The Journel of Rabadash Tirish Fillidious II

From the private writings of Rabadash Tirish Fillidious II

Success! About two weeks ago I heard about that group that stole from that big wig in Harrar and trashed his mansion (he was pissed). Well, I also heard that they had something to do with the takeover of Harrar. On top of all this, they show up at my doorstep (figuratively)! In a shiny new Frigate class skiff no less.

I’ve been trying to secure a connection with The Daggers for a while now. Just imagine if I could establish myself as their supplier and fence. I would control the finances of one of the largest crime syndicates outside of Cape Horn! They would buy from me and sell from me! (Talk about lucrative)

Needless to say, I had no problem procuring passage on the vessel. It even turned out better than I hoped. From what I’ve been able to discern they aren’t necessarily Daggers themselves, but my contact was correct that they have some kind of tie to The Daggers (their companion Drinkle is evidence of that). He’s some kind of thief, but he’s never sold to me or anyone I know about. So, he’s definitely connected to some other organization. I’m guessing The Daggers.

Anyway, the rest of the group seems alright. I’m going to have to figure out how to work my way into their band of whatever they are. I still can’t tell if they’re mercenaries, thieves or adventurers. Well, the crew of four that run the ship are definitely Daggers; they have that what’s-a-bath smell about them. I’m going to chat one of them up, probably Hungry Hank, and try to get him to tell me what their mission is.

Scribe Pylyn on The Fillidious Family
A historical and observational analysis of The Fillidious Family, in brief.

From the tomes of Scribe Pylyn of Cape Horn:

A historical and observational analysis of The Fillidious Family, in brief.

I, Scribe Pylyn, have decided to settle down after a life of documenting the vast wastes of this marred land. Yet it seems fate does not want these old bones to calm down yet, because I ended up retiring in the rambunctious and intriguing: Cape Horn. After my first few years here I began to grow restless, and I suppose my curiosity got the better of me. So, to occupy my time I have been documenting nearly everything in this city and, in the process, turned my quaint little residence into the den of a senile madman, with scrolls pilling to the ceiling in some places. (Though, I wouldn’t have it any other way)

Bah, there I go losing my wagon of thought again. Anyway…

The Fillidious Family. In Cape Horn there are three powerful families: The Nux Family, The Durrow Family, and the subject of this tome The Fillidious Family. The Fillidious’ have been a presence in Cape Horn as far back as The Scorching. Though, it’s widely theorized that back then they were just a family of thieves and thugs. If this is true, then they’ve come a long way.

I should probably address the most immediately noticeable thing about the family first. The Fillidious’ are Dragonborn of two separate bloodlines. Their scales seem to be a mixture of Gold and Silver. Sadly, there are very few documents from before the Scorching; so, we do not know if this is a common occurrence. I know that I’ve never seen any other Dragonborn with a mixture of colors in my travels. There are many rumors around the city about how it came to be. The Fillidious’ claim it stems from Rabadash Consta’Vill Fillidious; a golden Dragonborn, Pre-Scorching, who supposedly attracted the attention of a Silver Dragon. The Dragon was said to be so in love with Rabadash that she permanently changed her shape to become his wife. The Family even has a giant tapestry in their main hall showing their family tree, which begins with Rabadash Consta’Vill Fillidious and his Dragon bride. Although, in taverns, when enough liquid courage has been drunk, people will often admit their skepticism at the validity of the Fillidious’ claim. Sighting the Spellplague as the more likely explanation. The Fillidious’ stick their noses up at the theory and vehemently deny it. The Family displays extreme pride in their lineage whenever the subject comes up, in spite of some family members begin skeptical themselves. It is joked around taverns that if you’re feeling suicidal, don’t jump from a building, just insult a Fillidious’ bloodline, it would save the rest of us from cleaning up your corpse.

With the skepticism and rumors out of the way, I can now get to the actual family its self. As far as the local historians – primarily myself – are aware The Fillidious’ have been in a position of power since the founding of Cape Horn. They have overseen the trade in an out of the city for many years. Previous generations where cruel and heartless, destroying competitors by any means necessary; in recent generations they have remained cruelly efficient but have become much more pleasant in how they run the markets of the city. This is suspected to be due to the rise of the Nux Family forty years ago, who control the ports of the city. The Nuxs’ refused to carry any of the Fillidious’ cargo until they treated the people properly and this obviously infuriated the head of the Fillidious Family at the time.

