His ragged breath steamed in the morning air. The commotion roused the others from their bedrolls. A redheaded child rose from the place where Ivan had laid down the night before. A mishappen gangly boy with misshapen face came around clumsily tripping over the dragging hem of his philosopher’s robe, now several sizes too large for him. A wide-eyed girl yet untouched by the first blush of womanhood slipped from Cirilli’s place beside the fire and giggled at the sight of the rest of us, “Look! We are children!” Only big old Bruin and William the goblin seemed unaffected by the enchantment.
“Tut, tut!” I exclaimed. The squeak of my hobniz child’s voice surprised me. “There’s bound to be some explanation.”
Continue reading “Children of the Wood”The Dawn Pool
Chapter Fifteen of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
While the wood remained lightless and black except the coals of Ivan’s meager fire we rose from where we camped down—happily not chained in unseelie dungeons to pay for our trespass. The violent wind of the night had travelled on into other lands but left behind its train of cold dragged down from the icy north. Ivan added sticks to the fire with the last of the drywood. So we hunched about those little flames, glad of what warmth they offered. My limbs felt stiff from chill; fingers and toes burned with the cold. In such manner I shivered through morning devotions.
“I am cold, and I am thirsty,” Myron mumbled. His mummy scarves, once more wrapped around his misshapen face, made his words difficult to discern, but I caught the ensuing taunt clear enough, “Speak to your gods, hobniz priest; work a miracle, and bring up a spring of water.” He crooked a finger at me.
I cleared my throat. “Tut, tut. Father Yoseffo, an elderly priest in Hochcoch, exercised such a gift, but my Lady has never yet granted such to me. I have not yet attained it,” I admitted. Myron dismissed my candor with a skeptical sniff.
“Breakfast or no, let’s do press on quickly,” Cirilli urged.
“The quicker we leave dark seelie wood, the better I like it,” Sir Belvenore agreed. The knight was already strapping on his heavy armor. “I’ve no love for any of this miserable wood, least of all this dreadful place.”
In short time, we had the weary horses saddled and mounted. Ivan led us along slowly lest we wander from the path and become lost in the Old Weald. In his left hand he held the reigns of his steed, and in his right, he held aloft a burning brand. The torchlight sent shadows playing among the trees to either side of the narrow road. Gnarled faces of knot, nob, and bark, long frowning in the darkness, now glowered at us from the broad trunks of venerable ash and oak. All the woods stood silent about as we passed. None of us dared speak a word aloud in the morning darkness.
The Dawn Pool
At length the cold and silent darkness softened to the grey halflight of Dimwood morning, and I discerned that, somewhere high above the thick overshading canopy the morning sun now looked down on the old eldritch forest. Presently, the air felt less bitter, and the breath of the horses no longer steamed. What’s more, the morning songs of birds, nesting high above us, made gladsome sound. All the wood seemed less oppressive, the darkness less heavy, and the air tasted sweeter. A mile or so further and we saw a sight strange to our eyes—a bright light that we scarcely recognized: a gleaming shaft of sunlight penetrating to the forest floor. We marveled at the shimmering column of golden light in astonishment. William blinked and squinted and declared, “I never!”
Continue reading “The Dawn Pool”Covert of the Old Weald
Chapter Fourteen of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
“Lords! My lords!” William fell to his knees, bowing and scraping before us, still trembling for the fright of the battle. “I swear by head and hide to serve thee, for I owe thee my debt of featly. But for thee, those captains would have flayed me! The ogre would crush me! The troll would tear off my arms and legs. Those bears—their claws—and that terrible eagle too! I am your servant, William, by my life!”
“Swear to it against your own name! Swear by the ugly names of all your ugly jebli gods,” Myron menaced. “May hobgoblins ravage you, may bears maul you, may an ogre tread upon your torn corpse, may a roc carry your carcass away to feed its young, and may a troll grind his teeth on your bones if you prove false to us or do us any harm. Swear it now!”
Utterly in awe of our powers, the terrified goblin agreed to those stern oaths and swore them against his own head. Yet for all that show of fealty, none of us felt any need to unbind his wrists or grant him leave to go about as he would.
Wounds and Weals
Cirilli and I exhausted all our strength attending to Ivan, leaving Belvenore and Bruin without divine touch for their own wounds. In addition to Ivan’s sores, we had the matter of the woodsman’s horse. The troll’s great claw had raked the flesh and lamed the animal’s leg. The Backluni charger’s eyes lolled about, wild with pain. The animal staggered and stumbled, whinnying most pitifully. None could approach it to unsaddle it or remove the packs it bore. It seemed a kindness to release the poor beast from its pains, but Cirilli would not countenance it.
“Listen child. Is it meet for us to let the beast suffer?” Belvenore insisted. “Let me do the thing. She will scarcely feel the touch of my blade.”
Then rose Cirilli from Ivan’s side, drew near to the injured animal, whispered in her twitching ear, and calmed the poor beast. “She says she will suffer me to attend to her wound,” Cirilli explained. To my astonishment, the horse submitted to let her wash and bandage the torn leg.
“So she speaks horse now?” Bruin asked.
Continue reading “Covert of the Old Weald”Battle for Realbridge
Chapter Thirteen of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
Fireseek 27 of the common reckoning 575. I rose early, reluctant to leave the relative warmth of cloak and fur. The morning had a cold bite, and my breath steamed in the air. Despite the chill, I rose refreshed by the night. Pleasant dreams, no doubt inspired by the sacred stones, had washed away the previous day’s traumas. I communed with the divine as the dawning light broke into a magnificent sunrise over Gran March. Taking full advantage of the sacred stone upon which I stood, I beseeched my Lady of Changing Seasons and all the true gods of right and good that they might grant us success in our quest. Nor did I neglect strange Ehlonna of the forest who had summoned us hither and into the sanctuary of her favored folk.
We made a cold and numb-fingered breakfast atop Table Rock, loaded the horses, and began the descent down the western slopes back into the forest. Ivan’s charger, a native to the woodlands, carried him at the head of our troop. Sir Belvenore’s proud cavalry horse came next, followed by Sir Merciful’s which now bore young Cirilli in the unfortunate knight’s stead. My sturdy pony trotted after these, with William tethered to the horn of its saddle, plodding alongside us. Myron’s unruly mare snorted and bucked behind us, and last of all came Bruin’s stout warhorse under its heavy burden. William ran alongside as long as he could, but when his little legs tired, he consented to riding with Ivan. Now Myron rode up close beside them and took advantage of the opportunity to learn the goblin tongue. He passed the miles inquiring about the goblin word for this and for that. William happily obliged and proved to be a most capable tutor.
Realstream
Our descent to the Realstream took us on a steep plunge back under the forest canopy. We again found ourselves cloaked beneath the shadows, plodding along a well-trodden but narrow twisting pathway.All around us, the trunks stood like a sprawling colonnade, each pillar separated from the next only by the darkness of the Dim.
Continue reading “Battle for Realbridge”Nothing but the Truth
Chapter Twelve of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
Myron’s mare protested in terror, sidestepping, then stomping its hooves, but the illusionist maintained his seat in the saddle. Gripping the mare’s flanks between his knees, he dropped both the reigns and the flaming torch he had been carrying. He raised his hands and, with a few words of incantation, discharged a potent spell. A rainbow of colored light leapt from his hands and up into the dim canopy of the path behind us. Two of the giant spiders dropped to the path like chestnuts dropping from the tree in my garden back in Hochoch.
“They will pursue us no further,” Myron said confidently. He dismounted to retrieve his still-burning torch, clambered back onto the mare, and wheeled her about. We galloped after him, leaving the fanged menaces behind us.
After that, I looked on the spellcaster with new admiration, but Bruin scolded him, “If you had that trick up your sleeve this whole time, why didn’t you play it sooner?”
Continue reading “Nothing but the Truth”Naming Iggwilv
Anna B. Meyer
Edited by Thomas Kelly
Truenames hold the immense power of the creature named. A truename might protect from the named, scry upon the named, exploit the power of the named, dominate the will of the named, or even banish the named. But it’s not an easy thing to obtain. The truename summarizes a being’s story in the form of a poem. The recitation takes at least a minute per level of the creature, and it needs to be recited in the native language of the creature. A truename can be found if you research the creature in question and identify the details of its creation, its kin, its birthplace, its development, its foes, its friends, its accomplishments, its afflictions, and its dominions. Even little details, like its phobias and quirks, can strengthen the true name. But be careful. Truenames keep changing as a creature remains active and adds chapters to its story. In that respect, a truename is only true for a short while before it must be updated in order to stay true. So let’s explore some of the story we might use to name Iggwilv.
She’s called Queen of Witches, Mistress of Demons, Matriarch of Diabolists, Mother of Iuz, Daughter of Baba Yaga, Apprentice of Zagig, the Witch-Queen of Perrenland, and Author of the Demonomicon. But her birth name was Natasha, and she was born into a very poor family somewhere in the Tuflik valley. The family’s situation was so dire that her parents gave the baby away, sold her off, or worse. She ended up in the hands of the legendary hag Baba Yaga. Natasha grew up in The Dancing Hut. At the age ten, Baba Yaga taught her how to summon demons. Natasha despised her adopted sister, Elena the Fair.
Continue reading “Naming Iggwilv”Web of Shadows
Chapter Eleven of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
Snow fell again, heavier than the days before, as we bade our farewells and made our way again under the darkening canopy of the Dim Forest. Ivan, ever wary, rode ahead upon his fine charger, followed in order by Sir Belvenore, I riding upon Crilli’s pony, and she upon Sir Merciful’s steed. Myron still sat upon his unruly mare, and, last of all, came Bruin the Bear upon his stout warhorse.
Ivan led us deeper yet into the forest, under the heavy ceiling of winter’s withered fuinoria leaves, but soon he found the path he sought. He called it “the road,” but this road was fit not for cart or wagon. It was scarcely more than a worn path that snaked and wound through the darkness with many other possible routes branching off here and there and disappearing into the dim. No straight way seemed possible, and without an able guide such as our woodsman, one might quickly lose the road and wander hopelessly lost in that twisting maze of shadows though endless colonnade of enormous trunks. Many deadfalls hampered our way, again and again, forcing us to weave away from the trail and back, and I often feared we might turn about entirely in the darkness. Our way slowly climbed in elevation as we ascended forest’s spine up the Taura Ridge. From time to time I seemed to see dark forms lurking near the trail and eyes of unknown creatures staring from the shadows.
This deep into the forest, no flake of snow fell upon the ground, for the overshadowing canopy held it all aloft, forming over our heads a soggy dripping blanket which blocked out even more of the sunlight, leaving us ever in a perpetual dusk by day and a deep starless blackness by night as Nerull would have it. Thick silence muffled all the wood round about. As if the silence forbade interruption, none of us spoke a word to one another. Only the steady plod of the horses hooves upon the soil made sound. Despite the cold, dark, miserable nights, we kept our flickering campfire small and dim, both for caution and of a necessity, for dry wood consenting to burn proved scarce, and the smoke hung about us, choking the air.
