Tag: Dungeons & Dragons

The Beaconers

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Session Three of GRNC 2 – The Retaking of Grabford

A GREAT NORTHERN CRUSADE ADVENTURE from Greyhawkstories.com

(Campaign Notes and Adaptation by Thomas Kelly)

Prelude: Mission to Argynvostholt

The companions gather in the yard of canal town, near to the frowning wall of the city under siege.

From out of the grey mist and creeping fog, a rider draws up. The Lady Katarina of Walworth sits proud and upright in the saddle, mounted upon her cantering charger. Just now, she returns from an inspection of Archmage Bigby’s handiwork. She is well satisfied with the progress made by unseen hands laboring at the construction of siege engines, rams, ladders, and towers ensorcelled with magics. The time for the final assault draws near.

The Count Artur Jakarti, also a man of the Shield, strides along beside her. He stands a head taller than his fellows, and his shoulders are broad. He is clad, head-to-toe, in heavy armor. Over his left shoulder he rests the naked blade of his great two-handed sword, still bloodied from some recent battle. He counsels strategy with the Grand Marshal. 

Lady Katarina lifts a hand to bid her companion silent for a spell. Her keen eyes land upon her newly dubbed loyal knight. Sir Harrasin kneels before her in the cold mud. He lowers his eyes. He dares not meet her gaze.

Maiden Oleini, Gloryaxe of Heironeous, a Shield Lander herself, bends the knee alongside him before the Lady and the Count.

Here too stands Mirdon the Spellbinder, futzing with his scrolls.

The Lady Katarina and Count Jakarti also recognize the elven maid they call Twiggy, a druid of Old Oerth. The twiggy limbs of the innocent-eyed waifish elf maid belie her fearsome reputation for smashing orcish heads like ripe pumpkins under the heavy blow of her shillelagh.

Hanging back on the edge of yard (for he was not summoned with the others) stands Danni the Darkhagard. That same morn the Rhenee warrior said farewells to his captain and the rafters: “Nay. I’ll not leave this place as yet. Go in peace, and may good fortune be with you. I remain among the crusaders until I have avenged my sister’s death.” Now he stands alone and apart by himself.   

Here too comes one mounted upon a war horse. A strong-limbed fellow, Oeredian by race, balding of hair and stooped in the saddle. A fine white alb clads his flesh. A violet stole drapes his shoulders, emblazoned with the shining symbols of Pelor. A squire attends to him. His armorbearer carries his gear. His ostler holds the lead to the horse upon which he slumps in the saddle. His dwarf stands near at hand, also clad in the colors of Pelor, bearing the shield of the Shining One.

“But where is Sir Flynn? Was he not also beckoned?” the Lady Katarina asks.

“Say not that brave knight has fallen!” Count Jakarti exclaims.   

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Flight of Fiends: Isle of the Ape

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Who has not heard tale of the Mad Mage of Greyhawk? Across the Selintan, three leagues (not more) north of the Free City still stands the three-spired ruin of the great castle. Unfathomable dungeon depths and bewildering mazes the Mad One dug beneath its foundations to hide away his treasures and conceal his sorceries. Many fools searching for treasure and adventure find therein both in full and generous measure, but not so many survive to spend the coin or tell the tale. Forsooth, I count myself among the fools that have ventured into those hazardous depths. I can testify. Indeed, the tales you have heard hitherto tell not the half of it.

Beneath Castle Greyhawk

The mazes beneath the ruins of that place plunge many levels deep, almost, it would seem, to the heart of Oerth. They defy mapping, for as often as a man return, he finds not the same way through the dungeons twice. How many are the treacherous traps and hazards! How many the denizens that make their lairs in those dark places: goblinfok, horrid things, and a full bestiary of all the gods ever fashioned or imagined.

What is more, the whole of it is beset with Zagyg’s magic. He decorated with riddles and puzzles to test a man’s wits. One might come to a door that leads only to more empty stone chambers but find, on passing through the frame of it—Behold! He has stepped into some other place in the dungeon, or some other world altogether.

Not so long ago, a certain colleague of mine, skilled in arts arcane and not wholly unacquainted with peril, Tenser by name, ventured into those labyrinthine vaults with his fellows in pursuit of knowledge and rarities long thought lost. Great indeed was his astonishment when, amid the gems and magicks they bore out from the depths of Castle Greyhawk was found a small mace, a humble shepherd’s crook (so it seemed), albeit now shod with iron and set with gems in silver filagree. Perceiving the signs and tokens and sensing the potent virtue that abode within the wood, wonder turned to awe. No common relic of wizardry, but a holy instrument whose power sprang not of magecraft nor dweomer.