One of the shortest and strangest inter-family wars started because of this. The Family’s head (now known as Headless H’rek) came to the docks with the full force of the Fillidious Family. He was about to ready to wipe out the newly established Nuxs’. Poor cruel-bastard even had his hand up to signal the charge, when his son (now known as Dindrix the Beheader) earned this name by lopping off H’rek’s head. Unbeknownst to everyone present, Dindrix had loathed how his father had ruled the markets and this was simply the last straw for him. Dindrix went so far as to publicly declare the Nux Family the victors of the battle and ordered a retreat. Even though The Nux Family was only a family of five human dock workers against a small army of Fillidious Enforcers. The entire ordeal only lasted two-hours and left most of the city bewildered.

In the forty years since Dindrix the Beheader, the Fillidious Family has become much less power hungry and instead acted as the protectors of Cape Horn’s markets. They have by no means cut out all illegal activity, but no longer participate in the slave trade, actually put the tax gold they receive to good use bettering the city, and don’t murder without provocation. These efforts have put them on good terms with the now thriving Nux Family and have done much to grow the overall trade and wealth of the city. The current generation of the Fillidious Family is staying in the general good will of the people and city authorities.

What follows is an exploration into the current core family, and will not go into disowned kin or relatives:

K’jorn is the current head of the family and as such is addressed as Mr. Fillidious. He negotiates with the other families and generally oversees the operations of the Fillidious Family. He is a rather imposing figure and only possesses a slight tinge of silver on his golden scales. He is also nearing his sixtieth year, which is traditionally when the head of the Fillidious family chooses a successor and steps down.

His wife, Deetriss, addressed as Mrs. Fillidious, was a local Dragonborn of copper coloration who married K’jorn slightly over forty-two years ago. She usually oversees the day to day operations and delegates out work. Also, while her children are young she is responsible for their education and training.

The eldest of their children, Mork and Thera Fillidious are twins of two different genders and coloration. Mork, the male, has a fully silver coloration, without a hint of gold. His sister on the other hand, Thera, is fully gold in color. They are even opposites in personality, Mork is infamously brash and vulgar while Thera is known for being graceful and kind. Around the city they are simply known as The Twins, not only because of their birth, but because, despite their differences, they are rarely ever seen apart and seem to stick together through anything. They are approaching their twentieth year and their mother has currently put them in charge of collecting or paying shops or merchants.

Rabadash Tirish Fillidious II is the third child, and is approaching his eighteenth year. He was named after the respected ancestor because he, more than any Fillidious in recent years, shows the most sign of silver blood. Seemingly a completely even mix of gold and silver. He has even displayed innate magical ability, which I theorize is linked to his silver heritage. Due to his ability, his mother hired a wizard to properly train him from a young age. When he reached his teens at ten or eleven he began exploring the city, and much to the chagrin of his childhood bodyguard he would love to play the game: how-quickly-can-you-get-away-from-the-bodyguard. At twelve the young Rabadash became notorious in taverns for getting travelers to buy nearly anything he was selling. Locals, who were aware of his antics, would even place bets on whether or not he could sell certain ludicrous objects. Though, the betting game ended when people bet that he couldn’t sell a handful of cow manure, the concept of happiness, a single used sock, and the rights to the betting game itself as a bundle deal to a passing dignitary for the yearly income of everyone in the tavern. It is now considered illegal to play “The Selling Game” because Lord Terrance of Harrar owns it. By age fifteen he had acquainted himself with nearly every business in town and even opened a few. His mother then put him in charge of organizing and helping local shops and merchants, but when he reached his seventeenth year he went off into the world to, as he put it, “Live. Love. And probably steal a little bit.”

The youngest in the family is Dylan. He takes after his mother’s bronze scales but has a few silver and gold ones jumbled in. Dylan is currently ten years old and seems to barely leave the families estate. Everyone nearby, however, can hear him performing his endless experiments, which usually involve an explosion, a cloud of colored gas, or someone screaming, “GET WATER!” Dylan’s haggard bodyguard had to once spend an hour begging that he not jump off the roof of the mansion with a metal contraption strapped to his back.

