Malachite and Mithril: Dead Passion's Grave 1

A game originally played using an off-the-cuff d20 system, but now converted to Maze Rabbits. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.

Bob Wizard and Dan Jun-Explora enter Dead Passion's Grave, an intersection of the dungeon dimension and this world. As they cross the threshold their lanterns dim slightly and a wave of lethargy passes over them.

DC 17 Will save or take an ongoing -1 malaise penalty to all d20 rolls. Dan rolls 9, Bob rolls 19.

Dan falters as the lingering echoes of past defeats saps his resolve. Bob has no regrets, his mind knows only how to seethe with barely contained power. With a mystic pass of his hand he attempts to brush away the curse that grips Dan.

Spellz check (each character has a special stat, roll under on 1d100 to pass). Target 60%. Outcome 93%

The magic here is powerful! Bob is unable to dispel it so sees no other path but that which lies ahead. He leads Dan across the chamber toward the arched passageway that beckons them to come deeper inside.

The narrow passage opens into a circular room with a fountain at its centre. The fountain resembles a woman pouring out a ewer, the water now just a muddy trickle. Two archways lead out of the chamber, one to the right and one straight ahead. Dan sits at the edge of the fountain while Bob sniffs the ether around both exits. He scents a blockage in the first passage so looks to the right. Before he gets close he's interrupted by a yell of surprise from Dan. The woman in the fountain has lowered her ewer and is reaching out for him.

DC 13 Reflex save or be grabbed. Dan rolls 19.

Dan evades the woman's grasp and draws his longsword. Bob whispers words of power as his eyes glow with a blue light. The woman remains on her pedestal and faces the pair. Her calm expression shifts to a mask of fear as she portends doom for all who take the righthand path.

DC 13 Will save or flee in terror. Dan rolls 3. Bob rolls 9.

The pair brick it and run shrieking hysterically back to the first room. They cower together in each other's arms for a time, and eventually manage to console each other enough that they feel able to continue. Returning to the fountain room, the woman in her original pose, the pair skirt the edge of the room to reach the far exit. At they cautiously proceed, Bob smells that blocked ether again. Dan's taking point and comes to a sudden halt. He reaches out a hand and feels the surface of an unseen barrier. He flexes and readies to try and push through it.

Gainz check. Target 22%. Outcome 57%

It resists him and he frowns at the clear use of sorcery. Bob's beard crackles with arcane power, neon yellow lightning sprays from his eyes...

Spells check. Target 60%. Outcome 94%

...and ricochets off in all directions!

DC 11 Reflex save or be struck by eldritch lightning. Dan rolls 17. Bob rolls 7.

Dan dives to safety, but Bob takes a lightning bolt to the face. A pile of fancy, if scorched, robes falls to the floor. Dan looks on in despair, his grief hiding the approach of another adventurer.

Mystic Marge is large and in charge. She wasn't shaken by the entrance, had no time for the confrontational water features, and is striding towards Dan. She channels her divine power to banish the ward.

Divine Intervention check. Target 82%. Outcome 64%.

The barrier is torn aside like gauze, Marge's aura cuts it aside before wrapping itself back around her. She takes a moment to compose himself and then reaches out a hand to comfort Dan. It's awkward, Marge is an instrument of celestial wrath, not a people person. They form up and press on into the dungeon.

They enter the chamber of the Font of Passion, the heart of the dungeon and their target. If they destroy this they can leave. As they take in the sight, they hear footsteps echoing from an alcove on the far side of the room. The nine-limbed, carapace-armoured, towering guardian construct crawls into the room.

[GUARDIAN CONSTRUCT: HD 2; AC 14; 3 claws +2 (1d6+2); ML 9]

Dan readies his longsword and squares off against the guardian. Marge holds back and appraises the situation. The guardian's mechanical voice box clicks and chitters a challenge.

To be continued...

Inquisition into the Unknown - Preludes

A series played using Dark Ages: Inquisitor. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.

