Being mildly stunned Zarbyn is slow to regain his feet and as he does he replies, "I'm not sure... but I think... we may of just freed one!"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
Lira carefully climbs to her feet. "Thalgar managed to destroy the artifact...But that lich may be just as dangerous. Do you think we could defeat it?"
With the mission completed for Thalgar, and the recovery/ destruction of artifact 4, the party levels up to level 5. In addition, when Lev and Vydar’s return (on vacation irl) we will move the party to just outside the trade town of Silverton. During our break, feel free to experiment with your level increase/ multi class, etc and run ideas by me on discord.
With mixed emotions, the group leaves the dwarven mines. They were able to destroy the very powerful and evil Anvil of Nhaalek. In addition, you discovered a way to destroy the fourth artifact created by Malbordus. In theory, this would mean that the Cult of the Dragon King and its followers of the Snake Demon Myurr may no longer be able to perform their ritual.
However, you had learned that Shareella and the Coven of Eternal Winter only need to possess several artifacts to summon the Ice Demon. The interaction between the anvil, which possessed a spirit, and the artifact somehow freed Zanbar Bone, Lich-Lord of the Forgotten Tomb and trapped the spirit of Thalgar in a staff of soulsteel.
The rat ogres' plague is beginning to take its toll on Iólinder and Amdaeng. You can see the huge mountain, Stormy Peak, the supposed location of the 5th cache, rise to the clouds and beyond. However, Iólinder’s health is failing so the group decides the better part of valor is to seek out the healer, the Toa-Suo high priestess Aisulu had mentioned in the nearby town of Silverton.
Most of you have heard of the prosperous but rugged trade town of Silverton, and some have been there before (Zarbyn very recently, (Where he met and spoke to Professor Storm), and Lira (whose associates trade with Silverton).
Silverton clings to the frozen edge of the Icefinger Mountains like a stubborn frostbite that refuses to fade. Once a dwarven outpost centuries ago, it was resettled by humans after the Goblin Wars. Today, it serves as a hard-bitten trading hub, a supply post for adventurers and expeditions heading into the frozen north, and a last stop before entering the wild and deadly interior of the Icefingers.
Life in Silverton is harsh at the best of times — snow falls throughout the year, wolves and worse prowl the narrow mountain trails, and yet the promise of silver, frost-iron, and buried dwarven relics continues to lure fools and fortune-seekers alike.
It is spring, but you would never know it. The cold here is not merely brisk — it’s punishing. A low, pale fog clings to the ground like a curse, muting sound and swallowing warmth. The air bites with the ferocity of deep winter, forcing you to layer every scrap of clothing you have just to keep moving. Zarbyn and Lira both feel it is unseasonably cold for this time of year.
As you crest the final ridge above the pass, you catch sight of distant lights flickering through the mist — the first signs of Silverton. There is just enough daylight left to make it to town, and the thought of firelight, dry boots, and a hot meal quickens your pace despite the bitter wind.
Zarbyn knows of a tavern in town, “The Old Toad,” and an inn that has delicious buttermilk biscuits named “The Hanging Party.” There should be markets, traders, and merchants open in the morning.
Amdaeng is beginning to very much long to be back south of the Icefingers where she didn't lose feeling in her extremities on the hour, Ning however seems unbothered by the cold.
She stumbles occasionally but is not sure if its because of the cold or because she's still suffering symptoms of the same disease that Iolinder has.....though she seems to be doing better with it than he....or she just got lucky....
When Zarbyn points out the two buildings Amdaeng immediately finds herself voting for The Hanging Party despite the name.
"Yes Amdaeng, I think you have the right of it, we should first get a hot meal and secure some rooms for a well-deserved rest."
Zarbyn will lead the group to the 'The Hanging Party' and recommend, "They have the most delicious buttermilk biscuits here."
Being back in Silverton brings up memories for Zarbyn of when he first met Professor Natalie Storm and related his tale to her low these many months ago. And then his thoughts suddenly jump ahead to the months he spent aboard 'The Twice Shy.' But didn't Lira say she had heard tales that 'The Twice Shy' was a ghost ship? Did this mean Angelica, his dearest Angelica, was also a ghost? Was he himself a ghost?