Embracing Death
Isam's Fate

This was it.

He didn’t even have the chance to look into his bringer of death’s eyes. All he saw was the devilish smile of a red wizard as Isam collapsed to the ground, blood and entrails hemoraging from the massive wound. Shock took away most of the pain as blackness set in.

All was silent for a few moments. His life never flashed before his eyes. For most of his life he had been preparing for this moment. He knew his life could end at any time and he prepared accordingly.

Suddenly he awoke, or seemed to awake in a gray, cold land of no sun and devoid of life. Before him stood a black shrouded being. Isam kneeled immediately upon seeing the visage of his god, Kelemvor.

“Rise, servant of death.” the god’s words echoed in a stern yet ethereal tone. Isam stood and stared into the face of death itself. Kelemvor’s face was covered by a silver death mask with cold, white eyes piercing through. Hair in the blackest of shades hung low from his head. His right hand was pure bone and covered in what seemed to be a thin layer of permafrost that emanated a faint wisps of chilling air.

“I assure you, servant, this is your proper time. You have served me well in your life, faithfully and dutifully. You did however, fail to retrieve your order’s sacred scales. While you may see that as a personal failure, it is no failure of mine. A mere lost trinket of the gods among many for mortals to toy with.”

Isam remained silent. Not out of fear, but respect.

“You may speak, servant.”

“Oh Just Kelemvor, I am honored by your words. I will continue to serve you in death as I have in life.”

Kelemvor lifted his icy hand of bone towards Isam. With a flick of the wrist a gray smoke washed over his ethereal form. In his hand he found a hand scythe that glowed with deathly power.

“Your service to me was warranted you the power to be one of my reapers. You will guide lost souls from the world of the living to the realms of death in which they belong. In your duties you are unseen to the living. This is a great honor, Isam Tobin. May you embrace death as you have life.”

With those words Kelemvor washed over with gray smoke and disappeared. With that, Isam’s surroundings seemed to fade into existence. He found himself surrounded by gray walls addorned with bones. A hooded figure with a glowing scythe at it’s side spoke to him.

“Welcome to the city of the dead. Your reaper training will begin now.”

Official Deep Gnome People of the Underdark Communication
Observations of the inferior surface dwellers


There is much to tell my comrads, but only little time is available to write.
I am here in some dung heap of a place only surface dwellers could call a home. This “town” as they call it, is located on the east coast of a country known as Rubinia, and the town is irrelevant that the name of it escapes me.

I have just emerged from a flying castle. Yes, that is correct, a castle that flies and not like a bat flies, but rather by the use of some sort of magic. Almost as strange as the flying is that it’s made of “ïce”. This is the term surface dwellers commonly call frozen water. Apparently this can happen to surface water during the cold season above.

I noticed this floating castle while I was traveling with a stranger I met. He went by the name of Featherstump. By chance he too is a miner by trade and his background gave us a great deal to talk about, but as with all surface dweller’s he is not nearly as bright as the people of the Deep Gnome race. We had been in town for a little more than a day when out of nowhere upsprang this castle that hovered high above the land. Featherstump didn’t want to venture to it, but having met some new aquaintences that arrived in town earlier today we aquired some flying mounts and took to the sky and then into the castle. This group is allowing me to travel with them for they too are wonderers, but they seek fortune, not knowledge. Well most are seeking fortune. Windsplitter, a blue humaniod creature of great size was insistent on slaying the frost giant who occupied the castle. I’m not clear why and even Windsplitter, as ignorent as inferior races are questioned his own gods instructions, but ’that was only after the dirty deed had been carried out.

My new travel companions are all about as eccentric as Windsplitter so rest assured that none being equal to gnomes has yet been found.