“No geegaw, that! It is a most charmed implement of clerical power, the Crook of Rao!” Tenser spake thus unto me and unto my colleagues when gathered for council. “Devils and demons of the lower worlds shudder at the mention. Fiends flee in terror at the sight! Grave will be our need of it if Iggwilv comes.”

In what manner the holy staff came to that cursed castle, none have fully learned; for relics, like kingdoms, pass by strange turns of fortune. From hand to grasping hand the holy Crook of Rao passed by concealment, barter, and theft, until, at the last, it came into the keeping of the mad mage of Greyhawk, and then to the hand of Tenser.

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The Book of Incarum

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Flight of Fiends: Chapter 1

Thomas Kelly

The time is come that you should know my name. Or at the least, the name by which I am best known. Have you not already guessed the truth? Is my seeming so cunning?

Yes. I am called Bigby.

You have heard that name before. If not the man himself, then the work of his hands. And since this night is given to truth, and you have returned unscathed from the malice of Molag, let there be no more riddling between us. If you can abide a sober telling, I shall unfold for you the hidden cause of your perilous errand. Hear now the tale of the Flight of Fiends. Fear not. I shall be brief, for I am no minstrel, nor gleeman. Yet inasmuch as you have now set your foot upon this chessman’s board and played your stroke in the great game, it is meet and right that you should know the part appointed to you and how Istis weaves your fate in her designs.

First, hear what is written in the Word of Incarum. Therein the Bishop of Veluna showed me the whole tale in words brief and obscure. This is the bones of it.

When the gods yet walked upon Oerth, and the powers of truth and right yet strove openly against the One that Slumbers, that dread contest of wills waxed so grievous that even the blessed Rao—lover of peace and keeper of stillness—was drawn forth from his meditations and compelled to light upon the field of battle.

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Flight of Fiends

I consider the “flight of fiends” that occurs between the Greyhawk Wars and the declaration of the Great Northern Crusade to be the most significant event to occur in the Flanaess. It’s scope and implications for the world of Greyhawk are enormous. In my mind, it’s on the scale of the War of the Rings and the destruction of the One Ring, a watershed moment when the plots of Iggwilv and Graz’zt (lived vicariously though their son Iuz) and the deviltry behind Ivid’s undead fever dream of an empire all go down the dung hole at once.

It doesn’t mean the end of great adventures and heroic deeds in the struggle against evil and malice, but rather the beginning of real hope in such ventures. It’s the turning of the tide. Only after the flight of fiends does the balance tip toward hope for pushing back the foul armies of Dorakka, prevailing against the arrogance of the Hierarchs, liberating the fallen lands from the giant hordes that stormed Geoff, shaking free from the conspiracies of Scarlet brotherhood, and putting a stop to cancerous corrupting collapse of the Malachite Throne.

But the story does not begin in the Carl Sargent Era. It begins in primordial times with the gift of Rao: a simple shepherd’s staff. I’ve been collecting the lore and putting it together in my head. Now its time to start writing it down.

Greyhawk Stories Patreon members are invited to enjoy early access to an initial draft of chapter one (audio version and text) from from the new saga, Flight of Fiends. The story begins with the a tale from The Book of Incarum that describes a long-forgotten battle between Deva Incarum and the spawn of the Slumbering One.

Again, this is a rough draft version, and initial pass at the tale. There’s room for lots of improvement. I’m always eager to entertain thoughts, suggestions, and corrections. Eventually, a finished draft will make its way to the free content hosted here on Greyhawkstories, but Patreon gives me a chance to test drive the material before committing to a final form.

Thanks for reading Greyhawkstories.com

Lay of the Lea (Verbeeg Village)

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THE LIBERATION OF GEOFF

(Thomas Kelly)
A campaign based on Living Greyhawk Geoff and Against the Giants.

Giant-occupied Geoff, Goodmonth, 591

“It’s called the Lea because it’s named for the Lea family. It’s the largest settlement between Pregmere and Oytmeet,” Mayloriel explains in the elvish tongue.

“And what do they call these lands between the woods?” Gundoriel inquires. The high elf priest, a native of the Oytwood, understands only the tongue of his people because he refuses to learn the uncouth speech of the lesser races. Should the tongue that praises the Seldarine also speak in the lips of mortal folk?  

“It’s called Ffrwythlon Dol,” Brynn interjects into the conversation, eager to remind the elves that she understands their conversation and speaks their language. The orphaned refugee takes pride in what scarce knowledge she possesses of her homelands. “It means ‘bountiful meadow,’” Brynn explains.

Gundoriel nods his appreciation. The bountiful meadow rolls softly before them, still blanketed by patches of morning mist under the early morning sun. Rocky outcroppings rise from the soil here and there, here and there. Shallow babbling streams make swift courses down stoney beds and divide the heathlands on their way to join the deep and the wide of the Oyt Flow. Along the way, the waters collect in pools and small ponds among the dells where groves of trees take advantage of deeper soil.

