This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
-= How Play By Post Works =-
Play by Post is a variation of Dungeons and Dragons for busy people who struggle to find three or four concurrent hours to sit together and play the game in the traditional way. It is played on a forum, by continually replying to the same thread.
The thread is effectively the game. You describe your character's actions, ask the DM public questions and make rolls entirely within the forum thread.
You can describe your actions in 3rd person or 1st person, whichever is your preferred writing style. When your character speaks, put their speech into quotation marks and recolor it with a distinctive color so it's easy to recognize at a glance. OOC questions to the DM can usefully be put in italics or simply asked in the Twitter DM group or directly by twitter DM to me.
Outside of combat, you can post as often as you like with as many actions as you like. I as the DM will work out how to prioritize them.
Inside of combat, you can either wait for your turn in the initiative order to post or (to speed the game up) post in advance with an action that anticipates the state of battle at the time your turn rolls around. If you choose the latter, I may alter your actions slightly when your turn rolls around if the situation on the ground has changed (for example, if the monster you were planning to attack was killed, I might redirect your attacks against another nearby foe). I will obviously not abuse this to make stupid decisions or deliberately get you into trouble.
The DnDBeyond Forum has a couple of built in tools to make playing the forum simpler.
When a dice roll is needed, you can insert it directly into your post using the "Dice Roller" button at the far top right of the posting window.
It brings up a window where you can set out how many dice you want to roll, with how many sides and whether the roll has advantage or disadvantage. It will then insert a code block directly into your post. For example, if I wanted to do a skill check, with advantage and a +5 bonus I would select 1 dice, of D20 size, with advantage and 5 added to the roll. It would then produce this: 16 <--- (roll)1d20ad+5(/roll)
The second tab of the dice roller window is built directly for combat, and allows you to roll to hit and damage at the same time. This produces slightly more complex code that includes things like critical damage. Attack: 11 Damage: 9
DnD Beyond also allows you to insert previewable tags directly into your post. This is useful for things like magic items and spells, as it allows everyone else to quickly see what they do by just mousing over or clicking. To use them, you need to put the type of thing in square brackets around the name of the thing. For example [ action]dodge[ /action] without the spaces produces dodge. While [ spell]magic missile[ /spell] produces magic missile.
Mirana moves into the chamber, shield held before her and her knuckles white on her mace. "We can't allow them to escape," she growls to her companions as she breaks into a charge toward the nearest cultist. Upon reaching him, she lashes out with her mace.
Attack: 15 Damage: 3
Glancing behind her, she notices Flaron's wounds and barks out a Healing Word to mend them, restoring 5 of his hitpoints.
To DM:How many cultists would she be able to see from where she's currently standing, and what are the light sources in the room?
Sample DM Response (Continued from Before)
Mirana's charge startles the cultists and she is in their midst before they can truly react. Her mace arches out, crashing easily past the weakly held dagger raised to block it and smashing into the cultist with a solid thump of metal on flesh. He reels back, clutching at least one broken rib, but remains on his feet, albeit barely.
Mirana, you see the same three cultists Flaron sees, plus an additional one armed with a two handed hammer rushing in from a corridor on your right. The room is lit by the large braziers flanking the altar, and four torches evenly spaced around the wall. Two more torches are extinguished but ready to be lit. These sit in sconces to either side of the corridor entrance through which your party emerged.
Flaron, in response to Mirana's healing word your wounds close, albeit not completely. Ahead, you see her armored form amidst three cultists, two immediately before her and one on a raised platform to your left. While the two around your party's cleric are simply robed and armed with daggers, the third appears much more ornately dressed and from where you're standing apparently unarmed. To your experienced eye however (passive perception) the cultist's robes do suggest some arcane or divine skill. What do you do?
After Flaron, it will be Illiya and Larina and then the cultists will get a chance to act.
Outside the windows of the Delver's Torch Inn, early evening gives way to true night with the final setting of the sun. The darkness outside is near total, the street lamps having long since ceased to be rekindled in the afternoons as rationing of lamp-oil took hold. In a parody of the city's broader affairs, the gloom from without the Inn assaults its defenses but is, for now, held at bay. A fire burns in the large hearth, the flames licking out over what look like the chopped up remnants of a large antique table. Candles burn on window sills, casting further light, but the wrought iron chandelier above hasn't been lit in months.
The Inn's common room was designed with quiet touches of taste in an inviting, cozy style. Circular tables of thick wood, thus far saved from becoming fuel for the fires, dot the room in a range of sizes. The smallest, large enough to accommodate little more than a pair of flagons or bowl of nuts, stand between pairs of mismatched leather armchairs closest to the fire. Other, larger tables capable of accommodating larger groups or even entire families are positioned haphazardly and surrounded by carved chairs and tall tools.
The Inn's staff flit between these tables with varying degrees of grace. Elin, a tall elf of advanced years seems to flow soundlessly about the room. His clothing is impeccable but of a class and cut more befitting a restaurant for the city's elite than an Inn in one of its poorer districts. His manners are a match for his attire, his every question and answer flawlessly polite without veering into condescension. The contrast between him and Griga, who works the room alongside him, could not be sharper. A rambunctious dwarf with a ready smile and a bawdy sense of humor, she clears tables and delivers food with a clatter of glass and a bawdy joke for every patron. Considerably younger than Elin, her flame red hair a perpetual river flowing down her shoulders, she delights in teasing the reserved Elin who bears it with the weary dignity masking deep affection.