Isam is wood elf who seems to be hiding something and I shall not trust him until his secrets have been revealed. Like Isam, Orlin is just a lowly wood elf. Tyrmyndryl is actually one of those dragaonborns we have heard of in stories, but I assure you neither this dragonborn or any of my other companions equal in the superior intellect of Gnomes.
Then there is Quetzel: His speech is so frequent that it makes my head hurt. Even when he is not in speech, I can still hear his voice in my head. It just keeps saying “yada, yada, yada, yada, yada…” and although this creature seems to be fascinated with precious stones, he doesn’t understand the value of them, but as I said, he is of inferior intelligence for he is of a race referred to as lizardfolk. Speaking of babble, I learned a new term used in the surface dweller’s Common language: diarrhea mouth.

I don’t feel I’d be doing service to the magnificent Deep Gnome People of the Underworld if I didn’t relay my fears. I may say this with haste, but my conscience will be as clear as a cloudless sky in Thay. The lizardfolk worry me for they are surface dwellers and must endure the cold season above, and they do not like the fridged temperatures. If they ever come to the understanding how much warmer and pleasant our planetary womb is over their bug infested and fridged swamp is, they may call to arms in hopes of underdark occupation. We must seek out these lizard folk in their own hunting ground, and rid of them from this universe. Failure to do so could result in many babbling lizardfolk with no end of communication in sight. For the good of our superior race and for the good of the universe as a whole, we must cleanse the surface world before it is too late. At the very least we must cut out everyone of their tongues to ensure no potential misfortunes.

This is all I for this communication. If I haven’t put myself out of my own misery due to the lizard folk’s torturous babble, I will be in communication in the near future.
I bid adieu to the most excellent Deep Gnome People of the Underdark.

Power boost
Grace of the Raven Queen

The raging battle of the castle now over. There is a calm that naturally follows. This down time allows reflection on the past few months of travel and adventure Windsplitter has had. During the night in a fever dream he is visited by his Totem spirit the Crocodile. The Croc speaks in the voice of the Raven Queen and tells him his deeds have been noticed and he is granted favor in the form of increased strength. The totem spirit touches his forehead in the dream and he is blinded by a bright light. As Windsplitter dreams his totem focus begins to glow dimly and the glow covers his whole body as he is transformed. His skin takes on a greenish bluish tint and his muscles are even larger in apperance. Windsplitter awakens with a start and feels the power within him and he smiles " Thank you Goddess, I will use your gift with great vigor" Windsplitter says to his totem, then goes back to sleep.

Excerpts from "The Melchori Hoard"
A decision at Naerytar

The half-dragon was furious. The acid-spitting, servant-slaying, fang-melting anger that only one with her physical ‘gifts’ could muster. As she shouldered her way past the enthuiastic, last defenders of Naerytar, she recalled her earlier reconnaisance atop the south tower with Borngray, and the rapidly-collapsing ruin of her plans.

“I believe they are agents of the Pewter Rose, Wyrmspeaker. They must be!” the half-elf had said, his blue-gray eye glinting in the overcast morning air. “No one else- save Her Dark Majesty of course- could spur such committed fanaticism.” Dalmorrer glanced nervously up at her. “This will be set aright.”

His words continued, falling around her like the light snow that dusted the stone battlements. She too had wondered who they were once. But unlike her buffoonish captain, she had taken practical steps to discover the truth. And in fact had thought the matter settled (with some timely mutilations) two moons ago, in a basement in the human dungheap of Myr Darot: they were freebooters, surely and no more.

But what drove them with such fervor? A religious sect? Perhaps the agents of a rival? She knew that she had made many enemies in the Melchori along the path to her (nonetheless rightful) ascension.

She allowed herself to revisit the memories of that long night again, searching her mind for clues she might have missed among the sass and salt and syrup offered up to her inquisitors by the ribald dwarf and placid priest. Under unequivocally painful torture, they yielded nothing substantive. Even Hazirawn had gleaned very little, other than the unsurprising meddling of those old Erathian fools.

Nevermind. The pious elf was her creature now, she would soon have him at hand to bleed every painful drop of knowledge from him. Hazirawn would be served one way or another!

The view from the tower was peaceful, if not for the dozens of kranak dying at the hands of these interlopers, not two or three hundred yards from her. The sounds of violence had always soothed her, but they were no respite today. She was accelerating the schedule, well short of her projections and fleeing (fleeing!) from the reckless lot that seemed horn-bent on distrupting her operation- damn them to an Asmodean torture plane!

