Alesia_BH
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- 912
Ava's XP was pretty low when she first entered WK, so she got the minimum number of statues.
The Candlekeep Annex: RPed Baldur’s Gate No and Low Reload Adventures
- Thread starter Alesia_BH
- Start date
Finarfin
Habitué
- Messages
- 121
It's actually a lot of fun writing the story. Back in the day when we used to play paper DnD with @Borco when we were kids, I always enjoyed being DM and making stories
But it takes a bit time and it's so easy to get lost in writing. For part 7, I had 12 screenshots ready. In the end, after a lot of writing - for all parts 7, 8 and 9 I used only 8 screenshots together
Finarfin
Habitué
- Messages
- 121
Didn't know those statues were based on XP. But I don't think it would matter for my plays, as I use this SCS mod which always puts max/hardest mobs on insane:
~STRATAGEMS/SETUP-STRATAGEMS.TP2~ #0 #8040 // Tie difficulty of level-dependent monster groupings to the difficulty slider: 34.3
Finarfin
Habitué
- Messages
- 121
Conan, Barbarian Dwarf: Part 13 – Chains and Blood
Conan was deep in his ale at the Five Flagons when a messenger slunk up, whispering that the Shadowmaster himself demanded audience at the docks. Word was, the thief-lord knew where Imoen was, and had the means to get Conan there.
Sounded like a plan. Conan had heard of this Shadowmaster — feared in Athkatla like plague and fire.
At the docks, a wild-eyed man name Habib came charging, throwing a scimitar with a shriek. Conan sidestepped, cracked him once with a fist, and the fool collapsed in a heap.
An Amnian guard stormed over. “What in the Nine Hells did you do to him?”
Conan shrugged, not breaking stride. “I did nothing. The pavement was his enemy.”
Inside the lair, shadows whispered. Assassins and thieves moved in the dark, their eyes like knives, following Conan’s every step. At the far end, Aran Linvail, Shadowmaster of Athkatla, greeted him with the smile of a viper.
“You seek your friend. I know where she is. Passage can be arranged. Fifteen thousand in gold, and the way is yours.”
Conan barked a laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll pay nothing. For your help, you’ll have my gratitude — and that is something I do not give freely.”
Aran’s smile did not falter, though the shadows stirred. “Your gratitude does not buy ships. Or risk men’s lives.”
“My fight isn’t with you, little master of shadows.” Conan leaned close, his grin wolfish. “But I’ll still kill you and add you to my songs, after you’ve told me what I need. Willingly, or not.”
The room thickened. Assassins shifted in the gloom, hands on blades. Aran weighed the moment like a man gambling with his own life. Then he spread his hands.
“So be it. Let it be known that Aran Linvail is a generous man. One day, Conan, I may call upon your help. Until then… we have an accord.”
They clasped hands.
At the docks, Aran showed him the ship. The captain, Saemon Havarian, was a rat in silks, smile too wide, voice too smooth. The more he talked, the more Conan’s grin widened — not with trust, but certainty. This one reeked of lies. But he was the only one according to Aran who could make it to the island.
On the gangplank, Conan clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make his knees buckle. “You're a funny guy Saemon, I like you. That's why I'm going to kill you last. That is, if you lie to me.”
The color drained from the pirate’s face, and he swore a thousand oaths to deliver Conan true.
They came to the island. Then three vampires drifted from the night, circling like sharks. Saemon ran, yelling over his shoulder, leaving Conan laughing.
“This? Three pale rats?!”
The vampires hesitated, unnerved. One gasped, voice breaking. “I… I know him! He defeated our mistress! Run!”
And they were gone, shrieking into the dark. Conan did not even bother to follow.
He smashed his way into the prison. Guardians fell, doors splintered. Within, he found someone:
A mad-eyed woman — Aphril — muttering of other realms and creatures beyond worlds. Words meant little, until she spoke the word Hyboria. Conan froze, his gaze hard as steel. He pressed her for more, but her ramblings made no sense. Still, he marked her — when Imoen was safe, he would return. She might hold the key to his home.
At last, he saw Imoen—her form slumped and fragile, bruised and bound. His vision fluttered, venom burning cold and sharp through his blood. Saemon's betrayal—betrayal that poisoned more than his body. Darkness swarmed, and the world faded into echoes of pain.
He woke shackled, iron biting deep into his wrists. Guards loomed, Imoen tied at their feet.
One sneered. “Our master, Irenicus, has claimed this prison. He wants your secret, barbarian. He is busy now, but he sends his regards. We’ll soften you until he comes.”
Conan grinned, teeth bared. “Good. Makes it easier to find him. I’ll crush his skull and take what I need.”
The guards laughed. “You’re a funny one! We got your friend Imoen here, and if you don’t want her hurt, you better cooperate. Right?”
Conan’s laugh was colder than steel. “Wrong.”
The rage hit him like thunder. Muscles swelled, chains groaned. With a roar, he tore free, iron shattering like twigs. His eyes were fire, his fists hammers. He fell upon the guards, ripping, smashing, blood and steel spraying as his battle-cry filled the prison halls.
The guards froze in disbelief, panic cracking their discipline. “That’s… that’s impossible!” one stammered. Another dropped his blade outright. None had ever seen a prisoner break the shackles forged in this prison.
The last guard’s skull cracked against the stone, and silence fell heavy as smoke. Conan stood amid the wreckage, chains hanging in tatters from his wrists. His chest heaved, rage cooling into a grim grin.
Imoen whimpered from the corner, wrists raw against her shackles. Conan strode over, grabbed the iron with both hands, and with a snarl ripped it clean from the wall. The chains snapped like straw.
She rubbed her wrists, staring wide-eyed, voice trembling. “By the gods, Conan… they were going to break me. And yet… you came. You truly came for me.”
Conan grunted, snapping the last of her shackles free. “A promise is iron, girl. I said I’d find you. Talk later. Walk now. You’re free.”
Her lip curled into a shaky smile. “You know, you could’ve just picked the lock.”
Conan chuckled, tossing the twisted chain aside. “Locks are for thieves. My thieving days are over. I am a hammer.”
Imoen blinked, half-laughing despite herself. “A very loud hammer.”
Conan strode to a battered chest in the corner, threw it open, and began strapping on his gear, piece by piece. The weight of his old Atlantean steel settled into his hand like an old friend. He gave it a spin, eyes narrowing.
Conan was deep in his ale at the Five Flagons when a messenger slunk up, whispering that the Shadowmaster himself demanded audience at the docks. Word was, the thief-lord knew where Imoen was, and had the means to get Conan there.
Sounded like a plan. Conan had heard of this Shadowmaster — feared in Athkatla like plague and fire.
At the docks, a wild-eyed man name Habib came charging, throwing a scimitar with a shriek. Conan sidestepped, cracked him once with a fist, and the fool collapsed in a heap.
An Amnian guard stormed over. “What in the Nine Hells did you do to him?”
Conan shrugged, not breaking stride. “I did nothing. The pavement was his enemy.”
Inside the lair, shadows whispered. Assassins and thieves moved in the dark, their eyes like knives, following Conan’s every step. At the far end, Aran Linvail, Shadowmaster of Athkatla, greeted him with the smile of a viper.
“You seek your friend. I know where she is. Passage can be arranged. Fifteen thousand in gold, and the way is yours.”
Conan barked a laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll pay nothing. For your help, you’ll have my gratitude — and that is something I do not give freely.”
Aran’s smile did not falter, though the shadows stirred. “Your gratitude does not buy ships. Or risk men’s lives.”
“My fight isn’t with you, little master of shadows.” Conan leaned close, his grin wolfish. “But I’ll still kill you and add you to my songs, after you’ve told me what I need. Willingly, or not.”
The room thickened. Assassins shifted in the gloom, hands on blades. Aran weighed the moment like a man gambling with his own life. Then he spread his hands.
“So be it. Let it be known that Aran Linvail is a generous man. One day, Conan, I may call upon your help. Until then… we have an accord.”
They clasped hands.
At the docks, Aran showed him the ship. The captain, Saemon Havarian, was a rat in silks, smile too wide, voice too smooth. The more he talked, the more Conan’s grin widened — not with trust, but certainty. This one reeked of lies. But he was the only one according to Aran who could make it to the island.
On the gangplank, Conan clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make his knees buckle. “You're a funny guy Saemon, I like you. That's why I'm going to kill you last. That is, if you lie to me.”
The color drained from the pirate’s face, and he swore a thousand oaths to deliver Conan true.
They came to the island. Then three vampires drifted from the night, circling like sharks. Saemon ran, yelling over his shoulder, leaving Conan laughing.
“This? Three pale rats?!”
The vampires hesitated, unnerved. One gasped, voice breaking. “I… I know him! He defeated our mistress! Run!”
And they were gone, shrieking into the dark. Conan did not even bother to follow.
He smashed his way into the prison. Guardians fell, doors splintered. Within, he found someone:
At last, he saw Imoen—her form slumped and fragile, bruised and bound. His vision fluttered, venom burning cold and sharp through his blood. Saemon's betrayal—betrayal that poisoned more than his body. Darkness swarmed, and the world faded into echoes of pain.
He woke shackled, iron biting deep into his wrists. Guards loomed, Imoen tied at their feet.
One sneered. “Our master, Irenicus, has claimed this prison. He wants your secret, barbarian. He is busy now, but he sends his regards. We’ll soften you until he comes.”
Conan grinned, teeth bared. “Good. Makes it easier to find him. I’ll crush his skull and take what I need.”
The guards laughed. “You’re a funny one! We got your friend Imoen here, and if you don’t want her hurt, you better cooperate. Right?”
Conan’s laugh was colder than steel. “Wrong.”