The bar, a long 'L' shaped construction of polished oak beneath green marble stands at the eastern end of the room. Behind it, on a specially constructed railed stool, reigns Fridi the bartender. Gifted to the Inn to clear an old tab by Professor Horrence Mattiford, the stool provides the tiny halfling full visibility over the bar and the ability to zoom rapidly along behind it, extending and retracting in response to leavers under the seat to allow her access to top shelf liqueur on the rare occasions someone has the coin or barter to order it. When the Inn is busy she's a whirlwind, pink pony-tail flying as she handles seemingly four orders simultaneously without ever miscalculating change or forgetting to scrape the foam off an overflowing mug.
As it does every sixthday, the setting of the sun and the conclusion of the evening meal marks a transition. The families who had gathered to eat say their goodbyes to the staff and begin filing out. Parents approach the corner where Corryn and Horrence are surrounded by a gaggle of children, pestering the former for more minor magical tricks and the latter to animate toys to dance or fight mock battles. With grateful smiles they pull the children away, vowing to bring them back another day if they will, for once, just for the love of god be good.
Bidding goodbye as well are two women whose minor injuries Ella has treated in exchange for a basket of oranges she tried her hardest to refuse. These oranges now hang from Fodd's meaty arm as he stands at his self-appointed guardian's post by the door. He hands one out to each departing child, in exchange for a promise to be righteous and fight the forces of injustice wherever they may rear their ugly heads. That to a nine year old, his monther's insistence on a bedtime appears the gravest of all injustices does not seem to occur to the adolescent Paladin.
Seated in one of the armchairs by the fire, Ralgor is given a respective distance by the departing patrons. Several do nod in his direction however, cognizant of not only his status as a delver but more immediately, the critical role his efforts play in securing the district food stores from increasingly rapacious and bold rodents.
With the majority of the district folk having departed, the elderly form of Joviar Haman makes its way to the center table. He moves slowly, the sound of his walking staff a rhythmic counterpoint to the heavy fall of his Dragonborn feet on the wooden floorboards. Though he moves stiffly and his bronze scales are faded in places, the glimmer in his eyes is little diminished. His expression, as ever these days, is burdened.
"Delvers, Ms Redstone," he intones as he takes his place at the head of the table. "Though I see but five of you, the petitions I would put before you as Ear of the District weigh heavy and I would commence the evenings proceedings, by your leave." He indicates the six chairs arranged to either side of the table, and waits, stoically, for your arrival before he seats himself. In his hands you see a leather folder, doubtlessly containing the latest round of critical matters on which the District folk require advice or action.
Elin moves soundlessly forward, positioning your favorite beverages by each of your preferred seats and then fades into the background.
Having protectively watched the last departing child until she was lost in gloom outside, Fodd Jr moves over to his assigned chairs and tries to sit with the earnest gravitas that he knows the meetings merits. This is made difficult by the smallness of the chair compared to the big lads buttocks, and the way his cheap, rusty armour chaffes along the ill-fitting joints. He lifts his cup of hot milk (Mother always said it would give him strong bones) and sips before, nodding gravely to Joviar.
"I am ready and willing, Mr Haman." he intones in his deepest, manliest voice; hardly squeaking at all. "The needs of the people cannot wait."
Upon hearing Joviar HORRENCE begins to pack up the various tools he has at the table, sweeping various screws and bolts into his pockets.
The elderly halfling hops down off his chair and begins to waddle over to the table. About half way there he realises he’s forgotten his glasses and mutters “buggerit” under his breath and returns to collect them.
After completing his return trip he hoists himself into his new chair, stirs the tea set out in front of him, sips it and exclaims:
Ella quietly takes her seat among the growing group of people, cradling the gently steaming cup of green tea between her palms for warmth as she watches her compatriots, her bright blue eyes landing on each of them in turn.
She takes a sip of her tea, and glances over her shoulder into the shadows to offer a small smile of thanks at Elin."What's on your mind Master Haman?"
As you each move to your chairs, Joviar raises the simple wooden goblet standing by his table to his lips and drinks deep, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He places the drained goblet down with a slightly too hard motion, the sound harsh and loud in the comparative quiet of the inn. Griga makes as if to move forward to refill it, jugg in hand but seems to reconsider, indecision and concern marring her normally cheerful features.
Wiping his mouth with a heavy hand, the Dragonborn settles in the chair at the head of the table. He pauses for a long moment, staring at the table before finding his voice once more. "Another week has passed,"he remarks in a tone of deep weariness, "and the problems in the District only grow." He pulls papers from his pouch and after one glance, allows them to fall from his fingers onto the tabletop. He has long since memorized their context, the woes of which they speak burned onto his mind.
"The new pressing concern is water,"he says simply."You will recall two sixthdays past I mentioned in passing that one of the wells in the northeastern district had been fouled,"he continues, deep nostrils flaring as he inhales a slow breath."We had assumed it was merely ill fortune. Now there are three befouled wells, and only the fourth remains pure."He raises an explanatory hand, slowly folding three fingers. "Without the well water, residents have increasingly turned to the river, and rates of fever and worse are rising each day."
