+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + THE ADVENTURERS + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ + Many of the locations, non-player characters, spells, and + + other terms used in these stories are the property of TSR, Inc. + + However, this does not mean that TSR in any way endorses or + + authorizes their use, and any such items contained within these + + stories should not be considered representative of TSR in any + + way, shape, or form. + + The player characters contained in these writings are copy- + + right 1991-7 by Thomas Miller. Any resemblance to any persons + + or characters either real or fictional is utterly coincidental. + + Copying and/or distribution of these tales is permissible only + + under the sole condition that no part of them will be used or + + sold for profit. In that case, I hope you enjoy them... + + + + Thomas Miller + + tmiller@cimmeria.ns.gatech.edu + +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ + Date: 11/4/569 C.Y. (Common Year) + + Time: evening + + Place: the city of Fax, in the Wild Coast + + Climate: cold + +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ + "The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we + + started, and know the place for the first time." + + - unknown + +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 0. Prologue The tall, black-cloaked elf strode through the streets of Fax as if he owned them. Perhaps, in his own mind, he did. The name of Belphanior would not go unknown for long, that he had vowed since that years-ago day he had first come to Fax. He had done well here, his little supply shop providing an excellent cover for his other occupation. The real trick was to hit targets sporadically and occasionally. No one would link the burglaries he had committed, for he'd changed his methods and victims every time. Belphanior fancied himself a competent and clever thief - and a successful one as well. What would old Nerkon have said? Nerkon, the elf mused to himself, would have yelled at him and tried to cut himself in for a fat share of the profits. Too bad that the mean old bastard was six feet under. Chuckling in a low tone, Belphanior turned down a dark alley... ...and stopped suddenly, his senses alert to the unseen but present danger nearby. Belphanior: Who goes there? thug#1: (slips out of the shadows) Don't worry yourself about that, now. thug#2: (appears behind Belphanior, a shortsword clutched in his scarred hand) Belphanior: Who sent you? Was it Hugh the Hand? Or maybe Fat Freddie? Damn that obese slug...I knew he'd cut in on my action someday- thug#1: You're smarter than you look, elf. Our...employer has gotten tired of your presence in Fax. Time for you to move on. thug#2: Or disappear... Belphanior: (shakes his head) He only sent two of you? thug#1: That's the last thing you should be worrying about, elf... Belphanior: And the first thing you should be...(suddenly, with no warning signs, he releases a blazing missile from the folds of his cloak) thug#1: (blasted in the face, he screams and falls, twitching) Aaaagh! thug#2: (charges at Belphanior, slashing) Belphanior: (dodges, not quite quickly enough as the blade rips a shallow gash along his side) Argh! (in the blink of an eye, he produces and hurls a dagger, missing the foe's head by mere inches) Damn! thug#2: (turns, approaching again, more carefully this time) For that murder, elf, I'll make sure you die slow... Belphanior: Don't bother - I have no intention of dying today. Come, let's see how you do against someone whose back isn't turned. thug#2: (swings his sword as he closes with the opponent) Belphanior: (parries the blow, lightning-fast, and delivers a swift kick to the other's crotch) thug#2: Urk...(he crumples) You... Belphanior: So sorry about that...(he brings his blade around and into the man's neck, severing his head) My apologies. thug#2: (his headless corpse falls to the muddy street) Belphanior: (discards his ruined black cloak, stashing it amidst some gutter trash) Hmm, maybe a red one next time...yeah, that would look cool. Within the hour, the elf had returned to one of his safehouses and bound his wound. After the incident, he was fairly certain that his main business-place would be watched. He berated himself for not finding out who sent the two would-be assassins before killing them. At the same time, though, he was exultant in the aftermath of the fight. He always got a rush like that when his life was on the line. Still, it appeared that his welcome had expired here in Fax. Perhaps it was time to move on; there were enough powerful crime- lords in Fax to worry him. Chances were that whichever of them had sent those men would try again, and it was only a matter of time before they got lucky, or outnumbered him, or managed to slip poison into his drink. No, better to cut his losses and go else- where, while he was still able. Shrewdness such as this had made him successful, and now it would save him, if he acted on it. He had enough gold to travel to any number of places, though he wasn't quite sure which would best suit his needs. Belphanior had already been checking around, keeping his eyes and ears open, ever-alert for opportunities. One such chance had stuck in his mind: some merchant named Cassius was offering a nice fee for someone to act