A Cry for Help
So we travelled in this manner for a day and a night and half a day again, or so we believed from the turn of dusky half-light to absolute pitch blackness and back again. Then came a sound on that second day: a thin voice hallooing for help.
“Many wicked things dwell in these dark places,” Ivan warned. “Some ghost or devil calls out to us to lead us into his trap.”
Continue reading “Web of Shadows”Free Greyhawk Novel
Download a free Dungeons & Dragons novel set in the world of Greyhawk, the original campaign setting for the worlds greatest role playing game! Follow the links below to get your free e-book or PDF version of The Hateful Wars: The Saga of Kristryd Olinsdotter.
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I originally published this novel as a chapter-by-chapter serial at Greyhawkstories.com back in the pandemic years (2020-2021). Since then, I have revised the text, corrected a lot of errors, and collected all the chapters into one convenient downloadable file that will work on e-readers like Kindle.
Continue reading “Free Greyhawk Novel”Hall of the Dryad Queen
Chapter Ten of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
I rose early for prayer and discovered Myron already awake and mumbling over his arcane business. He had stoked up a small hearth inside the tower chamber that previously belonged to the wolf, Sir Bartimaeus. The fire took the chill off the morning air. The sky had not been lit for more than an hour when Ivan called from his perch on the watch, “Behold! A mighty host approaches from the wood.”
The Trooping Host
We all scrambled to the gatehouse to peer out through the slits and windows. From under the canopy of darkness that is the Dim Forest, we perceived a trooping host, self-illuminated by dim fairy light, as if many fireflies had converged among the trees. In a short space of time, a striding giant emerged into the clearing in the form of a stout and leafy tree but of such a type I had never seen. Look! This tree was not only strange of bark and leaf, but it did stride upon great roots as a man walks upon his feet, and it did move a pair of its mighty limbs as a man swings his arms at his side, and it wore a face with eyes and mouth and a round knot of a nose.
Ivan the woodsman who, stood at my side, exclaimed, “It’s a treeman! I never thought to see the stuff of children’s tales!”
Riding astride her strange steed, perched in the leafy crown like a proud bird upon her nest, sat the dryad queen, Nyssa herself, resplendent, wreathed in flowers and draped in ivy. An entourage of young dryads, forest nymphs, elves, sprites, and faerie folk trailed behind.
Still held tight in Nyssa’s thrawl, I ordered the gate opened. Now everyone was up and about. We rushed down the gatehouse, lifted the bolt, and flung open the doors without a moment’s thought or hesitation. I hastened out to meet her. Myron tarried only long enough to speak a spell that changed his countenance to something more becoming, then hurried out to meet the queen too, sniffing and whining, fawning and groveling, “My lady, my lady.” All of us came out onto the lawn to welcome the strange host. The treeman ceased his forward stride and, it seemed to me, his glittering eyes looked upon us with suspicion.
As Myron had been left otherwise speechless and trembling by Nyssa’s majestic presence, I collected my own wits and found my tongue. “My lady, we have done thy bidding and prevailed,” I declared with solemn bow. “But a bitter price we have paid.”
From upon her perch she smiled on me, the corners of her mouth lifting only slightly. The great walking tree lowered her to the ground. So gracefully she moved that she seemed to glide toward us across the snow. Myron and I scraped and groveled, and all her fairy court curtsied and bowed before their lady.
“A bitter price,” she repeated my words thoughtfully, motioning toward the toppled Roanwood which leaned yet against the broken tower. “A bitter price,” she said again before adding, “But so sweet a prize.” She bent low and kissed me atop my head, and Myron also, “Ehlonna has heard my prayers. This day I welcome you my guests into my hall, and you shall sup at my table.”
Continue reading “Hall of the Dryad Queen”The Lumberjacks
Chapter Nine of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
“Help me prepare fire,” Myron commanded. Even I know that trolls must be burned in fire or their wounds will heal themselves. Once severed, a troll’s limbs might reattach while the beast fights on. Myron, Cirilli, and I searched the tower chambers for flammables, oil, grease, pitch, wax, and fat while our four warriors descended by a wooden ladder to the ground level of tower and out into the court to smite those lumberjacks.
The Two Trolls
To either side of the Witch Tree stood the trolls, chained there by some heavy enchantment. If you have never seen a troll, count yourself blessed and favored of the gods. These long-limbed gangly horrors stand a man and a half tall and more. They would stand even taller if ever they righted their posture to stand up straight. They prefer to amble along hunchbacked and arched of spine with their long and carrot-shaped noses pointed toward the ground. The flexible nose twitches and bends, this way and that, as the troll sniffs out prey. A troll’s nauseating green and grey mottled flesh is oily, slippery, and reeks like urine. Nevertheless, the skin is tough like hardened leather, like the bark of a tree, and trolls typically need no armor or clothing, or if they do wear anything at all, only skins and rags and ornaments of bone in the most primitive of manner. They are long and sinewy creatures, always appearing emaciated and famished and without any fat on their visible bones, and indeed, their appetites are insatiable. The clawed hands on the ends of their long swinging arms are their most formidable weapon. Although the troll appears spindly of limb as it totters about on long lanky legs, it is strong as a giant. Its raking clawed hands can tear a man asunder as easily as one might open a loaf of bread. Atop the troll’s angular skull grows a mass of dark writhing bristles resembling hair. For a mouth, the troll has a gnashing maw armed with sharp flesh-stripping teeth set just above its jutting chin. Most unnerving of all, black and lifeless eyes set deep in the troll’s skull glare out with a dull animal malice. The blank eyes give the troll a terrifying aspect despite the ridiculous protruding nose. I have heard that a troll might have two, three, or more heads, but I have seen only single-skulled specimens.
Continue reading “The Lumberjacks”Mayloriel’s Leap
THE LIBERATION OF GEOFF
The Giant Slayers part 3: Mayloriel’s Leap
(Thomas Kelly)
A campaign based on Living Greyhawk Geoff and Against the Giants.
Drowsily the warm summer night blankets darkened Geofflands. But for the blazing stars, only the last faint silver sliver of Luna before Walpurgis night casts scarce light across the Upper Lea. “If I trip in the dark, I’ll fall asleep before I hit the ground,” Brynn complains. Her war dog, trotting along beside her, whines sympathetically.
“Sleep soon enough,” Mayloriel beckons the party hasten after her. “A little further between us and the snouts of those wargs.” The elf lass hurries them along over heath and stone, dodging from starlit shadow to shadow, weaving a course parallel the Lea Road from Pregmere. Cloaked in darkness, hooded under coats from Edhellond, and moving quiet in soft boots sewn by olvemaid hands, the party moves invisible, but they cannot mask the scent of their passing.
“We had not a proper rest the night before Pregmere, nor all the day we spent there. We can’t run all night like this and keep our strength,” Ansgar growls. He shifts the weight of his pack from one shoulder to the other.
“A heartening song I’ll sing, and make the heathlands ring!” the gnomish bard volunteers.
“You’ll not!” A stern word from Ansgar silences the songmaster’s crooning.
A Short Rest
Another hour stumbling through the dark.
“I canna go no further,” Bryn collapses to the ground.
Only Mayloriel’s keen eyes are visible gleaming in the dark, flashing in the starlight as she surveys the landscape about. “There rises a rock wall on the south side of this hillock. We’ll put our backs to it a short spell until the light,” she confers with Gundoriel in the elven tongue. The Flame of Larethian agrees.
Continue reading “Mayloriel’s Leap”A Battle before Breakfast
Chapter Eight of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
Before first light, Cirilli and I conducted our devotions and invoked the power of our lady. Moreover, Cirilli said, “We should turn our prayers to Ehlonna in whose woods we wander and who has summoned us hither.” I shrugged off the suggestion. Cirilli raised her invocation to the fey Lady of the Wood. I left her to her reverie.
As the morning light filtered through the boughs, Ivan pointed out a path of prints in the snow circling around our camp. “Last night’s werewolf came from the tower and returned to it,” he said. Now we were perplexed. As yet, we had no better plan for assault. Ivan suggested, “If perhaps we can draw them out to pursue us …”
Myron drew our attention to something that none of us had previously noticed. Outside the tower, not more than fifty feet from its stone walls stood one lone Roan, swaying slightly as if in the wind.
“That tree was not there when we arrived yesterday,” Belvenore said. “That tree was not there even a few moments ago.”
“An illusion,” I suggested, but Myron insisted that our eyes were seeing the truth.
“If you observe, you can see that the tree is moving,” Cirilli stated. “The trees are laying siege for us.”
So it was. As we watched, we discerned the distance between the Roanwood and the tower closing. The tree slowly advanced, leaving a trail of freshly turned earth behind it. The goblins took note of the approaching Roanwood too, and they launched flaming arrows from the tower top, trying to set the menacing besieger ablaze.
Sir Belvenore exclaimed, “By Cuthbert and Heironeous! The gods are fighting for us! Now woodcutter, take your axe and drop that tree on yonder tower and let it serve us as our siege ramp.”
Cirilli objected and called it a sacrilege, but Ivan, who also revered Ehlonna, saw no moral difficulty in dropping a Roanwood tree, whether it moved about or not. We had not yet even eaten breakfast and the warriors were donning arms, armor, helm, and gear. Ivan set to the task of felling the tree while Sir Belvenore and Sir Merciful shielded him from the goblin’s darts. Ivan’s axe unbalanced its immense weight. The Roanwood began to lean and groan. A few more blows and it tottered, staggered, then made a crashing fall broken by the tower’s battlements. It crushed goblins as it struck and tossed others to the ground. There it remained, leaning up against the tower, as neat a siege ramp as you could ask. The blow caused some collapse to the structure. Dislodged stones rained to the ground.
Sir Belvenore, Merciful, and Bruin immediately began to ascend the trunk, threading their way around the boughs and branches. Ivan assisted with his axe, cutting a path for their ascent. They made slow progress in their cumbersome armor, and at one point, Sir Merciful slipped to the ground. Uninjured by the fall, he clambered back on the leaning trunk, crawling on hands and knees, scrambling behind his colleagues in arms. I followed more cautiously. It took me a few tries to get up onto the great trunk, and, even after I had done so, I made only small progress up the tree not without losing my footing once. No broken bones. Cirilli helped me up, and we made the ascent together. Myron followed last and slowest.
The crown of the Roanwood rested on the battlements, making for a tangled confusion of branch, leaf, and broken stone. The fighting men pushed through the thick mass of foliage, emerging into a volley of goblin darts. Less than a dozen goblin guards remained atop to defend the battlements. They wore the sort of leather and chain armor favored by the goblinfolk, and they carried long knives, short swords, and bows.