"Yet urgent as the water issue is, it is not our sole concern," he goes on."A group of children are missing." He narrows his eyes, appearing deeply troubled. "They were a troublesome lot, forever getting into mischief, and so noone thought anything of their disappearance at first but it has been three days and no trace of them can be found." He looks about at each of you before continuing, "we would not think to involve you except... except the kids called themselves the Delving League.",
He scowls for a moment, lifting his glass as if expecting it to have refilled itself by sheer force of desire. It does not, so he sets it back down. "The questions of food shortages and encroachment by gangs from the Crumbled District remain pressing,"he reports, "but there may be an even fresher storm brewing.""The merchant train that was due to arrive last sixthday and which we believed to have simply been delayed has sent word they will no longer include us upon their route," he says, leaning slightly forward in his chair. "Without the ability to trade the products of our tanneries for the specialized wares of the caravans, the district will crumble into ruin. You all know I've little love for Armon, but that corpulent wastrel is far too greedy to have simply abandoned the chance to make good silver here."
Professor Horrence leans back in his chair, takes off his glasses, produces a small cloth from one of his many pockets and begins to polish the lenses. He sighs wearily and says:
”Oh if my dear old Margaret could see us now. Our district come to this- begging for scraps and sipping from dirt water. What have we become?!”
He sits for a moment in contemplation of happier days. Gives a half smile at some long forgotten memory before snapping back into the present. Restoring his glasses to the bridge of his nose, he Slaps his hands on his legs (which dangle like a child’s over the floor from his much-too-high seat) and says
“Still, no use crying over a bent nail and a bruised thumb- that’s what I always say! I suppose if we don’t do something about all this then we may as well go lie down in a wooden box if you know what I mean.
”So what’s the order of business” he says, looking around the table, “I’ve got to say I don’t like the idea of our young ones running off to God knows where. If that were my boys back in the day my Margaret would have a thing or two to say about it. I reckon we owe their parents a duty to get em back before something nasty occurs- what say you?”
Ragnor, who had mostly appeared to be uninterested behind a vacant stare, swatted his cup off the table in a flash of unexpected rage.
"Greed and corruption are going to consume Illeport any day now. I'd bet a sack of gold that these problems are someone trying to make a quick coin. Filthy lowlifes would murder a dozen children for a finer silk in their shirt. Someone needs to end the lot of them."
As quickly as his fire appeared it seemingly turned off again. Ragnor sat back in his seat, angled mostly away from the table. He leaned back and sat quietly, without even a shadow of the anger he had shown just moments before. He called out to Elin with the grace befitting his noble roots, "another drink please", before resuming his distant stare towards the window.
Ella, who has flinched at the sudden violence from Ragnor and the clang of the cup against the floor, places her tea back on the table and twines her hands in her lap. “I don’t know what we can do to seek out children if they’ve disappeared without a trace as Master Haman implies. But restoring the wells seems urgent if dozens of people are sickening. I have some small magic that may be able to purify a little of what’s there, but not in a sustainable way.”
As she speaks, her gaze lingers on the discarded cup.
Fodd's eyes flitted around the circle as everyone said their piece and his top lip began to sweat under the faint, wispy moustache he was working on. It never happened like this in the stories. Everything happened in a nice order: something bad happened, and the hero fixed it. If there was a choice it was always between right and wrong. His father would know what to do. Desperate to contribute, Fodd wracked his brain for a relevant story from his father's illustrious life.
Fodd knew little of abstract things like trade and water supplies but he knew that when children were in danger, hero's always saved them.
"My father always said, that no world is worth saving unless there are children left to grow old in it..." he began, then stumbled at flushed as all eyes turned to him. Then, a moment of inspiration struck him; a morsel learned from a childhood spent stabbing shadows with a stick in deserted catacombs. "If the water is fouled then then something is er... fouling it. That's probably going to be at the source of the wells. Underground. Which is also where the children have gone maybe?" The squeak in his voice at the end of the sentence reminds him that his has lost his gravitas a touch and he puts on his grimmest heroic face. "Whatever evil lies beneath us, it is our duty to face it."
Without breaking his gaze from the window Ragnor finishes a sip and in his normally warm and noble tone replies
"Ella is right, we must rescue the children but can not leave the town suffering without water. Before anything else we must purify the water to protect life within these walls. If we fail to cleanse the wells I shall focus my magic on creating water stores, and if necessary food, to keep the town safe until we get to the cause of this treachery. The town is at breaking point and we will not fail them."
Sensing a consensus forming and keen to be of use, Fodd raises his hand as if he were in school. "If we visit one of these poisoned wells, perhaps I can detect the source of the..." he hesitates, trying to find a suitably weighty term. "...contagion!"
The conversation flows swiftly, back and forth against the background of the crackling fire's gradual consumption of the once fine table. At Rangar's request, Elin appears silently behind his right shoulder and refills his glass in a single elegant motion. For the briefest moment, the faintest ghost of a smile tugs at the very outer corner's of the elven waiter's mouth at serving someone with the proper manners and bearing. It disappears as swiftly as it arrived, through not before Griga catches it and rolls her eyes so hard she almost swoons.
Sauntering over, the dwarf gives Ella a wide grin as she refills her cup before winking at Fodd, snapping into a rigid posture, head back and eyes staring into the middle distance, and gliding back to her wall in an eerily accurate imitation of Elin's gait.
At Fodd's intervention, Joviar frowns thoughtfully, ignoring the staff except to glare at them for not also refilling his potent brew.