as his courier. The elf grinned to himself as he thought about making the fellow pay his passage as well. Best to squeeze every last copper from the man; even the smallest coins added up after a while. In a pleasant mood once more, Belphanior set out for the Green Dragon Inn... Elsewhere in Fax, a shorter and much less homicidal elf stood at the city's public bulletin board. While passing by, he had noticed a sign requesting help for a mission. Some man named Cassius seemed to need some guards for a caravan or something. Hmm. In truth, it sounded fairly stupid. Of course, most things sounded stupid to Ged, for he was not only a grey elf, but an exceptionally shrewd and intelligent grey elf. Ged was proud of his abilities, almost to the point of being ego- tistical. And why not? How many others had ever mastered both the holy and the magical arts? Of course, it had never occurred to Ged that he was no master; still, he had power, and knew how to use it. Any adventuring party worth its salt would recognize this, and be glad to have him as its leader. Indeed, they should be honored. Ged hoped he wouldn't have to "work" with any thieves. Besides being thoroughly lazy and immoral, such scum never seemed to show the proper respect for Boccob or his magicks. Only recently, Ged had caught some skinny little weasel picking a helpless old lady's pockets in a nearby town. Fortunately, he'd acted quickly and decisively, using a spell to put the fellow to sleep until the proper authorities arrived. He'd even gotten a fresh-baked apple pie out of the incident. While humans would never approach the overall gloriousness of elves, they sure could cook. The grey elf shook his golden locks, as confused as he would ever admit to being. Why would a simple courier mission require a "capable and multi-talented group of individuals" to carry it out? Or was there, perhaps, more here than met the eye? Ged resolved to find out, and if possible, to further his own hunger for new magic as a result. Money would buy him new incantations and the formulae to use them...or, Boccob willing, maybe even a magical item of some sort! More excited than he had any right to be, the young, impudent elf began actively searching for the Green Dragon Inn on the streets and alleys of Fax. He hoped that he wouldn't have to resort to asking for directions; that was certainly beneath his station, and theoretically unnecessary given his intelligence. Surely only a fool would be unable to find a place called the Green Dragon... The short, somewhat chubby priest moved through the crowd, doing his best to keep from knocking merchants' carts over. At this hour, as dusk approached, the marketplace was a flurry of activity and bustle. Sellers and buyers rushed to make last-chance deals, to gain or lose an extra copper before nightfall. People stayed out of the fellow's way, not because he was particularly large or imposing, but because he was a priest of Trithereon, a mighty and well-respected god. For his part, it was all Rob could do to keep moving. He had been born with many gifts, but coordination was not one of them. Where Rob went, accidents and spills were sure to follow; knowing this, the elders of his temple had sent him forth into the world. The young priest had no regrets, for already he had saved a small baby from a potentially-fatal sickness and donated several silvers to a starving family. Such noble callings guided him now (it certainly wasn't fate, at any rate) as he searched for the Green Dragon Inn. A desperate plea for help, the posted message had motivated the priest like nothing else from the last few days. A fellow in need, this Cassius - and who better to help one in need than Rob himself? Now, if only he knew how to get to the Green Dragon Inn, wherever that was... The way he saw it, he had a duty to the downtrodden, the poor, the sickly. The Cassius who left that public note sounded like someone Rob could help. It never occurred to him that others would answer the same call, even if their reasons weren't as noble as his own. Preoccupied by thoughts like these, Rob bumped into a signpost, almost knocking himself out. Rob: Ow! (he backs up, regarding the wrought-iron pole as he rubs his forehead) Wha- (he trips over someone's tiny dog, falling into a puddle) Oof! tiny dog: Arf, arf, arf! Yes, at the rate he was going, and with the lack of success he was having, it would be nightfall before the inept priest found the inn - if he found it at all. Indeed, it might take a miracle; then again, miracles were the basis of legends. Narrowly avoiding a steaming pile of dog droppings, Rob stumbled along on his way... The large, hairy warrior lumbered through the streets of Fax, and he was not happy. Preoccupied with simple thoughts, about simple things, he collided with a leatherworker. leatherworker: (whirls, red-faced) Okay, you clumsy- Krug: (hulks over the smaller man) leatherworker: Nice weather we're having here, isn't it? Krug: No. leatherworker: (decides that he has somewhere else to be, and vamooses) Krug: Stupid. (he continues on his way) tiny dog: (sniffing the warrior's booted feet distastefully) Arf! Krug: (boots the skinny little mutt, sending it flying into an old lady) old lady: Aieee! (she recoils, both her and the dog falling into the muddy street) Ech... Krug: (ignores all