Occasionally the travelers pass by fieldstone farmhouses, now abandoned. If the thatched roofs were not burned away, they have since collapsed for want of repair. Fallen stone fences, once used to coral flocks and mark boundaries, crisscross the meadows.

“They were shepherds. Almost everyone in Ffrwythlon Dol,” Mayloriel says. “Each man kept a score or more, and a woman or two as well to sheer and spin the wool to yarn. Come sheering time, the Lea hosted a wool fair. Merchants from all over Geofflands came to buy sacks of good, strong Lea wool, fresh shorn.”

“How long did you live among the Lea folk?” Brynn asks as the party continues across the heathlands. Mayloriel leads the band on foot. Gundoriel walks at her side. Brynn and Ansgar follow behind with Brynn’s dog, Fang, trotting along. Quinn Doublelock, the bardic loremaster of the gnomish folk, brings up the rear, idly strumming upon the shalm.   

Mayloriel’s Child

“I lived with Darlon. He was the arglwyth and first ward of all the rangers that watched these lands. I lived with him from his first whiskers until his beard turned gray,” Mayloriel laughs. “I gave him one son. Born the same year the giants came.”

“You gave him a son?” Brynn gasps.

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Beneath the Boughs and Roots

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Chapter Eighteen of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

By scrapes and scrambles, shimmying down from branch to bark, I made my descent into the darkness below. One after another, my brave friends slid and dropped around me until we all stood once more on the forest floor, groping about and dusting ourselves off.

We suffered a few moments of blindness before our eyes adjusted back to the dim. It took some doing to find one another and all the things we had dropped in the descent. For minute, we thought we had lost William. “Now that we come to very porch of the Goblin Trees, he’s run off to betray us!” Myron bemoaned the trickster. He stomped his foot in childish frustration. Remember that, aside from Bruin, we had all become as children both in body and in mind.

In truth, we had not lost William at all. Rather, his leash had become entangled during the descent. He had nearly hung himself. Ivan had to climb back up to free the poor lad. As we collected ourselves, the nearby baying of wolves warned us not to tarry longer. Then the winding of a war horn sounded off close at hand. Too close. Up from the ground, a deep thrum thrum thrum of cauldron drums could be felt more than heard. The pounding reverberated up through the roots of the trees and tremored in the trunks.

All that while, the fight went on above us. The leaf-laden canopy between us and the battlefield muffled both the voice of the olven folk and the uncouth clamor of goblinkind with whom the elves contended for control of the high-limb road. The shouts of combat sounded faint, faraway, and unreal. At one point that same day, a victim dropped to ground with a heavy thud, nearly at our fee! The fletching of an olven arrow protruded from the unlucky goblin’s backside.

“Now which way do we go? I can see no road,” I observed. “How about some light?”

“Fonkin! You want to make yourself a target for the darts?” Myron scolded me.

Bruin stepped between us. “Don’t need light to find the den. I see what needs to be seen. What I can’t see I can smell,” Bruin’s words growled in his throat.

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Witch Queen of Perrenland (Audio)

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The story of how Iggwilv conquered Perrenland, controlled that land from the Caverns of Tsojcanth, and ultimately fell from power is now available in audio. Using the magic of AI narration from Eleven Labs, this is the first official Greyhawk Stories audio story release, available only to Patreon Members. If you aren’t a Patreon Member, you can become one at https://www.patreon.com/cw/greyhawkstories

If you prefer to read the story yourself, you can find it as the third installment in Kirt Wackford’s series Knights of the Hart.

Click on the image before to get to the audio story.

Greyhawk Stories Patreon Launch

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I’ve had a few people ask about how to get a paperback copy of The Hateful Wars. I decided to try the Patreon option and launched a Greyhawk Stories Patreon page. I’ve kept the buy-in low, with only two tiers. We’ll see how it goes.

https://www.patreon.com/cw/greyhawkstories
  • At the $2.00 level, Tale Bearers get access to posts, advance content before it appears on the blog, and access to PDF and eBook formatted content.
  • At the $3.00 level, Lore Masters will get all of the Tale Bearer content and paperback hardcopy of The Hateful Wars and whatever else Greyhawkstories produces.
  • To start with, all tiers have access to download the PDF and eBook versions of the Hateful Wars, and a PDF version of Against the Reptile God. More content to be posted regularly.

I’m hoping that the Patreon subscriptions hold my feet to the fire to keep me pushing out content. Maybe we’ll finish the Iggwilv Saga, or the Daoud Stories, Under the Goblin Trees, or even the Great Northern Crusade. And don’t even get me started on the Quest for the Crook of Rao!

Become a Patron, and let’s see where the road takes us.

Grudger Tom, Sherrif, and the Tree Top Road

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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.

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