Midnight Guest Part II

Your heart pounds, your pulse racing ever faster as you strain against the virulent poison still circulating through your veins. Your whole body clenches, muscles wrestling to throw off the paralytic. Breath hisses through your teeth, and you feel something pop in your eye, then spreading warmth. But your struggles are in vain, the poison too potent. Rolling your eyes as far as you can sideways you attempt to get a better view of your visitor, but all you can make out in the dark are his hands and the side of his face. 

It is as though he meticulously constructed the scene—and his place in it.

You see those hands clap against each other, one hand slowly tapping the palm of the other. The sound is barely audible. The voice that replaces it is deep, voluminous, and fills the room without being loud. “I applaud your fortitude in the face of danger … or is it foolishness; regardless, your fatuous blather seems indefatigable. Indeed, I am amazed at how the similarities between you and my late nephew go so far beyond the physical resemblance … which is uncanny.” 

The hands shift subtly once again, and moonlight glints from a small glass phial that has now appeared between two of his fingers. “Unfortunately, I have no intention of administering this to you at this moment, for which I must apologize, as well as for the conditions of this meeting, but your previous treatment of other faithful servants of the crown has left little doubt as to how well this discussion would otherwise go.” The moonlight winks and the phial disappears from his hand. “Take heart; it will wear off by morning.

“Now, you asked why I called this meeting,” his hands return to their steepled position. “Your invasion of my domicile necessitated it, as did your subsequent discovery of my family’s hidden vault.” He pauses; a controlled moment goes by as if he were personally dropping each grain of sand through an hourglass. “Information, intelligence, are my domains. Believe me when I say that I am fully aware of all of your doings since you first took that ill-fated seat at The Pewter Pot. All of your deeds and misdeeds since then are known to me.”

His face turns further into shadow, as if he were staring at the wall, or perhaps the royal crest carved into your headboard. “This kingdom is my heritage, my birthright. More than that, it is my life’s blood. So, trust me when I tell you that if it were not in the best interests of Elturgard to have Runard’s reign continue uninterrupted, I would have removed you long ago.”

His face shifts again, and you feel his gaze upon you once more. “That said, I will acknowledge you have accomplished significantly more than did your predecessor; although, I must be honest, that is not difficult. Merely by attending your first Privy Council you accomplished more than he had in the last two years of his reign.” The corner of his mouth pulls up, creasing the pocked surface of his cheek in what you suspect to be a smile. 

“And so, I will permit you to remain for as long as that is true … but only for as long as that is true.” His voice subtly shifts as he speaks, until he sounds like a completely different person. “You are not irreplaceable,” he says glibly, the voice high, pert, and you realize it is your voice you are hearing, unmistakably, unerringly, your voice.

The voice then reverts back to its sonorous, measured tones, the syllables crisp and precise. “By your pretention in assuming his identify you have payed your ante into the Great Game. But unlike any other game, when you lose it is not you who pays; it is the people of this kingdom, the shepherds, the farmers, the nursemaids, and the matrons, who will suffer. The stakes are too high for you to fail.” As he speaks he begins to lean towards you, his face tense, one long fingered hand pointing at you, the other dropped to darkness. Then he sighs deeply, the air escaping his lungs in an explosive gush. He sits back again and composes himself. “What I truly wish to tell—for you to know, is that the game need not be played alone; indeed, it cannot be won alone.”

A silver hand waves expansively, as if taking in the whole castle, or perhaps kingdom. “The machinery of this kingdom is comprised of a complex array of gears and cogs, all turning in their appointed place. You must learn to rely on those gears. And know that oil is more effective than blood in keeping them turning smoothly.” 

He subsides then in a grand gesture of his hands that seems practiced and purposeful—ruined only by the trumpeting sound of Faerith farting noisily. You see your visitor tense, and his face turn to behold your bedfellow. 

For his part Faerith murmurs something about “Murray, get my mumble, mumble” before turning over and flopping an arm around your waist. Pulling you close, he cozies up to your ear and begins to snore.

Midnight guest

Sleeping in the King’s bed was like what you imagine sleeping in your mother’s womb must have felt like, and it was your absolute favorite part of being king. 

Servants at your beck and call, soldiers willing to die for you, long parties, endless alcohol, and the best foods were nowhere near as satisfying as sinking into your root ensconced, silk covered mattress at night; especially on nights where servants had served you the best foods and endlessly refilled your gem encrusted goblet during a night of frivolity and partying with your friends—if for no other reason than that you never woke up with a hangover.