Bruin thrust his spear into the first in the midst of the leafy obstruction. Arrows bounced off his armor and shield, but more than one punctured their way to find flesh and draw blood. By then we were all caught up in combat, swinging madly and blindly, netted in the crown of the Roanwood tree. Belvenore found one with the end of his sword. I came behind with my sickle and finished the wounded guard.
“More coming,” Bruin shouted. Free of the entangling brush, he ran his spear through another defender. The force of the thrust sent the goblin flailing over the edge of the tower, Bruin’s spear still impaling him. Sir Merciful clambered out of the tangle and rushed the last defender on the ring of the tower, thrusting him backwards and into the open center of the tower. I peered down to the ground at the center of the tower ring. I saw his broken body lying in a courtyard below. At the center of the court stood Nyssa’s oak, rising up the height of the tower, it’s crown spreading out above our heads. Even as I peered down, two great trolls with axes shamble out into the courtyard.
“Trolls below!” I shouted.
Continue reading “A Battle before Breakfast”Witch Tree Tower
Chapter Seven of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
We travelled not some far way into the darkness of the wood that dim lit morning before Ivan indicated we ought to leave off from the road. His keen eyes followed the track of the goblin messenger. Ivan dismounted and examined the prints and trail markings before assuring us, “Our path leaves the main trail here and begins to climb this rise.”
Sir Belvenore and Sir Merciful huffed and objected. “Well known that one who leaves the road never finds his way out of the forest,” Sir Merciful shook his helmeted head.
“There’s no fear of that,” Ivan assured us. “So long as I am with you, we will not lose ourselves in this wood, even if we do lose the way.”
Cirilli spoke like an oracle, “The forest will direct our path. Pay attention to the trees. They direct us now to Nyssa’s oak.” Something about the way she spoke troubled me more than the words themselves. It was not the way a proper daughter of our Lady of Changing Seasons said things. I gave her a disapproving scowl, but she turned her head, pretending not to notice my displeasure.
Belvenore and Merciful wanted to stay with the trail, but none of us said we would stay with them. They feared becoming hopelessly lost in the forest without Ivan’s assistance even if they remained on the road. Moreover, their oaths to their lord bound them to protect us and guide us as they could.
Ivan turned his attention back to studying the prints. After some few minutes of peering about in the near darkness he concluded, “This path is well-trodden. I see many goblin prints, coming and going, and also the marks of hooves. And here are the prints of a great dog … nay, not a dog, but a wolf, methinks.”
Continue reading “Witch Tree Tower”The Dryad
Chapter Six of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
The Dryad
I latched the door of my bedchamber behind me and opened my psalter, praying fervently to the Lady of Ever-Changing Seasons for protection through the night. I laid down, still fearful. As drowsiness closed my eyes, a soft knock at my door startled me to full consciousness. I got up and lifted the latch cautiously. Cirilli entered with a candle, and Myron trailed behind her.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
“You need to hear what she has to tell,” Myron said.
Clandestine Converse
Cirilli sat herself down on the edge of my bed and began her tale. “Last night, after the household had fallen quiet, I spoke with the baroness. She stealthily sent word to me by the hand of her maidservant, inviting me to meet her atop the tower. I went as she requested, and in the privacy of the night air, she told me her tale. I have spent much of the day today in her company as well. No elf-lady nor one of olven blood, but rather, she is a nobleborn of the forest, queen of oaks, stolen away from her great tree which grows not far from this place. She is no willing wife to the baron, either. He has brought her here by force, and he keeps her imprisoned at his side in this house. She dares not flee nor resist, for he holds her life in his hands. The false-hearted baron has made a hostage of the great oak to which her soul is tethered, and he has left strong axmen to guard it, ever ready to strike. They keep the blades of their axes sharp, and they are prepared to drop the tree if she should resist the lord baron or flee from this place. And here is the treacherous design he has devised. Each day, he sends a certain messenger to the axmen who dwell within a tower that rings about her sacred tree. The messenger instructs the axmen to let the tree stand for another day. If on any day this messenger should fail to arrive at the tower by the designated time, the axmen have been instructed to fell that mighty oak, and she will perish from the earth.”
“A horrid arrangement,” I muttered.
“Yes,” Cirilli agreed. “But there is more to the story. The lord baron is not as he seems, nor is he a loyal nobleman of the March, but he himself is a lord of werewolves. Not only he, but all the men and women of the house as well. Except the lady Nyssa’s maidservant, who is herself a nymphmaid from the forest, all the servants and court are under the curse. From the lowest washerwoman to the noblest knight, they are vile werewolves within, and they are all under the control of Baron Wulurich. Moreover, the lord baron is the very one who set that same curse upon the village Roanwood, and he alone can lift the curse. All these matters I learned from the solemn-eyed baroness, the lady Nyssa, who is most cruelly imprisoned here against her will.” Tears of empathy moistened Cirilli’s eyes, and she choked upon a stifled sob.
Continue reading “The Dryad”The Chops of the Beast
Chapter Five of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
The Chops of the Beast
We washed and changed out of our travelling clothes before coming to the baron’s table, eager to see if his larder matched his expensive taste in furnishing. He did not disappoint. We ate such a feast as one might hope at the table of a nobleman, far better than one might hope to find in the remote vales of the Dim Forest. A small army of servants busied themselves serving us fresh hot bread from the oven, golden-crusted but soft and airy on the inside, a fine vegetable soup with savory broth, a whole roasted boar, sizzling hot from the spit, and wine and ale to slake the thirst of Wenta.
Among those seated with us at table sat several knights of the Watch. Some of these personally knew Sir Belvenore and had ridden with his father in years now past. The lord baron himself, we learned, had in times afore, served beside Commandant Petros on the field of battle. The baroness sat to the right side of the baron, and despite myself, I often caught myself gazing fixedly on her. Her glance met mine on more than one occasion, and I sensed a fearsome soul behind her burning eyes. Her eyes spoke to me of wild untamed places, uncleared spaces and fading lands where fairy folk dwell, far away from fields and gardens where plows furrow the soil and sewers cast seed.
The Tale of Orlane
Having satisfied desire for food and drink, attention turned to business. The baron inquired after our affairs. I stood to my feet and bowed in the courtly fashion before speaking: “I have come to you, Lord Wulurich, by the command of our Most Resolute Magnitude Commandant Petros Gwalchen of the Gran March, who has bid me relate my tale and present these documents, recently obtained from the lair of a foul naga witch, deep in swampy Rushmoor.”
Continue reading “The Chops of the Beast”Wolfsbane
Chapter Four of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
Wolfsbane
The morning light dawned on a scene of horror. Blood splattered the walls and washed the floors of many cottages. The afflicted resumed their human forms with no memory of the terrors of the night. More than a dozen villagers were dead, some slain by the wolves, some slain as wolves. Others came wandering into the town, naked and confused, unable to say why they awoke to find themselves alone and unclothed out in the woods.
Myron is never above sarcasm or gloating, “So what is your diagnosis master priest? What do you think? Is it merely the winter fever?”
I spent most of the day dressing wounds and invoking the gods for healing. Both Bruin and Mercifcul nursed ugly bleeding wounds. Cirilli and I treated their torn flesh. We exchanged knowing glances. At the next full moon, both men might be howling to one another.
Myron scolded Bruin, “Use your head instead of your brawn next time. What are we going to do with a werewolf your size? How are we supposed to deal with you this time?”
Bruin smiled sheepishly and explained, “I didn’t think I would get bitten.”
The afflicted were again restrained before sunset lest the affliction remain upon them under the waning moon. At sunset we burned the dead according to the custom of the villagers, and I entrusted their souls to hands of the gods.
As Luna rose, we stocked the bonfires and prepared to face the beasts again, but all remained quiet in the village. I fell into bed at midnight, utterly exhausted. I slept until late into the following morning, my sleep beset by nightmares the entire time.
The Investigation and the Mission
When I awoke, the others were already up and finished with breakfast. Cirilli sat with the daughter of Micksallicks, speaking to her about herbs and cures and how to dress her wounds. The girl showed absolutely no symptoms. If not for the torn flesh and rope burns on her wrists and ankles, I would not have believed it possible that this fair girl might be the same as that snarling, twisting creature from the previous night.
Myron took me aside, out of the girl’s earshot, and said to me, “Today, priest, we will get to the bottom of this insanity.” He proposed visiting every cottage in the village and taking inventory. I saw sense in this plan and agreed to accompany him. He put on his best face, so to speak, and we made the rounds. At each cottage we asked a series of questions, cross-examining and double-checking as best we could, and we took careful note of the answers. Was anyone here afflicted? Did anyone shift into wolfen shape? When did symptoms first manifest? Was anyone bitten? Does the afflicted possess any memory of the incident? Does the afflicted remember being bitten by a wolf or dog in the past? The investigation put me in remembrance of the diligent work we did in Orlane to solve the riddle of the naga witch’s enchantment.
Continue reading “Wolfsbane”Bad Wolf Moon
Chapter Three of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
Bad Wolf Moon
Ivan the son of Micksalicks and his kinfolk, we were later to discover, made their homes in a village on the edge of the Dim, known by the simple name Roanwood for a certain type of tree that once grew abundantly in the area and which they made their business—the sale of the much-esteemed lumber. This they had done for several generations and, over time, much depleted the number of mighty Roans that once stood sentinel on the edge of the wood. I took these folk for some mixture of the Suelish and Flan bloods, and many of them had red hair such as one rarely sees among the Oeredian but is common enough among the Geoff folk. So it was with this one red-headed leader of their band, Ivan O’Micksalicks by name, and the other men of his band, all redheads and red beards from Roanwood.
The evernight trees (which the elves call fuinoira) surrounded the village in darkness like an encircling wall. That shadowy dim and foreboding night frowned on the village from every direction, yet within the open spaces of the homely lawn shone plenty of sunlight upon their pleasant cottages, each with a stout chimney from which smoke curled. Here were clean streets, swept of snow, lined with a few shops and necessaries, a smithy, and a lumber mill powered by a waterwheel turned by a passing stream. The folk of the place were fair skinned and tall, the men broad shouldered, the women green-eyed and fair, and one could see that in the summer they made pleasant gardens and small fields under the blessing of my Lady.
Hardy they were, both men and women, wielding axes of their trade, and not afraid to fend off any who might threaten them. They thought it no great feat to slay a party of goblin raiders, topple a troublesome ogre, hunt down a pillaging troll, or chop down a menacing giant. They made a fair living from the Roanwood they harvested from the forest, a tree rare enough to make it’s lumber valuable. They took no haste to harvest, but waited until a tree had reached its full girth and height before felling it. Then cutting it into lengths of trunk and branch, they hauled it, pulled by horse-teams, back to their village where sawmen cut it into lumber. In the spring, when the water rose high enough, they floated the planks on a rafts to meet the Realstream all the way to Hochoch.