"If your instincts are correct young Fodd, and the fouling of the well is an ongoing corruption from beneath the earth than the situation is even direr. Clerical and Druidic purification could solve the problem for an hour and it would be welcome, but if the wells are being tainted at the source. As to the three missing children, the search has been frantic panic of worried parents. The gang's treehouse may hold answers to where they've gone, or perhaps their friends claiming ignorance aren't being as open with furious mothers and fathers?"
"The children called themselves the Delving League? When I was playing at..." Frodd catches himself and coughs, deepening his voice, "While I was engaged in my lengthy training to follow my father's path, I used to do so in the catacombs. If the children thought of themselves as Delvers then surely they are searching for artefacts below?" Itching for some kind of heroic action, Frodd can't restrain his impatience. "And the longer we sit here talking the more danger they are in!" Frodd tries to maintain his commanding frown in spite of the way his voice squeaked noticeably as he shouts. To add emphasis he tries to rise out of his chair, fist heroically thrust in the air. Unfortunately his buttocks, wedged as they are in the small seat, pull the chair with them. Frodd affects not to notice.
Muttering something about needing larger chairs, Griga makes her way over to the table and stands behind Fodd, bracing herself with a foot on his large calf she tugs on the chair in an attempt to separate stool from buttocks. ((Fodd, if you want to be helpful please roll a Dexterity check)).
Ignoring Fodd's pronouncement and predicament, Joviar turns slightly blurry eyes upon Ragnar, nodding solemnly and consulting his notes with short, sharp, irritated motions.
"The single well is coping, but only just. The queues are growing each day, and the number of District folk who foresake waiting in favor of the river grows as well. The threat is not yet existential or unmanegable, but any disruption to the fourth well would trigger a true crisis. Two of the blacksmith's lads have volounteered to take turns guarding it, just in case this is all some pranksters idea of a joke."
He consults his notes again, reading carefully.
"Food is getting dearer every day, and our situation is tenuous. The greenhouses on the northeast side of the district aren't keeping pace without the heating crystals confiscated by the army, and the few rooftop farms we have can barely feed the buildings they are on. If nothing gets better or worse, we are no more than two weeks away from heavy rationing and two months away from starvation."
He finishes these dire pronouncements and holds up his cup, causing Elin to reluctantly move over and refill it from a smoky green glass bottle. Glaring at the man, Joviar drains it in three gulps, the heavy acrid smell of potent alcohol perceptible even to those seated most distantly from the elder Dragonborn.
Fodd focuses on appearing to intently listen to Jovar, nodding along seriously, while surreptitiously trying to ease his arse out of the chair as Griga pulls, his face scarlet with embarrassment. (Dexterity check = 18 )
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
"Thank you for laying out our predicament so clearly, Master Haman,"says Ella, pitching her voice a little louder than usual in order to provide some cover for Fodd. "It seems self evident that speed is a necessity. All three of the challenges are important, and as such we should focus on the most urgent, which would seem to be the children. I don't know about you Ragnor, but I fear I can't aid with the water supplies until tomorrow. As such, I propose we do three things this evening. Firstly, one group should seek out more information from the children's friends before it's past their bedtime. Secondly, one group should investigate this tree house Master Haman speaks of. Third, Master Haman if you could spread the word that two of the wells will be purified for perhaps an hour tomorrow - let's set a time between us, where I purify one and Ragnor the other. The residents should divide between the two and store up as much as they can - communally if at all possible - during that time. Whilst we're present, we can speak to the residents - asking about any sign of tampering with the wells or information about food supplies. We can then make further decisions about our next step when we have all the information we need." She looks around the group, suddenly blushing as she realises she's been speaking for some time - but simply lifts her chin as if she feels the need for defiance."Does that... work for everyone?"
((Also DM, can I insight check Griga when she smiled at me please? Insight Check = 18)
“Yes- jolly good plan” say Horrence, “I’m happy to go and speak to the youngsters. I’ve dealt which many a rapscallion in my day, and there’s mother that a little bit of attention and the odd you solider can’t fix!”
He look over at Fodd, still struggling with his chair, winks at him and say “And by the looks of young Fodd we aren’t going to be running out of supplies just yet! You alright there lad? Do be careful- one heave the wrong way and you’ll squish poor Griga like a plumb”
Turning his attention back to the rest of the table he say “By the way Joviar- who exactly are these wee ones who’ve gone missing?”
Aided by Fodd's unexpectedly adroit wriggling (perhaps this is not the first chair he has found himself wedged in), the stout dwarven server manages to pry free the inn's chair, half stumbling backward as it finally comes loose.
Ella looks at questioningly at Griga, head half tilted as she attempts to puzzle out the woman's lighting fast grin. She is able to discern little, except that the smile appeared shortly after she had mentioned the children as a top priority, and had been approving but not thankful. She is uncertain however, if she might not just be ascribing hidden motivations or subtle layers to the dwarf who is, in all fairness, a fairly sunny and cheerful sort at even the worst of times.
Jovian, blinking slowly to clear his eyes listens with exaggerated focus to Ella's monologue. He nods his head slowly.
"If this is your decided course, then I can spread the word for those with large containers to gather at the allotted time. Perhaps we will be fortunate and your cleansing rituals prove permanent, but should they not I know many would welcome the reprieve."
He turns to Horrence, the only one at the table even remotely approaching him in age. It takes him a moment to reply, anger flashing across his face as he clearly struggles to remember the providence of the missing children. Finally he dredges the information up and answers, voice low and filled with self-loathing.