Tonight had not been one of those nights of frivolity; although, it did seem like an endless parade of triviality as Gaspar laid paper after paper in front of you. Missives from Waterdeep and Cormyr for your perusal, ledgers of wages and figures and expenses for your approval, a request for reinforcements from Lord Fergus Highwall IV, a report of an incident at the Spire during the annual Culling, blah blah, blah blah, blah blah. 

If tedium were personified it would be Gaspar.

When it was finally over, and Gaspar had mercifully stopped the torture, all you had wanted to do was sink into oblivion in your bed. Luckily, your best friend Faerith had succeeding in cajoling you up to the top of the keep to see who could pee the farthest and the longest off the side. The two of you had bowled over with laughter for what seemed like hours after a stray gust of wind had blown your stream sideways into his face.

Later, after a very necessary wash and change of clothes, you both had sunk, gratefully, into the soft sheets of the King’s bed. Invisible hands pulled the covers up to your chin and tucked the corners down around you. You aren’t sure, but as your consciousness slipped away, you thought you may have felt that same hand smooth your hair and give a slight pat on your head.

Like a green leaf buoyed upon a summer breeze you slipped into a pleasant slumber. Like that leaf, you felt supple, loose, and you dreamt of nature. A warm glade in spring, surrounded by verdant trees and fragrant wild flowers; bees hummed as they drowsily floated about. 

All was peaceful.

A sharp prick on your wrist warped it all. Pain lanced up your arm. That green supple feeling in your limbs was replaced by wooden rigidity as the pain sped through you, racing to your heart and then spreading out through the rest of your body from there.

Your eyes shoot open and you are in your room, awake once more. What a disturbing dream, you think. You have never had anything but the most pleasant dreams while in this bed, but, then again, you haven’t actually slept in this bed all that long. You attempt to shake it off and fall back asleep.

But nothing happens.

You try to roll over. But your limbs don’t obey. They are locked in place—completely immobile. It is only then that you realize someone is holding your hand by the wrist.

Rolling your eyes sideways you attempt to see who it is. Your room is dark; the embers of fire have been banked. Cool moonlight beams through a gap in the window curtains illuminating the dark silhouette of a man sitting over you. This silvery chiaroscuro reveals a tall, skeletally thin figure; a curl of light around his cheek allows you to see a complex of pocked scars covering the side of his face.

The long fingers of his hand release your wrist as he sits back further into the shadows. You see light glint off a long needle in his hand before he slips it away.

“So, it appears you have found my little hide away,” his voice is surprisingly silky, smooth but deep. “I think it is past time that you and I had a little chat.”

(DM: You are completely paralyzed but can talk. What do you do?)

Fizban Shops for Pearls, Part II

Fizban: I lift my left eyebrow and the hand reaching for my coin purse instead reaches out in a handshake. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners," I say while waiting. "My name is Fizban, the Royal Wizard to King Mish Mash, and Headmaster of the Academy for the Advancement of the Arcane Arts. I am looking to procure a vendor to provide the Academy and the Royal Court with a continuing source of pearls to help us advance the knowledge of our students." I look past the old Halfling towards his daughter as I add, "and I am also on the lookout for potential students to study at the Academy, and learn a valuable trade." I return my gaze to the old Halfling. "Would you be interested in discussing such an arrangement?"

He stares at your hand for a moment, tilting his head as if he is trying to comprehend its meaning. “Wat’s dat he says?” he finally asks, looking back at his daughter. “Wat’s dis abouts wizz-ards arts?”

“He said he’s the Royal Wizard, pa,” his daughter calls back at him, but she doesn’t look at him; instead, her eyes are looking beyond you, to Murray.

“Royal Wizard ye says!” the Halfling pulls on his waistband, trying futilely to hoist his pants up over his potbelly. “I ne’er heard tell o’ no Royal Wizards before, and who’s dis King Mish Mash fella?”

“The only king I know of is right here in town, pa,” his daughter replies calmly, deftly shucking another oyster as she does. “Everyone knows he just kilt ol’ Queen Mab for us. So he must be talking about him.”

“Aye, dat ‘tis our good King Runard, dat ‘tis,” the halfling’s eyes return to yours, “who’s dis Mish Mash ye speak of?” He hawks thickly and spits behind the door, holding your eyes, waiting for an answer.

An awkward moment of silence draws itself over the small hut and its occupants, disturbed only by the clacking sound of a shucking knife popping another oyster open. You are about to open your mouth to reply, even though you haven’t formulated a response, when one is provided for you.