They did honor to the true gods but also named Pelor, Beory, Obad-Hai and so forth. Most of all they cherished Ehlonna, Lady of the Wood, but called her by her elvish name, Ehlenestra. They had not priests in their midst or clerics who might teach them the service of the gods or how to direct their devotions, but they said a visiting friar of Cuthbert made the rounds among all the villages of the eastern Dim.
Continue reading “Bad Wolf Moon”Horse Thieves
Chapter Two of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
On the Edge of the Wood
“Four or five days to the keep at Forest Watch. We know not precisely how far beyond the Foredge to the baron’s lodge,” Sir Merciful and Sir Belvenore poured over parchment with a few sparse lines that sufficed for a map. Many miles passed before our road entered the wooded lands. Groves and wild woods stood in patches now and again, thicker to the north. We had fair skies for two days, but on the third day from the keep, more snow hampered our progress again. This time we camped and waited out the weather in shelters beneath a stand of white chestnuts. Bruin foraged about in the woods and collected dry timber enough to keep a merry fire blazing, despite the wind and the snow.
The warmth of the fire was not enough to chase the chill from the bones but it melted some of the ice between our party and our chivalrous escort. Considering their coming errantry in Farvale and Orlane, Sir Belvenore and Sir Merciful inquired of us regarding all we could tell them about that place. Their questions gave us the opportunity to recount for them the tale of the naga witch. After hearing our story and asking after the details until they were at last satisfied, they looked on us with newfound respect, and their demeanor improved.
We woke in the morning under skies both clear and cold. Cirilli and I conducted our prayers while the others stoked up the fire, heated the water, and boiled the grits. The Watchers followed their own monastic-styled devotions, reading the psalms of Cuthbert and the odes of Heironeous each morning and conducting themselves according to their fixed routines before strapping on armor. Myron reviewed his spells. Bruin saddled the horses.
Now the trees had begun to grow more closely, and we saw that we drew near to the shadowy world beneath the boughs of the Dim Forest. Nevertheless, we camped that night in good spirits for we knew that Forest Watch remained only a short journey on the morrow. We looked forward to warm beds, cooked food, and strong drinks.
An Interrupted Night
Sir Merciful was at watch when thieves stole into the camp and made off with the horses. How it came to pass that he neither saw nor heard, I received no explanation. None was needed. It was clear enough that he had fallen to sleep. Some hours after his watch had begun, he roused us. A Watcher is a watcher in name only, I suppose. Now in the middle of the night, shivering in the darkness and stiff from the cold, we did not know what to do, nor did we know then the culprit that had stolen our steeds. Bruin wanted to pursue immediately, but what was the point in that pitch darkness? Myron cast a magical light on his quarterstaff, and we searched about the immediate vicinity of the camp. The light proved to be a bad idea as it made him a clear target. The first arrow stuck him and buried its head into his chest. As if a dam broke, they charged from out of the woods.
Continue reading “Horse Thieves”Errand in Hookhill
Chapter One of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly and sequel to Against the Cult of the Reptile God.
574 CY
In the year that Prince Thrommel vanished, the news of his disappearance did not reach the court at Hookhill until winter. I know this to be so because, when the news did arrive, I happened to be at the court of His Most Resolute Magnitude Commandant Petros Gwalchen of the Gran March to deliver a report about recent affairs in the neglected Barony of Farvale. Rumors abounded, and, as everyone now knows, the strange circumstances around the kidnapping of the prince have never been satisfactorily resolved. The disappearance of the prince and the handsome reward offered for his return inspired many Knights of the Watch and heroes of Gran March to set their hopes on errantries. What is more, the arrival of the news was shortly followed with a specific summons recalling heroes loyal to Furyondy, including two of my companions, those respected veterans of the Troll Wars on the borders of the Pale and also Emridy Meadows, the half-elven brothers Llywain and Dorian. Fealty to the fifth of the Seven Families of the house of Furyondy obliged them to depart at once.
Now this turn of events I took sorely because I had hoped that they might accompany me back to Farvale and Orlane, guarding me for safe passage through the hazards of the Dim Forest. They assured me, “You have nothing to fear Father Tabor. You have the mighty sword of Sir Bruin and the competent dweomers of Myron the Glamorer. What is more, we are sure that the commandant will provide you a company of doughty knights back to Orlane.”
In the Court of the Commandant
My appointment with the commandant came on Freeday the last day before the week of Needfest. This unfortunate piece of timing forced me to keep the report and its corollary appeal as brief as possible, for the court was eager to dispense with business as preparations for the festivities were already well underway and the everyone was already swept up with the spirit of the holiday.
Continue reading “Errand in Hookhill”Needfest Greetings
Happy Needfest,
Maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s been a pretty meager year for Greyhawkstories content. My real world job shifted and has begun to demand significantly more time than in the past, allowing for less leisure writing and less game time. I have lots of stories waiting to be told but precious little time to devote to them.
Despite all of that, I’m still committed to keeping the Greyhawkstories blog open for business and producing content for the Greyhawk community. I’m going to start trying to post regularly again (no promises). In the coming year, I hope to bring some fiction contributions from Joe Bloch, Anna Meyer, Jared Milne, Mike Bridges, Carlos Lising, David Leonard, and whoever is willing to contribute. There’s also great Greyhawk fiction now appearing regularly in Oerth Journal, so I need to get caught up on that material.
I’m eager to start working on a series of resources about the environs of the Dim Forest. Several years ago, I created a sequel to Against the Reptile God titled Under the Goblin Trees. It’s a Dim Forest adventure with lots of action, and I want to get the notes from that campaign adapted to narrative as the further adventures of Father Tabor. In addition, my games around Geoff keep taking my players into those dismal woods, so it would be good to have some better resources for the Dim Forest. If you have Dim Forest content, send it my way.
Last year, I had the entire Hateful Wars: Saga of Kristryd Olinsdotter project professionally designed and formatted as a print novel. The PDF has been sitting in my hard-drive now for nearly a year. I’m going through it, proofreading and correcting it, in my spare time (which means almost never to not-at-all). The goal is to produce a limited hard-copy press run if I can finish proofing it and figure out how to do that. Maybe a kickstarter campaign is in order? Let me know your thoughts.
As you may have noticed, I also use Greyhawkstories to track the principal campaigns for my D&D groups. Currently I have a group battling the giants of Geoff. We are loosely utilizing the Living Greyhawk materials for that region and the TSR regional sourcebook Against the Giants: The Liberation of Geoff. The posts following their progress started as bare-bones adventure summaries, but more recent posts have received some embellishment. I’m hoping you are enjoying them as much as I enjoy DMing the games and writing up the narratives.
I also use the blog to keep tabs on my Great Northern Crusade campaign, but those poor miserable players have been bogged down in a siege of the gloomy and undead-occupied city Grabford, fighting the vampire Maskeline and his minions, for most of a year. Three of the players in that group had babies in the last year, so we are having an exceptionally hard time scheduling sessions, and when we do play, progress is painfully slow. Plus, I have to say, it’s not the most experienced bunch of players. They can’t seem to figure out the program and have no clue about how to deal with vampires and undead. It’s kind of funny watching them puzzle over the problems.
Like other Greyhawk content creators, I don’t receive much feedback. If you are reading the material and enjoying it, please leave a comment or send a note. You would be surprised how much motivation your words can inspire. I’m also open to submissions and suggestions.
Thanks for reading Greyhawkstories.com. I apologize for the paucity of new material over the last 12 months. Will try to do better this year.
May your Needfest nights be bright,
Thomas Kelly
Artwork: Mike Bridges How the Gruumsh Stole Needfest
Fonkin, Flerd, Faffle, Frush, Roaky, Gleep, Redmod, Beek, and Cloyer Too
THE LIBERATION OF GEOFF
The Giant Slayers part 2: Fonkin, Flerd, Faffle, Frush, Roaky, Gleep, Redmod, Beek, and Cloyer Too
(Thomas Kelly)
A campaign based on Living Greyhawk Geoff and Against the Giants.
“It’s not safe for you here,” Father Trantle cautions the visitors. “Those guards you left slumbering outside will not sleep long, and your presence here cannot be kept hidden. Come with me, and we will speak more in the privacy of my home.” He leads the travelers through the streets of Pregmere to a seemingly abandoned cottage near the edge of town.
Safely inside Flerd’s home and with the door shut and barred behind them, everyone relaxes. Almost everyone. Mayloriel keeps an eye out the cottage window. Ansgar speaks to the priest, “The Lady Sierra Blackblade sent us here to find you, Father Trantle. She says you are a famous giant slayer.”
“She wants you to return with us to Hochoch and help us fight the giants,” Bryn adds.
Father Trantle’s Resistance
Father Trantle does his best to make his guests comfortable in the one-room cottage before replying. “It’s true. I’m one of that band of heroes sent out by the king of Keoland to punish the giants. We passed through Sterich, ascended into the Jottens, and slaughtered the hill giants in their own timbered lodge. We massacred their chief, Nosnra, and all his kin around his feasting table. We soaked the floor of their banqueting hall with their blood. We found our way, past many dangers, into the frigid glacial rift of the Crystalmists where the frost giants dwell in caves of ice. We slew their jarl and looted their frozen caverns. If not for the mercy of the True Light, I would still remain there, frozen in the ice. My companions thought me dead, and they left me in the rift. Without me, they descended into the Hell Furnaces to extinguish the fires of King Snurre Ironbelly. Among all those giants we left carnage, recompensing them a hundred-fold for their trespasses into the lands of men. We thought to teach them a lesson they might never forget. Surely, our bloodlust brought disaster upon these lands. Giants are vengeful and cunning. Our strikes against their chiefs stirred the stirges’ nest. We incited this terrible reprisal. I now atone for my sins by laboring here among the slaves of Rhychdir Rhos in Pregmere.”
“Aren’t you a slave yourself?” Bryn asks.
Continue reading “Fonkin, Flerd, Faffle, Frush, Roaky, Gleep, Redmod, Beek, and Cloyer Too”Finding Flerd the Giant Slayer
THE LIBERATION OF GEOFF
The Giant Slayers part 1: Finding Flerd
(Campaign Notes by Thomas Kelly)
A campaign based on Living Greyhawk Geoff and Against the Giants.
“Neumann wants a rebellion,” Bryn insists. “Bad enough that I need writ from the governor what to drink a single cider. Now he says we can no more speak our own tongue?”