Hopefully in just under three months he will have some answers to these questions when he makes the meeting in Port Blacksand, at the House of Balance on Temple Street.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
Iólinder feels the bite of the cold a bit more intensely than he knows he should. Yes, it's cold, but he can feel the disease attacking him from within as well.
More than the physical threats, he feels a bitterness growing that he fears may overwhelm him. This bitterness promises to test his faith and he sincerely hopes he's up to the task.
He does manage to find a glimmer of hope as they peer upon the city that promises to alleviate at least one concern. If they can be healed of this disease, perhaps that will enough to keep them moving against the ever growing odds.
Lira pulls her cloak tighter, but her eyes are on Iólinder and Amdaeng, worry etched across her face. “Sounds good,” she murmurs, her voice barely rising above the crunch of snow beneath their boots. The flickering lights of Silverton stir a strange unease in her. Once, the town had been familiar, a place where whispered deals and quick hands kept her afloat. But now, after all they've faced, the shadows feel smaller, the walls too close. Her druidic connection to the wild has deepened; she finds the stone and smoke of the town almost suffocating. And yet, with the looming threat of her old guild contacts, she wonders if it’s the people, not the place, she fears most.
Over the years, Silverton has prospered—its cobbled streets once thrumming with the footsteps of traders, merchants, and travelers bound for distant markets. The signs of wealth are easy to spot: tall, gabled buildings with ornate woodwork, richly dyed banners hanging from balconies, and townsfolk dressed in silks and finely cut wool.
But as you step through the town gates and the sunset rapidly approaches, an unease creeps over you. A strange cold fog obscures your view to only 50 feet.
The people seem anxious, their eyes flicking toward the sky or the shadows of alleys. You notice that every window is sealed with iron grills bolted tight, and heavy reinforcements have been hammered into the doors of homes and shops.
As you continue down the main thoroughfare, the bell tolls once from a tall, stone tower ahead. A single, hollow clang. The sound echoes like a warning.
Then, a desperate voice cries out: “Nightfall! Nightfall! Everybody indoors!”
Panic stirs in the street. Shopkeepers slam shutters, lanterns are doused, and townsfolk hurry behind their barricaded doors, shooting you wary glances. They seem startled by your presence—surprised you’re still outside.
Across the street, illuminated by the failing light, you spot a squat, weather-stained tavern. A swinging sign creaks in cold of the coming night: The Old Toad. Down the street a bit further, a warped sign sways above the door, depicting a jester with a noose around its neck and the words "The Hanging Party" burned into the wood.
As you approach the inn, you note thick, long icicles hang from the eaves life fangs. Outside stand three black iron gallows, covered in a think layer of ice and snow. From them hang three humanoid shapes, encased in semi-transparent ice. They appear to be Silverton townsfolk.
Stepping into a gloom-drenched inn, the cold clings to your skin like a second cloak. The fire in the hearth burns low and blue, casting flickering shadows across frost-laced walls and warped wooden beams. Smoke curls slowly beneath the soot-stained ceiling, too heavy to rise. The place looks nothing like it did the last time Zarbyn was here.
A handful of patrons sit hunched at crooked tables in the main room, wrapped in threadbare cloaks and silence. Tankards tremble in numb fingers. No one speaks. No one sings.
The air smells of smoke, sour ale, and old despair. Behind a counter of sorts, a broad-shouldered man with dead eyes and a frostbitten jaw polishes a glass that’s already clean. Mounted above him is a heavy greataxe, its blade dull but menacing in the firelight. A stairway goes up to some rooms above.
Behind you, you see the streets clear quickly as everyone moves inside.
"they run and hide instead of facing an ever-present danger they obviously fear... Meanwhile, we chase every opportunity to risk our li"...(he chokes out a low ragged cough)... "They are obviously much smarter than us." He smiles faintly.
"Something's not right... I don't remember the curfew or the people of Silverton acting this way when I was last here just over a half a year ago."
Zarbyn steps inside 'The Hanging Party' and asks the man with the frostbitten jaw about some rooms for the night, "How many rooms do you have available?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
— A basic prayer.
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Zarbyn's CON: 3 (nat 1)
Being mildly stunned Zarbyn is slow to regain his feet and as he does he replies, "I'm not sure... but I think... we may of just freed one!"