The rage hit him like thunder. Muscles swelled, chains groaned. With a roar, he tore free, iron shattering like twigs. His eyes were fire, his fists hammers. He fell upon the guards, ripping, smashing, blood and steel spraying as his battle-cry filled the prison halls.
The guards froze in disbelief, panic cracking their discipline. “That’s… that’s impossible!” one stammered. Another dropped his blade outright. None had ever seen a prisoner break the shackles forged in this prison.
The last guard’s skull cracked against the stone, and silence fell heavy as smoke. Conan stood amid the wreckage, chains hanging in tatters from his wrists. His chest heaved, rage cooling into a grim grin.
Imoen whimpered from the corner, wrists raw against her shackles. Conan strode over, grabbed the iron with both hands, and with a snarl ripped it clean from the wall. The chains snapped like straw.
She rubbed her wrists, staring wide-eyed, voice trembling. “By the gods, Conan… they were going to break me. And yet… you came. You truly came for me.”
Conan grunted, snapping the last of her shackles free. “A promise is iron, girl. I said I’d find you. Talk later. Walk now. You’re free.”
Her lip curled into a shaky smile. “You know, you could’ve just picked the lock.”
Conan chuckled, tossing the twisted chain aside. “Locks are for thieves. My thieving days are over. I am a hammer.”
Imoen blinked, half-laughing despite herself. “A very loud hammer.”
Conan strode to a battered chest in the corner, threw it open, and began strapping on his gear, piece by piece. The weight of his old Atlantean steel settled into his hand like an old friend. He gave it a spin, eyes narrowing.
Alesia_BH
Habitué
- Messages
- 912
Yes. With that setting you'll see the same number of statues every time.
(I use the level dependent random spawns option. I find the max spawns a little clumsy in some areas. I do think max spawns would be fitting in WK, though.)
Borco
Habitué
- Messages
- 381
Hey friends!
I just wanted to drop by to say hi and drop a few words.
First of all, kudos to @Finarfin for an outstanding run so far, both in terms of mastery of the warrior class as well as the fascinating storytelling. You're an asset to the community and Conan's run has been a real treat!
Secondly, it's great to see you back in action @Alesia_BH, no matter how intermittent your current play might be! While I fully understand your own dissatisfaction with Ava's development, I still believe that it's been a perfectly legitimate choice to overcome her class limitation by outleveling it with early HLA access. Have you maybe considered grating her a custom made item in SoA, such a plain helmet with ioun stone animation, should you ever be inclined to re-run her? It seems that this could present a reasonable solution to the problem by emulating the pre-EE environment.
Lastly, I just wanted to note that I haven't been completely idle either. Even though his progress has been relatively slow, my enchanter has just returned from the Underdark and is preparing for the SoA endgame. In order to avoid my usual issue of abandoning a failed run before even covering the entirety of BG1, I've deliberately omitted to post on his progress until and unless I manage to get past Hell Irenicus. In case he's successful, I'll be back with the story.
B.
I just wanted to drop by to say hi and drop a few words.
First of all, kudos to @Finarfin for an outstanding run so far, both in terms of mastery of the warrior class as well as the fascinating storytelling. You're an asset to the community and Conan's run has been a real treat!
Secondly, it's great to see you back in action @Alesia_BH, no matter how intermittent your current play might be! While I fully understand your own dissatisfaction with Ava's development, I still believe that it's been a perfectly legitimate choice to overcome her class limitation by outleveling it with early HLA access. Have you maybe considered grating her a custom made item in SoA, such a plain helmet with ioun stone animation, should you ever be inclined to re-run her? It seems that this could present a reasonable solution to the problem by emulating the pre-EE environment.
Lastly, I just wanted to note that I haven't been completely idle either. Even though his progress has been relatively slow, my enchanter has just returned from the Underdark and is preparing for the SoA endgame. In order to avoid my usual issue of abandoning a failed run before even covering the entirety of BG1, I've deliberately omitted to post on his progress until and unless I manage to get past Hell Irenicus. In case he's successful, I'll be back with the story.
B.
WiseGrimwald
Habitué
- Messages
- 430
Journal of Helmuth
The Nashkel mines were cleared and Xan's quest was finished, after which we left him at the FAI.
Then Nimbul was killed.
No problems there.
We found Borda, the one who tried to make Brage look like a murderer.
Due to his magical resistance and his fear spell, he almost caused us to fail as I and Tenya, being panicked ran into a pack of wolves. Tenya was near death when the spell wore off.
We hastened to the carnival and immediately rested.
Oublek then arranged for a retrial of Brage and justice was done.
We charmed Oublek to help in the fight against a baby wyvern. Sadly he was killed. On the plus side we regained the emeralds and quite a fortune of gold from his body.
We were then charged with killing Arnhem's pet, but it all got sorted out.
We are now in the bandit's camp.
It is also time for bed.
The Nashkel mines were cleared and Xan's quest was finished, after which we left him at the FAI.
Then Nimbul was killed.
No problems there.
We found Borda, the one who tried to make Brage look like a murderer.
Due to his magical resistance and his fear spell, he almost caused us to fail as I and Tenya, being panicked ran into a pack of wolves. Tenya was near death when the spell wore off.
We hastened to the carnival and immediately rested.
Oublek then arranged for a retrial of Brage and justice was done.
We charmed Oublek to help in the fight against a baby wyvern. Sadly he was killed. On the plus side we regained the emeralds and quite a fortune of gold from his body.
We were then charged with killing Arnhem's pet, but it all got sorted out.
We are now in the bandit's camp.
It is also time for bed.
Attachments
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WiseGrimwald
Habitué
- Messages
- 430
We'd also be interested in hearing about your failed runs. It's not all about winning!!
Whilst Helmuth looks as if he may survive at least as far as Dragonspear, I have been thinking about my next run and am thinking of a human cleric of Tyr whose desire was to be a paladin, but whose charisma was insufficient. He has three triplets as brothers and their success in becoming paladins really rubs salt in the wounds, one is a Martyr, the others are Inquisitor and Cavalier. I've never played a Cleric of Tyr, or a Martyr, so this could make for an interesting run.
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WiseGrimwald
Habitué
- Messages
- 430
He has indeed. A very skilled writer. It's quite time consuming writing like that.
Borco
Habitué
- Messages
- 381
Thank you and fully agreed!
The reason why I decided to hold back on sharing the adventure for the time being was that I wanted to break the pattern which has become symptomatic for all my runs - I start a new character, my playing gets out of sync with my posts, the character dies, and my motivation to properly catch up on the coverage dies with it.
The optimal solution would naturally be to play less and post more, which not only solves the sync issue, but also helps to create a more immersive connection with the character and its development. Alas, I seem to be unable to maintain that level of discipline.
Finarfin
Habitué
- Messages
- 121
Conan, Barbarian Dwarf: Part 14 – Prison Break
(Side note: Conan went solo during this part of game, but for the sake of story telling, Imoen will be with him)
The prison was no simple gaol — it crawled with monsters dredged up from nightmare. Imoen froze first, finger trembling as she pointed.
“That’s a lich,” she whispered. “We should… we should back away before it sees us.”
Conan only snorted, rolling his shoulders. “I see it. Now watch.”
Before she could protest, he strode forward, mace blazing, and caved the creature’s skull in before its spell could fully form. Imoen shrieked, clapping her hands over her mouth, and then stared wide-eyed as the lich dissolved into dust:
“By all the gods… You know, most sane people run away when they see a lich. But sure, Conan, why not bash it like it’s a tavern stool.”
Conan only grunted, turning his head. “Stay behind me. There’s more yet.”
A row of prison levers clanged as he pulled them, releasing whatever lay trapped inside. The iron doors groaned open — and out stepped not one, but two terrors. A floating, genie-like efreeti swirled with fire and smoke, and beside it slithered a nightmare of flesh and thought: an ulitharid. Its grotesque head writhed with tentacles, its black eyes drinking in Conan with alien hunger.
“Your mind will be mine,” it hissed inside his skull, and Conan staggered as the psychic voice clawed at him. He shook his head like a bear shaking off bees, snarling, flail raised.
The fight was brutal. Fire and lightning hit him from the genie’s spells:
While psychic bolts from the ulitharid crashed into his skull like thunder:
He swung, crushing bone and flesh, but these were no tavern cutthroats. Luckily, the two monsters clashed as much with each other as with him, their rivalry spilling into blows. For a heartbeat, Conan had room to breathe, to gather his strength:
But then the ulitharid pressed hard, teleporting with a sickening pulse of magic, appearing at Conan’s side, its tentacles lashing for his head:
For a moment, even Conan faltered. The beast’s strength was titanic, its hunger endless. Then, a flash of silver. Imoen darted from the shadows, face pale but eyes blazing, and drove her knife between the monster’s ribs.
“Get out of his head, you squid-faced freak!” she shouted, her voice cracking with equal parts terror and courage.
The ulitharid roared, its focus broken — and Conan’s flail smashed its skull into paste.
Breathing hard, Conan spared her a glance. “Good strike, girl. My thanks.”
Bloodied but alive, they pressed upward to the main level of the prison. There, Conan rallied the prisoners, gathering any willing to take up arms against Irenicus. He considered fighting the mage alone — a challenge worthy of song — but exhaustion weighed heavy, and his wounds throbbed. For once, he accepted aid.
The storm broke in Irenicus’s chamber. The mage stood over a table of writhing experiments, his face calm, his eyes like knives.
“What is this?” he mused, voice cold silk. “You have released all of my test subjects? How wonderfully mad of you. I did not expect this in the least, so dangerously risky it is”
Conan stepped forward, flail gleaming. “You say you command the paths between worlds. You say you know a way back to mine. I’ll learn the truth from you, mage — one way or another. And if you lie, I’ll take your head as payment.”