“Cause he knows our tongues are making sport of him behind his back,” Ansgar laughs. He quaffs his third cider and pounds the mug on the tabletop to summon the maid for more. “Another round for the heroes!” he motions to his friends.
“You can’t pay for your own cups, cuss, quit saying you’ll pay for us,” chides the gnomish bard. Squint’s fingers find the strings of his shalm. He strikes up a lively reel, but the music stops abruptly when the wooden door of the speakeasy flings open. Ansgar leaps to his feet, nearly tipping the table. Customers freeze in fear; their laughter and conversation falls silent. A man steps through the open doorway. Every patron of the establishment recognizes the stern, scowling face of Cadofyth Parn, a commanding officer of the Army of the Liberation. “Alcohol consumption without a writ! Speaking in the Flannish tongue!” he scolds the crowded room.
“Yes sir,” Ansgar concedes too readily.
The captain fixes his stern gaze upon the young ranger, “Best pour me a cider before I report the lot of you to the constables.” A devious smirk spreads across his face. The patrons cheer and clap the officer on the back. Squint resumes the reel.
Calling all Giant Slayers
Trailing behind the commander, stepping lightly through the door and into the light, comes a grinning elf. “I found this pour lost elf wandering the camp,” the cadofyth announces. “May I present Gundoriel Thingolin, back from fey Dimwood!”
Bryn leaps up and throws her arms around grey elf priest. “I thought we might never see you again,” she gushes in the elvish tongue. He shrugs sheepishly.
“We have had a few adventures without you, elf!” Ansgar says as Parn and Gundoriel join the rangers at their table. Bryn presses her elvish friend with questions about his months in the fading feylands of Dimwood Forest, but he only shakes his head.
After the barmaid pours up ciders and collects coins, Parn admits, “Not for cider and Flan-speech did I seek you out tonight, friends, but a quick trot back into those occupied lands from which you only just returned. We have a rumor from Darlon Lea, our exiled ranger lord. He claims that Father Trantle survived the invasion and still lives, dwelling among those unfortunate slaves, our kinsmen who labor under the lash of the giants.”
“I don’t know who that is,” Ansgar shrugs, unimpressed by the name of Father Trantle.
Continue reading “Finding Flerd the Giant Slayer”Speculation in Greyhawk City
Jared Milne
“Zilchus damn their oily hides!” Cariel Mansharn shouted. Standing up from his desk, he threw his chair across the room, where it hit the wall with a resounding crash.
“What be your problem, then?” Stimtrin Cannasay asked as he walked into the room. He was utterly calm and did not react in the least to the seething anger in Cariel’s eyes.
“What do you think, you fool?” Cariel asked. “It’s the same thing it always is!”
“And what’s that?” Stimtrin asked, his expression thoughtful and inquisitive.
“Another gods-damned bubble is about to burst,” Cariel said, pointing to the ledger on his desk. “Just like they always do. Why don’t these speculators ever learn?”
Cariel’s anger turned to dread as he realized the mistake he’d just made.
“I canna say,” Stimtrin said, his brow furrowing as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps ‘tis the result of speculators thinkin’ that certain prices last indefinitely, or the feelin’ that the speculator is shielded from risk, mayhaps even the ‘greater fool’ theory where assets be continually sold for ‘igher than their value ‘til …”
“Or maybe it’s because so many speculators are glorified paper-pushers who don’t actually create anything of value,” Cariel said, interrupting Stimtrin before the dwarf’s ramblings pushed him past the breaking point. “They just strip the value out of things actual merchants create!”
“Have ye ever supposed it might be yer words be reason are why ye’r none closer to becomin’ Master o’ the Guild?” Stimtrin asked.
Cariel wanted to reply with an angry shout, but the dwarf’s calm and respectful expression showed he meant no insult. Grudgingly—very grudgingly—he nodded. “Perhaps they are the reason,” Cariel said as he retrieved his chair and sat down again. “But that doesn’t make them any less right.”
A Little Bit of Wood
THE LIBERATION OF GEOFF
A Little Bit of Wood
(Campaign Notes and Adaptation by Thomas Kelly)
Based on Living Greyhawk module GEO1-05 by Wesley Wright.
Beware total spoilers.
Bryn sighs and sweeps her sleeve across her face to wipe the perspiration from her eyes.
Fang lifts and cocks his head quizzically as he trots beside her. “I’m worried about Gundoriel,” she explains to the uncomprehending dog. The mud-packed roads of the encampment have baked dry and solid under the mid-summer sun. This is the camp of the Army of the Liberation outside Hochoch’s walls. Bryn and Ansgar navigate the maze of streets, shacks, and tents to make their way toward the command tent of Cadofyth Parn to which they have been summoned. “It’s been nearly six months and we’ve still seen no sign nor heard word. How could we have left that noble elf to such an evil fate?”
“An evil and miserable fate, indeed! I thank the gods ‘twas not me you abandoned in the arms of that soggy river nymph,” Ansgar agrees too readily.
Bryn rolls her eyes, “You wish!”
“I never!” the young ranger objects, blushing red through his whiskers. “Don’t even like daffodils,” he mutters.
“And what of Boots? Will we ever see our dearest friend again? Have we forever lost them both in fey lands? Fie on the shadows of the Dim Forest! Let the light of Pelor burn it!”
Continue reading “A Little Bit of Wood”Blessica of Urnst
On Those Who Covet Power
Jared Milne
Belissica looked up from the letter she was writing to gaze thoughtfully into the mirror standing on the side table. The exhausted look on the face in the mirror signaled, as her personal cleric Jhennifer insisted, it was time for her to stop for the night. Belissica remembered the argument with Jhennifer on the subject. She was, after all, the Countess of Urnst! But Jhennifer pointed out that she only harmed the County if she did not look after her own health.
And it had been a long, tiring day: reading reports from her spies in the Bandit Kingdoms, writing instructions to the delegation she was sending to the Gamboge Forest, mediating between military leaders who argued for more defense spending and exchequers who insisted that the treasury could not sustain such expenditures over the long term…
The countess conjured invisible servants to take her completed paperwork downstairs where it would collected by her officials tomorrow morning. Belissica rubbed her eyes and muttered to herself. She occasionally wished she had more time to pursue the magical research she so enjoyed, but her conscience would never have allowed the self-indulgence. Her responsibilities weighed too heavily on her.
Continue reading “Blessica of Urnst”Vampires of Grabford
Session One of GRNC 2 – The Retaking of Grabford
A GREAT NORTHERN CRUSADE ADVENTURE from Greyhawkstories.com
(Campaign Notes and Adaptation by Thomas Kelly)
Scene One: Search for Dina
Sir Harassin wakes from a troubled dream. Two lovely women vying for his attention. Now it’s daylight, midmorning before noon, but the sun shines dim and pale through the never-ending creeping fogs that rise and fall and curl about the city walls.
Siege is underway. The shouts of soldiers, the cries of the wounded, and the battering of the ram against the unyielding Morsten Gate fill his ears. The battle goes well by day, despite the shadows and creeping fogs, but by night, terrors from inside the city stalk the camps. Mournful wails of ghosts and specters haunt the night. Not one of the men dares sleep so long as the sun is down.
Harassin tries to remember the details of the previous night, drinking with the raftmen of the Lucky Prince. Captain Paddy Lash and his crew have been making extra coin by running supplies up the canal for the army while they await the reward promised them for the adventure in Molag. Most times they don’t stay the night near the haunted city. But yesterday their Vetha wisewoman failed to return. Harassin waited with Paddy Lash and Danni, spending the night on the barge. They shared the last of their Pomarj Black. That’s the last thing Harassin remembers.
Continue reading “Vampires of Grabford”Company of the Silver Wolf
Jared “CruelSummerLord” Milne
“The Crown’s a sacred artifact to the gnomish gods, one that Kalrek could use to become the king of my homeland of Flinthold,” Airk said. “We defeated Kalrek and his minions, and then we learned that the Crown was in the Great Kingdom of Aerdy’s South Province. We traveled there to retrieve it and were caught in a plot to destroy the Iron League. We thwarted that plot and retrieved the Crown, but by then it was nearly the end of autumn. We need to sail to the Principality of Ulek to return to Flinthold, but we won’t find a ship traveling at this time of year. We’ll be staying until after Needfest and then we’ll take a ship to Ulek in Fireseek.”
“May we see it?” the first young man asked.
“What, the Crown?” Airk asked in surprise.
“It’s just a request,” the young man said. “We only want to look at it-we don’t have much use for mineral wealth.”
At first Airk wanted to refuse, but he realized the truth in what they were saying. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out an object and unwrapped the cloth covering it, revealing it to be the Crown of Arumdina.
The Crown was a masterpiece of gnomish craft. It had a beautifully tailored cap of pure sable fur, a golden circlet ringed with rubies and platinum arches each lined with two rows of diamonds. The spaces between the Crown’s half-arches were filled in turn with the images of a raccoon, a sable, a badger and a mole, each wrought in gold and bearing bright emeralds for eyes. The Crown’s monde was of platinum like the arches, topped by a piece of mithril crafted to resemble a battleaxe.
Despite his reservations, Airk smiled at the Raballah youths’ admiration of the Crown’s beauty.
“How does the Crown get its name?” one of the young men asked, looking from the Crown to Airk and then back again. “You said your kingdom is called Flinthold, didn’t you?”
“Arumdina is the name of the battleaxe wielded by Garl Glittergold, greatest of the gnomish gods,” Airk said, beaming proudly. “That mithril axe is said to be a piece of Arumdina, giving a powerful magical blessing to the gnomish king who wears it, and the kingdom he rules.”
The Silver Wolf trilogy is now four complete books. Which means it’s not a trilogy any longer.
The Company of the Silver Wolf originally developed online at Canonfire! as Jared “CruelSummerLord” Milne chronicled the adventures and developed the stories of his campaigns across the Flanaess. With the addition of his latest installment, For the Honor of the Crown, Milne brings the tale to its epic conclusion. Read the new installment, or start at the beginning. You can read all four books in the Silver Wolf series here.
The Invasion of Geoff
Here’s a new Greyhawk video dramatizing the giants’ attack on Geoff at the end of the Greyhawk Wars.
An overwhelming army of giants, giant-kin, and their evil followers stampedes into the Grand Duchy of Geoff, overrunning the land in late CY 583. Mayloriel, the grey elf consort of the ranger lord Darlon Lea, learns of the invasion only days before the giants enter the county of Ffrwythlon Dol. She organized the people of her county and led them south across the river to Oytmeet and later to Gorna where she and Darlon Lea led their warriors to assist in the defense of the city and the escape of the population. Thanks to Mayloriel’s early warning, many lives were spared.
Visit the Geoff page for more adventure from the Liberation of Geoff.