Amelina's prelude: the streets of a small town

Concept: Reformed child thief

Order: Oculi Dei

Nature (Flaw) / Demeanour: Penitent (Masochism) / Bravo

She hides in the shadows of an alley, waiting for a drunken mark [Dexterity + Stealth; 7 dice; 3 successes]. As one stumbles past, she makes to reach for their purse [Dexterity + Legerdemain; 7 dice; 5 successes]. With a graceful hand she relieves her mark of the burden of their wealth as a robed figure watches on [Perception + Alertness; 8 dice; 3 successes]. Amelina notices her watcher and pauses to gauge their reaction. The figure looks on impassively before slipping away into the darkness.

She sits in the vestry of the small church, her book of simple Latin verse open before her [Intelligence + Linguistics (Latin); 4 dice; 1 success]. It is a struggle but she passably completes her studies. Later the teacher questions her knowledge of catechism [Intelligence + Theology; 3 dice; 2 successes]. Her answers please her teacher well enough.

Nigelle's prelude: the Murnau estate

Concept: Politically married in

Order: House Murnau

Nature (Flaw) / Demeanour: Dreamer (Escapism) / Gallant

He meets with his soon-to-be father-in-law to discuss his prospects as a suitor and potential member of the family [Charisma + Politics; 5 dice; 4 successes]. He makes a good impression with a mixture of charm and political acumen. He is invited to walk the grounds of the estate with his intended [Appearance + Etiquette; 6 dice; 0 successes]. He fails to impress; it's a very chilly day even for the autumn. He makes a desperate play for her affections to secure the match [Manipulation + Empathy; 4 dice, 3 successes]. A bold action that breaches protocol turns out to be the key to making a good impression.

He is taken through the family crypts and libraries with his mother-in-law. She quizzes him on aspects of historic accounts of the supernatural [Wits + Investigation; 4 dice; 3 successes]. He's learned well and she invites him to duel her [Dexterity + Melee; 4 dice; 0 successes]. She politely disarms him and demonstrates the shortcomings in his technique, he graciously accepts the critique and promises to train harder.

Sister Anna's prelude: the Convent of Saint Perpetua

Concept: Nihilist theologian

Order: Red Order

Nature (Flaw) / Demeanour: Rebel (Anarchism) / Judge

She attends mass in the convent's small chapel, her sisters sing their hymns around her. She joins her voice with theirs [Charisma + Expression; 4 dice; 1 successes]. She sings well enough but her heart isn't entirely in it. After the mass, in her seclusion, she contemplates scripture and tries to rationalise away her doubts [Intelligence + Theology; 8 dice; 4 successes]. She's able to console herself for the time being. Later that evening she is preparing the evening meal with another sister, taking time to listen to her sister's pious prattle [Wits + Empathy; 5 dice; 3 successes]. As little as she actually cares, she is able to mask her impatience.

She stands over the fallen witch and bends to pry the worn codex from her hands. Somehow the book is untouched by the flames that had consumed its owner [Courage; 4 dice; 1 success]. She is able to overcome her distaste and recover the text. Later that evening, still in the witch's hovel, she pores over the text [Perception + Occult; 6 dice; 3 successes]. She learns much and vows to uncover more mysteries...

Moonrise - Act 3

A series played using Anamnesis. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.

Shadow: The Moon (Anxiety, Illusion, Intuition) 

ACT 3: CUPS

SCENE 1: TWO OF CUPS

Shaken by the memories of accusations, I made haste along the boulevard. Hateful, treasonous, words echoed in my mind and my body reacted to their memory by taking flight from danger. My path was eventually blocked by a large pair of iron gates, an unfamiliar crest emblazoned across them. A featureless lock held them shut, though when my fingers made contact with it lines of sigils lit up and flowed across its surface. With a dry, rusted, creak the lock disengaged and the gates swung open. Lights alongside the path beyond lit up in pairs, moving forward from the gates to the palace ahead. As I walked along the path I heard the gates close and lock behind me but I was too distracted by the towering edifice before me to be concerned. In contrast with the buildings outside, the palace had rough stone walls fronted with colonnades and topped with cupolas. Alcoves vied for space with each other and within each was a extravagant figure, each face stirred distant memories that remained out of reach though I saw a clear family resemblance among them all. I pushed open the ornate doors, carved with bouquets of flowers and swooping birds, and entered the halls of the palace.