“That’s his nickname,” you hear Murray blurt, stepping forward as he does. Then, after sharing a nervous look with you, he elaborates more calmly. “They’re great friends, you know. Go way back. Mish Mash is just what he calls him—usually in private.” Murray’s eyes switch to yours at this last bit.

The Halfling stares back and forth at you and Murray for a while, a look of deep consternation clearly etched onto his face. Then a smile breaks his cracked lips, causing a line of blood to appear. He pulls his diminutive frame up as straight as he can, licks one of his palms, and uses it to slick back his unruly hair. A few more cooties fall out, raining down around him onto the floor. “Wells now, whys din’t ye says so in da firs’ place?” He holds out his still moist hand to you. “Me name’s Klem, an’ it’ll be a plez’zoor doin’ bizness wit’ ye!”

Klem is obviously very pleased with the prospect of continued business with a royal entity as he beams around at you and Murray and even his daughter, who you catch demurely sharing glances with Murray from time to time. Not long afterwards, you come to an agreement: guaranteed continuing preferred trade to the Royal Academy of all pearls of requisite size at a reasonable market price, and as a gesture of grace, he sells you his last pearl for a modest sum of 50gp. His daughter, Elzbet, thanks you for your gracious offer of tutelage but begs leave to contemplate it first. She seems unsure about leaving her father to fend for himself alone.

To finalize the bargain, Klem solemnly grasps your hand (you had just managed to surreptitiously dry it on your robes a moment before), looks you in the eyes, and intones, “Mays da Great Mudder Eltur witness dis deal, and mays she smite da one dats breaks it.” He finishes by spitting to the left. After an awkward moment of hand holding you realize he’s waiting for you to act in kind and you quickly produce your own expectorant. 

A short time later, you are rubbing the smooth pearl between your fingers and leaning back into the plush velvet cushioning of the royal carriage as Murray guides it back through the village when you hear a loud voice from out on the street.

“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye!” booms the voice. You twitch the curtains aside and see a man in a herald’s uniform standing near the center of town. “By royal decree,” the man continues as a number of curious townsfolk stop to listen. “of his Highness King Runard Torren the 3^rd, there is to be in one month’s time on the 19^th of Ches, year of the Great Mother 943, a Grand Inaugural Royal Pugilistic Tournament! The tournament is open to all current and former members of the king’s army, navy, or constabulary forces. Interested parties should present themselves along with the 100 gold piece entrance fee and a patent of military service at the King’s Gate in Caer Torren. There are to be a maximum of 64 participants (with the option to expand to 68, at the King's discretion). The winner of the tournament will have their name engraved in the Hall of Champions as well as a first of its kind one-on-one boxing match with the Kingdom's famous Faerith the Pugilist, with the winner getting the Ultimate Prize!”

By the end of the announcement the herald’s voice has faded into the distance as your carriage steadily plods its way out of town. Dusk has completely enshrouded the sky with her starry cloak by the time you finally pull back up to Candlekeep Tower. Impatient to start, you throw the carriage door open, hardly waiting for the horses to come to a complete stop. You are halfway up the outer stairs when you hear a familiar voice bawl, “Murray! MURRAY! MURR-RRAY!! Where are you! Where have you been! Where’s my tea!” You pass Faerith as he heads down, thunderclouds in his eyes.

Up several flights of stairs, you emerge into the hag’s ritual room. The morbid detritus of several days ago has been mostly cleaned away. The putrid contents of the overturned cauldron have been thoroughly mopped up, but the cleaner (whoever he was) seemed to quail at actually touching the glistening, bile encrusted iron of the ancient pot, as it still lay belly up in the exact place it had when it was overturned after the hag’s defeat.

Ignoring the cauldron, you hurry over to a large smooth slate slab inset into the floor, a surface perfect for ritual casting. Feverishly now, you gather your ingredients and get to work. Without hesitation, you smash the lustrous pearl in a mortar and pestle, grinding it to a fine shimmery powder. To this you add a measured handful of powdered chalk, two ounces of griffin saliva, and a drop of oil of salamander. You then take the resultant clay and press it into a long thin mold, which you carefully situate amongst the glowing coals of a warm fire. Trying to distract yourself while waiting, you continue reading The Otyugh, Not as Ugly as You Might Think, which by the third chapter has you convinced that they are actually uglier than you had previously thought.

