D&D 4e

Valda Onyxheart The sky above the lost city of Thunderholme was gray and crumbling. Massive chunks of granite had been ripped from the sky and thrown to smash the carved homes and markets below by illithid magics and the violence of the stone giants. Rotted carrion worm carapaces blocked the obsidian paths along which ore was brought to the now-silent foundries. The mithril-glow lamps that had once lit the city like a thousand bright stars were now dark, melted by the craven horde. Now the only light in Thunderholme came from fetid corpse-fires that cast flickering green light from between the bodies of the orcs and goblins that crowded close. ...

I exaggerate a little. We probably won’t be slaying a dragon, which I think it a little bit of false advertising, if you ask me. I know darn well there are going to be dungeons. Each dungeon should be equipped with at least one dragon, and that dragon should be informed that its lifespan shall be among the shortest. Not kobold short, but short enough. An ancient dragon should be one that has managed to see two years come and go before the party of steadfast adventurers fed it its own scaly tail. ...

Kalarel's chamber We’d battled our way to nearly the deepest depths of the measureless halls and caverns beneath the demonic Keep on the Shadowfell. We’d met slimes and jellies and bug-lizards and drakes and gnomes and goblins and goblins of the hob variety. We’d fed Splug to a carnivorous pool. We’d waded through hordes of skeletons and waves of zombies and spoken to a ghost. I got trapped in a room that was filling with water with no escape. ...

Wenn der blaue Schleim jemand angreifen, stirbt jemand The screenshot tells the story. Me and Wenner unconscious, Sheeoil dead, only Bryn alive to finish the fight against the ravenous but somewhat stupid blue slime. And what of Splug? What of the goblin who gained our trust and betrayed us, literally backstabbing us? What of Splug, indeed? Splug After we finished scraping off the lizard-bug juice from our boots (Bryn, Sheeoil) and feet (Wenner, myself), we decided to go have a look at the corroded bronze door near which Wenner had discovered some tasty and deadly pudding. The door had words scraped into it, “Do Not Enter!!!11!!! SRSLY!!!!”, but we’re not big on warnings and text speak just enrages Bryn, so we were hot to see just what was behind that green door. ...

Into the Kruthik Lair I knew it was going to be a weird night when everyone broke out the hoodies. That’s something you get when you play face to face (via webcam, but still)… Weird stuff can happen. After some debate, we chose to explore the southern passage instead of seeing what lay behind the metal door. We had mapping to do, after all. The darkness swallowed our discussion. We voted to send Wenner ahead to explore. The vote was 3-1. ...

It was a cursed night when we came across the Pudding… Huh? No, a PUDDING! Mmm closer, not quite there… That’s it. The Battle of the Pudding It’s hard to get a restful sleep in a dungeon, especially when you just KNOW a murderous, stinking, backstabbing (literally) hobgoblin had all the time in the world to go through your things before he took off to undoubtedly lead some sort of hobgoblin insurgency against your humble company of naive adventurers who want only to map some old ruins… ...

The Dig You smelly backbiter, Splug. Splug liked hanging back behind the party, and as someone who usually ranged well in front of the party, Wenner was fine with that. Sure, now that the party had Splug to push around, they’d stopped with the “toehair” jokes, but it still hurt. “The Fat One!” said Splug as the Adventuring Company magically stitched their wounds when the battle was done. “The Fat One – he KNOWS things!” ...

Does this ring a bell? “You all so good people, give all you hug many time,” whispered Splug to Wenner. The hobgoblin moved a little closer. The stench was overpowering to the halfling, and he’d been close to some heroic stenches in his day. “But you my favorite,” said Splug, “you hairy like me. Maybe hobgoblin and halfling cousin, yes?” “I think not,” said Wenner, edging away. “Don’t you have some hobgobbling to do?” ...

…and that was when the Death Star landed right on top of us. No? I’ll get to the meaning of the mysterious shadow in the screenshot above in a bit. Chris, the DM, had been cackling quietly to himself in the corner, muttering “kill them… kiiiilllll themmmmm…. KILL THEM AAAALLLLLL!!!!!” for the past couple of weeks. We were thinking he was about to sing a couple verses of “Alice’s Restaurant” or something. We weren’t coming out of Shadowfell Keep until the place was mapped (that being our mission). No popping out for a rest. No coming back to Winterhaven for a shower. Just us, our 10’ poles, and our iron spikes… ...

Things that go Modern MMOs have the right idea. You collect bits of monster and put them in your backpack and don’t give it a second thought. Store them in a bank, why not? Ten years later, your wolf eyeball or cow tongue is gonna be as fresh as when you looted it. Wenner was kinda regretting cutting off Irontooth’s head and carrying it back to Winterhaven in a canvas sack. Wasn’t a waterproof sack. Dripdripdripdrip. We tried having Wenner walk in front of us, but that didn’t work. Then behind us. ...