Sunday, 23 March 2014

Another Sunday, Another Mad Archmage Delve

Only three people showing up but going ahead and playing anyway and rolling up an even more miserable gnome henchman-fanboy so the gnome's player can play, still recovering from his injuries at the knife and fork of a Boschian spoonbill demon... (spoilers for Castle of the Mad Archmage follow...)


Rolling a crazy coincidence 6 and running into the orc and goblin with the dire badger and dire weasel you'd fought and defeated and let live last time and finding that the rubble kobolds ran them out of the castle tower where they went to live ...

And knowing they'll find some kind of acceptance in the grimy, raucous suburb of the Grey City where dogfighting goes on ...

And finding out they're lovers (...)

And then cleaning out the last corners of level 1 and down the small stairs to level 2 and blundering into a room with the usual trash in it and getting jumped by giant centipedes, losing a hireling to poison (count so far: 6 dead hirelings, 1 survived) and having the night elf weakened by it ...

And then along come some earnest rival adventurers, Lightning's Hand, up from exploring a deeper level and they trade a poison antidote to the night elf for maps and info about the first level and the possible secret library which excites their savant ...

And on into a room where there's a strange mural of clowns on the wall ... six zanies picnicking, Pierrot, Colombina, Harlequin, Pulcinello, Weary Willie and Pennywise ... frozen expressions behind painted smiles and halted gestures, with only Harlequin looking out of frame, smiling contentedly. What can it mean?

And on ... to the Moat of Knives, thousands of slashing and leaping blades crossed only with daring, ingenuity and a couple of planks lying around... to a treasure room where, without lockpicks, bashing opened only two of three chests ... a decent haul of coin, an oddly shaped piece of wood and a sword in a red leather scabbard with smoldering edges ... bags of coppers thrown over the gulf, one faltering and spilling its ruddy load beneath the swirling blades, a weird wishing well ...

And that was the climax, except on returning to the stairs, some of the rubble kobolds were waiting to roll a stone column on the party unless they gave up loot ... 500 coppers now, 500 later was the eventual deal, but later never came as a swift sleep spell dealt with most of them ... the bag disappearing with the last surviving kobold, and a thrown axe frightening the Mule into a headlong rush, getting pelted with sling stones by backup kobolds, injuring its leg ...

Limping, shaken, with one mottle-faced corpse on their sprain-legged not-quite-a-mule, they returned ... but richer ... richer!

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