She found herself amused by the thought that the preening maethorian beside her would fall to them, allowing her to bleed these impudent fools directly.

She barely looked at the simpering idiot, a nearly-imperceptible twitch of her pure black eyes. He was again(? still?) pledging the castle and its role in the Grand Design.

“Enough.” She cut off his feeble, meandering words.

“I am leaving, immediately. Azbara Jos and I travel to the chalet. You and that dancing toad will see these interlopers put down.” She gestured at the melee down below, where the blue-skinned goliath was facing a small circle of the disgusting creatures, and the thin elven ascetic moved gracefully through the fray, dropping one of her ‘loyal warriors’ with every step. “Her Dark Majesty flies with you. Hail Tiamat.”

If the intruders put him and that filthy swollen toad down, it would save her the trouble.

Now, as she stalked through the cool caverns with the Thayan and his disgusting new pet, she set her simmering anger aside. There would be time soon enough to savor the tang of her vengeance. These creatures- she thought with a suddenly broad perspective that perhaps included the heavily-inked neck in front of her- they would soon crave to respect her hard-won title of Wyrmspeaker. And beg to honor the name of Rezmir.

Mort's Journal Vol. 1
Writings from the Scorched Campaign

If you’re reading this I’m either dead or you’re a nosy piece of shit. Hopefully it’s the latter. Given the recent events that have transpired I’m keeping a journal.

After years of research, experiments, murdering, and looting dusty ruins I’m finally on the right track! Multiple documents and scrolls I’ve come across keep referencing these Vaults of Drystan. Who, or where Drystan is I have no clue. The references themselves are vague and even appear redacted in some instances. Some serious shit must have gone on in these vaults. But it’s the only common link I have from my evidence from the founding of the spellplague.

Everyone thinks the spellplague is some kind of curse from the gods, or a blessing to crazy cults, or just the lingering effects from massive magical release. My theory is that it’s none of the above. If I’m right, which I probably am, spellplague was engineered in the Old Empire. They imbued damn near everything with magic that they could, so why not try to find ways to give themselves more natural abilities? In what proof I do have it seems they were using some sort of special crystals within these vaults that would act as a conduit for magical energy. I don’t have the details but I need to find more. I absolutely MUST find this vault.

Beth would have wanted me to.

Weeks I’ve spent mulling over dusty tomes and drowning in whiskey. Nobody has heard of these fucking vaults. Not even local treasure hunters have any idea about it. Why should they anyway. They didn’t do the exhaustive research. They didn’t nearly die multiple times just to get a shred of paper that said something remotely accurate. Picking the bones of the Old Empire would have eaten these rookies.

Maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way. If I need to find something that can’t be found, maybe I need to find something that can find it.

I’ll need a few fresh bottles. Time to hit the books again.

Fuckin’ A! I got it! I didn’t even have to go to the University and deal with the uptight wizard bureaucrats that run that place. They aren’t fond of warlocks anyway. But I found something that will definitely find the Vaults of Drystan!

It’s called the Compass of Desire. Well, not “the” Compass of Desire but “a” Compass of Desire. Looks like they made a few of them back in the old days. Someone has to have one lying around that they’d be willing to part with for a price. I’ll send out some letters and see who I know that would have one. I should know something soon enough.

Thatherton. Julius mother fucking Thatherton. Of course it was him. Turns out he’s got one of these things collecting dust in that massive underground manor of his somewhere. That prick has stolen every single success from me that I’ve had. And now he’s living fat off of the salt mines in Harrar.

Unfortunately, he wants some cargo moved. He’s got a shipment of gods know what sitting in a warehouse in Gnosis that he wants me personally to deliver to him in exchange for the compass. The damn thing is near worthless to him and he sees it as a chance to get some shit for him shipped in on the cheap. So now I have to risk my ass and my skiff making a run to Harrar to get this thing. I guess I’ve been worse places these past few months.

I can’t do this alone. I’ve reached a point where I think I need some companions for this trip. I’ll hire em on for gold, sure. That I’m in no short supply of these days. Let’s just hope they prove themselves worthy for the coming journey ahead. Shit’s about to get rough.