"Ah yes, yes of course. They're all kids from the Leaning Tenement. Xaja, Tyf and little Rira."
((You know the Leaning Tenement to be a comparatively large structure, hastily raised to house a dozen lower income families on the southeastern part of the district. Such structures aren't unusual in the city, raised at a time when Delving success attracted migrants from neighboring districts in excess of the land required to house them. The rapid construction, often by Evokers less skilled than Horrence and his former colleagues required constant arcane maintenance and it is these tenements which have suffered most acutely from its absence)).
Elin clears his throat from the back of the room, interjecting.
"I'm sure the Ear of the People meant to say Rika."
What? Oh, yes, yes of course. Rika. They were forever causing mischief with that half-elf who fancied herself a witch in training. Naja? Naka?"
Elin again, his tone deliberately neutral and free from any inflection that might be read as judgement or exasperation..
"That would be Mika, Ear."
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-= How Play By Post Works =-
Play by Post is a variation of Dungeons and Dragons for busy people who struggle to find three or four concurrent hours to sit together and play the game in the traditional way. It is played on a forum, by continually replying to the same thread.
The thread is effectively the game. You describe your character's actions, ask the DM public questions and make rolls entirely within the forum thread.
You can describe your actions in 3rd person or 1st person, whichever is your preferred writing style. When your character speaks, put their speech into quotation marks and recolor it with a distinctive color so it's easy to recognize at a glance. OOC questions to the DM can usefully be put in italics or simply asked in the Twitter DM group or directly by twitter DM to me.
Outside of combat, you can post as often as you like with as many actions as you like. I as the DM will work out how to prioritize them.
Inside of combat, you can either wait for your turn in the initiative order to post or (to speed the game up) post in advance with an action that anticipates the state of battle at the time your turn rolls around. If you choose the latter, I may alter your actions slightly when your turn rolls around if the situation on the ground has changed (for example, if the monster you were planning to attack was killed, I might redirect your attacks against another nearby foe). I will obviously not abuse this to make stupid decisions or deliberately get you into trouble.
The DnDBeyond Forum has a couple of built in tools to make playing the forum simpler.
When a dice roll is needed, you can insert it directly into your post using the "Dice Roller" button at the far top right of the posting window.
It brings up a window where you can set out how many dice you want to roll, with how many sides and whether the roll has advantage or disadvantage. It will then insert a code block directly into your post. For example, if I wanted to do a skill check, with advantage and a +5 bonus I would select 1 dice, of D20 size, with advantage and 5 added to the roll. It would then produce this: 16 <--- (roll)1d20ad+5(/roll)
The second tab of the dice roller window is built directly for combat, and allows you to roll to hit and damage at the same time. This produces slightly more complex code that includes things like critical damage. Attack: 11 Damage: 9
DnD Beyond also allows you to insert previewable tags directly into your post. This is useful for things like magic items and spells, as it allows everyone else to quickly see what they do by just mousing over or clicking. To use them, you need to put the type of thing in square brackets around the name of the thing. For example [ action]dodge[ /action] without the spaces produces dodge. While [ spell]magic missile[ /spell] produces magic missile.
The full list of types you can use in this way is as follows:
action - an action taken in combat - e.g. dodge, search and ready
condition - a condition afflicted upon a creature - e.g. restrained, poisoned and prone
item - a mundane item - e.g. torch, trident and backpack
magicItem - a magical item - e.g. Bag of Holding, Dust of Disappearance and Demon Armor
monster - a creature you can encounter - e.g. Banshee, Bandit and Unicorn
sense - a type of extra sense, whether magical or natural - e.g. darkvision, tremorsense and truesight
skill - this is used for professions - e.g. Persuasion, Stealth
spell - a magical spell - e.g. Mage Hand, Magic Missile and Abi-Dalzim’s Horrid Wilting
wprop - a property of a weapon - e.g. finesse, versatile and heavy
---------------------------------------------------
Sample Player Post (In Combat)
Mirana moves into the chamber, shield held before her and her knuckles white on her mace. "We can't allow them to escape," she growls to her companions as she breaks into a charge toward the nearest cultist. Upon reaching him, she lashes out with her mace.
Attack: 15 Damage: 3
Glancing behind her, she notices Flaron's wounds and barks out a Healing Word to mend them, restoring 5 of his hitpoints.
To DM: How many cultists would she be able to see from where she's currently standing, and what are the light sources in the room?
Sample DM Response (Continued from Before)
Mirana's charge startles the cultists and she is in their midst before they can truly react. Her mace arches out, crashing easily past the weakly held dagger raised to block it and smashing into the cultist with a solid thump of metal on flesh. He reels back, clutching at least one broken rib, but remains on his feet, albeit barely.
Mirana, you see the same three cultists Flaron sees, plus an additional one armed with a two handed hammer rushing in from a corridor on your right. The room is lit by the large braziers flanking the altar, and four torches evenly spaced around the wall. Two more torches are extinguished but ready to be lit. These sit in sconces to either side of the corridor entrance through which your party emerged.
Flaron, in response to Mirana's healing word your wounds close, albeit not completely. Ahead, you see her armored form amidst three cultists, two immediately before her and one on a raised platform to your left. While the two around your party's cleric are simply robed and armed with daggers, the third appears much more ornately dressed and from where you're standing apparently unarmed. To your experienced eye however (passive perception) the cultist's robes do suggest some arcane or divine skill. What do you do?
