Faerun Adventures

 An accounting from Wisteria. Wisteria decided to accompany Eamon and Sir Thibault to the Priory, to learn more of the ways of monks.  On the surface, they seemed very similar to the priest-hood and yet, there were some things she just couldn't fathom.  Why, for example, did Eamon let those red-clothed monks talk to him in such a fashion, and when they were clearly doing something he disapproved of, and seemed to have no respect for his whatsoever?  In Myrkul's eyes, you must of course reduce all of your enemies to dust, for their own good as much as anything.  It was actually a kindness: they got to sit in Myrkul's lofty halls and chat about the errors of their ways. Wisteria was personally quite keen to see if the colour of those monks' blood matched their clothing, but she understood that it might have to wait until another time. Arriving at Moravin Priory, Wisteria was surprised and delighted to see Prior Mordrin, the very monk who had saved her life but two years b

An account by Arian. The kenku’s eyes widened at the sight of the white wolf, fangs bared. Then his beady eyes narrowed and he cast Blight. A wave of necrotic energy washed over Arian, along with an overwhelming feeling of dread and doom. She tried to shake it off, knowing it could kill her and just managed to stay on her feet, but she could feel the hit within her bones, like she had been touched by death. The kenku advanced upon her until he was within easy reach with his spear.   She wanted nothing more than to tear his flesh from his frame, to feel the satisfying crunch of his bones, but she had more to think about than herself: her mission and her companions. So she growled in frustration, turned, and ran for the door.   Wisteria followed her and easily managed to un-bar the door, opening it to reveal the concerned and bloody face of Greeba just outside. “Greeba! With Lord Myrkul so near at the moment, I feel truly alive, how about you?”   “Still good, but Thibault is sleeping...i

An accounting from Arian. The Midnight Tree was as big as she remembered. No, even bigger. It towered over them. Arian couldn’t believe they were here again, but the others had sworn to empty it of evil. She hoped they were ready. They had a plan and it all hinged on Gorlock’s newly summoned imp.   The creature, Limpy, had flown just above the warlock’s head all the way to the tree with no problems but now that they were there, something seemed to be wrong with it. It was tearing at it’s own skin and whirling around in the air like it was trying to get away from itself.   Suddenly, an ethereally beautiful but strangely translucent woman was sitting on a tree root right next to them. She gleamed. She shook a disapproving finger at Gorlock.   “No summoning demons and devils, m'kay? The big boss is kinda cross!”   “Master?” The warlock sounded both awed and cowed. “Mistress Avery?”   “We're giving you something more appropriate.”   Out of the imp emerged a small angelic figure, Li

 An accounting by Arian. Arian had barely registered the kenku behind the door when Xarius loosed a firebolt, singing a few of the creature’s feathers. But the next few moments passed in a blur – the ravenfolk’s runespear thrust out in two quick attacks and Torgin fell in a bloody, hairy heap in front of the door. Then, with a mocking CRAW, the jailor slammed the door in their stunned faces. “No!” cried Eamon. “Have the gods no mercy?” “Shall we run for Starkfeather again?” asked Greeba in the sudden quiet, punctuated only by a gurgle from Torgin. But an enraged Thibault attempted in vain to shove the door open. Eamon, his eyes slightly teary, kicked at the door, but was unable to budge it even in his grief at Torgin’s death. They all took a turn at it, but the door held, the kenku periodically mocking them behind it. Thibault took a deep breath. They had to try something else. They were getting nowhere. “Jailor! you are surrounded and trapped here. We will come in and kill you if you

  An accounting by Arian. Arian trailed behind the others as they left the inn. Was investigating the Ravenfolk the kind of thing Jaroo had spoken about? She wasn’t sure. But she had, at least, found a group of adventurers willing to take her in, even if some of them didn’t seem overly friendly. She’d probably done something wrong. She’d thought it was only good manners to shake hands or to give what you had freely, but even a handful of harmless herbs had been refused. Well, except by the dwarf, but he didn’t seem too particular about what he put in his mouth.   She would just have to try harder and be quiet and learn. She listened to them banter as they walked and picked any interesting sprigs of things that she saw. Strangely, the half-orc seemed the least scary. She’d never met one before and there was a wild and savage beauty to her.   It was late afternoon and the sun filtered through the trees, dappling the ground. It wasn’t like the wilds at home; so much grew here.   “Hsssst,”