Caves of Twilight Resplendent
THE LIBERATION OF GEOFF
The Gifts of the Fey part 2: The Caves of Twilight Resplendent
(Campaign Notes and Adaptation by Thomas Kelly)
Based on Living Greyhawk module GEO1-03b, by Eric Menge and Sholom West.
Beware total spoilers. Read part one here.
“Wake up, mortal!” Cold water sprinkles Bryn’s face, forcing her to wakefulness. A strange-sounding voice urges her in cross and impatient, gargling tones, “Enough with your slumbering! The queen expects you, and you will be a sorry to keep her waiting!” Bryn opens her eyes to behold a scowling sea-green faerie crouched over her. His webbed hands flick more water into her face. He motions toward a nearby bench on which her clothes are laid out. “Get dressed. Lilly Petal and Cottonseed have brought watered wine and bread to break your fast. Your companions are already up and dressed.”
Bryn shakes her groggy head and tries to remember the details of the previous evening. It’s all a blur—the ballroom, the costumes, the fey, the music, the stars. Was I drinking wine? I can’t remember! Nothing for it now. She slides out from under soft blankets and dresses herself. The green-skinned faerie impatiently bids her eat, and she obliges him with a few bites. The door opens and Ansgar, Boots, and Gundoriel enter the room. “Good! You are all ready,” the faerie observes. “The queen’s grace is in her court. Don’t make her wait!” With no further ado, the nixie turns and paddles off down the hallway, his webbed feet leaving small puddles of water with every footstep.
“Wait, if you please! Where is the queen’s court?” Bryn inquires.
The nixie turns back and offers a condescending smile. “Precisely where it needs to be.”
Continue reading “Caves of Twilight Resplendent”One Good Turn
THE LIBERATION OF GEOFF
One Good Turn (Campaign Notes-SPOILERS by Lyle C Brown)
Based on Living Greyhawk module GEO2-05a-b, by Don Lawson
Summer 592 CY
A Report to The Midnight Ravens
Knave Hodkin Surefoot was contacted by a servant of High Seneschal Cuthalion regarding an important mission in service to the Brennin (the Grand Duke). It seems the Brennin was seeking an allegiance with the Elves of the Oytwood, but they required a service be performed for the Weeping Council before such alliance would be considered. Along with my friend and companion the half-orc Foruk the Silent, and two other adventurers, we were sent before the Weeping Council to receive our assignment. The council requested the we venture into Gorna itself, seeking the Tear of Corellon, a very powerful elvish artifact which was lost during the Giant invasion. The council had ascertained that the Tear was being kept in one of the fire giants’ temples, in the center of Gorna.
Continue reading “One Good Turn”Gifts of the Fey
THE LIBERATION OF GEOFF
The Gifts of the Fey: The Fey Woods (Campaign Notes-SPOILERS by Thomas Kelly)
Based on Living Greyhawk module GEO1-03a, by Eric Menge and Sholom West
The Army of the Liberation needs rangers to escort some certain Geoff-folk from Hochoch to an olven village tucked away well within the Dim Forest. Ansgar, Bryn, and Boots volunteer for the assignment. They are eager to escape Hochoch for most any reason. A long, hungry winter and the dismal circumstances under which the refugees live have deflated their spirits. An adventure into that dark forest under the promise of spring seems like the cure. Gundoriel, their Grey Elf companion and priest of Correlon Larethian, expresses his reluctance to accompany them on account of rising tensions between the Woods of the Dim Forest and the Greys of Oytwood. Bryn plies him persuasively, “Who will look after us without you?”
The Negligent Nanny
The rangers complete their mission under the ever-night of those shadowed boughs and turn back toward Hochoch. A breath of spring warms the chill from their bones. The heavy crowned trees that give the Dim Forest its name allow little light to penetrate, but in patches, here and there as the trees thin near the edge, warm shafts of sunlight spill through, gladdening the heart. The snows have melted, the rains abated, and the song of birds, returning from southern lands, celebrates the warmer weather. Then comes another sound on the morning air—the sobs of a woman’s inconsolable weeping. Bryn’s vicious war dog, Fang, bounds ahead, and the party follows. They come across a peasant woman seated on the ground at the base of an old ipp tree, her arms wrapped about her knees, her face streaked with tears. Fang nuzzles her gently and whines sympathetically, startling the woman. She shrieks, leaps to her feet, stumbles back from the dog and looks wildly about, surprised to see the three rangers and a Grey Elf regarding her. Ansgar speaks first, “Soft now woman! Put away your tears. What misfortune makes you weep so piteously?”
The young woman, a girl called Alys, explains, “A nanny I am to a young lad called Dyvan. I fell asleep beneath this ipp, under some enchantment I reckon, and the boy wandered off and crossed the Laughing Brook where I dare not go.”
“Fortune is with you. We are hunters and trackers,” Ansgar boasts. “We’ll find your missing lad and return him to you quick enough.” These words console Alys, and she describes the boy, a six-year-old no taller than a halfling, head of curly dark brown hair, green of eyes. Bryn translates all this for Dunglorin who does not speak the common tongue of the Flanfolk.
Continue reading “Gifts of the Fey”Grabford Falls
Introduction to GRNC 2 – The Retaking of Grabford
A GREAT NORTHERN CRUSADE ADVENTURE from Greyhawkstories.com
Thomas Kelly
The Great Northern Crusade advances! Several months ago, Furyondian and Velunese forces, under the command of Grand Marshal Jemian, crossed the flare line and slammed into the armies of Old One. Fighting under the blessing of Heironeous and assisted by high-caliber magic from powerful mages such as Bigby, the vengeful crusaders made quick initial progress.
By Needfest (CY 586), cold weather, freezing rains, and deep snows hampered the army’s advance, but with Atroa’s warming smile and the promise of warmer weather, the campaign resumes in the spring. The Knights of the Hart have already taken control of the Bone Road west of Grabford and reached the Veng, driving a wedge between the occupied Furyondian cities of Grabford and Crockport. While the Furyondian navy sails out of Morsten to take control of Grabford harbor, the Lady Katarina Walworth and Count Artur Jakartai command the crusaders of the Holy Shielding to lay siege to the fallen capital of Crystalreach County.
The walls of Grabford and the battlements of the city’s forty towers hug the banks of the great Veng River where the the water widens into shallows impassable by large craft and heavy laden ships. Those heavier vessels must enter Grabford’s harbor and make their way through a marvelously engineered canal that snakes through the city before it passes out through the southern wall. Beyond the walls of the city, the canal rejoins the Veng half a mile downstream. Within Grabford, three impressive drawbridges span the canal, allowing even proud-masted sailing ships to pass through its city. The proud citizens of Grabford once enjoyed the sight of the river’s great sailing vessels and laden barges gliding gracefully past their streets, and they profited no small amount from their passage. King Belvor built strong city walls and forty towers, and he garrisoned a thousand of Furyondy’s finest soldiers to guard the strategically significant fords and protect the canal. For all these reasons, Grabford numbered among the proudest cities of the Kingdom, a necessary port of call for every trading vessel that sailed from Lake Whyestil to the Nyr Dyv.
Then came war. (CY 583)
The armies of the Old One descended into Furyondy, laid siege to Chendl, and conquered Crockport. The Furyondian Navy and all the merchant and cargo ships of Lake Whyestil fled the fall of the harbor town (Crockport). Abyssal bats and winged fiends pursued the mariners across the great lake like raging storms, driving ships upon the rocks or spilling them into the lake. Buffeted, burnt, and torn, only a few surviving vessels escaped down the Veng and passed through the canal at Grabford in disgrace. The good folk of the city watched with no small dimay as the tattered navy of Furyondy, and all those noblemen’s trading vessels too, passed through their city in haste. None dared stop at the docks or tarry long enough to drop anchor in the harbor.
Continue reading “Grabford Falls”A Taste of the Lethe
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-Eight
Thomas Kelly
“I beg you to accompany me on one last embassy to Enstad. The Fey Queen is to be honored for her victories. The Grand Court intends to invest her with the Mantle of the Blue Moon, raising her to the title ‘Lady Rhalta of All Elvenkind.’”
Bagbag snorted. “What did she do? Mope about on her faerie-flower throne while you did all the work. They should name you their queen.”
“Will you accompany me?” Kristryd ignored the old wizard’s bluster.
“We have come to a changing of the guard,” Bagbag mused philosophically. “One feels it. The wars are at an end. Kristryd is made queen over the mountains, her sons over Gilmorack and Dengar. Urgush is no more. Hroth is no more. Gilvgola and Furduch have fallen. In Tringlee, the Duke Gallowagn passes the Shining Crown of Lothromenoron to his son and takes his leave. In Keoland, Senestal II ascends to the Throne of the Lion. All things change, but not in Enstad. In Enstad, they heap more honors upon do-nothing Yolande.”
“‘Yes’ or ‘no,’ old dwarf,” Kristryd pressed. “Will you walk with me to Enstad this summer?”
“I am ever at your service, your majesty,” Bagbag said with a bow. “But why should the Queen of the Lortmil Mountains walk? You should be carried upon the wind or teleported by means of dweomer.”
“I prefer to forget my sorrows with a long walk, and I desire your company,” the queen said. “Just the two of us. We’ll leave Bamadar to look after affairs.”
The Way to Enstad
Bagbag agreed. He leaned heavily upon his sorcerous staff each limping step of the way. His old bones had refused to properly knit back together, even under the healing power of the Sacred Heart. But the trueheaded loremaster felt glad enough to enjoy the journey through the mountains with her once again. They went by way of the Celene Pass to Anyanes, just the two of them together, with no escorting guard or afterlings. In reward for all their labors to purge the mountains, they walked without fear of ambush. As they travelled, they reminisced over all that had befallen them and all they had endured during twelve years of war.
Continue reading “A Taste of the Lethe”The Chronicler’s Final Tale
By Carlos A.S. Lising
Edited by Thomas Kelly
They started to arrive at sunrise. One by one, each appeared in their own way. The first to arrive came as glittering sunlight and a cloud of glissando moonbeams, realizing themselves into shapes and forms as they pleased. The next, seven in number, strode forth from the verdant density of the timbers, offering nods of salutation and respect to those that arrived before them. In turn, they greeted five, rising from the ocean’s cresting waves. Four more, hailed later, brought forth on world’s winds. They all assembled before the great pavilion. Each one older than time itself, yet, none of those ancient ones could say who was responsible for the colonnade that stood at the foot of the mountain with it’s everlasting pillars of pristine white marble, run through by veins of silver and gold. Certainly the next seven, clambering from deep burrows and bearing gifts of baked goods and fresh cheeses, did not know. Neither did the thirteen from the west, pale skinned, proud, and imperious. And for all their profane knowledge, not even those knew who came riding upon dark pock-marked steeds or vile clouds of darkness, accompanied by the chittering laughter of the mad or the sighs of the damned. Still they came, one by one, gathering before the pavilion. Some stood beside mortal enemies or next to long-estranged kin—this one beside that one, even those antithetical one to the other as fire to ice, light to dark. None raised a weapon; none raised a voice. They came because each knew they must. They came to offer a first and a last word, each the same: respect.