An hour later, you pop the hot piece of chalk out of its mold and begin the spell. For all the time it took you to gather and prepare the components the casting of the identify spell is relatively fast. Placing the robes in the center of the ritual casting slab, you quickly chalk the necessary arcane diagram, circling the robes in precise loops with bisecting lines at the correct spots anchored by runes of power. At the apex of the davulian triangle you place an owl feather. Your pulse quickens as you start chanting the final element of the spell, practiced tongue articulating the words precisely. As the litany of your chant rises and crescendos the torches lighting the room flicker and dim. You clip the final syllable off. The torch flames simmer further down and silence reigns. A heartbeat later, in a spurt of bright blue flame and puff of smoke, the owl feather is consumed. Flowing out from that point, the chalk lines begin to glow. You raise your hands as if pulling on strings and the lines rise up from the ground, flowing together to form new shapes, new runes.

To the uninitiated, the glowing lines would mean nothing, signify gibberish, but you read them as if they were your mother tongue. Yes! This is what you were after. Everything is revealed to you; the components of the fabric, the very spells wrapped in the thread, how they align, intersect, and interact, all the way down to the name of the very mage who crafted it (Ted, by the way).

And you know, this is a Robe of Eyes.

Robe of Eyes
Wondrous Item, rare (requires attunement)
________________________________________
This robe is adorned with eyelike patterns. While you wear the robes, you gain the following benefits:

• The robe lets you see in all directions, and you have advantage on Wisdom (Perception) checks that rely on sight.
• You have darkvision out to a range of 120 feet.
• You can see invisible creatures and objects, as well as see into the Ethereal Plane, out to a range of 120 feet.

The eyes on the robe can't be closed or averted. Although you can close or avert your own eyes, you are never considered to be doing so while wearing this robe.

A light spell cast on the robe or a daylight spell cast within 5 feet of the robe causes you to be blinded for 1 minute. At the end of each of your turns, you can make a Constitution saving throw (DC 11 for light or DC 15 for daylight), ending the blindness on a success.

The Blue is High website

Okay, so I wanted somewhere to keep campaign information as well as adding some flavor writings of my own. I created a simple website using Google Sites.

Some cool things you might find there:

• Information on NPCs with some pretty cool pictures of them
• Flavor writings. I will add bits and bobs as I write them. Some may reveal important clues...
• Miscellaneous campaign and adventure information with more pictures, maps, etc.
• Statistics on everything from army numbers, to bank accounts, to upgrade costs
• Maps, diagrams, etc.

So, check it out.

https://sites.google.com/view/blueishigh/home

Fizban shops for pearls

You and your companions have spent the last two days cleaning out Candlekeep. The remaining Bear Gard have been wending in and out, toting bodies, bones, bloody viscera, and other disgusting body parts to a pit for burial, while village members, notified of Queen Mab’s defeat, have been wandering in to claim their loved ones—whether alive (unlikely) or dead (very likely). Several mothers wailed disconsolately outside the keep when they found their infant children had been killed; eventually, Lord Gaspar Sewell stepped in and organized a processional and a respectful funeral, conducted by the local druid and attended by the entire village.

On the first evening, the Bear Gard built a pyre and held a solemn ceremony to send their deceased brethren on to the afterlife. They invited you and Faerith and King Runard (Mish Mash) to attend, although you noticed they seemed to give King Runard a wide berth. A number of them grumbled something under their breath when he wasn’t nearby, but their voices were too low and the wind too loud to be overheard. During the ceremony the remaining Bear Gard members took turns recounting the heroic deeds of the fallen before solemnly lighting their pyres. Afterwards, they drank like only warriors can—deeply, thoroughly, wantonly, and raucously.

You commandeered Murray to help you with the task of cataloguing and packing the hag’s library into wooden crates Lord Sewell obtained from the village. Murray was only too happy to be pulled away from cleaning duty.  All told, you found 46 tomes, 73 books, 19 scholarly scrolls, and various other writings (including a doodle of a giant crone-like woman rampaging through a village, stomping on miniature stick figure people). Most seem to deal with forbidden rituals and blood magic, but there are some priceless tomes about such things as planar travel, the nine hells, demonology, the mating habits of trolls, how to drain someone’s life away by giving them nightmares, and a very old bestiary to name a few.

It was nearing the evening of the second day when you decided to head into the village for a pearl large enough to use for an identify spell.  As you head down the last flight of stairs and pass through the front gate, you once again stop to look at the odd bas relief sculpture on the wall just inside the door. You run your fingers over the odd maze-like lines surrounding what appears to be a sizable tome, lines of power emanating outward from it. Outside you notice a light fog has rolled in off the bay. Murray is standing by the carriage feeding a carrot to one of the horses.

“Ever driven a carriage?” you ask Murray as you pass him.

“My mother had an old mule cart we’d drive to market days, sir.”

You reach up and unlatch the door, giving Murray a crooked smile. “Basically the same thing. C’mon, drive us into town.”

