The Game Thread 2

[tibbius]

…

…

…

You've made it down from the Silver Peaks, across the cold high plains, and into the city called Gogog where coal from the Silver Peaks gets loaded onto barges that travel down the icy River Swift.

Having more-than-moderate wealth, you find rooms in the most pleasant part of the city: Hearthward, outside the South Gate. Here is where caravans — bearing grain and coal and steel and fine weapons or tools — arrive and depart. It's early spring, so many children, most of whom work loading and unloading wagons or tending oxen, spend their spare time playing football on the mud and grass pitches among the caravans. A noisy happy place.

It's lunch time.

Elcroon and Delx are in the big dining area of The Bosoms, that being the comfortable inn you've found. Black Dog rests under their table. They're waiting for food and drink.

Bishop Godfrey Thames sits at the next table over, also waiting for food and drink and listening to his neighbors reminisce about the cold halls of Ghostal.

jemmus, grognardsw, what are you saying to draw the Bishop's attention?

[jemmus]

Delx enjoys the warmth of the tavern and the joints of his bones begin to be able to move a bit again. He smiles as the comely serving lass puts his steaming fresh from the oven steak and kidney pie before him, and Elcroon's plate before him as well. I'll be right back with fresh hot loaves and butter, dears, the waitress says. Don't forget the jam, if you would, please! And our Black Dog's venison heart, liver and backstrap-- with gravy! He winks. It had taken some talking (and tipping) for the tavern keep to let Black Dog into the drinking and dining room. He'll leave a good tip for the girl as well-- but without being too showy or making a scene of it, of course. He wasn't born yesterday, after all. He smiles fondly at Black Dog, loyal veteran of frozen Ghostal, stout-hearted slayer of stone-freezing cockatrices. He remembers that he's got the body of one yet to sell.

Well, friend Elcroon, let's dig in. But before that, a toast to salt. He smiles. May your beef never be overly salty-- or your ghost not salted enough! I'd bet you can make a very song of that adventure, Elcroon. He starts to draw his trusty flute from his pack. While casting his eyes around to see verse and notes might bring undue attention from fellow patrons of the wrong kind. Or perhaps from fellow patrons of the right kind.

[Juramenta]

Salt, beautiful salt… Devastating to ghosts, but it only serves to bring them back, angrier than ever. A last resort, really, when all other paths to guide a restless soul fail. Bishop mutters to himself, almost forgetting he’s not alone. Realizing he’s been overheard he glances over at Delx, while raising his hand in a small gesture of apology.
Forgive the intrusion. An old habit, speaking my thoughts aloud. No harm meant.

Bishop’s eyes glow with a magical soft blue shine when he looks at him before turning back to his mug of ale.
Against the table a white wooden staff leans with a lantern attached at the top. On the other side wooden sticks forming a shield of similar material leans against the table. Equally made of the same almost bone-like material.
The shield as the staff has runic signs carved into them. For those learned in the ways of the arcane would notice they are not arcane runes. Instead they appear to be completely alien to anything arcana related.

[Grognardsw]

Sorry I just came across this new thread by accident.

Bosoms lived up to its name as Elcroon admired the buxom serving wenches. The bard had seen enough of dwarfs, ghosts and snow; the sight of swaying hips and swinging bosoms was a welcome change. Elcroon adjusted his sword to a more comfortable position.

“Aye, to salt!” Elcroon raised his flagon to return Delx’s toast. He tried to leave it at that but was compelled to finish:

“To make any ghost halt!” The alcohol was showing its effect on Elcroon’s curse.

As Delx’s flute came out, Elcroon unwrapped his lute to accompany and sang a ditty.

Folks went to Bosoms to drink and nut
Where lasses with sweet asses did strut
It’s sign was quite cheeky, it hung on the wall,
A pair of round shapes—no one missed them at all!

Come in, ye thirsty, ye weary, ye proud!
We serve more than pints, we serve joy and we're loud!
It wasn't just drink that kept folk in their seats,
It was hearty food and wenches big teats!

A tavern so fine, with spirits and cheer,
Where all are accepted, and none live in fear.
Where laughter is plenty, and love’s never cold—
The kind of place where love’s bought and sold!

Elcroon was well on his way to a verse-free night as he consumed his second large flagon of ale. The musicmancer couldn’t help but notice the unusual runes on the blue-eyed man’s staff and shield.