of this, heading into a nearby tavern) The warrior carried a scroll tucked away in his belt, and it was this simple message that had him riled up - for Krug couldn't read. Thus, he was infuriated. Krug: (slams his fist on the bartop, toppling several empty mugs) Beer! barkeep: Hold yer horses, fella! Coming right up! Krug: (grunts, and turns his attention to the message) The thing had been delivered to Krug while he was training in the warriors' guildhall. It must have arrived during his workout at the chopping pole. There was no better way to build arm strength than by chopping on the large, upright log. Krug had little need for more arm strength, but it was good exercise, and it let him work off any anger he might have. Anyhow, now he had this message that he couldn't read - and this warm, watered-down beer that was barely palatable. Krug: (guzzles the stuff, slamming his mug down) Urp! Warm! barkeep: If you don't like it, pal, go somewhere else- Krug: (grabs the man by the collar, preparing to make him ride the bartop) Hmm. (another idea strikes him, and he glares at the fellow) Can you read? barkeep: Wh- what?!? Krug: Read. This. (he shoves the scroll under the man's nose) barkeep: (relaxes a bit as the huge warrior lowers him to the floor) Uh...it's a message to some guy named "Krug." Krug: Figured that. barkeep: It says that a Cassius seeks veteran warriors for the purpose of delivering a package to a nearby city. Krug: What package? barkeep: Doesn't say. Krug: Anything else? barkeep: Meet at the Green Dragon Inn...that's it... Krug: (lets the man go) Hnh. (he grabs his scroll and stuffs it back into his belt) barkeep: (slowly backing away) Krug: (looks around, then leaves) barkeep: Hey! Hey, you! Krug: (half-turns) Huh? barkeep: Two coppers! For the beer! Krug: Rip-off. (he digs in a belt pouch, and tosses the man two grimy coins) Keep change. (he leaves the tavern) barkeep: What change?!? (he watches the coins bounce off the bartop and onto the floor) Damn dregs...I always get the dregs here... random young bar patron: It's that stuff you serve, Mo. It ain't right to call that crap "beer." barkeep: Quiet, Elmo, you damned fool drunkard! If you don't like it, why the hell d'you drink so much of the damned stuff?!? (he takes a swig of beer, and almost chokes) Pfffht! Ghak... Elmo: (laughing like a hyena) mean-looking ruffian#1: (at a shadowy corner table, he turns to his companion and mutters in a low voice) It's time. mean-looking ruffian#2: Guess it was coming...let's find the others and get to that inn. (they both rise and prepare to leave) Out on the street, Krug headed northward. He knew from long and drunken experience where the Green Dragon was, and he'd be there in no time. Given the current contents of his purse - three coppers, a ball of lint, and some toecheese - this new job would be profitable indeed. He'd see to that, one way or the other... About this time, another wanderer was headed in roughly the same direction (and positively the same destiny) though for different reasons. Anyone watching the half-elf saunter along Fax' streets would surely have thought he was drunk as a skunk. The truth of it was, Peyote had been into the mushrooms again. Unlike beer and wine, though, the 'shrooms heightened rather than dulled his senses. The adventurous druid had recently left his roving band of companions, opting to remain here in Fax until he found something worthy of his attention. He had followed leads and red herrings alike, and one of the more normal-sounding of these was drawing him now. Couriers wanted for a venture to Courwood...it sounded like easy money to Peyote's pointed ears. After all, what could possibly complicate such an easy job? Plus, they would be traveling through the Suss Forest, which although dark and gloomy was still a forest. Peyote liked the woodlands. Besides the fact that he felt most comfortable there, one had to consider the strange mosses and roots that could often be found, if one knew where to look. Oh, there were some such growths that were no fun to eat or cook - that nasty blackroot stuff came to mind - but overall, it was easy to live, thrive, and survive in the forest. The half-elf had been doing it for decades, and was happy, so why stop now? Truth to tell, Peyote didn't care for this city. He felt trapped, even smothered by the high stone walls and manmade buildings. Why anyone would ever want to live here - really _live_ here - he'd never fathom. His thoughts were interrupted by a passing wine merchant. Peyote was thirsty (the 'shrooms always made him thirsty) and he flagged the man down as he wheeled by. Peyote: Ho there, dude! wine merchant: Dude? Peyote: Exactly. wine merchant: (confused) Peyote: I'll be needing one of those jugs of grog, my man. wine merchant: Huh? Peyote: Grog. You know, the good stuff. wine merchant: Uh...right. Peyote: (picks up a blue jug) Hey, man, is this Velunan '51? Because if it's Velunan '51, it's good stuff. wine merchant: How did you know? Peyote: Well, I know my wines, y'know...and '51 was the year they got those weird blue grapes. (he glances at the merchant) I was there, dude. wine merchant: Whatever, friend. Yes, that's '51 Velunan vintage. Peyote: Groovy. wine merchant: My first, last, and only bottle. I picked it up when a tavern went out of business- Peyote: What'll it cost me, man? I must have it. wine merchant: I'm asking ten gold- Peyote: Whoa! wine merchant: But for you, my inebriated friend...seven. Peyote: Seven...say, would you take mushrooms in trade? wine merchant: Pardon? Peyote: Uh, nevermind. (he counts out coins in his hand) I've got some silver too...hope it all adds up... wine merchant: Me too. Peyote: Good, 'cause as I said, that wine must be mine. wine merchant: Yeah, I remember. Peyote: Six and eighteen...six and nineteen...six and twenty. There you go. wine merchant: (takes the coins and hands the half-elf the blue jug) Enjoy. Peyote: Will do. Peace, man. (he wanders away) wine merchant: (mumbling to himself) Where do they come from... and why can't we send them back there? Peyote ambled on, searching for the Green Dragon Inn. He'd heard that it was a decent enough watering-hole, but you just never knew. With any luck they wouldn't bitch about him carrying the wine-jug into the place. Some people were weird about that. Hopefully it would all work out, because now he was down to his last silvers - one of the results of his wandering, carousing lifestyle. But, as he'd reasoned before, this had to be a piece of cake. A courier and delivery job...what could possibly go wrong? Clutching his newfound treasure to his chest, Peyote climbed the stairs leading into the Green Dragon Inn, just as the rain started falling... Mongo cursed as he tromped through the mud. It'd been raining on and off for a week now, and it was cold. Of course, these things couldn't stop the tough dwarf - it took a lot more than a little cold and rain - but he didn't have to like them. He just endured. Such was the way with dwarves, and Mongo was stronger and hardier than most. He'd planned on leaving town earlier today, but delays had kept piling up, and one thing led to another, and now here he was, past dusk and wet and the rain didn't look to be letting up. Mongo had only bid farewell to the other two dwarves a few days ago; those ones wanted to go north, toward the Free City of Greyhawk. Mongo had no interest in such a place; civilization was for the weak. He'd enjoyed the company of his kinsmen, but there was a time for everything to end, and everyone to move on. He figured on finding some new and interesting place to explore. Maybe there was a general somewhere, looking for good warriors to join his army's ranks. Or maybe some big merchant caravan needed protecting on its way through the wild lands. No telling, but the lack of weight in his purse told Mongo that he'd better find some means of gainful employment, and soon. Kicking a rock aside, the dwarf decided to go and have a drink for the road. It sure couldn't hurt, not on a night like this, and besides, Elmo the stable boy wouldn't have his pony saddled and ready for another half-hour. That kid meant well, but he must've been dropped on his head as a baby, because he didn't have much in the way of sense. Oh well - better that than a life as a bandit or something that required even less smarts. If that'd happened, some- one like Mongo would someday put an end to the kid's misguided ways. Grinning despite the driving rain and his muddy boots, Mongo spun sharply to the right, heading for the door of the first tavern that he saw: some shithole called the "Green Dragon Inn." One for the road... The man leaned back in his chair, appearing to down a mighty swig of ale. In actuality, the stuff in his goblet was weak and watered down, and he was only sipping. A woodsman and hunter by occupation, Halbarad was about as quiet as his profession would allow him to be. Then again, he had no one to talk to...not yet, anyway. This morning, he'd been practicing in the warriors' guildhall when a messenger brought him a sealed scroll. An invitation, this - to join an as-yet-unformed band of wanderers and sellswords. Whoever this Cassius character was, he had money - no doubt about that. To the ranger, needing to work for money to get away from this cesspool of a city was ironic. He liked the outdoors, not tiny messy towns like Fax; thus, he wished to move on as quickly as possible. While he had no pressing need for the gold, neither did he have an abundance of it. Thus, here Halbarad was, waiting quietly in the designated place at the designated time. Actually, he was somewhat early, and he had taken a small, nondescript table off to one side. The way he figured it, whoever else hoped to be in on this mission would get here and reveal themselves. He liked to know what kind of people he might be working - and fighting - with. When one was battling for one's life, it helped to know everything there was to know. The best time to gather information about people was when they didn't know the gathering was happening. Case in point: a dark, hooded figure shuffled through the old, rickety double doors and into the inn's common room. To Halbarad's keen and experienced eye, this stranger had "adventurer" written all over him. The weary ranger sat back and waited to see what might unfold... It was a dark and stormy night, and the bundled, hooded fellow was only too glad to get indoors. Shaking the rain from his cloak, he gazed around the interior of the Green Dragon Inn. The place seemed well-suited for his purposes, and he indiscreetly slipped into a booth against one wall. When a barmaid