Madness followed:
Spells cracked like lightning, firestorms roared, chains of magic coiled around the screaming prisoners. Conan had never seen sorcery of such scale — not even when the cabal of Stygian sorcerers cast the spell that tore him from his flesh. Within moments, most of his allies were ash and bone. Only Imoen, hidden away as he ordered, survived.
Then came the swords — five glowing blades, summoned from pure sorcery. They boxed him in, two driving him against the wall. Conan’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “Not this trick again.” He unleashed his Greater Deathblow, steel ringing as spectral swords shattered:
With a roar, Conan lunged at Irenicus. His flail connected, shattering the mage’s wards, drawing blood at last. The sorcerer’s eyes widened — then narrowed.
“Impressive… but not enough.”
And with a hiss of magic, he vanished.
Conan spat on the stone. So much for his answers. But at least he and Imoen lived, and the mage now knew what hunted him.
Imoen stood among the smoke and broken bodies, her voice low, almost disbelieving.
“He ran. He actually ran from you. Conan… I’ve never seen anyone stand against him like that. In prison… everyone was terrified of him. Every monster, every guard, every cursed thing whispered his name like he was a god. And you made him run.”
Outside, by the harbor, Saemon Havarian was waiting — grinning wide, arms spread as though greeting an old friend. His silken voice oozed false warmth.
“Conan! My stalwart companion, my hero of the hour! The legend of Athkatla! I knew you’d make it out alive, hah! Now, let us not dwell on little… misunderstandings. I have a ship, a captain’s heart, and the perfect plan for your escape. Together, we’ll sail free as the wind!”
Imoen tilted her head, unimpressed. “Oh, he’s smooth, I’ll give him that. Smooth like snake oil. I don't trust him”
Conan’s grin was all teeth. “I don’t either. Unfortunately we don't have much choice. But I trust my sword. And if he lies—he dies. Simple.”
So the bargain was struck. Together they stormed the harbor, Conan leading the charge. An army of pirates poured from ships and alleys, blades flashing, voices raised:
But they broke like waves on the rock of his fury. His flail cracked skulls, his roar drowned out their cries. Imoen danced in his shadow, striking swift and sure while casting spells to distract the pirates. In the end, the docks ran red, and the ship was theirs.
(Side note: Conan went solo during this part of game, but for the sake of story telling, Imoen will be with him)
The prison was no simple gaol — it crawled with monsters dredged up from nightmare. Imoen froze first, finger trembling as she pointed.
“That’s a lich,” she whispered. “We should… we should back away before it sees us.”
Conan only snorted, rolling his shoulders. “I see it. Now watch.”
Before she could protest, he strode forward, mace blazing, and caved the creature’s skull in before its spell could fully form. Imoen shrieked, clapping her hands over her mouth, and then stared wide-eyed as the lich dissolved into dust:
Conan only grunted, turning his head. “Stay behind me. There’s more yet.”
A row of prison levers clanged as he pulled them, releasing whatever lay trapped inside. The iron doors groaned open — and out stepped not one, but two terrors. A floating, genie-like efreeti swirled with fire and smoke, and beside it slithered a nightmare of flesh and thought: an ulitharid. Its grotesque head writhed with tentacles, its black eyes drinking in Conan with alien hunger.
“Your mind will be mine,” it hissed inside his skull, and Conan staggered as the psychic voice clawed at him. He shook his head like a bear shaking off bees, snarling, flail raised.
The fight was brutal. Fire and lightning hit him from the genie’s spells:
“Get out of his head, you squid-faced freak!” she shouted, her voice cracking with equal parts terror and courage.
The ulitharid roared, its focus broken — and Conan’s flail smashed its skull into paste.
Breathing hard, Conan spared her a glance. “Good strike, girl. My thanks.”
Bloodied but alive, they pressed upward to the main level of the prison. There, Conan rallied the prisoners, gathering any willing to take up arms against Irenicus. He considered fighting the mage alone — a challenge worthy of song — but exhaustion weighed heavy, and his wounds throbbed. For once, he accepted aid.
The storm broke in Irenicus’s chamber. The mage stood over a table of writhing experiments, his face calm, his eyes like knives.
“What is this?” he mused, voice cold silk. “You have released all of my test subjects? How wonderfully mad of you. I did not expect this in the least, so dangerously risky it is”
Conan stepped forward, flail gleaming. “You say you command the paths between worlds. You say you know a way back to mine. I’ll learn the truth from you, mage — one way or another. And if you lie, I’ll take your head as payment.”
Madness followed:
Then came the swords — five glowing blades, summoned from pure sorcery. They boxed him in, two driving him against the wall. Conan’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “Not this trick again.” He unleashed his Greater Deathblow, steel ringing as spectral swords shattered:
“Impressive… but not enough.”
And with a hiss of magic, he vanished.
Conan spat on the stone. So much for his answers. But at least he and Imoen lived, and the mage now knew what hunted him.
Imoen stood among the smoke and broken bodies, her voice low, almost disbelieving.
“He ran. He actually ran from you. Conan… I’ve never seen anyone stand against him like that. In prison… everyone was terrified of him. Every monster, every guard, every cursed thing whispered his name like he was a god. And you made him run.”
Outside, by the harbor, Saemon Havarian was waiting — grinning wide, arms spread as though greeting an old friend. His silken voice oozed false warmth.
“Conan! My stalwart companion, my hero of the hour! The legend of Athkatla! I knew you’d make it out alive, hah! Now, let us not dwell on little… misunderstandings. I have a ship, a captain’s heart, and the perfect plan for your escape. Together, we’ll sail free as the wind!”
Imoen tilted her head, unimpressed. “Oh, he’s smooth, I’ll give him that. Smooth like snake oil. I don't trust him”
Conan’s grin was all teeth. “I don’t either. Unfortunately we don't have much choice. But I trust my sword. And if he lies—he dies. Simple.”
So the bargain was struck. Together they stormed the harbor, Conan leading the charge. An army of pirates poured from ships and alleys, blades flashing, voices raised:
WiseGrimwald
Habitué
- Messages
- 430
Understandable. I have the same problem.
WiseGrimwald
Habitué
- Messages
- 430
Journal of Helmuth
We killed the assassins at the bandit camp using web + AoE spells, then killed an ogre with a belt fetish using command and missiles, then all the bandits nearby with Fireballs.
Then went to Beregost and killed Tranzig using melee combined with magic missiles.
Returned to the bandit camp.
Fortunately, Valerie despite being Lawful Good had no qualms about us looting the bandits, her philosophy being that the goods we took didn't belong to the bandits anyway.
The rest of the party are far more pragmatic than her and didn't even consider whether or not our morals are up to scratch.
We killed the assassins at the bandit camp using web + AoE spells, then killed an ogre with a belt fetish using command and missiles, then all the bandits nearby with Fireballs.
Then went to Beregost and killed Tranzig using melee combined with magic missiles.
Returned to the bandit camp.
Fortunately, Valerie despite being Lawful Good had no qualms about us looting the bandits, her philosophy being that the goods we took didn't belong to the bandits anyway.
The rest of the party are far more pragmatic than her and didn't even consider whether or not our morals are up to scratch.
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Finarfin
Habitué
- Messages
- 121
Conan, Barbarian Dwarf: Part 15 – Underdark, Part I: Drums in the Deep
The ship never made it far. A storm split the sea like a god’s hammer, timbers shrieking, masts snapping. Conan dragged Imoen from the wreckage as waves crushed the last planks into splinters. They staggered ashore on a nameless isle, the jungle looming thick and black. It was Imoen who spotted the cave mouth yawning in the cliffs — blacker than night, whispering of something below.
Her face paled. “The Underdark. Gods help us… we shouldn’t go in there.”
Conan shifted her weight onto his shoulder, carrying her as if she were no heavier than a child. “We’ve no choice, girl. Better the dark beneath than death waiting above.”
The Underdark swallowed them whole. It was no simple cave — it was another world, a labyrinth of caverns vast as kingdoms, lit by ghost-flame fungi and rivers of black water. Shapes twitched in the periphery, too many limbs, too many eyes. The silence had weight. It pressed like the deep ocean, smothering, and the air tasted of stone, rot, and madness.
They found refuge in a Svirfneblin village — a cluster of huts carved into stalagmites, guarded by wary deep gnomes. Imoen was fevered and limping, so Conan left her to rest while he explored the outskirts.
That was when he found the cavern. The walls were lined with towering statues of armored demons, frozen in eternal battle. Conan’s lip curled — he knew stone could lie. When the first one shifted, eyes blazing red, he was already moving. Flail struck helm, sparks flying. The cavern erupted as the statues shattered into life, demon knights with blades black as midnight.
Conan fought, but they were too many. Blind from a flash of sorcery, he relied on instinct alone — ducking, rolling, every step driving him toward the village. He knew one stun-spell could leave him helpless for the killing blow, so even blind he moved with brutal care, reflexes guiding him true.
But the knights followed. The gnomes tried to hold them, and the cavern filled with screams:
Conan halted at the center of the bridge to the village, the chasm yawning beneath him. Ahead of him were the weak — people who had taken him in, fed him, trusted him. Imoen, helpless in the bed. Their deaths would not be on his hands. He turned, teeth bared, and met the knights’ gaze without fear. His battle-cry ripped through the cavern:
“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”
Steel rang, sparks flew, his flail fell like a hammer of the gods. One by one they dropped, until the last knight’s helm split and its fire guttered out. Conan leaned on the bridge rail, chest heaving, watching their corpses slide into the abyss.
Back in the village, the survivors gathered the dead. Conan’s jaw clenched with guilt. Their blood was on him. Imoen, pale but awake, reached for his arm, her smile trembling.
“Conan… don’t carry it all alone. You saved who you could. Their deaths aren’t your doing.”