We’re on our way now. I’ve hired 3 hands. A dwarf named Friar Artemis who brews some damn good ale and also happens to be a cleric. One hell of a combo if you ask me. Then there’s some high elf called Ondo. He’s a better skiff pilot than me though and what do you know he’s a cleric too! I sure as hell won’t be dying on this trip. And then there’s the wood elf. Fuckin’… Dunestrider or some such shit. He’s one of those Way of the Road monks who’s out there to make a name for himself. Probably got kicked out of the woods for being an asshole or whatever it is that elves do in their enclave. Despite that they seem like a capable bunch. Here’s to hoping they don’t murder me in my sleep or something.

We made it to Vaardö in one piece. Turns out these guys can handle themselves. They made work of some Bloodtusks and a group of 2 daggers! I’m impressed. They even upgraded the skiff with scavenged parts from the others. I think I’ll stick with these guys for a while. I’m still gonna pay them but they seem like a good bunch. We’ll rest here for a day or so and get a move on. Maybe we’ll find another person here, maybe not.

We’re one step closer to the Vaults of Drystan. All I can hope for now is that Julius Thatherton doesn’t fuck us over.

Isam's Log

I’m keeping a log of events since the theft. How these Melchori cultists found our monastery I do not know. Their influence manages to pierce our walls even now. I lament the loss of my master, but death is part of life. To dwell on the inevitable is wasted time. I have been assigned as one of many to seek out our sacred artifacts — the Bone Scales of Kelmvor and Skullfang, our ritual knife. Who knows what nefarious or greed driven purpose they may have been taken, let alone gained knowledge of them. I set out tonight.

Weeks have passed without much news. I do not know how to properly deal with common folk in a way that would lead me to find more information. Some hurry away with hushed tones and fear in their eyes when they see me. Our path is one of darkness and isolation, two feelings I have known most of my life. From my eavesdropping I had heard the Melchori raided the city of Myr Leilon. A blue dragon had been sighted, but from what I heard the city was defended without being completely razed. It seems the cult has certainly stepped up their presence.

I finally tracked down a small group of cultists. I waited until they made camp and went to sleep for the night. They had one man on watch, but the shadows were on my side. I promptly grabbed him and snapped his neck in a flash. While the others remained asleep I silently dispatched all but their supposed leader. As I woke the leader with my blade to his neck he shuddered in fear to see the blood of his fellow cultists stain the cold dirt around him. It didn’t take much for him to spill what he knew. He knew nothing of the artifacts but he did know they were amassing treasure for the return of the dragon god Tiamat. He knew of a castle deep within the Myr of Dead Men where they were amassing a horde of treasure. I thanked him for the information and promptly slashed his throat open, spilling a fountain of blood skyward. After a silent prayer to Kelmvor I gathered the bodies and burned them according to our rituals. These deaths would please our god, as would the many to come once I found their keep.

I had traveled far in search of the keep, keeping to the shadows and using nature to hide my presence to the best of my ability. My attention was caught by a group of adventurers who looked like they had seen better days. What really arrested my attention about this group was one man dressed in black cloth not similar to my order. A brother of the Umbral path? It did appear so as he was the first to catch my presence. The group had previously attacked the keep I was looking for and had failed. I would need their support, despite my distrust of this motley company. I could at least have comfort to know a brother of the Umbral path was among them.

With our newly formed platoon of soldiers, adventurers, and good natured brigands we set forth towards the keep in the swamp. Our journey was halted by a massive raiding party of orcs. To my own dismay and dishonor I was quickly incapacitated. To the benefit of my companions they made sure I would not feel the embrace of Kelmvor this day, but I was useless in the fight. The orcs decimated our party but we marched on. I blessed those who had died. Despite my inaction Kelmvor was pleased with the spilled blood of both ally and enemy.

A moment of respite comes among us as we arrive at a dilapidated road house full of rotting dead. I felt it was my duty to purify the remains in fire and bless those who passed. The work was gruesome but I am no stranger to death and decay. Tomorrow we march on into the heart of the swamp, the keep nearing even further. It is my hope that I will find what I am looking for there. If not, these companions are proving to be a valuable asset towards my goals. I still keep to myself as always. I do not confide even in Brother Orlen. My darkness is my own. My path, while beset among allies, is my own.

