The last days you remember were dark, overcast and damp. The sky opened, roared a gale, hissed and spat torrents, soaked you and your steed to the bone. None of you remember when you last knew the comfort of a fire or the warmth of another being in your side, only the cold, dank, pressing darkness that came as you approached the fortress with steely determination.
You don't even remember how long ago it was that you set out.
What was your hometown called?
Everything is so fuzzy now. You recall glimpses of your life as they rattle past your eyes-- your home, your family, a sweetheart with hair whipping about them at the midsummer's festival, honeydew on the air and the grass beneath your bare feet. Your training, the agony, the reek of burning flesh searing your brain to its core and the crack of your skull upon the flagstones of the Master's halls.
It's dark and your wrists and ankles are heavy with shackles. You can hear breathing around you, though it is faint.
What do you do?
( Search: It is too dark to see much, but as your eyes adjust, you look up to see a grate allowing dim grey light into what appears to be your cell. There are hunched bodies. Just out of your reach is what seems to be a door of rough, sturdy metal bars. They seem to be for keeping some manner of beast within the walls. )
( Do I find anything? : Someone was foolish enough to let a sharp-edged stone fall into your pit. (Use- Str 14- d20 15+) It is strong enough to dent the shackle. After several tries, you manage to break a link. )
When all party is free:
You hear heavy footsteps from outside the cell's door. [PARTY ROLL- Highest number] [CHARACTER], you recall these steps as the Warder's. He stands roughly eight feet tall, with a threatening build and strong presence, heavy in the arms and neck- you can tell he's not entirely human, simply by his proportions. You know there are ridges on his face and horns on his head and he wears thick, rugged clothing befitted to his job in this cold place.
[Try to talk to him?]
"What do?"
[He is not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.]
"You know I 'kennot speak wi'ss you, pri'ssoner."
[He speaks in a low, hushed manner, the hollowed-out beast skull lantern hung from one huge, gnarled horn tapping against the bars of your cell. He glances about, watching for someone. Or something?]
"Der Meister ha'ss already been wi'ss de discipline, ah? I 'kennot do more for you."
[Ah! You remember! This Warder has done you favours in the past- split his rations with you, provided extra blankets. There is something about him that puts you at ease- perhaps it's the lines of patience worn into his face, or the kindness that seems to lay in his otherworldly, glowing eyes.]
"Min'sya, pri'ssoners. I 'em sorry."
[PERSUADE]
"... 'ferry well. Wha'd is it you need?"
[LET US OUT]
"... I..."
[He seems troubled by something, the crease of his face speaking more loudly than anything else. There is something going on away from the cells. You just know it.]
"Rötenheim is falling. Der Meister mo'ffs when d'he Wrys'nyata complete d'heir predictions 'ent it is clo'hss. You came for a rea'sson, I know it."
[His brow furrows deeply. His thoughts are conflicting, tearing him internally. A huge, gnarled hand wraps around one of the heavy bars of the cell and he finally looks up, around you all. ]
"Politics here, they have no'tsing to do wi's you. I wish... I could't do better for you. Run. Find what you 'ken. Get out of here."
With a strength that you can barely believe, the Warder takes a proper hold of the gate. The sleeves of his robe fall back, exposing muscled arms roped with bulging veins and patterns scarred into grey-tinted skin, which pulls taut as sails in storms as he sets his feet. He does not grunt, nor does he groan with exertion-- with a single jerk, he lifts the gate and pulls it open just enough for you to squeeze through.
All you have are the clothes on your back. The chains you were bound in are too heavy, too cold to wield confidently.
"Run."
You can run one way-- away from the Warder. This bearing is North. The pathway is narrow, about five feet across, with what seems to have once been a wall, many years ago, reaching barely past your ankles. When you look out to the sides, it is a sheer drop, which you cannot see the bottom of. The cells are in isolated towers, of which yours was the top. Cloud covers most of the moonlight, but it is just bright enough to see. No wind blows-- it is eeily still.
Cells stud the walls, some empty, some housing the dead. Some hold living prisoners, but they seem tranced, somehow.
You arrive at the wall of the fortress and enter through a rugged arch. The corridor within is just as narrow as that outside, yet the walls are intact.
[ Two rooms:
East: A corridor stretches to the East. As you move down it, you pass an oddly-shaped cell, with a grate allowing light in. A dank, dark room. A crack of dim light highlights bones bleached white by time. You can see that within, there is a spiral staircase heading down. However, the door is shut tight and locked with a bizarre, oddly-shaped padlock, unlike anything you have ever seen before.
West, Far: A grate on the ceiling lets light in from above. The scent of aged decay lingers. There are several crates.
CRATE 1: Contains HEAVY CLOTH CLOTHING. This includes a cold weather wrap and boots that are lightweight, but warm. There seems to be enough to outfit twenty or thirty people. ]
As you continue, the corridor turns to the South and leads into a small flight of stairs, which incline sharply. They are steep, each step made for a creature far larger than you.
At the bottom, the steps lead straight into a sizeable hallway, about eighty feet long. It is lit with brackets on the wall, which contain everburning embers. There are smooth stone pillars, holding supporting the high ceiling. The floor is black as night, polished to such a high shine that you can see the intricate craftwork above you-- angular carvings of old gods have had their heads cut from them, seemingly violently, marring the masterful work.