stopped by, the newcomer politely ordered himself a glass of fine wine. When he left the other tavern, he'd intended to drink more than a single glass, but he needed to do some thinking, and that meant keeping his head clear. This fellow was known by many names, but his true one was Alindyar. He was not having a particularly pleasant evening; the troublemaking band of ruffians he had teamed up with a few days ago had lost its charm. The bandits had been so besotted with drink that they hadn't noticed him slip away, leaving that tavern for this one. Of course, Alindyar had the power to mask his departure, if he wished. He was an illusionist-wizard of no small skill. Yet, here in this sprawling city, far from his shadowy native land, he was more than a little uncomfortable. He decided, then and there, to seek out some new companions, preferably some more sensible and capable than the wild bandits. And here he was, sipping his wine and wondering what the future would hold. He seriously doubted that the bandits would care much about his departure, much less actually try to find him. Fax seemed to be a big place; Alindyar could only wonder what it might be like to actually live here - or even in one of the larger cities, such as Greyhawk. These thoughts made his imagination wander along, hoping that someday, he would make his fortune like any normal surface- dweller. First things first, however; a group of strange individuals had begun congregating near his table. He wasn't sure that they had noticed him, or that they cared. No cohesive band, these rascals; indeed, it seemed as if they didn't all know one another. Also, the individuals were of varied racial stock and profession. They continued to argue and prattle on as they flocked to his corner of the tavern. More than a little intrigued, the dark elf pulled his hood down a bit, and watched and listened... Peldor knew something was going on the moment all the people started showing up. A few moments ago, everything had been quiet, at least for an establishment like this. Noisy groups of friends ate, drank, and made merry everywhere - but they were friends, not a group of new acquaintances hoping to complete an unknown mission. Peldor knew this, just as instinctively as he knew he was Peldor. That was about all he knew, though. Only a few days past, he had woken up in a nearby field. He had no idea who he was or what he had been doing in that field (he'd attributed the strange burnt patches of grass to drunken farmers.) The fact that he'd been stark naked hadn't really helped either. Fortunately, he quickly stumbled across a campsite, and some caravan guards' clean laundry, hung out to dry; shortly thereafter, it was a well-dressed (if copperless) Peldor who walked down the dirt road, toward Fax. Less than one full day later, it had been a happy (and gold-laden) Peldor who relaxed in the steaming bath with a pair of beautiful young ladies. He couldn't help it - certain things just seemed to come naturally to him. Pickpocketing, flirting with women, taking other people's possessions...those kinds of things. Peldor: Get the middle of my back, if you would... Bubbles: (grabs the brush) Tee hee. Barbie: (smiling) Got an itch there, do you? Peldor: That's not the only place. Bubbles: You needed a bath, that's for sure. Did you go roll around in the mud, or what? Peldor: Never. A Peldor doesn't do those things. Barbie: And why not? Peldor: Because he's busy doing _these_ things. Barbie: (squeaks in surprise) Aie! Later, as the ladies were asleep (no doubt worn out by his newly- discovered prowess) Peldor had ventured to the common room of the Green Dragon, in search of a good hot meal. At first, he had been interested in the gathering party around him; indeed, he'd only been watching the tired-looking ranger watch the strange, black-cloaked man for the hell of it. Now that his food was here, he really wanted to eat supper, not listen to a bunch of fools bicker as they met each other. Then again, someone had just mentioned money for a job to be done. Money was something that Peldor wanted to get more of; it must have been in his blood. It also wouldn't hurt to better his lot; the worn leather armor he wore was a constant reminder of this. He had gold, but not _that_ much gold. Besides, who knew what sorts of adventures might lie ahead, as part of a larger group? With this in mind, the amnesiac thief sat and listened calmly while he finished his supper; perhaps there was more here than met the eye... next: technically, it was Adventurers #001 ftp: ftp.digex.net in /pub/access/dpm/rpg/stories/adventurers ftp.nol.net in /pub/users/zac/rpg/adventurers/ ftp.tas.gov.au/misc/stories www: http://www.access.digex.net/~dpm http://www3.hmc.edu/~kshobaki/adventurers homepage: http://www.gatech.edu/oit/oe/design/thomas/adv.html mail: tmiller@cimmeria.ns.gatech.edu (preferred) thomas.miller@oit.gatech.edu (emergency) notes: Written in 1997, this is a special one-time prequel to the normal series. It of course takes place immediately before the first Adventurers episode from 1991. Here is the _original_ stats file, created right before the whole campaign started. Note that these stats may not match what you already know; I just dug this file up from the vaults and am including it for posterity. It should not be considered canon.