Kheg Secret Pages2
Days 127 - 128

Day 127 – Afternoon
Castle grounds
Mere of Deadmen

Day 127
After another long canoe trip we have arrived back at the lizard camp for our initial survey of the castle grounds. Our plan now is to return to the roadhouse in hopes of obtaining more equipment for our castle invasion.

Day 128
We are at the roadhouse and will stay here one evening. On our way here, while we were making our way through the swamp, we saw a few torches and guessed that they were being carried by as many as 7 or 8 people. We were never able to get close enough to see who they were since they were moving faster than we could as we tried to sneak up on them. We do however suspect that they were going towards the dragon’s lair since they were spotted moving a northeasterly direction.

Day 129
Earlier today we spent 5 hour marching through the Mere of Dead Men. We ran across 9 crocodiles, but felt that with limited supplies and an upcoming castle breach, slaying crocs wasn’t in our best interest. We took a little detour that added about 40 minutes to our hike, but at least we were able to keep all our fingers and toes. Well most of us have toes; I’m not sure what Peagus has.

We have reached the lizardfolk’s camp and this evening we’ll retire early and for a predawn rise. We plan to be at the castle just as the sun rises. With only two of our crew being able to see in the dark we need to make as much use of the daylight hours as we can since we have no idea how long this siege will take.

Day 130
It is mid morning as I sit here on a bed, on the 2nd floor of the north tower of the castle. I am accompanied by Orlin, Peagus, Windspliter, and Altair. The plan to waltz in the front gate posing as Melcori earlier this morning actually worked. Quetzel served up a quick dish of bullshit after Peagus failed to get us through by intimidating the guards. Of course the stupidity of the humanoid toads guarding the gate played into our favor; thank you Melchori for making this all much more simpler than I had expected. Not only did we get through the gate with ease, we were even escorted to these comfortable barracks we sit in by the man in charge of operations within these castles walls. I don’t remember his name, but it’s not like it’s important for he will be dead within the next hour. Although we are being given preferential treatment, posing as Venomfang’s envoy’s from Thundertree didn’t get me the red carpet I was hoping for, but it is helping keep us alive. I guess on the hierarchy of dragons, Venomfang is near the bottom.

In only a few short minutes we’ll send a signal to the lizardfolk that their revolt has started and that their liberation is near. The mattress I sit on will become the fuel to the signal fire atop the north tower and once a blaze, if all goes well, Quetzel and this team of lizardfolk will be successful in destroying the signal drums before they go thump to muster in more enemy combatants.

Day 130 – Mid morning
Inside the Melchori Castle
Mere of Dead Men

Kheg's Secret Pages
Days 110-127

Day 125 – Evening
Smoldering structure at the south end of the Ocrian Trade Way
Myr Derot

What most would refer to a tomb, I’m going to call it a womb for I feel I have been reborn and the womb I was carried in for 11 days — albeit not a pleasant womb like most others — has nurtured my drive and put me on the path of becoming a more productive being.

My captivity and treatment at the hands of the Melchori Dragon Cult has helped forged me for I am now fueled by vengeance like never before. When Kheg Tealeaf slipped through the birth canal a second time, he emerged as a stone cold killer of the unjust, and a compassionate champion of the tortured and oppressed.

I shall proclaim myself “The Almighty Avenger”, and the world of the Malchori and other miscreants like them shall hear this title ring louder than the cries of those they have tortured.

It was a day like any other day in Ocrey until that pinnacle moment yesterday in that dark swamp west of Myr Derot that a cargo crate was dropped and out sprang 3’6” of terror. It was here in this swamp, the Mere of Dead Men that The Almighty Avenger had risen.

Iarno Albrect, Lord of Neverwinter can rest easy for now for the Malchori Dragon Cult has my full attention. For both the late Hammer and myself and even Hammer’s little pet Pecker, I promise brutal endings for the nutbags behind the dragon masks. With a sharpened focus, the skills I once used to prey upon civilization will become weapons of war against the oppressors and tyrants of Ocrey.

Be forewarned unjust beings, for The Almighty Avenger has been birthed and now stalks the fields near and far.