Elcroon spoke in the arcane tongue when he said to the man: “Are you a wielder of magic?” Apparently he was just drunk enough now not to rhyme.

[Juramenta]

A glimmer of recognition crosses Bishop’s face, but he shakes his head.
Alas, I cannot respond in kind, good sir. It reminds me of the arcane tongue, but I am not learned in its ways. My expertise lies with the departed. Restless souls unable to pass on and spirits born from the forces of nature themselves.
He gestures slightly with a hint of self-deprecation. Some call me a spirit shaman, though I have never belonged to any tribe or met another of my kind. If I had to choose a title, I’d say divine artificer might suit better. Or rather, aspiring divine artificer. The road ahead is long, but the gods have set their course and I merely follow the threads they’ve spun.
Bishop takes a sip of ale, looking directly at Elcroon, though the faint glow in his eyes makes it hard to tell if he’s really looking at anything at all.
You rhyme like a maestro he says with a faint smile. Would I be right to think you’ve dabbled in the ways of high elven magic? Or perhaps your skill is purely musical, not tied to the arcane?
Bishop tilts his head, genuinely curious, assuming this man might have insights he lacks.

[jemmus]

When Elcroon finished his song, Delx laid down his flute and lightly beat his fist on the table. Well done, friend Elcroon! That's one that they won't soon forget. A pair of round shapes-- no one missed them at all! He thinks he may just stay in this town and loiter at The Bosoms for a good while, while his coins hold out. He could think of worse ways to live life.

But the words of the enigmatic man at the table next gave pause to think. "Spirit shaman." "Divine artificer." But still questing along the path to know, he'd said. The words of a wise man, he thought. In truth he was philosophical by nature, ever since with a child, also questing along a path. The path had led toward spiritualism and investigation of the world "on the other side." But he'd seen enough hypocrisy and opportunism in religion of Mag (or so his teenaged mind thought) that he'd forsaken investigation of the arcane for the grittier-- and rounder-shapelier-- world of the mundane. He starts to try to say something poetic and possibly profound in reply to the stranger's words. Or to even better to pick ups his flute and let just three long, short, long notes say the poem. But that would spoil the mood of the moment at The Bosoms. So instead he simply slightly raised his cup to the man and drank a light draft.

[Grognardsw]

“Spirit shaman you say?” replied Elcroon. “You should have been with us in Ghostal - plenty of spirits there to talk with.” He took a swig of ale. “Or salt, or poke.” Another swig.

“Aye, music and magic are my passions. My verse is something of a curse, forcing my speech to rhyme all the time.” It was happening again; Elcroon took a giant gulp of ale and shook his head violently. “That witch - the bitch - I’d give up being rich to pitch her in a flaming ditch in hell!” He gulped the ale and held the empty flagon up for another. “Oh well.”

[Juramenta]

Bishop listens intently as the musicmancer speaks of Ghostal and the curse laid upon him.
Ghostal he replies, leaving a pause as he frowns before continuing A place I have always yearned to visit. So many souls, lost and bound to that frozen land, unknowingly waiting for their release of their eternal bonds.
Unfortunately for them. When they are angered, spirits are as perilous to me as to any other. Their wrath does not discern between the living. I needed brave companions to walk such a path with me, yet I’ve never found any willing to take that risk. And thus, I had to leave them to their fate. he says with sorrow as he takes another sip of his ale.

As for your curse, I must admit it is not my area of expertise. Still, I know one thing to be true: no curse can take hold without leaving behind a way to unravel it. Balance must always exist, even in the cruelest of hexes. Somewhere, there is a thread, a key to breaking this burden.
Bishop’s gaze sharpens slightly as he considers his next words.
I wonder, does the witch who cursed you still walk this world? It is said that curses often carry the essence of their caster. If she or her next of kin yet lives, perhaps they may hold the answers you seek.
He takes another sip of his ale with a faint smile returning.
And if she doesn’t, well, perhaps the solution will be unearthed in some other way. Every curse has a story. Yours, I imagine, is a tale worth hearing. Care to spin your tale on how you became the target of a witch’s evil eye? he says as he orders three more ales. One for each.
He also makes a gesture towards their table, asking without words if he is allowed to join them at their table.

[Grognardsw]

“Ghostal still lies untapped under mountain and snow. We plumbed little of its depths but came upon enough gold to take our leave with souls intact.” A long swig. “I’d consider a return, and a divine artificer I’m sure could help.” A short swig. “I have a map.” As drink loosened lips too much.