"it seems that even when we strive to do the right thing, evil find it's way."
Lira carefully climbs to her feet. "Thalgar managed to destroy the artifact...But that lich may be just as dangerous. Do you think we could defeat it?"
With the mission completed for Thalgar, and the recovery/ destruction of artifact 4, the party levels up to level 5. In addition, when Lev and Vydar’s return (on vacation irl) we will move the party to just outside the trade town of Silverton. During our break, feel free to experiment with your level increase/ multi class, etc and run ideas by me on discord.
Silverton is on the northeast of the map. You took the green path to get there. (2 days)
On the lower map of Allansia, Silverton is on the northwest of the map. You started your journey in Port Rentarn (dragon reaches).
Recap:
With mixed emotions, the group leaves the dwarven mines. They were able to destroy the very powerful and evil Anvil of Nhaalek. In addition, you discovered a way to destroy the fourth artifact created by Malbordus. In theory, this would mean that the Cult of the Dragon King and its followers of the Snake Demon Myurr may no longer be able to perform their ritual.
However, you had learned that Shareella and the Coven of Eternal Winter only need to possess several artifacts to summon the Ice Demon. The interaction between the anvil, which possessed a spirit, and the artifact somehow freed Zanbar Bone, Lich-Lord of the Forgotten Tomb and trapped the spirit of Thalgar in a staff of soulsteel.
The rat ogres' plague is beginning to take its toll on Iólinder and Amdaeng. You can see the huge mountain, Stormy Peak, the supposed location of the 5th cache, rise to the clouds and beyond. However, Iólinder’s health is failing so the group decides the better part of valor is to seek out the healer, the Toa-Suo high priestess Aisulu had mentioned in the nearby town of Silverton.
Most of you have heard of the prosperous but rugged trade town of Silverton, and some have been there before (Zarbyn very recently, (Where he met and spoke to Professor Storm), and Lira (whose associates trade with Silverton).
Silverton clings to the frozen edge of the Icefinger Mountains like a stubborn frostbite that refuses to fade. Once a dwarven outpost centuries ago, it was resettled by humans after the Goblin Wars. Today, it serves as a hard-bitten trading hub, a supply post for adventurers and expeditions heading into the frozen north, and a last stop before entering the wild and deadly interior of the Icefingers.
Life in Silverton is harsh at the best of times — snow falls throughout the year, wolves and worse prowl the narrow mountain trails, and yet the promise of silver, frost-iron, and buried dwarven relics continues to lure fools and fortune-seekers alike.
It is spring, but you would never know it. The cold here is not merely brisk — it’s punishing. A low, pale fog clings to the ground like a curse, muting sound and swallowing warmth. The air bites with the ferocity of deep winter, forcing you to layer every scrap of clothing you have just to keep moving. Zarbyn and Lira both feel it is unseasonably cold for this time of year.
As you crest the final ridge above the pass, you catch sight of distant lights flickering through the mist — the first signs of Silverton. There is just enough daylight left to make it to town, and the thought of firelight, dry boots, and a hot meal quickens your pace despite the bitter wind.
Zarbyn knows of a tavern in town, “The Old Toad,” and an inn that has delicious buttermilk biscuits named “The Hanging Party.” There should be markets, traders, and merchants open in the morning.
Amdaeng is beginning to very much long to be back south of the Icefingers where she didn't lose feeling in her extremities on the hour, Ning however seems unbothered by the cold.
She stumbles occasionally but is not sure if its because of the cold or because she's still suffering symptoms of the same disease that Iolinder has.....though she seems to be doing better with it than he....or she just got lucky....
When Zarbyn points out the two buildings Amdaeng immediately finds herself voting for The Hanging Party despite the name.
"Yes Amdaeng, I think you have the right of it, we should first get a hot meal and secure some rooms for a well-deserved rest."
Zarbyn will lead the group to the 'The Hanging Party' and recommend, "They have the most delicious buttermilk biscuits here."
Being back in Silverton brings up memories for Zarbyn of when he first met Professor Natalie Storm and related his tale to her low these many months ago. And then his thoughts suddenly jump ahead to the months he spent aboard 'The Twice Shy.' But didn't Lira say she had heard tales that 'The Twice Shy' was a ghost ship? Did this mean Angelica, his dearest Angelica, was also a ghost? Was he himself a ghost?