Conan’s eyes stayed hard, voice low and rough. “No. The blame is mine. My enemies hunted me here. Their blood stains the road I walk.”
Imoen fell quiet, but she didn’t let go. She could feel the weight he bore — heavier than chains, heavier than steel. And though she couldn’t lift it from him, she stayed, sharing the silence so he wouldn’t bear it alone.
The gnome chieftain approached, eyes hollow.
“Conan, a moment of your time. There is a darkness in our mines… and it is killing us. We delved too greedily and too deep. One day we heard drums. The ground shook… drums, drums in the deep. At first it was only orcs — we held them. But then it came. Shadow and flame. A Balro—” He swallowed. “A Balor. Oh Conan, gods preserve us. If it isn’t stopped, it will kill us all.”
Conan had heard enough. Gripping his flail, he strode into the mines without hesitation. The gnomes had shown him kindness, and many lay dead because of him — the least he could do was finish their fight.
The Balor rose from the pit like a mountain of fire and hate, wings scraping the cavern roof. Its whip cracked, flames roaring, its blade fell like a siege tower. Conan bellowed back, meeting it blow for blow. Good thing he put on his fire protection gear before fighting him:
Sparks and fire lit the mines like a forge. Conan’s voice thundered above the roar of battle:
“The dark fire will not avail you! Go back to shadow!”
When his flail finally shattered the demon’s burning skull, he planted a boot on its corpse, raised his weapon high, and bellowed a victory-roar that shook the stone.
The gnomes rejoiced, chanting his name. Imoen laughed weakly from her cot, shaking her head. “Gods above. A Balor. Of course you’d kill one. Why do I even bother doubting?”
But Conan was restless. He left her to heal and scouted further.
The tunnels grew hostile. Demons and drow ambushed him, and though Conan slew them in heaps, one mage managed to cloak himself in invisibility. Conan swung blind, hitting nothing but stone. Then his hair bristled — he heard the incantation. A word like a knife: “moche.”
The Maze. The same spell the Warden had tried to banish him with.
Instinct roared. His blood boiled, rage surging like a shield. The spell hit him — and shattered like glass:
The mage shimmered back into view, wards glowing like molten glass. Spells coiled around him — barriers of force, flame, shadow. Conan’s flail hammered down, each strike cracking another shield, sparks and smoke flying as the protections shattered one by one. The wizard’s smug chant faltered under the rain of blows.
Conan bared his teeth, voice a growl:
“Puny wizard — I eat maze spells for breakfast!” Slash.
“And right now—” Slash!
“I’m very hungry!”
His flail finally struck true, the mage exploding into nothing but blood and rags.
Yet the gate they guarded was sealed with sorcery no brute force could break.
Coming back to the village he found Imoen in a better condition. She leaned on her staff, pale but steadier and said: “There’s… someone who might help us. A dragon, Conan. Supposedly a good one. So, do me a favor — try not to kill the one creature down here that doesn’t already want us dead, alright?””
Conan only tightened the straps of his armor, lips twisting in a grin. “We’ll see.”
The ship never made it far. A storm split the sea like a god’s hammer, timbers shrieking, masts snapping. Conan dragged Imoen from the wreckage as waves crushed the last planks into splinters. They staggered ashore on a nameless isle, the jungle looming thick and black. It was Imoen who spotted the cave mouth yawning in the cliffs — blacker than night, whispering of something below.
Her face paled. “The Underdark. Gods help us… we shouldn’t go in there.”
Conan shifted her weight onto his shoulder, carrying her as if she were no heavier than a child. “We’ve no choice, girl. Better the dark beneath than death waiting above.”
The Underdark swallowed them whole. It was no simple cave — it was another world, a labyrinth of caverns vast as kingdoms, lit by ghost-flame fungi and rivers of black water. Shapes twitched in the periphery, too many limbs, too many eyes. The silence had weight. It pressed like the deep ocean, smothering, and the air tasted of stone, rot, and madness.
They found refuge in a Svirfneblin village — a cluster of huts carved into stalagmites, guarded by wary deep gnomes. Imoen was fevered and limping, so Conan left her to rest while he explored the outskirts.
That was when he found the cavern. The walls were lined with towering statues of armored demons, frozen in eternal battle. Conan’s lip curled — he knew stone could lie. When the first one shifted, eyes blazing red, he was already moving. Flail struck helm, sparks flying. The cavern erupted as the statues shattered into life, demon knights with blades black as midnight.
Conan fought, but they were too many. Blind from a flash of sorcery, he relied on instinct alone — ducking, rolling, every step driving him toward the village. He knew one stun-spell could leave him helpless for the killing blow, so even blind he moved with brutal care, reflexes guiding him true.
But the knights followed. The gnomes tried to hold them, and the cavern filled with screams:
“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”
Steel rang, sparks flew, his flail fell like a hammer of the gods. One by one they dropped, until the last knight’s helm split and its fire guttered out. Conan leaned on the bridge rail, chest heaving, watching their corpses slide into the abyss.
Back in the village, the survivors gathered the dead. Conan’s jaw clenched with guilt. Their blood was on him. Imoen, pale but awake, reached for his arm, her smile trembling.
“Conan… don’t carry it all alone. You saved who you could. Their deaths aren’t your doing.”
Conan’s eyes stayed hard, voice low and rough. “No. The blame is mine. My enemies hunted me here. Their blood stains the road I walk.”
Imoen fell quiet, but she didn’t let go. She could feel the weight he bore — heavier than chains, heavier than steel. And though she couldn’t lift it from him, she stayed, sharing the silence so he wouldn’t bear it alone.
The gnome chieftain approached, eyes hollow.
“Conan, a moment of your time. There is a darkness in our mines… and it is killing us. We delved too greedily and too deep. One day we heard drums. The ground shook… drums, drums in the deep. At first it was only orcs — we held them. But then it came. Shadow and flame. A Balro—” He swallowed. “A Balor. Oh Conan, gods preserve us. If it isn’t stopped, it will kill us all.”
Conan had heard enough. Gripping his flail, he strode into the mines without hesitation. The gnomes had shown him kindness, and many lay dead because of him — the least he could do was finish their fight.
The Balor rose from the pit like a mountain of fire and hate, wings scraping the cavern roof. Its whip cracked, flames roaring, its blade fell like a siege tower. Conan bellowed back, meeting it blow for blow. Good thing he put on his fire protection gear before fighting him:
“The dark fire will not avail you! Go back to shadow!”
When his flail finally shattered the demon’s burning skull, he planted a boot on its corpse, raised his weapon high, and bellowed a victory-roar that shook the stone.
But Conan was restless. He left her to heal and scouted further.
The tunnels grew hostile. Demons and drow ambushed him, and though Conan slew them in heaps, one mage managed to cloak himself in invisibility. Conan swung blind, hitting nothing but stone. Then his hair bristled — he heard the incantation. A word like a knife: “moche.”
The Maze. The same spell the Warden had tried to banish him with.
Instinct roared. His blood boiled, rage surging like a shield. The spell hit him — and shattered like glass:
Conan bared his teeth, voice a growl:
“Puny wizard — I eat maze spells for breakfast!” Slash.
“And right now—” Slash!
“I’m very hungry!”
His flail finally struck true, the mage exploding into nothing but blood and rags.
Yet the gate they guarded was sealed with sorcery no brute force could break.
Coming back to the village he found Imoen in a better condition. She leaned on her staff, pale but steadier and said: “There’s… someone who might help us. A dragon, Conan. Supposedly a good one. So, do me a favor — try not to kill the one creature down here that doesn’t already want us dead, alright?””
Conan only tightened the straps of his armor, lips twisting in a grin. “We’ll see.”
Alesia_BH
Habitué
- Messages
- 912
Thanks for your input, Borco!
Granting her a personal item is an option. I think I'd prefer to work around the problem and let her grow into her strength, though.
The fundamental problem, I think, is that I let her race ahead of her coverage. She got so far ahead that I stopped thinking of her run as something I was sharing, leading me to pay less attention to the fineries, style and RP elements. Going forward I intend to redouble my efforts to keep my playing and posting in sync. That's a newish problem for me, so I'm pretty sure I'll be able to fix it, if I make a point of it.
Cheers,
A.
WiseGrimwald
Habitué
- Messages
- 430
Journal of Helmuth
In Tazok's tent, I used a potion of firebreath to kill three of the main enemies. Three with one potion is quite effective! I then fought Hakt in melee after taking a green potion to cure me of poison. While I was fighting him the rest of the party entered and that was battle over.
Then went to the FAI where I fought against Najara and won. Her resistances were pretty good but several magic missiles later, she died.
Now in Cloakwood where through carelessness Val got killed due to poison. She is now as useful, perhaps more so than Dynaheir due to the sheer number of MM and fireballs that she can cast. Worth the wait! She's not as easy to use as Baeloth, but her advantage over him is that I don't have to watch my reputation.
Upon gaining Spiders' Bane, I realised that nobody in the party can use it! Perhaps I should recruit Sirene at this point.
I didn't really want to have a party of six but not having a tank has been a slight handicap.
We killed the dragon south of Centeol by webbing it.
We took the dragon head to Selene and then killed her. Thankfully this morally dubious action did NOT affect our reputation. We gained some good equipment by killing her.
Many wyverns killed, both in the cave and in transit. Quite a good source of experience.
Drasus et al fell quickly after being webbed.
The mines were then completely cleared as we proceeded downwards.
We cast animate dead and then buffed them and we didn't need to enter the fight with Davaeorn.
The skeletons then killed his assistant and were a barrier to stop the slime doing any damage.
The miners COULD then walk out at any time if they wanted to.
We didn't hand over the key as the mines were desperately needed.