“I’ve tried to rid myself of the curse. A prestidigitator in Lankhmar failed - I think he may have been a fraud. And a shaman in Hyperborea, but he too was unable.” Elcroon butter up some bread. “The witch still lives, at least when I last slept with her. Therein lies the rub.” The bard laughed at himself. “Her fine tail begat my tale, if truth be told.”

Elcroon wove the words of the witch’s charms…

[Juramenta]

It appears the poet spoke with wisdom when orating; When she gives you her body, cherish it. Fail to do this. Then you find out firsthand. That hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. he chuckles softly before his tone turns more serious.
I might have a proposition that might interest you. Ghostal has suffered in silence for far to long. Going to its depths to figure out how it came to be and cleanse that place once and for all would put many a soul in peace. However, going to Ghostal comes with one more obstacle for me. I lack the funds to even undertake such a journey. Basic adventuring gear to withstand the cold, for starters. I am ill prepared for such a journey.
If you could help me out with that little dilemma, I will visit this witch and attempt to broker a deal once we are done cleansing Ghostal. She might be more susceptible to a neutral third party offering an olive branch of sorts. Bishop suggests.

[jemmus]

Perhaps against his better sense and definitely against his normal canny nature, Delx decides to lend the first stranger he meets in a tavern some of his gains. "Easy come, easy go," he thinks. "Well, not that easy. I got my hand good and crushed, didn't I?" He asks, How much do you need, Bishop?

[Grognardsw]

Elcroon added quickly: “Yes, we can invest in you to help us all in our next foray, be it Ghostal or elsewhere. You can pay us back with your portion of the spoils. Or perhaps with arcane knowledge?”

[Juramenta]

I am afraid I lack any arcane knowledge to share. My craft is divine in nature. These markings are an ancient tongue spoken by those long past. However, repaying by future loot sounds like a fair bargain. he nods in agreement.

For the amount, I am somewhat at a loss. I would need sturdy and above all warm winter clothing, a sleeping bag and preferably a tent.
A spelunking set complete with rope would be appreciated. There are a few ritualistic items I need, but I can find the majority on the road.
Finally, I could do with a large weapon. Not that I can wield one myself, but once I make a bargain with a spirit to house a fitting vessel. We will have additional protection.
Corpses make for the best vessels, although I wouldn't prefer walking into town with one. Less we be chased out with pitchforks.
Most spirits prefer the deal of temporarily experiencing living in exchange for service. I can make a vessel out of wood as well, think that will have to do until we find something better suited for the tasks set before us.
So for the gold I am not certain. Somewhere around 5 gold? I'm afraid I am not a merchant and lack the knowledge to give a good estimate. Bishop responds.

Locksmith tools and a packmule might be good items to consider purchasing for the party as well. Tool is 1gp, packmule 5gp

[jemmus]

Delx has grown rather fond of the dwarvish axe. I have a spear to spare if you'd like it, Bishop.

[Juramenta]

Bishop nods at Delx.
A spear would do just fine and would be easier to carry along. Thank you he responds.

[jemmus]

Delx shows him the spear. I'm not sure how familiar you are with spears, but just in case.... See the grain of the wood of the shaft? You won't want to apply force in the direction of the circles of grain. The shaft could split and splinter. I know, because I did it once. At a very unfortunate time.

[Juramenta]

That sounds unpleasant. Luckily, I will not be the one wielding it. I will instruct the carrier with the given advice once it has taken form. he smiles takin the advice to heart.

[Grognardsw]

“Salt, lots of salt.”

“And a silver poker.”

“Delx, how is your dog?”

“We should get large stakes and a rope bridge or something for the chasm.”

Elcroon pondered what other equipment would be helpful.

[tibbius]

As you talk and think, you're interrupted by a shriek of alarm from the upstairs of the Bosoms. "She's dead!" you hear a female voice wailing repeatedly.

[Juramenta]

Bishop’s glowing eyes snap upward toward the source of the screaming, but almost immediately, his gaze shifts back to the room around him. He scans the faces of the patrons, studying each one for subtle tells, nervous glances, stiffened postures or attempts to shrink away from notice. His expression remains calm, but his mind focuses. While he doesn't know what is going on yet, all his years of dealing with mysteries surrounding untimely deaths conditioned him to pay attention to details when something out of the ordinary happens.