***
His conscious awareness surfaced as if from deep, dark waters, like one arising from non-existence, like one waking from a sound sleep, the way one sloughs off the soporific haze of a dreamless slumbering. Past the gossamer veil came the normal sense of confusion. Where am I? Why do I feel so cold? What time is it?
Continue reading “The Chronicler’s Final Tale “Into the Abyss
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-Six
Thomas Kelly
Hedvyg lifted the dagger, poised to plunge it into the queen’s heart. The Dengar dwarves turned their grey-bearded faces away, unwilling to watch the sacrifice. Dame Thresstone took three steps backward toward the open door. She scarcely dared to breathe.
“Hedvyg! The book for the life of the queen!” Bagbag offered. He slammed the book shut. It closed with a clap like thunder. “Take it! I keep my oath.” He latched the brass clasps and dropped the heavy tome amidst a clutter of parchments, books, and candles strewn atop a wooden table. The magical devilshine in the room flickered and faded away. The eerie swirls of color disappeared, and the all the illuminations returned to those of normal light cast by candles and lamps. The summoners circle which, until then, had slowly revolved at the center of the floor, also faded away as if it had never been there.
Hedvyg laid the dagger down upon Kristryd’s chest. The blade rested upon the finely-crafted ringlets of the queen’s mithril shirt. Moving slowly and cautiously, never taking her eyes off Bagbag, the witch rose to her feet. The expression on her ancient face indicated that she expected treachery. She edged her way to the table and warily crept up on the brassbound book. She glanced at it only briefly, lest Bagbag take advantage of her distracted attention and utter a spell. “The book should have been mine from the start,” she sniffed. “Drelnza wanted me to have it, not Gretyll.”
“Yes,” Bagbag agreed. “It should have been from the start. And now it is.”
Continue reading “Into the Abyss”Ceremonies
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-Five
Thomas Kelly
“They fall back before us!” Bamadar roared. Jubilant and maddened with battle rage, he hacked his way forward into the thick press of goblins. Behind them the first light of morning already softened the dark sky. Kristryd risked a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes anxiously searched the dark silhouettes of turrets and towers until she espied a faint green light flickering and flashing in one of the high tower windows. Turning her attention back to the fight that boiled all around her, the queen’s eyes narrowed with concern. They had strayed too far from the protection of Hoch Dunglorin’s walls.
“Hold Bamadar! We dare not further! If they outflank us, we are cut off and the gates undefended,” she shouted. Her voice could not carry above the din of battle. I must signal them to fall back! Pushed along with the crush of the fight, she struggled to lift the horn of Celene to her lips. Before she could sound the note, a sudden eruption from the fight ahead abruptly reversed the forward momentum and sent Bamadar tumbling backwards and crashing into her. She fell to the ground with the heavily armored dwarf sprawled backward on top of her. As she disentangled herself, a mad blur in the darkness emerge from the goblin line. A half-score of hobgoblins pushed and shoved their way forward at impossible speed and with impossible strength. Charging like stallions, they passed by her as a rushing wind. So quickly they moved that eye could scarce follow their pace. They tossed aside goblins, orcs, dwarves, and gnomes that stood between them and the gatehouse. Before Kristryd could recover her feet, they were already leaping the makeshift wall the dwarves had placed across the entrance to the barbican. Bodies of dwarves went hurtling over the moat and cracked against the stone walls of the fort as if thrown by giants.
Continue reading “Ceremonies”Siege of Hoch Dunglorin
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-Four
Thomas Kelly
Grey skies concealed the sun. A keen-eyed hawk, serving sentry duty in flight high above the fortress, screeched out urgent warning. Her sharp eyes focused on mounted wolves slinking down the pass. They scouted the defenses and circled about the elevation upon which the granite stones of Hoch Dunglorin rose. They drew closer, even braving the ascent, but their riders took care to steer the wargs well beyond the arrowshot of the dwarves upon walls. Darkness obscured the advance of the rest of the host except for the orange light of torches which seemed to extend all the distance up the canyon. Echoing out of the mountains came din of drums and horns. Shouts and war screams, no longer distant, announced the arrival of advance ranks. Presently came another sound to the ears of the soldiers listening from atop the battlements: the sound of singing. Heavy voices, chanting in unison, called off cadence. The hobgoblins had arrived.
Light in the Darkness
Before midnight, the assault began. The defenders heard crashing sounds like rocks striking rocks as they tumbled down an avalanche. The sharp eyes of the dwarves saw well enough in the darkness to discern orcs and goblins moving about, carrying heavy loads. Tall ogres drew near. They held aloft enormous shields to protect the workers from darts and arrows.
Tyren, the captain of the watch, called for light. The arch-clerics, Gilvgola and Father Furduch, invoked their goddesses to shed divine light and illuminate the area outside the walls at the point of assault. Sublime effulgence burst into being and exposed the contrivances of the goblins. The vermin stooped under loads gathered from their march—stones and rocks and whole trunks of trees. Some of these they piled up in embankments to reach the walls where the steepness allowed them. With the rest they filled the shallow moat that protected the easier approaches. Giants and ogres piled immense boulders against the walls.
Continue reading “Siege of Hoch Dunglorin”Comes the Trampling Host
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-Three
Thomas Kelly
Gilvgola conducted coronation solemnities, sacrificed flocks and herds, and declared a sacred meal. The dwarves swore vows and took oaths to Kristryd in the presence of the Sacred Heart. The feasting went long into the night, and the dwarves lifted many bowls to their queen. Kristryd sat at the head of table with Thane Blackaxe at her right and grey-bearded, sorcerous old Bagbag at her left. Sullen-faced Dame Thresstone glowered dejectedly from her place at the women’s table, two steps lower than the table where Kristryd sat.
Reflections
As the night degenerated into bawdreaming songs of Hanseath and Wenta, Kristryd excused herself to the privacy of her room. She removed her silver-framed mirror from it’s velvet cloth wrap and spoke into her own reflection, “Hedvyg! Hear me!” The old witch’s face failed to materialize in the mirror, but Kristryd continued. “Hedvyg! I live and breathe! Mine is the sacred anvil of your fathers, and mine is the devilshine book. I am made queen of the mountains without your assistance. You have failed. I am prophecy fulfilled. You are nothing.”
The first faint glow of the new day began to brighten the sky. Kristryd found her way through the austere halls of Hoch Dunglorin to the chamber where the high elf Gallowagn stayed. She tapped softly on the door. Despite the hour, she knew the duke would not be sleeping.
“Does the Queen of the Lortmil Mountains request my audience?” Gallowagn asked with surprise as his servant showed her into his chambers. “Should I not rather request audience with her?” He stood to his feet and bent at the waist in a graceful bow.
Continue reading “Comes the Trampling Host”Hail, Kristryd
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-Two
Thomas Kelly
“The messenger has returned,” Bamadar announced. He had to shout to make his voice heard above the thrumming of rain on the oiled skin canopy stretched over the pavilion.
“Step in, Bammer, and dry your beard,” the queen summoned. The soggy soldier lifted the heavy fabric of the door flap and stepped into the dimly-lit pavilion. He shook his head and shuddered his shoulders like a dog shakes itself dry. Turning his attention to the thane’s table, he bowed before the queen. Kristryd reclined next to trueheaded old Bagbag. Her son Pegli sat on her other side. No others were present. “Well, you look comfortable and dry!” Bamadar observed.
“Don’t leave the man standing in the rain,” the queen scolded.
Bamadar raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You would have him enter your pavillion?” he asked for clarification.
“Before he melts or floats away,” she insisted.
Bamadar shrugged and stepped back out into the rain. A moment later he returned with the messenger, an equally soggy traveler, shivering with the cold. He stooped to enter through the low-cut canvas door flap. As the traveler stood to his full height, Pegli leaped to his feet in astonished disbelief. “Mother! That’s an orcblood!” he stated the obvious in protest.
“I recognize him,” Bagbag observed with distaste. He narrowed his eyes and sized the man up. “Claimed to be a Duchyman and a vinter.”
“Billy Locks of Gliddensbar, m’lords and lady,” the orcblood executed a quick bow toward the dwarves reclining at table. Somewhat self-consciously, he edged nearer to the hot coals burning on the open brazier at the center of the room. His pig-like eyes darted from face to face as he warmed himself. The glow of the hot coals burning cast a play of shadows which made his orcish features the more devilish.
“Mr. Locks has proven himself a servant most reliable,” Kristryd offered in his defense.
“One of your horse-flesh traders?” Bagbag asked with a dismissive snort.
Kristryd ignored him and focused her attention on the half-orc. “Were you able to deliver my invitation?”
Billy Locks nodded eagerly. “Yes, m’lady. That I did. Ol’ gundygut’s lonely ear went all atwitch with the news. He’ll take yer bait fer sure.”
“What’s this? With what have you baited the trap?” Bagbag asked.
“We are the bait,” the queen explained. She turned back to the half-orc, “How long before Hroth comes?”
“He’s gathered his headmen, and all the tribes too. They’ll be already on the march by now.”
“They won’t march in the rain,” Bagbag asserted.
“Oh, they’ll march in the rain, they will!” Billy Locks contradicted the wise loremaster. “Hroth’s promised plenty o’ spoils, and he tells them they’ll be wintering in Tringlee and Jurnre too.”
“Mother, what have you done?” Pegli asked wide-eyed and wary.
“How many does Hroth bring to the field?” Kristryd asked the spy.
“All of them!” the half-orc promised.
Continue reading “Hail, Kristryd”Back from the Dead
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-One
Thomas Kelly
The Lortmil Queen and her elven travelling companions turned aside from the road to avoid the siege of Hagthar still underway. “I have neither time nor strength of arms for such an entanglement now. Let the men of Veluna hold their own border,” she sighed. The detour took them east to Dorob Kilthduum where dwelt Gilvgola, the Sacred Heart of Berronar. The priestess had only just returned from her summer rounds, arriving back at the dwarven fort she called home on time for the moon of Brewfest. The corpulent priestess welcomed Kristryd as one might welcome a dear departed friend when found alive in a happy dream. The priestess offered up festival sacrifices of thanksgivings in addition to those of the holy day.
At the conclusion of the festivities, Kristryd sought counsel of Gilvgola, “I have taken a foolish oath in the names of Moradin, Berronar, and all the gods of my fathers. I spoke in haste and under sway of passion. I would now renounce my oath and have it annulled.”