- HISTORY CHECK
[ 1-10- This place is very old
11- 15 - The Stonework is Dwarven.
16-18 - The Dwarves have not held fortresses for at least two hundred years.
19-20- The brickwork is that of the Iron Dwarves, who died out four hundred years ago. Their forts are now inhabited by Demonic clans, who open the closely-linked Plane imbalances to tap into Inferno.]
On the North wall, there is a grand staircase, which yawns down into another lit corridor. The steps are the same black stone, as is the hall before you.
Large pillars make the corridor narrow on either side-- there are four, before it branches off to the West. The end is illuminated by fire, which dances on the mirror-esque floor. At the end of this corner is a huge fireplace, easily fifteen feet high, with a raging blaze within. There is a further corridor after an awkward corner.
The corridor branches East and West.
WEST ROOM: Full of crates, but they yield nothing. The dust is thick in here and it is barely lit by the light outside.
EAST ROOM: A small store-room. Crates are piled in the room, though a candle sits on one, next to a bizarre item. It is of Demonic origin. When picked up by Tyro (Demonblood Player Character), it reforms itself into a key.
etc loot: A broken sword- it is quite useless. Track rations, one backpack, fifty gold
As Tyro handles the key, the sound of stone grating together can be heard from back out in the hall-- the fire pops loudly.
As you head into the hall with wide pillars, heavy bootsteps eminate from the fire.
You look back and are struck with dread. A figure stoops through the flames, tinging them blue-- horns protrude from its helm and it straightens up, taller than the great hearth. It holds a sword big as two men and strides towards you.
RUN.
You hurry down the stairs, which lead down in a tight spiral. You are barely able to keep on your feet as you rush-- cold wind hits you, and you see that a portion of the wall has crumbled away.
[WHO WENT DOWN FIRST? SPOT CHECK.]
[Fail: You failed to see the crumbling stairs. JUMP CHECK! ]
[Fail: Party, help him!]
CRASH!
It seems the gate has bit the dust.
You run, run, run down the staircase, the bootsteps above you never out of earshot. The Knight seems to take four or more of the steep stairs at once, while you trip over yourself. They are the steps of mechanical determination, a will of iron and presence, tautness and poise.
After what seems like an eternity, you arrive at the base of the stairs.
Evidence of battle is all around you on the bridge you find yourself on. The stench of death is carried away by the winds and you can see where you are. The mountains stretch as far as you can see, only a glimpse of the ocean glistening on the far-off horizon. At the other side of the bridge is a light, leading back into the mountain fort.
[SEARCH: Weapons!
RAPIER
MACE
TWO DAGGERS]
There is enough time to collect your weapons and get a feel for them when the Knight arrives at the base of the stairs.
[ENCOUNTER: BLACK KNIGHT]
Fight or run?
RUN
Once you reach the other side of the bridge, you are met with a large stairwell, this time leading up. Adrenaline pounds in your ears, willing you forwards.
You climb.
And climb.
And climb.
Until you can't hear those steps any longer.
At the top, there is a man. He holds a pair of binoculars to his face, and seems to be looking out over the fortress-- you are higher up than you think. This seems to be one of the highest points, as you can see the bridge you crossed far, far below.
"I really don't like the asymmetry of this place. It bothers me a lot."
His voice is mist, floating through your soul like old memories.
"Disgusting."
It seems he has found something that particularly bothers him.
[CATCH HIS ATTENTION -- Diplomacy 16 required.]
He turns to look at you and removes the binoculars from his eye-- one is gouged, streaking blood down his high cheekbones, to congeal at his neck, where his hood lays clasped. By the look of his armour, he is a Knight, from the Middle Lands, with light hair and lighter skin. Pieces are mismatched, though, seemingly salvaged. His vambraces are black, similar to those of the Knight's. His other eye is icy blue and watering.
"Ho there! I was expecting another one of those Demons, but... hm. Seems you're alright. What do, as they say here?"
He smiles so brightly, as if nothing is wrong.
WHO ARE YOU?: "Oswyn Donovan, of... hm. Well. Isn't this a bother? I can't seem to remember, friend!"
WHY ARE YOU HERE?: "Gosh, I... I'm afraid that's all a bit past me, too. I had a reason at some point, but it seems it eludes me!"
"Well, I do so love a chat, but I'm afraid I'm busy. Would you believe those Demons have taken Rötenheim? I was certain it wouldn't fall, but you can see it from here. I wonder if they'll move on Mysuou? Surely, the Bladed One wouldn't allow such a thing. She does so love her Order... Oh! Are you of them, friend? Or... gosh, that is if you can even remember. Nasty stuff they gave you, hm? It's taken a while for me to clear my head up here, but I still don't remember much. They're saying that some ritual is nearly done, but I'm not sure what it is. You chaps look awfully cold. Or is it just me?"
He raises his binoculars and continues looking out, over the mountains.
[If the party asks for his binoculars, he will lend them.]
"Hm? Oh! Yes! Of course, feel free to look!"