The terrain surrounding the tower has changed drastically since your initial arrival. It seems with the demise of the hag, the land of Eltur has begun to reassert itself. The swamp has receded, the trees have put out blooms, and even some flowers have sprung up amidst the sedge. But the fog keeps returning.

You are staring out the window, contemplating an interesting passage you had been studying in The Otyugh, Not as Ugly as You Might Think, when a flash of red cloth snags your attention. Something or someone had been standing near a tree about 50 feet off the road, but moved out of sight at the approach of your carriage. Try as you might to pierce the fog, the encroaching evening and dense foliage make it impossible to see much. Scanning the terrain, you see nothing but trees, shrubs, and mud.

Murray, oblivious, keeps the cart trundling on, its rear wheels slipping only slightly in the mud. Shrugging, you decide not to stop him. It’s probably just some shy villager out gathering herbs or dung or something. Twenty minutes and a couple of miles later and you find yourself clattering through the tiny village of Misty Bay. Small waddle and daub huts huddle together around the only sizable house, a two story clapboard manor belonging to the Burgomeister.

Boasting a little over a thousand residents, it takes Murray about two minutes to pull up at the wharf, which consists of a single dock with about four boats (little more than dinghy’s) tied up to it. An ancient mariner mending nets points you to the only building, a rickety shack sitting next to a mound of shucked oyster shells. Faint yellow light leaks from the gaps of the seasoned boards; voices raised in anger emanate from within.

Your knock is answered by an old potbellied Halfling. His skin is weathered and wrinkled, knotty and brown as old dried wood. He squints up at you, light spilling from the door silhouetting his diminutive frame.

“Wat kin I doos for ye, M’lord?” he asks after a silent moment.

“I’m trying to buy a pearl,” you reply. “I’m told you are the person to talk to.” You then describe the size of pearl you would need.

He studies you for a moment, tiny, sunken eyes staring at you from a haggard face. The skin of his lips is cracked, his greasy gray hair looks like the only thing that combs it is the wind. “Afurd, I kin’t helps ye, M’—“

“Who is that, pa?” the old Halfling is interrupted by a melodious voice from within. The door swings a bit wider, revealing a comely human girl sitting by a small fire, shucking oysters.

“Wh-who…is that?” Murray’s voice nearly startles you. He had been standing so quietly behind you. You turn to see a strange look on his face, eyes wide and mouth slack.

“Wat’re ye on abouts?” the old Halfling grumbles. “Tha’s me daughter. Kin’t ye tells?”

Murray manages a mumbled apology without taking his eyes off the girl, who returns his look with a shy smile.

“As I was a sayin’” the halfing continues. “I is outta pearls. Sol’ me whole stock to dat silly wizard guy nie on a week ago.”

“Wizard?” you ask.

“The strange looking fellow, shaved head, lots of tattoos. From Thay I think he said,” the girl by the fire explained. “ Came here about a month ago, shortly before all them troubles up at the tower, said he was travelling the coast buying up pearls. Bought up all of pa’s supply.”

“Yeppin’ jus’ as she says, M’lord,” nodded the Halfling. A startled cootie fell from his thinning hair. “E’ery las’ one.”

“Well…not every last one, pa,” the girl said, somewhat reproachful.

The Halfling glared at her and clucked his tongue. “Devil git yous girl,” he said before turning back to you. “Oh, aye, she speks truth a’ight. I found a big’in yesterday.”

“Well, perfect, sir,” you reply, pleased with your luck. “I only need one for now. I’ll take it.” And you reach for your coin pouch.

“Wells, M’lord, tha’s da ting, ain’t it?” the halflings eyes gleam in the dim light, and he runs a thin tongue over his dry lips. “Dis is the las’ pearl der is…” his eyes linger on your pouch. “In fac’, whats was it the wizard said, Rose?”

The girl looks a little uncomfortable as she shifts her look from Murray to her dad. “What do you mean, pa? About how he thought you had nice teeth? Or about what a beautiful house we have?”

The Halfling whirls around at her and hisses disdainfully at her. “Abouts me teeth, she says! Da Gods saves me from such a daughter!” He turns back to you and rubs his hands. “Naw, nots abouts any o’ dat. Abouts how he’s jus’ come down from Caer Rima. Bought all a der pearls, too, he has.” His eyes gleam a bit more brightly as he shuffles forward a step towards you. You hear a foot scrape behind you and a muffled gasp as Murray retreats a step. “Tells ye wat, M’lord, I’ll sells it ye fer 300.”

Okay, what do you do?