The Sacred Heart smiled with pity upon Olinstaad’s daughter but shook her head resolutely. “If I had the power to annul oaths, I would be powerful indeed! You have sworn in the name of our Father and Mother. The matter remains between you and the gods. Who is Gilvgola to absolve you or annul your obligations?”
“By Berronar’s beard!” Kristryd cursed bitterly. “Then I have no recourse but to continue this hateful affair! If you cannot free me from this burden, you must help me carry it. Come with me to Gilmorack, you and all your best warriors too. The tide turned against us at Riechsvale. We must move with alacrity or lose all the stones for which we have labored these many years.”
The Sacred Heart gave thought before replying. “Already the castellan has sent away what axes we can spare. Already our young dwarves have fought for you, and many have fallen on faraway fields. Scarcely enough of us remain here to defend these walls or hold these lands about us. Even now Urgush lays siege to Hagthar, a few days march from here.”
“Yet you will come with me,” Kristryd insisted emphatically. “Ask Berronar, seek an oracle, fast and pray, divine what signs you must, but come with me you will! Mother! I need the gods with me if I am to satisfy the debt, and I need you beside me too.”
The Sacred Heart inquired of Berronar. The auguries were good. At the conclusion of the festival, Kristryd left Dorob Kilthduum with Gilvgola and the remaining warriors of that place, several hundred strong.
Continue reading “Back from the Dead”Heroes of the Fey Kingdom
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty
Thomas Kelly
The Lortmil Queen carefully folded the garments of Esmerin and packed them away in her sack. She girded herself in her mithril armor and strapped her sword to her side, and pulled a red travelling cloak overtop. Slinging the sack over her shoulder, she set off toward Courwood. Not long had she walked before passing the burnt ruin of Defile’s End. The blackened and broken stones made her shudder. She offered prayers for the fallen.
Edda’s New Riddle
A few miles further brought her to the cairn that sheltered the bones of the Prince Consort’s host. Like a wight clambering out from a tomb, a wild-haired and wild-eyed elfess climbed from behind the stones and leapt up on top of the cairn. She wore only a loose-fitting hair cloak bound at the waist by a thin leather belt. “Hail, Queen of the Lortmil Mountains,” Edda saluted. “What now for Kristryd Olinsdotter?”
“Edda!” Kristryd exclaimed as she recovered from the start. “I am almost glad to see you. Have you more riddles for me?”
“Just this one,” Edda replied. “How did the Red Fang orcs know to waylay the Prince Consort at this place?”
“I imagine they fell upon him as a random act of savage banditry, not unlike a dozen’s dozen that occur in these mountains every year.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps you are right,” Edda feigned a naiveté that belied her words.
“I feel as if we have had this conversation before Edda. If you know something more, you might say so.” Kristryd grew impatient and rested her hand upon the hilt of her sword where it hung at her belt.
The wild elf continued, “The Grand Court whispered about the People of the Testing. Some said that we plotted against the life of the Prince Consort.”
“I don’t understand your pitchkettle riddles Edda.”
“Perhaps you have not heard that the queen’s dandy led a strike deep beneath the mountains. They say that the third time is the magic. This time the fastaal made good on his oaths. None of the Red Fang orcs remain in the bowl, though many begged for their lives.”
“That’s good news to my ears.”
“Is it? The fastaal persuaded the unhappy survivors to spill the true tale of the ambush. They said an old dwurwife hired their tribe for the deed. She paid them in horse’s flesh.”
A stab of fear plunged into Kristryd’s heart.
Continue reading “Heroes of the Fey Kingdom”Support Oerth Journal
Thomas Kelly
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Esmerin
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Thirty-Nine
Thomas Kelly
A soft mattress in a clean, well-lit place. Sunlight poured in through a round window. Beside the bed stood a small chair and desk. From pegs on the far wall hung a coat of glimmering mithril armor. Next to it, a short sword, still in its scabbard.
Kristryd passed her hands over her body, but she felt no wounds. On the desk beside the bed she found her personal belongings, including her comb and her silver-framed mirror. What was the last thing she remembered? A stab in the back, a blow to the head, a slow tumble into darkness. “How came I to this place?” she asked aloud as she sat up in the bed. “Where is this place?”
“How did you come here?” Alton Chubb Quickbread came through the open doorway into Kristryd’s room. He waved his hands above is head dramatically as he explained, “Your big griff carried you here. Upset all the eagles too. They were screaming at each other, swooping around, but your horse-bird set you down in the town square. They told me, ‘Alton, you will never believe what just happened. A big blonke hippogriff carried the broken body of pretty dwarfess, all dressed in mithril armor, and laid her down right in the center of town.’ I didn’t need to be told twice. I knew it could only be you, my fairhead.”
“You healed my wounds?”
“I also made muffins!” the halfling boasted.
“Is this Prinzfield?” Kristryd asked, swinging her legs out of the bed.
Alton shook his head. “You’re not in Prinzfield, my lady.”
Continue reading “Esmerin”Siege of Castle Hagthar
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thomas Kelly
“Now the rats flee as the ship sinks,” Urgush remarked to himself. Tidings of the battle of Riechsvale had travelled quickly through the mountains. “Gather around me,” the half-blood summoned the leaders of those few clans that yet remained under his sway. He tried to imagine how Hroth might rally their hearts if he were present. He chose his words accordingly. “Hear what I will say. I won’t wait here to be buggered by bearded dwur boys and frolicking olvin ass-lickers.” He lifted his eyes reverently in the direction of the distant Yatils even though they remained far out of sight from where he stood on the high slopes of the northern Lortmils. “Am I not the servant of the great witch? Time to leave these stinking dwur-shit holes and join her fight against those putz-sucking Perrenlanders. Then we will eat and drink without fear, and she will feed us the flesh of men!”
With inspiring words like this, he rallied those tribes and clans that remained yet loyal to him. Urgush gathered up the treasure of gemstones he had stolen from the treasuries of Dengar. He loaded the precious cargo on wagons with many other treasures, indeed, all the treasures of his tribe and those beneath him—a lovedrury to place before the archmagis.
Continue reading “Siege of Castle Hagthar”Artur the Avenger
Part Two of The Tale of Artur Jakartai
How Artur became an acolyte but left the cloister before taking his vows and, on finding his family slain by goblins, avenged their blood.
Being good-natured and lowly of spirit, Artur nurtured no bitterness over the trick his father had played him. Instead, he deemed it more than fit for one of his stature, that is, one mixed of blood and born of a concubine. He set to his duties as acolyte with vigor and zeal and unto all the devotions of the Just One.
In preparation for the clerisy, they taught him his letters. He learned to read only through hard effort and many tears until, at length, he could read the scrolls as if noble-born. Thusly educated, he eagerly consumed the holy books, the calends, and the Olven tomes (such as they had in translation). But more, he loved the ancient histories, and he reveled overmuch in the tales of the Old Aerdy, especially the old Oeredian poets who could articulate so well what stirrings his heart felt but his tongue could not spell out. Also found he the tales of more recent times, and he lit upon the story of the war with Halmadar the Cruel. “If I had lived in those days, methinks I would have wielt well the axe!” he told himself. In truth, although he knew not the particulars of the tale, his own great grandfather Tristart the son of Fendart had fought as footman alongside the holy order of the Shielding in that conflict and suffered magical burns that marked him the rest of his life.
After some years had passed, and a time of release came before he should take his vows, he betook himself a journey to find his home and see again his father and his mother and all his brothers and his sisters.
In those days, the power of the Horned Society waxed mightily, and those devil-worshippers ever pressed against the Shield. Within their own lands, they had not crops nor flocks sufficient to feed the growing hordes of hobgoblins. The slovenly gundyguts raided the fertile Shield Lands to feed their hungry bellies.
Continue reading “Artur the Avenger”The Battle of Riechsvale
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thomas Kelly
“This war of yours may profit the dwarves, but my people suffer! Unhappily we joined your alliance. Now our lands have been raped while yours remain whole and untouched.” The Count Palatine spoke from bitterness of heart.
Kristryd replied with sympathy, “Peace to you and upon all that is yours. They caught us unprepared this once, but we will not suffer it to happen again.”
Several months had elapsed since the siege. The queen of Gilmorack and her retinue did not arrive in the County until Ready’reat. By then, Jurnre’s wide streets had been swept clean, the fountains sparkled again, the gardens had been prepared and pruned, and the market squares restored. Yet the dwur queen’s eye had not failed to notice the ravaged lands all about. Her journey took her past burned-out villages, ransacked farmsteads, orchards stripped bare, and vacant-eyed, broken people. What will they eat this winter? Where will they find shelter from the rains? she wondered.
Strategy in Jurnre
Kristryd summoned a council of the alliance in Jurnre and promised assistance to those who had lost homes, farms, and villages during the raids. Her father and her brothers came up from Gyrax. Duke Gallowagn’s daughter Nevallewen arrived from Tringlee, demanding reparations. Nevallewen spoke on her father’s behalf, “You drove them out of the mountains and into our lands. Villages are burnt, granaries looted, vineyards trampled, and people slain. Who will compensate for loss of life and home?”
“We are at war!” Kristryd answered boldly, irritation punctuating her words. As much as she admired the duke, she did not like Nevallewen, and she made no attempt to hide her distaste for the elfess. “We have all suffered. Don’t speak to the dwur about your losses. The blood of our folk stains the stones above and below because, when there is a job to be done, by Moradin’s hammer, we dwarves get it done! All of us have paid a heavy price.”
Continue reading “The Battle of Riechsvale”The Tale of Artur Jakartai
Chapter I
First, How Jakart begat a son named Artur and gave him over to the Temple of Heironeous.
555 CY
It befell in the days of Holmer, Earl of Walworth, Knight Commander over all the Shield Land Lords, that there lived a Shieldlander named Jakart the son of Merlart the son of Tristart the son of Fendart, an Oeredian, and a mighty man renowned for valorous deeds in the service of the Shield, though he himself could claim no title as lord nor knight. He made his coin as an adventurer and sellsword until the years weighed too heavily upon him for bravery and foolishness, at which time he used what coin he had saved to purchase a wide and fertile valley for cultivation on the border of the Western Reaches of Warfields, along the banks of the Ritensa. Cold and long were the winters, but the land gave forth an abundance, hastening to bring grain to head for the shortness of the summer months. Every year at harvest, fang-faced goblins and orcs crossed the river to steal away the sheaves from the threshing floors, but Jakart and the servants of his household slew them oft as he found them, pursued them back to the river, and sent them home, most often empty-handed.
Continue reading “The Tale of Artur Jakartai”Where Go Greyhawk Stories?
T. J. Kelly apologizes for the precipitous lack of new content and assures you that he is still alive. But, dang, RL complications and all that. Nevertheless, he continues to believe that the World of Greyhawk is RL, on a certain level, and promises to resume.
Greyhawk Stories 