After Flaron, it will be Illiya and Larina and then the cultists will get a chance to act.
Outside the windows of the Delver's Torch Inn, early evening gives way to true night with the final setting of the sun. The darkness outside is near total, the street lamps having long since ceased to be rekindled in the afternoons as rationing of lamp-oil took hold. In a parody of the city's broader affairs, the gloom from without the Inn assaults its defenses but is, for now, held at bay. A fire burns in the large hearth, the flames licking out over what look like the chopped up remnants of a large antique table. Candles burn on window sills, casting further light, but the wrought iron chandelier above hasn't been lit in months.
The Inn's common room was designed with quiet touches of taste in an inviting, cozy style. Circular tables of thick wood, thus far saved from becoming fuel for the fires, dot the room in a range of sizes. The smallest, large enough to accommodate little more than a pair of flagons or bowl of nuts, stand between pairs of mismatched leather armchairs closest to the fire. Other, larger tables capable of accommodating larger groups or even entire families are positioned haphazardly and surrounded by carved chairs and tall tools.
The Inn's staff flit between these tables with varying degrees of grace. Elin, a tall elf of advanced years seems to flow soundlessly about the room. His clothing is impeccable but of a class and cut more befitting a restaurant for the city's elite than an Inn in one of its poorer districts. His manners are a match for his attire, his every question and answer flawlessly polite without veering into condescension. The contrast between him and Griga, who works the room alongside him, could not be sharper. A rambunctious dwarf with a ready smile and a bawdy sense of humor, she clears tables and delivers food with a clatter of glass and a bawdy joke for every patron. Considerably younger than Elin, her flame red hair a perpetual river flowing down her shoulders, she delights in teasing the reserved Elin who bears it with the weary dignity masking deep affection.
The bar, a long 'L' shaped construction of polished oak beneath green marble stands at the eastern end of the room. Behind it, on a specially constructed railed stool, reigns Fridi the bartender. Gifted to the Inn to clear an old tab by Professor Horrence Mattiford, the stool provides the tiny halfling full visibility over the bar and the ability to zoom rapidly along behind it, extending and retracting in response to leavers under the seat to allow her access to top shelf liqueur on the rare occasions someone has the coin or barter to order it. When the Inn is busy she's a whirlwind, pink pony-tail flying as she handles seemingly four orders simultaneously without ever miscalculating change or forgetting to scrape the foam off an overflowing mug.
As it does every sixthday, the setting of the sun and the conclusion of the evening meal marks a transition. The families who had gathered to eat say their goodbyes to the staff and begin filing out. Parents approach the corner where Corryn and Horrence are surrounded by a gaggle of children, pestering the former for more minor magical tricks and the latter to animate toys to dance or fight mock battles. With grateful smiles they pull the children away, vowing to bring them back another day if they will, for once, just for the love of god be good.
Bidding goodbye as well are two women whose minor injuries Ella has treated in exchange for a basket of oranges she tried her hardest to refuse. These oranges now hang from Fodd's meaty arm as he stands at his self-appointed guardian's post by the door. He hands one out to each departing child, in exchange for a promise to be righteous and fight the forces of injustice wherever they may rear their ugly heads. That to a nine year old, his monther's insistence on a bedtime appears the gravest of all injustices does not seem to occur to the adolescent Paladin.
Seated in one of the armchairs by the fire, Ralgor is given a respective distance by the departing patrons. Several do nod in his direction however, cognizant of not only his status as a delver but more immediately, the critical role his efforts play in securing the district food stores from increasingly rapacious and bold rodents.
With the majority of the district folk having departed, the elderly form of Joviar Haman makes its way to the center table. He moves slowly, the sound of his walking staff a rhythmic counterpoint to the heavy fall of his Dragonborn feet on the wooden floorboards. Though he moves stiffly and his bronze scales are faded in places, the glimmer in his eyes is little diminished. His expression, as ever these days, is burdened.
"Delvers, Ms Redstone," he intones as he takes his place at the head of the table. "Though I see but five of you, the petitions I would put before you as Ear of the District weigh heavy and I would commence the evenings proceedings, by your leave." He indicates the six chairs arranged to either side of the table, and waits, stoically, for your arrival before he seats himself. In his hands you see a leather folder, doubtlessly containing the latest round of critical matters on which the District folk require advice or action.
Elin moves soundlessly forward, positioning your favorite beverages by each of your preferred seats and then fades into the background.
Having protectively watched the last departing child until she was lost in gloom outside, Fodd Jr moves over to his assigned chairs and tries to sit with the earnest gravitas that he knows the meetings merits. This is made difficult by the smallness of the chair compared to the big lads buttocks, and the way his cheap, rusty armour chaffes along the ill-fitting joints. He lifts his cup of hot milk (Mother always said it would give him strong bones) and sips before, nodding gravely to Joviar.
"I am ready and willing, Mr Haman." he intones in his deepest, manliest voice; hardly squeaking at all. "The needs of the people cannot wait."
Upon hearing Joviar HORRENCE begins to pack up the various tools he has at the table, sweeping various screws and bolts into his pockets.
The elderly halfling hops down off his chair and begins to waddle over to the table. About half way there he realises he’s forgotten his glasses and mutters “buggerit” under his breath and returns to collect them.
After completing his return trip he hoists himself into his new chair, stirs the tea set out in front of him, sips it and exclaims:
”Rightho- me old mucker- what’s the plan then?”
