Freeport - X Marks the Spot
Cassandra Draabyn, the sturdy young co-proprietor of Freeport's The Black Pearl, always had access to the best and most accurate spinnings from the rumor mill. This was one of the perks of being an innkeeper in an area frequented by traders of almost every nationality and port. One of the most upsetting tidbits she'd come across recently was the rumor that her brother was dead... his ship sunk by a killer storm off the coast of Land's End. So, when "Cal" sheepishly ambled into her bar with his traveling companions in tow, her reaction was perfectly understandable: Cassandra nearly hugged the life out of him.
The wearied travelers stayed only briefly in Freeport, over Callister's objections. There was just enough time for the siblings to catch up ( And for Cal to borrow money while Cassie scolded him for hardly ever visiting) The group, worried about pursuit, wanted to find the spot on the map with all possible haste. Callister argued that he had access to numerous resources in the city, and if they stayed, they could find out more about the items they carried and hide in The Black Pearl's secret "safehouse" under the tavern. By this point, however, the mariner's opinions were not especially welcome. This went double for the two phellysians, who were still ready to hang the man by his entrails for the trouble he caused aboard the Warthog. So the party, kept together at this point more by inertia than camaraderie, headed south along the Mercian coast towards Ballerus, the closest village to their ever-beckoning target.
The Coastal Ruins
Southward, through the village of Ballerus, the group journeyed down along the narrowing trail to the coast, anxious for whatever lay ahead. The coast of southern Mercia was jagged and rocky. It posed both danger and safety for passing ships, supplying both deceptively sharp reefs that could instantly pierce a hull, and sheltering inlets for a clever captain to wait out a storm. In fact, just such a storm was fast approaching, and the adventurers decided it prudent to make camp for the night. By now they were about a mile inland, and had just discovered a small scattering of ruins from The Old Nation, the kind that were peppered along the shoreline for a stretch of almost fifty miles. Shelters were quickly improvised against the ancient rubble just as the storm was rolling through the clearing. Lightning flashed violently, followed by peals of thunder and almost horizontal torrents of rain. Kramtha and Rothgar, huddled together against the remains of a stone fence, shared a large blanket that provided very little protection.The travelers shivered under their make-shift tents, waiting out the storm. Kramtha raised his head to peer through the sheets of rain, unsure what to make of what he saw. A figure was getting up and separating himself from the group. It was Draabyn, wearing full armor and carrying several blades, rushing out into the middle of the field...into the heart of the storm. By Rexilar, what was the man doing now?
The mariner stood alone under the sky. He could see things clearly now. He was a cursed man, certainly. But no matter what the fates had thrown him, no matter how unfortunate and crazy, he had survived to this point. Even by the slimmest of margins every time. Callister Draabyn was beginning to develop a new theory as to what the Gods expected of him: Entertainment. He was, it seemed, a living street puppet show. And, If he was cursed by the nature of probability, if the least likely thing to happen to him always seemed to happen, what would be the result if he blatantly challenged this notion, daring all the deities and demons of the world to do their worst? The sailor turned his sights to the thunderclouds and smirked defiantly. Above him, the maelstrom churned and grew more violent, angered by the small man's bravado. Already covered in metal from head to toe, Draabyn slowly raised his blades skyward. The wind was on fire, and it swirled about... blinding and deafening the mariner. Still, though, he held his position. Several lightening bolts scorched divots into the earth around him, and yet he remained, calling the storm's bluff. The rest of the party was now fully aware of what was happening, and looked on in bewilderment. Surely, they thought, the man had gone mad. But Draabyn wasn't mad. Draabyn was winning. Nature was unleashing a full-out assault upon the ground that he stood, but the mariner remained untouched. More lightning flashed by, continuing to miss him narrowly. And as the storm finally began to dissipate, he could just begin to hear the amazed shouts of his teammates over the ringing of his ears. Looking down, Draabyn could now see that he was surrounded by literally dozens of smoking holes. The first feeling of control in months swept over him in a triumphant giddiness as the storm subsided to gently falling waterdrops. The mariner locked his gaze upward, spread his arms wide in a champion's euphoria, and shouted at the sky. "You can't do it!", he screamed, laughing. "You can do everything in the world, except kill me! So bring it on, do your worst!" And the sky responded: Lightning struck and engulfed his body, freezing and burning it into position as the world exploded around him. "Well... Shit." thought Draabyn as everything went black.