In Tazok's tent, I used a potion of firebreath to kill three of the main enemies. Three with one potion is quite effective! I then fought Hakt in melee after taking a green potion to cure me of poison. While I was fighting him the rest of the party entered and that was battle over.
Then went to the FAI where I fought against Najara and won. Her resistances were pretty good but several magic missiles later, she died.
Now in Cloakwood where through carelessness Val got killed due to poison. She is now as useful, perhaps more so than Dynaheir due to the sheer number of MM and fireballs that she can cast. Worth the wait! She's not as easy to use as Baeloth, but her advantage over him is that I don't have to watch my reputation.
Upon gaining Spiders' Bane, I realised that nobody in the party can use it! Perhaps I should recruit Sirene at this point.
I didn't really want to have a party of six but not having a tank has been a slight handicap.
We killed the dragon south of Centeol by webbing it.
We took the dragon head to Selene and then killed her. Thankfully this morally dubious action did NOT affect our reputation. We gained some good equipment by killing her.
Many wyverns killed, both in the cave and in transit. Quite a good source of experience.
Drasus et al fell quickly after being webbed.
The mines were then completely cleared as we proceeded downwards.
We cast animate dead and then buffed them and we didn't need to enter the fight with Davaeorn.
The skeletons then killed his assistant and were a barrier to stop the slime doing any damage.
The miners COULD then walk out at any time if they wanted to.
We didn't hand over the key as the mines were desperately needed.
Last edited:
Finarfin
Habitué
- Messages
- 121
Conan, Barbarian Dwarf: Part 16 – To Crush your enemies, see them driven before you and hear the lamentation of the women
Step by step, the path wound downward through black stone halls that seemed endless, guided by the gnomes’ crude, scratchy map toward the dragon’s den.
Imoen hugged her arms close, nerves buzzing. “Conan… please, just this once, let me do the talking.”
He grunted, low in his chest, more stone than voice.
She shot him a look. “I’m serious! Promise me you won’t do anything… you know. Stupid.”
Conan snorted, the echo rolling off the cavern walls. “Girl, if I promised that, I’d have to stay silent forever.”
“Conan!” she snapped, throwing her hands up.
He cracked a grin, rough as gravel. “All right, all right. Calm yourself, for Crom’s sake. I’ll keep my tongue. For now.”
The caverns widened, walls slick with glowing blue crystal and moss, like a frozen cathedral, until the lair opened to reveal Adalon coiled on shattered stalagmites, silver scales gleaming, wings casting vast shadows, eyes burning with cold wisdom and disdain.
Imoen swallowed, squared her shoulders, and forced herself into a polite bow.
“Great Adalon, guardian of these depths… we come seeking your aid.”
The dragon’s voice rolled through the cavern, each word edged with power.
“You are bold, little mortals, to enter unbidden. Few dare to tread my halls without being frozen before my breath. Yet… you carry no fear in your step. Curious.”
Conan just grunted, his trusty atlantean steel resting across his shoulder.
Imoen hurried on. “We mean no harm. We’ve come… because we’ve heard you may hold the key to our escape. We ask for your help, and in return, offer our strength.”
Adalon’s head dipped slightly “Escape, yes. I could grant you passage. But such favors are never free.” Her claws scraped against the stone, sparks leaping. “My children — my eggs — were stolen by the drow. I will not leave this lair undefended or risk attacking and destroying the eggs to reclaim them. You will do it in my stead.”
Imoen nodded quickly, her voice careful. “Of course great dragon. We’ll retrieve them. You have our word.”
Conan said nothing, his silence as heavy as his shadow. But the flicker in his eyes spoke volumes — dragons giving orders did not sit well with him.
Adalon spread her wings, the rush of air nearly toppling Imoen where she stood. “Then you shall walk among the drow as one of their own. Subterfuge is the weapon I grant you. You will wear their faces, speak their tongue, move unseen among their cities.”
Her eyes glowed, and with a single incantation, silver fire coiled around them. The world warped — their skin darkened, their armor reshaped, their very features twisted into that of drow warriors.
Conan barked a sudden laugh, sharp and deep. He looked at his darkened hands, then at Imoen. “Subterfuge! Ha! Skulking like rats. Crom must be laughing.”
Adalon’s gaze narrowed, like ice cracking on a lake. “Is my gift a jest to you, barbarian?”
Conan’s grin widened, half a retort forming—
—but Imoen darted in, her voice bright and trembling. “No! He just… means it’s clever, that’s all. He’s not used to… you know… subtlety.” She jabbed an elbow into Conan’s ribs, whispering fiercely, “Shut up or we’re dragon food.”
Disguised as drow, they entered Ust Natha — a city of shadows and venom. Black towers coiled upward like fangs, every arch and street dripping with menace. Conan’s lip curled. These elves reeked of cruelty, their smiles thinner than daggers. What surprised him most was the hierarchy—women with power, priestesses everywhere, men staying out of the way.
“Hnh,” Conan grunted. “A world turned upside down. Crom would have a laugh at this one.”
At the gates, they were ordered to report to the priestesses of the temple. But Conan’s eyes had already wandered to the tavern’s iron doors. He clapped Imoen on the shoulder. “First, a drink. Gods know we’ll need it.”
Inside, the air stank of blood and wine. A fighting pit churned in the center, drow jeering as beasts tore at each other. Conan’s eyes lit like coals. “Now that looks like sport.”
Imoen grabbed his arm, whispering fiercely: “Are you mad? The whole point is not drawing attention!”
Conan only grunted, rolling his shoulders. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and then he stepped into the pit.
One after another, drow warriors and slavering beasts fell beneath his flail. Hours passed, the crowd growing, until even the reigning champion lay broken at his feet. In whispers and in shouts, his name spread through Ust Natha — this strange warrior who fought like ten.
Imoen, wide-eyed, leaned close: “Well… maybe this isn’t all bad. A reputation might get us the information we need about those eggs.”
Drinks poured, songs rose, and the tavern swelled with drunken celebration. Conan sat astride a table, legs crossed. Mug in one hand, flail in the other, the picture of barbarian triumph.
From the far end, the matron mother’s voice cracked like a whip: “Zaknafein! Tell me — what is best in life?”
The former champion, still dazed, muttered something cruel and drowish about conquest and chains.
“WRONG!” she roared. Her gaze swept the hall and fixed on Conan. “You! Outlander! Tell me — what is best in life?”
Conan stood tall, his voice booming: “To crush your enemies. See them driven before you. And hear the lamentation of the women!”
The tavern froze. Nervous laughter trickled. Some drow chuckled, others glared daggers. The priestesses stiffened, eyes narrowing like blades unsheathed.
Imoen slapped her forehead. “By the gods, you’ll get us killed! Lamentation of the women?! In a city ruled by women, with an army of priestesses, and the bloody matron mother staring at us?!”
The ale’s haze vanished from Conan’s eyes in an instant. His grin faded into iron resolve as he rose. In a place like this, the only chance of leaving alive was to show no fear. He leaned close to Imoen, his voice calm as stone: “Stay close.” and then strode toward the doors.
A priestess barred the way, staff raised. “You dare leave without—”
“Out of the way, woman,” Conan rumbled, hand tightening on his flail. “I need to piss.”
She sneered — and her head flew from her shoulders in the same instant. Blood sprayed the doors as screams broke out. Conan shoved the corpse aside, rammed the door shut behind them, and barred it from outside with a splintered beam.
“Run,” Conan barked. Together they tore through the twisting streets, and by the time they reached the outer gate, the city behind them howled with alarm.
They found their way back to the cavern where Adalon waited. The dragon’s silver bulk gleamed coldly in the glow of the Underdark crystals, eyes narrowing as they approached.
Conan slowed, planting his feet on the stone. Without looking at Imoen, he muttered, “Stay here, girl. If this goes ill… no sense in both of us dying.”
Imoen frowned but did as he asked.
The dragon’s voice rolled across the chamber like a storm breaking:
“You dare return to me empty-handed? You squander my gift and crawl back, begging like worms?”
Conan raised his chin, flail resting against his shoulder. “We tried your way, dragon. It failed. My enemies hunt me, and I’ll not rot in these caves. We need to get out of the Underdark. One way or another.”
The air seemed to freeze. Adalon’s maw opened, teeth like swords glinting in the pale light.
“You threaten me? I am Adalon, ancient and eternal! I could snuff your life as easily as I breathe.”
Conan gave a low grunt, the ghost of a grin tugging his mouth. “How many times have I heard that by now? Go on then. Try.”
The battle came like an avalanche.
Conan drew the black blade he had wrested from the demon knight’s statue, its runes glowing faintly. When he struck, the dragon’s movements grew sluggish, its wings dragging, its claws slower with every exchange. Conan darted aside, sidestepping blows that would have shattered boulders, his weapon biting scale and sinew:
Adalon unleashed a storm of frozen sorcery — jagged shards of ice crashing from above, her breath sweeping the cavern in a howling gale of frost that sought to bury him alive. Conan strode through it like it was summer rain. The cold rolled off him because of the protection he put on himself before the battle — and the dragon’s magic could not touch him:
It was brutal, bloody work. But at last, with a roar that shook the cavern, the silver wyrm fell, its body crashing against the stone in a thunder of broken wings.
Conan, panting, slick with frost and blood, dragged himself back toward the shadows where Imoen waited.
She ran to him, relief and fury mingled in her pale face. Throwing her arms around him, she pressed her forehead against his chest.
“Conan, you idiot! You can be the biggest fool alive… but you’re still my brother, and gods help me, I love you for it.”
Conan’s hand rested heavy on her shoulder, softer than his words. “A fool’s stronger with a sister at his side. Especially a smart one who keeps him in line when his sword can’t. Don’t think I don’t know it.”