Ella quietly takes her seat among the growing group of people, cradling the gently steaming cup of green tea between her palms for warmth as she watches her compatriots, her bright blue eyes landing on each of them in turn.
She takes a sip of her tea, and glances over her shoulder into the shadows to offer a small smile of thanks at Elin. "What's on your mind Master Haman?"
As you each move to your chairs, Joviar raises the simple wooden goblet standing by his table to his lips and drinks deep, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He places the drained goblet down with a slightly too hard motion, the sound harsh and loud in the comparative quiet of the inn. Griga makes as if to move forward to refill it, jugg in hand but seems to reconsider, indecision and concern marring her normally cheerful features.
Wiping his mouth with a heavy hand, the Dragonborn settles in the chair at the head of the table. He pauses for a long moment, staring at the table before finding his voice once more. "Another week has passed," he remarks in a tone of deep weariness, "and the problems in the District only grow." He pulls papers from his pouch and after one glance, allows them to fall from his fingers onto the tabletop. He has long since memorized their context, the woes of which they speak burned onto his mind.
"The new pressing concern is water," he says simply. "You will recall two sixthdays past I mentioned in passing that one of the wells in the northeastern district had been fouled," he continues, deep nostrils flaring as he inhales a slow breath. "We had assumed it was merely ill fortune. Now there are three befouled wells, and only the fourth remains pure." He raises an explanatory hand, slowly folding three fingers. "Without the well water, residents have increasingly turned to the river, and rates of fever and worse are rising each day."
"Yet urgent as the water issue is, it is not our sole concern," he goes on. "A group of children are missing." He narrows his eyes, appearing deeply troubled. "They were a troublesome lot, forever getting into mischief, and so noone thought anything of their disappearance at first but it has been three days and no trace of them can be found." He looks about at each of you before continuing, "we would not think to involve you except... except the kids called themselves the Delving League.",
He scowls for a moment, lifting his glass as if expecting it to have refilled itself by sheer force of desire. It does not, so he sets it back down. "The questions of food shortages and encroachment by gangs from the Crumbled District remain pressing," he reports, "but there may be an even fresher storm brewing." "The merchant train that was due to arrive last sixthday and which we believed to have simply been delayed has sent word they will no longer include us upon their route," he says, leaning slightly forward in his chair. "Without the ability to trade the products of our tanneries for the specialized wares of the caravans, the district will crumble into ruin. You all know I've little love for Armon, but that corpulent wastrel is far too greedy to have simply abandoned the chance to make good silver here."
Professor Horrence leans back in his chair, takes off his glasses, produces a small cloth from one of his many pockets and begins to polish the lenses. He sighs wearily and says:
He sits for a moment in contemplation of happier days. Gives a half smile at some long forgotten memory before snapping back into the present. Restoring his glasses to the bridge of his nose, he Slaps his hands on his legs (which dangle like a child’s over the floor from his much-too-high seat) and says
Ragnor, who had mostly appeared to be uninterested behind a vacant stare, swatted his cup off the table in a flash of unexpected rage.
As quickly as his fire appeared it seemingly turned off again. Ragnor sat back in his seat, angled mostly away from the table. He leaned back and sat quietly, without even a shadow of the anger he had shown just moments before. He called out to Elin with the grace befitting his noble roots, "another drink please", before resuming his distant stare towards the window.
Ella, who has flinched at the sudden violence from Ragnor and the clang of the cup against the floor, places her tea back on the table and twines her hands in her lap. “I don’t know what we can do to seek out children if they’ve disappeared without a trace as Master Haman implies. But restoring the wells seems urgent if dozens of people are sickening. I have some small magic that may be able to purify a little of what’s there, but not in a sustainable way.”
As she speaks, her gaze lingers on the discarded cup.
Fodd's eyes flitted around the circle as everyone said their piece and his top lip began to sweat under the faint, wispy moustache he was working on. It never happened like this in the stories. Everything happened in a nice order: something bad happened, and the hero fixed it. If there was a choice it was always between right and wrong. His father would know what to do. Desperate to contribute, Fodd wracked his brain for a relevant story from his father's illustrious life.
Fodd knew little of abstract things like trade and water supplies but he knew that when children were in danger, hero's always saved them.
"My father always said, that no world is worth saving unless there are children left to grow old in it..." he began, then stumbled at flushed as all eyes turned to him. Then, a moment of inspiration struck him; a morsel learned from a childhood spent stabbing shadows with a stick in deserted catacombs. "If the water is fouled then then something is er... fouling it. That's probably going to be at the source of the wells. Underground. Which is also where the children have gone maybe?" The squeak in his voice at the end of the sentence reminds him that his has lost his gravitas a touch and he puts on his grimmest heroic face. "Whatever evil lies beneath us, it is our duty to face it."
Without breaking his gaze from the window Ragnor finishes a sip and in his normally warm and noble tone replies
Sensing a consensus forming and keen to be of use, Fodd raises his hand as if he were in school. "If we visit one of these poisoned wells, perhaps I can detect the source of the..." he hesitates, trying to find a suitably weighty term. "...contagion!"
The conversation flows swiftly, back and forth against the background of the crackling fire's gradual consumption of the once fine table. At Rangar's request, Elin appears silently behind his right shoulder and refills his glass in a single elegant motion. For the briefest moment, the faintest ghost of a smile tugs at the very outer corner's of the elven waiter's mouth at serving someone with the proper manners and bearing. It disappears as swiftly as it arrived, through not before Griga catches it and rolls her eyes so hard she almost swoons.