Hopefully in just under three months he will have some answers to these questions when he makes the meeting in Port Blacksand, at the House of Balance on Temple Street.
Iólinder feels the bite of the cold a bit more intensely than he knows he should. Yes, it's cold, but he can feel the disease attacking him from within as well.
More than the physical threats, he feels a bitterness growing that he fears may overwhelm him. This bitterness promises to test his faith and he sincerely hopes he's up to the task.
He does manage to find a glimmer of hope as they peer upon the city that promises to alleviate at least one concern. If they can be healed of this disease, perhaps that will enough to keep them moving against the ever growing odds.
Lira pulls her cloak tighter, but her eyes are on Iólinder and Amdaeng, worry etched across her face. “Sounds good,” she murmurs, her voice barely rising above the crunch of snow beneath their boots. The flickering lights of Silverton stir a strange unease in her. Once, the town had been familiar, a place where whispered deals and quick hands kept her afloat. But now, after all they've faced, the shadows feel smaller, the walls too close. Her druidic connection to the wild has deepened; she finds the stone and smoke of the town almost suffocating. And yet, with the looming threat of her old guild contacts, she wonders if it’s the people, not the place, she fears most.
Over the years, Silverton has prospered—its cobbled streets once thrumming with the footsteps of traders, merchants, and travelers bound for distant markets. The signs of wealth are easy to spot: tall, gabled buildings with ornate woodwork, richly dyed banners hanging from balconies, and townsfolk dressed in silks and finely cut wool.
But as you step through the town gates and the sunset rapidly approaches, an unease creeps over you. A strange cold fog obscures your view to only 50 feet.
The people seem anxious, their eyes flicking toward the sky or the shadows of alleys. You notice that every window is sealed with iron grills bolted tight, and heavy reinforcements have been hammered into the doors of homes and shops.
As you continue down the main thoroughfare, the bell tolls once from a tall, stone tower ahead. A single, hollow clang. The sound echoes like a warning.
Then, a desperate voice cries out:
“Nightfall! Nightfall! Everybody indoors!”
Panic stirs in the street. Shopkeepers slam shutters, lanterns are doused, and townsfolk hurry behind their barricaded doors, shooting you wary glances. They seem startled by your presence—surprised you’re still outside.
Across the street, illuminated by the failing light, you spot a squat, weather-stained tavern. A swinging sign creaks in cold of the coming night: The Old Toad. Down the street a bit further, a warped sign sways above the door, depicting a jester with a noose around its neck and the words "The Hanging Party" burned into the wood.
Amdaeng looked to the others, " Lets get inside now! Something is very wrong here."
(Amdaeng and Iolinder are at -15max hp.)
As you approach the inn, you note thick, long icicles hang from the eaves life fangs. Outside stand three black iron gallows, covered in a think layer of ice and snow. From them hang three humanoid shapes, encased in semi-transparent ice. They appear to be Silverton townsfolk.
Stepping into a gloom-drenched inn, the cold clings to your skin like a second cloak. The fire in the hearth burns low and blue, casting flickering shadows across frost-laced walls and warped wooden beams. Smoke curls slowly beneath the soot-stained ceiling, too heavy to rise. The place looks nothing like it did the last time Zarbyn was here.
A handful of patrons sit hunched at crooked tables in the main room, wrapped in threadbare cloaks and silence. Tankards tremble in numb fingers. No one speaks. No one sings.
The air smells of smoke, sour ale, and old despair. Behind a counter of sorts, a broad-shouldered man with dead eyes and a frostbitten jaw polishes a glass that’s already clean. Mounted above him is a heavy greataxe, its blade dull but menacing in the firelight. A stairway goes up to some rooms above.
Behind you, you see the streets clear quickly as everyone moves inside.
"they run and hide instead of facing an ever-present danger they obviously fear... Meanwhile, we chase every opportunity to risk our li"...(he chokes out a low ragged cough)... "They are obviously much smarter than us." He smiles faintly.
"Something's not right... I don't remember the curfew or the people of Silverton acting this way when I was last here just over a half a year ago."
Zarbyn steps inside 'The Hanging Party' and asks the man with the frostbitten jaw about some rooms for the night, "How many rooms do you have available?"