Imoen blinked, then laughed through the weariness. “Keep you in line? Ha! That’s a full-time job. Lucky for you, I’m stubborn too.”
For the first time in this new body, Conan allowed himself a rare, honest smile—not the taunting grin he wore for enemies, but a true smile born of happiness and relief. “Then I suppose I’m in good hands,” he murmured, and the weight behind his words carried trust deeper than any blade could.
Step by step, the path wound downward through black stone halls that seemed endless, guided by the gnomes’ crude, scratchy map toward the dragon’s den.
Imoen hugged her arms close, nerves buzzing. “Conan… please, just this once, let me do the talking.”
He grunted, low in his chest, more stone than voice.
She shot him a look. “I’m serious! Promise me you won’t do anything… you know. Stupid.”
Conan snorted, the echo rolling off the cavern walls. “Girl, if I promised that, I’d have to stay silent forever.”
“Conan!” she snapped, throwing her hands up.
He cracked a grin, rough as gravel. “All right, all right. Calm yourself, for Crom’s sake. I’ll keep my tongue. For now.”
The caverns widened, walls slick with glowing blue crystal and moss, like a frozen cathedral, until the lair opened to reveal Adalon coiled on shattered stalagmites, silver scales gleaming, wings casting vast shadows, eyes burning with cold wisdom and disdain.
Imoen swallowed, squared her shoulders, and forced herself into a polite bow.
“Great Adalon, guardian of these depths… we come seeking your aid.”
The dragon’s voice rolled through the cavern, each word edged with power.
“You are bold, little mortals, to enter unbidden. Few dare to tread my halls without being frozen before my breath. Yet… you carry no fear in your step. Curious.”
Conan just grunted, his trusty atlantean steel resting across his shoulder.
Imoen hurried on. “We mean no harm. We’ve come… because we’ve heard you may hold the key to our escape. We ask for your help, and in return, offer our strength.”
Adalon’s head dipped slightly “Escape, yes. I could grant you passage. But such favors are never free.” Her claws scraped against the stone, sparks leaping. “My children — my eggs — were stolen by the drow. I will not leave this lair undefended or risk attacking and destroying the eggs to reclaim them. You will do it in my stead.”
Imoen nodded quickly, her voice careful. “Of course great dragon. We’ll retrieve them. You have our word.”
Conan said nothing, his silence as heavy as his shadow. But the flicker in his eyes spoke volumes — dragons giving orders did not sit well with him.
Adalon spread her wings, the rush of air nearly toppling Imoen where she stood. “Then you shall walk among the drow as one of their own. Subterfuge is the weapon I grant you. You will wear their faces, speak their tongue, move unseen among their cities.”
Her eyes glowed, and with a single incantation, silver fire coiled around them. The world warped — their skin darkened, their armor reshaped, their very features twisted into that of drow warriors.
Conan barked a sudden laugh, sharp and deep. He looked at his darkened hands, then at Imoen. “Subterfuge! Ha! Skulking like rats. Crom must be laughing.”
Adalon’s gaze narrowed, like ice cracking on a lake. “Is my gift a jest to you, barbarian?”
Conan’s grin widened, half a retort forming—
—but Imoen darted in, her voice bright and trembling. “No! He just… means it’s clever, that’s all. He’s not used to… you know… subtlety.” She jabbed an elbow into Conan’s ribs, whispering fiercely, “Shut up or we’re dragon food.”
Disguised as drow, they entered Ust Natha — a city of shadows and venom. Black towers coiled upward like fangs, every arch and street dripping with menace. Conan’s lip curled. These elves reeked of cruelty, their smiles thinner than daggers. What surprised him most was the hierarchy—women with power, priestesses everywhere, men staying out of the way.
“Hnh,” Conan grunted. “A world turned upside down. Crom would have a laugh at this one.”
At the gates, they were ordered to report to the priestesses of the temple. But Conan’s eyes had already wandered to the tavern’s iron doors. He clapped Imoen on the shoulder. “First, a drink. Gods know we’ll need it.”
Inside, the air stank of blood and wine. A fighting pit churned in the center, drow jeering as beasts tore at each other. Conan’s eyes lit like coals. “Now that looks like sport.”
Imoen grabbed his arm, whispering fiercely: “Are you mad? The whole point is not drawing attention!”
Conan only grunted, rolling his shoulders. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and then he stepped into the pit.
One after another, drow warriors and slavering beasts fell beneath his flail. Hours passed, the crowd growing, until even the reigning champion lay broken at his feet. In whispers and in shouts, his name spread through Ust Natha — this strange warrior who fought like ten.
Imoen, wide-eyed, leaned close: “Well… maybe this isn’t all bad. A reputation might get us the information we need about those eggs.”
Drinks poured, songs rose, and the tavern swelled with drunken celebration. Conan sat astride a table, legs crossed. Mug in one hand, flail in the other, the picture of barbarian triumph.
From the far end, the matron mother’s voice cracked like a whip: “Zaknafein! Tell me — what is best in life?”
The former champion, still dazed, muttered something cruel and drowish about conquest and chains.
“WRONG!” she roared. Her gaze swept the hall and fixed on Conan. “You! Outlander! Tell me — what is best in life?”
Conan stood tall, his voice booming: “To crush your enemies. See them driven before you. And hear the lamentation of the women!”
The tavern froze. Nervous laughter trickled. Some drow chuckled, others glared daggers. The priestesses stiffened, eyes narrowing like blades unsheathed.
Imoen slapped her forehead. “By the gods, you’ll get us killed! Lamentation of the women?! In a city ruled by women, with an army of priestesses, and the bloody matron mother staring at us?!”
The ale’s haze vanished from Conan’s eyes in an instant. His grin faded into iron resolve as he rose. In a place like this, the only chance of leaving alive was to show no fear. He leaned close to Imoen, his voice calm as stone: “Stay close.” and then strode toward the doors.
A priestess barred the way, staff raised. “You dare leave without—”
“Out of the way, woman,” Conan rumbled, hand tightening on his flail. “I need to piss.”
She sneered — and her head flew from her shoulders in the same instant. Blood sprayed the doors as screams broke out. Conan shoved the corpse aside, rammed the door shut behind them, and barred it from outside with a splintered beam.
“Run,” Conan barked. Together they tore through the twisting streets, and by the time they reached the outer gate, the city behind them howled with alarm.
They found their way back to the cavern where Adalon waited. The dragon’s silver bulk gleamed coldly in the glow of the Underdark crystals, eyes narrowing as they approached.
Conan slowed, planting his feet on the stone. Without looking at Imoen, he muttered, “Stay here, girl. If this goes ill… no sense in both of us dying.”
Imoen frowned but did as he asked.
The dragon’s voice rolled across the chamber like a storm breaking:
“You dare return to me empty-handed? You squander my gift and crawl back, begging like worms?”
Conan raised his chin, flail resting against his shoulder. “We tried your way, dragon. It failed. My enemies hunt me, and I’ll not rot in these caves. We need to get out of the Underdark. One way or another.”
The air seemed to freeze. Adalon’s maw opened, teeth like swords glinting in the pale light.
“You threaten me? I am Adalon, ancient and eternal! I could snuff your life as easily as I breathe.”
Conan gave a low grunt, the ghost of a grin tugging his mouth. “How many times have I heard that by now? Go on then. Try.”
The battle came like an avalanche.
Conan drew the black blade he had wrested from the demon knight’s statue, its runes glowing faintly. When he struck, the dragon’s movements grew sluggish, its wings dragging, its claws slower with every exchange. Conan darted aside, sidestepping blows that would have shattered boulders, his weapon biting scale and sinew:
Conan, panting, slick with frost and blood, dragged himself back toward the shadows where Imoen waited.
She ran to him, relief and fury mingled in her pale face. Throwing her arms around him, she pressed her forehead against his chest.
“Conan, you idiot! You can be the biggest fool alive… but you’re still my brother, and gods help me, I love you for it.”
Conan’s hand rested heavy on her shoulder, softer than his words. “A fool’s stronger with a sister at his side. Especially a smart one who keeps him in line when his sword can’t. Don’t think I don’t know it.”
Imoen blinked, then laughed through the weariness. “Keep you in line? Ha! That’s a full-time job. Lucky for you, I’m stubborn too.”
For the first time in this new body, Conan allowed himself a rare, honest smile—not the taunting grin he wore for enemies, but a true smile born of happiness and relief. “Then I suppose I’m in good hands,” he murmured, and the weight behind his words carried trust deeper than any blade could.
Finarfin
Habitué
- Messages
- 121
Conan, Barbarian Dwarf: Part 17 - The Barbarian and the Ranger
The Underdark shook behind them. The gates creaked as the dragon’s key fit home. Cold, stale air gave way to a thin breath of freedom. Conan and Imoen did not waste time — they ran, boots hammering the winding passages, the glimmer of light calling them forward.
But the drow were waiting.
A war party slipped from the shadows, steel flashing, spells hissing in the black. The hiss of a quarrel sang out — straight for Imoen.
The barbarian moved without thought. He threw himself in front of her, the bolt burying into his shoulder with a wet crunch. Conan barely flinched, teeth bared in a wolf’s grin. “Stings,” he muttered, ripping the shaft free with a spray of blood.
Then he was among them. His flail blurred, bone splintered, and screams rang as drow fell crushed to the cavern floor. One tried to conjure some dark spell — Conan’s flail found his ribs before the spell was cast. Another leapt with twin blades — only to be swatted aside like vermin. When the last one broke and ran, Conan hurled the broken quarrel through his back.
Imoen rushed to him, pale. “You— you can’t just throw yourself in front of me like that! One day it won’t be a sting, Conan, it’ll kill you.”
Conan wiped blood from his shoulder, indifferent. “Then it’ll be my death, not yours. That’s enough.”