Sauntering over, the dwarf gives Ella a wide grin as she refills her cup before winking at Fodd, snapping into a rigid posture, head back and eyes staring into the middle distance, and gliding back to her wall in an eerily accurate imitation of Elin's gait.
At Fodd's intervention, Joviar frowns thoughtfully, ignoring the staff except to glare at them for not also refilling his potent brew.
"The children called themselves the Delving League? When I was playing at..." Frodd catches himself and coughs, deepening his voice, "While I was engaged in my lengthy training to follow my father's path, I used to do so in the catacombs. If the children thought of themselves as Delvers then surely they are searching for artefacts below?" Itching for some kind of heroic action, Frodd can't restrain his impatience. "And the longer we sit here talking the more danger they are in!" Frodd tries to maintain his commanding frown in spite of the way his voice squeaked noticeably as he shouts. To add emphasis he tries to rise out of his chair, fist heroically thrust in the air. Unfortunately his buttocks, wedged as they are in the small seat, pull the chair with them. Frodd affects not to notice.
"Joviar how dire are the food and water supplies in town?"
Muttering something about needing larger chairs, Griga makes her way over to the table and stands behind Fodd, bracing herself with a foot on his large calf she tugs on the chair in an attempt to separate stool from buttocks. ((Fodd, if you want to be helpful please roll a Dexterity check)).
Ignoring Fodd's pronouncement and predicament, Joviar turns slightly blurry eyes upon Ragnar, nodding solemnly and consulting his notes with short, sharp, irritated motions.
He consults his notes again, reading carefully.
He finishes these dire pronouncements and holds up his cup, causing Elin to reluctantly move over and refill it from a smoky green glass bottle. Glaring at the man, Joviar drains it in three gulps, the heavy acrid smell of potent alcohol perceptible even to those seated most distantly from the elder Dragonborn.
Fodd focuses on appearing to intently listen to Jovar, nodding along seriously, while surreptitiously trying to ease his arse out of the chair as Griga pulls, his face scarlet with embarrassment. (Dexterity check = 18 )
"Thank you for laying out our predicament so clearly, Master Haman," says Ella, pitching her voice a little louder than usual in order to provide some cover for Fodd. "It seems self evident that speed is a necessity. All three of the challenges are important, and as such we should focus on the most urgent, which would seem to be the children. I don't know about you Ragnor, but I fear I can't aid with the water supplies until tomorrow. As such, I propose we do three things this evening. Firstly, one group should seek out more information from the children's friends before it's past their bedtime. Secondly, one group should investigate this tree house Master Haman speaks of. Third, Master Haman if you could spread the word that two of the wells will be purified for perhaps an hour tomorrow - let's set a time between us, where I purify one and Ragnor the other. The residents should divide between the two and store up as much as they can - communally if at all possible - during that time. Whilst we're present, we can speak to the residents - asking about any sign of tampering with the wells or information about food supplies. We can then make further decisions about our next step when we have all the information we need." She looks around the group, suddenly blushing as she realises she's been speaking for some time - but simply lifts her chin as if she feels the need for defiance. "Does that... work for everyone?"
((Also DM, can I insight check Griga when she smiled at me please? Insight Check = 18)
“Yes- jolly good plan” say Horrence, “I’m happy to go and speak to the youngsters. I’ve dealt which many a rapscallion in my day, and there’s mother that a little bit of attention and the odd you solider can’t fix!”
He look over at Fodd, still struggling with his chair, winks at him and say “And by the looks of young Fodd we aren’t going to be running out of supplies just yet! You alright there lad? Do be careful- one heave the wrong way and you’ll squish poor Griga like a plumb”
Turning his attention back to the rest of the table he say “By the way Joviar- who exactly are these wee ones who’ve gone missing?”
Aided by Fodd's unexpectedly adroit wriggling (perhaps this is not the first chair he has found himself wedged in), the stout dwarven server manages to pry free the inn's chair, half stumbling backward as it finally comes loose.
Ella looks at questioningly at Griga, head half tilted as she attempts to puzzle out the woman's lighting fast grin. She is able to discern little, except that the smile appeared shortly after she had mentioned the children as a top priority, and had been approving but not thankful. She is uncertain however, if she might not just be ascribing hidden motivations or subtle layers to the dwarf who is, in all fairness, a fairly sunny and cheerful sort at even the worst of times.
Jovian, blinking slowly to clear his eyes listens with exaggerated focus to Ella's monologue. He nods his head slowly.
He turns to Horrence, the only one at the table even remotely approaching him in age. It takes him a moment to reply, anger flashing across his face as he clearly struggles to remember the providence of the missing children. Finally he dredges the information up and answers, voice low and filled with self-loathing.
((You know the Leaning Tenement to be a comparatively large structure, hastily raised to house a dozen lower income families on the southeastern part of the district. Such structures aren't unusual in the city, raised at a time when Delving success attracted migrants from neighboring districts in excess of the land required to house them. The rapid construction, often by Evokers less skilled than Horrence and his former colleagues required constant arcane maintenance and it is these tenements which have suffered most acutely from its absence)).
Elin clears his throat from the back of the room, interjecting.
Elin again, his tone deliberately neutral and free from any inflection that might be read as judgement or exasperation..