It was 10:30 am this morning when I made it out of the swamp and by sheer chance ran across Altair and Orlin as they stood in a cindering, smokey roadhouse. I was briefed on Hammer’s demise as Altair tended to the still dying, and told that Peagus was away looking for Flynt who went either MIA or AWOL, but NUTS seems to be the crew’s consensus.

In describing what Flynt did, using the word “goof” would be an understatement, because during a fight with the Melchori, Flynt roasted the entire 2 story building in which they all stood. In the process he scorched himself, his fellow troopers and 13 others of which Altair was able to heal 4 of. Worse is that most of dead and injured were innocent bystanders. Had I not been trudging through the nearby swamp at the time trying to evade crocodiles, snakes and possible recapture, I’d have been with them and possibly in worse shape than I was already in after 11 days of captivity in a crate, in the heat of Southern Ocrey.

Tomorrow, myself, Altair Orlin, Peagus, and some new blue, 8’ freak of nature named Windsplitter will enter a secret passage that was found a couple of days ago inside the former Carnath Roadhouse.

Normally, I welcome new team members, but we have transitioned from purple half elves; to a tiefling; to a half bull; and now to a being not even from this plane. What the hell happened to the most superior humanoids of them all, the halflings? Even humans with their funny looking, round ears are less bizzare than what we’ve scraped together in the last two months.

Day 126
About an hour into our hike north across the swamp, in a surprising turn of events, I was providing medical attention to our healer Altair as he lay dying from wounds inflicted by some of the 7 crocodiles we encountered. It took a while, but I actually saved the Wood elf’s life. I must admit that I find taking lives more exciting though.

3 hours later into our march we find a campsite at the edge of a massive body of water. It was only a moment later that we noticed 9 humanoid lizards divided into 3 canoes coming towards us. As the canoes split it became obvious they intended to combat us and do it with a flanking maneuver. We adjusted to an according defensive strategy and although the lizards were tactically sound, they just didn’t have what it took to go up against superior warriors. Upon their 4th death, they threw down their weapons and surrendered.

With a lot of effort and patience, Peagus was able to communicate with the leader. He was able to determine that the lizards are also at odds with the Melchori and that they have a hideout deep in the swamp to the north. With our enemy’s enemy now becoming our brothers-in-arms they will take us to the castle tomorrow for it will be a very long canoe trip.

The Winterstorm Troopers are really getting soft on our opposition. I took flak for killing a combatant who dropped his weapons after being stunned by Orlin and this lizard had been trying to kill us and unprovoked I should add only a second before. If Amon Arkham was still around he’d whip these sissies into mentally stronger troops; Amon was a warrior’s warrior. If he knew how limp wristed the Winterstorm Troopers have become over these past 5 months since his death, his few remains would probably be rolling within the pile of gobblin shit he was thrown on outside the castle in Neverwinter Wood.

Tonight we will camp with the lizardfolk in the tents left empty by slain lizards. The other troopers seem uneasy about. Me? …With my stomach full of their smoked fish I helped myself too, I plan on sleeping like a baby. To the victor goes the spoils, and as far as I’m concerned, they’re lucky we don’t have them sleep outside the tents to make more room for us.

Day 127
We picked up a 6th trooper today…and who would have guessed, another freakazoid? This one’s a lizard named Quetzel. As a ranger his help will be welcomed, but he’s bringing some baggage with him. He’s trying to steer us into helping his brethren take over the Mere of Dead Men, the swamp that marks the western boundary Myr Derot. Although the lizardfolk’s fight is a noble one, I want to complete our current mission and then see what comes next; and with all these mosquitos, ticks and liches, staying in this swamp any longer than I have to is going to make me crazier than Flynt using fire in combat.

After what seemed like hours of tactical discussion, we finally agree that the best 1st step would be for the lizards to escort us to the castle for the purpose of surveying the structure and its surrounding terrain. In hindsight we should have been more tactful in our approach because we were spotted by some cultists standing guard along a high parapet. Our hopes of trying to BS our way in through the front door to avoid the toads is an even longer shot now so it’s time to work on Plan B.

Day 127 – Late afternoon
Mere of Dead Men
Southern Ocrey


I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.