Imoen’s eyes softened, her voice cracking. “…Idiot. But thank you.”
The gate opened, and for the first time in what felt like years, sunlight broke upon their faces. Imoen laughed, arms wide, tears on her cheeks. “Oh, gods… I thought I’d never see it again.”
Conan tilted his head back, squinting at the burning sky. His chest rose and fell. “…Too bright,” he grumbled, but there was a rare softness in his voice.
They began their trek toward Athkatla, the grass soft beneath their boots. The smell of earth, the buzz of insects, even the wind itself felt like a miracle. But fate was not finished with them yet.
On the road, a band of adventurers blocked their path. At their head stood a dark elf with lavender eyes, twin scimitars at his hips. His presence was calm, but carried the weight of a legend.
“I am Drizzt Do’Urden,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your name has traveled far, Conan. Word of your battles around Sword Coast and Amn reached my ears. I would test your mettle. A spar — nothing more.”
Conan spat into the dirt, hand tightening on his flail. “Test away, elf.”
Steel sang.
Bruenor snorted through his beard. “Bah! Two stubborn oxen buttin’ heads. Best clear some room before the ground splits.”
Cattie-Brie folded her arms, half-smiling. “Men. Give ‘em weapons and they can’t resist measuring who’s taller.”
Wulfgar leaned on Aegis-fang, his grin broad. “Taller’s not the word. Louder, maybe. The clash’ll wake the mountains.”
Imoen groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You know, this has basically been the story of my life these last few weeks."
Drizzt flowed like shadow, his scimitars a blur of silver arcs that kissed Conan’s mail, sparks dancing with each glancing cut. The barbarian drove through them with unyielding force, shrugging aside the stings, and answered with a downward sweep of his flail that boomed like thunder in the cavern air.
Drizzt rolled past, blades flashing, only to meet the sudden sweep of Conan’s Atlantean steel, the edge hissing close enough to stir his white hair.
Back and forth they moved, a storm in two halves — grace and precision weaving against raw, unrelenting power.
The drow spun low, twin blades whistling in a scissoring strike. Conan met one with the haft of his flail, the other with the flat of his sword, the clash ringing like a hammer on an anvil. With a snarl, the barbarian caught Drizzt’s wrist, their gazes locking — Conan’s fire against Drizzt’s calm storm.
A heartbeat passed, steel grinding between them. Then, with the fluidity of water slipping from stone, Drizzt twisted free, leaving only a shallow line of red across Conan’s forearm for his effort.
The barbarian only grinned, blood dripping. “Good. Few can make me bleed.”
Drizzt’s answering smile was faint but genuine. “And few can weather my blades with such strength.”
Their weapons clashed once more — a ringing final blow that cracked the earth between them. Both warriors stepped back, breathing hard, neither conceding, but both knowing the truth: the fight was even.
Conan planted his flail and sword on the ground, nodding. “You fight well, elf. For once, I’m glad I didn’t crush my enemy.”
The two clasped forearms, warriors’ grip. Drizzt sheathed his scimitars with a bow. “And I am glad to have met a warrior worthy of respect.” He glanced back at his companions, then to Conan again. “We make for the Copper Coronet in Athkatla. You and your friend should join us. Tales are best told over fire and drink — and Wulfgar, in particular, will want to hear yours. There’s barbarian blood in him still, though he never thought he’d meet a true son of the wild.”
Imoen just shook her head, muttering with a smile, “Of course. Out of the frying pan, into a sparring match with the Drizzt Do’Urden. Only you, Conan... only you”
The Copper Coronet was thick with smoke, sweat, and the sour stink of spilled ale. Conan sat at the head of a long table, his flail and sword propped within easy reach. One fist clutched a tankard big enough to drown a rat in.
Across from him, Wulfgar leaned forward eagerly, eyes alight. “So the beast was ten times your height, you say? With scales like iron?”
Conan tore a slab of meat from the bone, chewed, and grinned through it. “Aye. I hacked through its wing to ground it, then split its skull clean in two. The cavern shook with its death cry — and when I tore out its heart, the damned thing still beat in my hand.”
Wulfgar barked a laugh, pounding the table hard enough to rattle the mugs. “By Tempus, I would’ve given anything to stand at your side in that battle!”
Bruenor snorted, beard bristling. “Bah! If there were more o’ yer barbarian kind, we’d all be buried ‘neath broken mountains by now.”
Conan fixed the dwarf with a look like a drawn blade. “I speak plain. My foes lie in the dirt to prove it.”
Catti-brie rolled her eyes, sipping her wine. “Wulfgar’s head barely fit through the door, but yours might knock the beams down, Conan.”
That earned a rare laugh from Drizzt, soft but warm. “Let them boast. They’ve both earned it. Battle-born, the pair of them.”
Imoen leaned in, grinning, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the tavern noise. “Trust me, he’s always like this. Dragons, demons, liches, arch-mages you name it — somehow he’s still standing. You should see the way he snores, though. That’d scare an army faster than his flail.”
Conan gave her a look that could fell a lesser soul. Imoen only stuck out her tongue and stole a sip from his tankard.
The laughter at the table was still ringing when a shadow fell across them. A man in dark leathers, hood low over his face, bowed stiffly. “Conan. Aran Linvail bids me remind you — your debt remains. The Shadow Thieves await.”
The table grew quiet.
Conan drained the rest of his ale in one pull, then set the tankard down with a thud that rattled the mugs. “Tell your master I’ve not forgotten. I’ll come. I always pay my debts.”
The messenger slipped back into the shadows.
Drizzt leaned forward, his violet eyes narrowing. “Should you call, Conan, know you won’t stand alone.”
Conan shook his head. “No. This is mine. Wait here, elf. I’ll deal with it.”
Imoen stood as well, chin raised stubbornly. “If you’re going, then I’m—”
Conan cut her off with a shake of his head, voice iron. “No. You wait with them.”
“But—”
His gaze silenced her. “Stay, girl. I’ll handle this.”
Not happy, Imoen sank back into her chair, arms crossed and eyes flashing. But she complied.
Conan’s voice was low, iron-hard: “Don’t worry…I’ll be back.”
The Underdark shook behind them. The gates creaked as the dragon’s key fit home. Cold, stale air gave way to a thin breath of freedom. Conan and Imoen did not waste time — they ran, boots hammering the winding passages, the glimmer of light calling them forward.
But the drow were waiting.
A war party slipped from the shadows, steel flashing, spells hissing in the black. The hiss of a quarrel sang out — straight for Imoen.
The barbarian moved without thought. He threw himself in front of her, the bolt burying into his shoulder with a wet crunch. Conan barely flinched, teeth bared in a wolf’s grin. “Stings,” he muttered, ripping the shaft free with a spray of blood.
Then he was among them. His flail blurred, bone splintered, and screams rang as drow fell crushed to the cavern floor. One tried to conjure some dark spell — Conan’s flail found his ribs before the spell was cast. Another leapt with twin blades — only to be swatted aside like vermin. When the last one broke and ran, Conan hurled the broken quarrel through his back.
Imoen rushed to him, pale. “You— you can’t just throw yourself in front of me like that! One day it won’t be a sting, Conan, it’ll kill you.”
Conan wiped blood from his shoulder, indifferent. “Then it’ll be my death, not yours. That’s enough.”
Imoen’s eyes softened, her voice cracking. “…Idiot. But thank you.”
The gate opened, and for the first time in what felt like years, sunlight broke upon their faces. Imoen laughed, arms wide, tears on her cheeks. “Oh, gods… I thought I’d never see it again.”
Conan tilted his head back, squinting at the burning sky. His chest rose and fell. “…Too bright,” he grumbled, but there was a rare softness in his voice.
They began their trek toward Athkatla, the grass soft beneath their boots. The smell of earth, the buzz of insects, even the wind itself felt like a miracle. But fate was not finished with them yet.
On the road, a band of adventurers blocked their path. At their head stood a dark elf with lavender eyes, twin scimitars at his hips. His presence was calm, but carried the weight of a legend.
“I am Drizzt Do’Urden,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your name has traveled far, Conan. Word of your battles around Sword Coast and Amn reached my ears. I would test your mettle. A spar — nothing more.”
Conan spat into the dirt, hand tightening on his flail. “Test away, elf.”
Steel sang.
Bruenor snorted through his beard. “Bah! Two stubborn oxen buttin’ heads. Best clear some room before the ground splits.”
Cattie-Brie folded her arms, half-smiling. “Men. Give ‘em weapons and they can’t resist measuring who’s taller.”
Wulfgar leaned on Aegis-fang, his grin broad. “Taller’s not the word. Louder, maybe. The clash’ll wake the mountains.”
Imoen groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You know, this has basically been the story of my life these last few weeks."
Drizzt flowed like shadow, his scimitars a blur of silver arcs that kissed Conan’s mail, sparks dancing with each glancing cut. The barbarian drove through them with unyielding force, shrugging aside the stings, and answered with a downward sweep of his flail that boomed like thunder in the cavern air.
Drizzt rolled past, blades flashing, only to meet the sudden sweep of Conan’s Atlantean steel, the edge hissing close enough to stir his white hair.
Back and forth they moved, a storm in two halves — grace and precision weaving against raw, unrelenting power.
The drow spun low, twin blades whistling in a scissoring strike. Conan met one with the haft of his flail, the other with the flat of his sword, the clash ringing like a hammer on an anvil. With a snarl, the barbarian caught Drizzt’s wrist, their gazes locking — Conan’s fire against Drizzt’s calm storm.
A heartbeat passed, steel grinding between them. Then, with the fluidity of water slipping from stone, Drizzt twisted free, leaving only a shallow line of red across Conan’s forearm for his effort.