Setting the charred but still- alive mariner in the grass to recover from his latest debacle, Kramtha decided to use the cover of darkness to scout ahead. Blending in with the landscape of the southern grassland, the phellysian warrior quickly advanced to the coastline. Kramtha took up a position near to the graveyard and sat staring up into the night sky. About two hours later, he heard the scrape of a boat bottom against the rocks down below. The jingle of armor and sounds of voices were audible as a group came up the path from the beach. A witch and three warriors were followed closely by three other figures. Kramtha peered carefully with his night vision. The latter three did not radiate heat. Upon closer inspection, Kramtha saw that they were walking corpses, little more than animated skeletons.
These seven began digging in the graveyard. Kramtha alerted the others and, from the cover of darkness, they watched. Kramtha decided it was more prudent to wait and watch rather than blindly walk into a fight. Better to study the enemy tonight. Especially since Callister was half-dead already. The seven strangers continued digging through the night. They were digging up bones and bagging them. Kramtha watched as the witch dug in one specific spot. She tossed the bones into a bag, handed it to one of the warriors and said: "That's the last of it. Return these to my chambers and take great care with them."
Before dawn, the seven returned to the castle. The party used the last of their healing to bring Callister back up to full strength. The party then decided that they would wait in the graveyard for the diggers to return (there were many graves still left undisturbed).The following night, the party set up an ambush. The grave diggers returned. On Kramtha's signal, Shr'lee cast a web spell and the others leapt to the attack. The spell misfired, however, missing its intended targets and nearly entangling the entire party in the process. This was but one unlucky mistake followed by many. The battle went very badly for the group, and it looked possible that their strange adventure could come to an end right here, in a graveyard, appropriately enough.
At one point, Callister was facing off against the three skeletons. They clawed him until he lay on the ground, unmoving, from a half a dozen critical wounds. He blacked out and was very near his own violent end. In the darkness, somewhere between life and death, a voice spoke aloud.
The voice was huge and all encompassing, powerful, deep, grinding and touched with power. It was nowhere and everywhere at once. It thundered in Callister's mind and throughout his soul. It repeated.
"Yes" responded Callister, "Yes, but who are you? What do you want from me?"
Callister awoke to find that the party had won the battle, but only just barely. Kramtha and Rothgar were stripping the bodies of valuables. Kramtha had already ridden to the village of Ballerus in the north and woken up the apothecary shopowner in the wee hours of the morning to obtain the man's last bit of healing herbs. He and Rothgar then divided up the items that radiated magic (from the crystal) among the party members. Kramtha took charge of a many-studded diamond ring to go with his magic shield from the banishing chamber. The shield itself had proven useful in battle. When the command word inscribed along its base was uttered, it brought forth a spherical energy field that surrounded him and others close by. A force shield which had protected him from critical harm during their fight. This ring had no command word or phrase engraved on it. He'd have to experiment later to see what it would do. Shr'lee grabbed the magic wand, which he was sure he saw the witch using during the battle. He just couldn't figure out what had happened when she did. It was metallic black, but otherwise featureless. Interesting. A silver glove was given to Stryfal, who removed a strange medallion from the witch's body. It looked like a holy symbol. Callister knew that some of the icons on medallion were sometimes used by Mercenary companies in the Coalition. Could this be an indication that this loose collection of evil factions were setting up shop here, in his own home waters?
After robbing the dead, the party, wounded, beaten and bleeding, got on the horses and rode northwest toward Daven's Port. There they hoped to sell the two ancient letters they had in their possession, do research and recuperate from their fight. The failed battle proved just how dangerous this undertaking was, and sobered the party into a sense of practicality. Daven's Port was known to have an excellent wizard's guild, and perhaps they could get some information about the gem and map there. If they were to proceed on, they needed to know why.
And so ended Session 3. In Session Four: our intrepid adventures regroup and nurse their bruised egos.