In contrast with the exterior, the interior's decadence had been violently rebuked. Frescoes were smashed from the walls and lay in piles of rubble, statues had been dismembered and scattered, heaps of broken furniture were piled as kindling. The palace had clearly been attacked but only inside, I wondered how this could have come to be as I crept through the chambers and passages of this once grand building. As I went I saw frequent signs of habitation post-assault; tapestries bundled into crude nest-like beds, the bones of small animals strewn across the floors of some rooms, and at every barred window were deeply gouged scratches. Eventually, at the far end of a vast ballroom, I found them. Close to a dozen withered, partially mummified, bodies huddled in a corner behind an overturned table. They held each other in their stiff arms, as if comforting each other in the face of some great tragedy. Or perhaps just the quiet end of a once great dynasty now fallen so low. I crouched beside my family and for what felt like forever I held their hands and mourned with them.

SCENE 2: SIX OF CUPS

I made my way up the vast central staircase as it wound it's way around the edges of the central hall, passages branching off and burrowing deeper into the vast mass of the palace. The weight of the cracked opulence now weighed on me as heavily as the sheer volume of stone and metal of its structure. One corridor in particular drew me along it, something about the way the shadows fell across the faded and torn tapestries perhaps? As I padded along the carpeted length my hand traced a line along the hall, my fingertips feeling the cracks and scratches that pitted its surface. I came to a halt in front of a large set of wooden doors which I felt certain barred the entrance to my personal chambers. The doors held firm despite the damage about them and I wondered if even in their madness and despair my family had spared this room out of some sense of respect. I pushed against the doors and they reluctantly gave way with a dry groan, revealing a room filled with dust, cobwebs, and discarded objects that clamoured for attention in my memory.

Louder than the rest was an iron orb resting atop a pedestal. It sat in a shaft of light from a high window, dust motes danced about the orb like an entourage, flickering away as my hand reached out to pick up the object. Much like the crown in the cave, the orb was wrought iron inlaid with gold. The gilded patterns formed whirls and spirals that my eyes struggled to follow, the effect was almost hypnotic. As I turned the orb over in my hands I saw that, as with the crown, the surface was marred with bloodstains. I froze the weight of the iron sphere threatening to slip from my hand as I recalled the moment I had pried it from my father's hand. My hands were awash with crimson though enough time had passed that they were now merely sticky as opposed to slick. The marks on the orb and crown were my own fingerprints, left when I stole them from the dead king's throne room.

SCENE 3: KNIGHT OF CUPS

The orb still in gripped tightly in my hand, I staggered across the room to the grand fireplace. It had stood cold for many years and held none of the comforting warmth and light it had once offered me. As I gazed into the ashes in the grate, I noticed that it was slightly askew and that there were the faintest finger marks in the ash around it. I knelt and with my free hand I brushed the ash away from the edges of the grate which I then slid aside. In an alcove beneath I saw an ornately carved wooden box. I knew that this box was unusual as unlike nearly every other object I apparently owned this was not carved with birds and flowers. Its surface was covered in geometric patterns of overlapping triangles and scattered, solid circles. As I ran my fingers over it I felt a shudder of anticipation and the box almost seemed to hum with the dormant power of forgotten meaning. I set the orb down beside me and used both hands to lift the box from the fireplace and rested it in my lap.

The lid slide softly aside under the gentlest of touches and heard the barest hint of a sigh as if an airtight seal had been broken. Inside the box I found a sheaf of papers covered in strange diagrams and scribbled marginalia. I recognised some of the notes as being in my own handwriting but had no direct memory of writing them. I spread the pages across the floor in front of the hearth and began the laborious process of deciphering them. They hinted at some kind of ritual or perhaps alchemical operation, a working that would present a body in a state of deathlike sleep and preserve it for generations. A partial page, apparently torn from a diary, weighed doubts about the safety of the procedure but ultimately dismissed them as being worthwhile in the face of brewing rebellion. I found no traces of concern for my family's safety, either in the pages or the embers of my memory.