The barbarian only grinned, blood dripping. “Good. Few can make me bleed.”
Drizzt’s answering smile was faint but genuine. “And few can weather my blades with such strength.”
Their weapons clashed once more — a ringing final blow that cracked the earth between them. Both warriors stepped back, breathing hard, neither conceding, but both knowing the truth: the fight was even.
Conan planted his flail and sword on the ground, nodding. “You fight well, elf. For once, I’m glad I didn’t crush my enemy.”
The two clasped forearms, warriors’ grip. Drizzt sheathed his scimitars with a bow. “And I am glad to have met a warrior worthy of respect.” He glanced back at his companions, then to Conan again. “We make for the Copper Coronet in Athkatla. You and your friend should join us. Tales are best told over fire and drink — and Wulfgar, in particular, will want to hear yours. There’s barbarian blood in him still, though he never thought he’d meet a true son of the wild.”
Imoen just shook her head, muttering with a smile, “Of course. Out of the frying pan, into a sparring match with the Drizzt Do’Urden. Only you, Conan... only you”
The Copper Coronet was thick with smoke, sweat, and the sour stink of spilled ale. Conan sat at the head of a long table, his flail and sword propped within easy reach. One fist clutched a tankard big enough to drown a rat in.
Across from him, Wulfgar leaned forward eagerly, eyes alight. “So the beast was ten times your height, you say? With scales like iron?”
Conan tore a slab of meat from the bone, chewed, and grinned through it. “Aye. I hacked through its wing to ground it, then split its skull clean in two. The cavern shook with its death cry — and when I tore out its heart, the damned thing still beat in my hand.”
Wulfgar barked a laugh, pounding the table hard enough to rattle the mugs. “By Tempus, I would’ve given anything to stand at your side in that battle!”
Bruenor snorted, beard bristling. “Bah! If there were more o’ yer barbarian kind, we’d all be buried ‘neath broken mountains by now.”
Conan fixed the dwarf with a look like a drawn blade. “I speak plain. My foes lie in the dirt to prove it.”
Catti-brie rolled her eyes, sipping her wine. “Wulfgar’s head barely fit through the door, but yours might knock the beams down, Conan.”
That earned a rare laugh from Drizzt, soft but warm. “Let them boast. They’ve both earned it. Battle-born, the pair of them.”
Imoen leaned in, grinning, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the tavern noise. “Trust me, he’s always like this. Dragons, demons, liches, arch-mages you name it — somehow he’s still standing. You should see the way he snores, though. That’d scare an army faster than his flail.”
Conan gave her a look that could fell a lesser soul. Imoen only stuck out her tongue and stole a sip from his tankard.
The laughter at the table was still ringing when a shadow fell across them. A man in dark leathers, hood low over his face, bowed stiffly. “Conan. Aran Linvail bids me remind you — your debt remains. The Shadow Thieves await.”
The table grew quiet.
Conan drained the rest of his ale in one pull, then set the tankard down with a thud that rattled the mugs. “Tell your master I’ve not forgotten. I’ll come. I always pay my debts.”
The messenger slipped back into the shadows.
Drizzt leaned forward, his violet eyes narrowing. “Should you call, Conan, know you won’t stand alone.”
Conan shook his head. “No. This is mine. Wait here, elf. I’ll deal with it.”
Imoen stood as well, chin raised stubbornly. “If you’re going, then I’m—”
Conan cut her off with a shake of his head, voice iron. “No. You wait with them.”
“But—”
His gaze silenced her. “Stay, girl. I’ll handle this.”
Not happy, Imoen sank back into her chair, arms crossed and eyes flashing. But she complied.
Conan’s voice was low, iron-hard: “Don’t worry…I’ll be back.”
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WiseGrimwald
Habitué
- Messages
- 430
Journal of Helmuth
On arrival at the FAI we met up with Jet' Laya and left Morwen there. A shame as she had become a useful member of the party.
However it was Jet' Layas sister that we were rescuing.
We spent a lot of gold equipping Jet, some of which seems to have been qasted as we have been promised a decent mace for her.
At least Val had learnt identify, so Morwen wasn't needed for that job any more.
Sadly Jet' Laya's sister had become a banshee and we felt it our duty to put an end to her life.
None of us were directly responsible for that as summoned skeletons did the job.
We now have to deal with a dragon near Nashkel.
We exchanged Sirene for another Cavalier of similar experience who was better equipped for dealing with dragons.
Similarly we swapped our thief for Bardo Furryfoot who has some nifty arrows for that job.
As half of the party was tired we used the opportunity to sleep and alter our spell choices.
We sent two skeletons out ahead to face the dragon. They didn't last long, but they did cause it to use some spells.
Two more skeletons were sent with similar results. We then fought the battle proper. Val removed spell protections while Tenya cast silence.
Conchobhair Strongblade then attacked in melee whilst Bardo used his arrows. An effective strategy!
Conchobhair was badly hurt so we rested before continuing on.
Its young were no problem, unlike the first time that I fought them. Strategy is EVERYTHING!
We left Conchobhair and Bardo near the inn in Nashkel and rejoined with Fergie,
We have been asked to find the kidnapped daughter of the Mayor of Nashkel.
CúChoinneach, a ranger has agreed to help us.
When we fought the Dark One, he and Fergie were killed and we were unable to kill the Dark One.
That battle was far too close for comfort! Two dead party members! Three asleeep! The only one awake had just 4hp!
She ran and then used potions. The others then awoke.
We used two raise dead scrolls. The wolf who came with CúChoinneach was also killed. We discovered later, not permanently.
After getting the phylactery of the Dark One, he was easy to kill.
We have been given a mace of Disruption for our labours. Buying that mace for Tenya was definitely a waste of money.
We have arrived at Castle Daerthmac and looted the upper floors.
The vampiress charmed CúChoinneach but as soon as the spell wore off he donned a helmet to prevent a repeat.
I then cast true sight which meant that she no longer had any answers.
Now time to descend to the depths.
Got so far, but found that it was getting quite buggy. Val stopped doing as she was told. I decided to return to the surface and drop off Jet' Laya at Beregost before returning.
If the problem persists, I will drop off Val as well.
As Zebedee famously said: "Time for bed."
The problem with Val not being obedient has persisted. I'm wondering if this "Adamant" which keeps cropping up is anything to do with it.
I think the adamant is something to do with an override script. I got rid of that and everything is now OK except for the fact that her excellent robe disappeared. By selling Davaeorn's robe, I could buy another good one, but I am now poor!.
On arrival at the FAI we met up with Jet' Laya and left Morwen there. A shame as she had become a useful member of the party.
However it was Jet' Layas sister that we were rescuing.
We spent a lot of gold equipping Jet, some of which seems to have been qasted as we have been promised a decent mace for her.
At least Val had learnt identify, so Morwen wasn't needed for that job any more.
Sadly Jet' Laya's sister had become a banshee and we felt it our duty to put an end to her life.
None of us were directly responsible for that as summoned skeletons did the job.
We now have to deal with a dragon near Nashkel.
We exchanged Sirene for another Cavalier of similar experience who was better equipped for dealing with dragons.
Similarly we swapped our thief for Bardo Furryfoot who has some nifty arrows for that job.
As half of the party was tired we used the opportunity to sleep and alter our spell choices.
We sent two skeletons out ahead to face the dragon. They didn't last long, but they did cause it to use some spells.
Two more skeletons were sent with similar results. We then fought the battle proper. Val removed spell protections while Tenya cast silence.
Conchobhair Strongblade then attacked in melee whilst Bardo used his arrows. An effective strategy!
Conchobhair was badly hurt so we rested before continuing on.
Its young were no problem, unlike the first time that I fought them. Strategy is EVERYTHING!
We left Conchobhair and Bardo near the inn in Nashkel and rejoined with Fergie,
We have been asked to find the kidnapped daughter of the Mayor of Nashkel.
CúChoinneach, a ranger has agreed to help us.
When we fought the Dark One, he and Fergie were killed and we were unable to kill the Dark One.
That battle was far too close for comfort! Two dead party members! Three asleeep! The only one awake had just 4hp!
She ran and then used potions. The others then awoke.
We used two raise dead scrolls. The wolf who came with CúChoinneach was also killed. We discovered later, not permanently.
After getting the phylactery of the Dark One, he was easy to kill.
We have been given a mace of Disruption for our labours. Buying that mace for Tenya was definitely a waste of money.
We have arrived at Castle Daerthmac and looted the upper floors.
The vampiress charmed CúChoinneach but as soon as the spell wore off he donned a helmet to prevent a repeat.
I then cast true sight which meant that she no longer had any answers.
Now time to descend to the depths.
Got so far, but found that it was getting quite buggy. Val stopped doing as she was told. I decided to return to the surface and drop off Jet' Laya at Beregost before returning.
If the problem persists, I will drop off Val as well.
As Zebedee famously said: "Time for bed."
The problem with Val not being obedient has persisted. I'm wondering if this "Adamant" which keeps cropping up is anything to do with it.
I think the adamant is something to do with an override script. I got rid of that and everything is now OK except for the fact that her excellent robe disappeared. By selling Davaeorn's robe, I could buy another good one, but I am now poor!.
Attachments
Last edited:
WiseGrimwald
Habitué
- Messages
- 430
Journal of Helmuth
Currently looking for Otho's nephew.
We dropped off Jet' Laya and recruited Fergill Trollslayer, a Berserker Dwarf who was surrounded by swarms of Duerger.
We prevailed, though we did have to flee, heal ourselves and return.
The loot consisted of vast amounts of +1 axes, maces and armour. I would imagine that when we sell it, we will receive thousands of gp.
We proceeded further down where there were more undead which were all slain.
We then proceeded to Baldur's Gate and defeated assassins at the bridge.
Once inside we helped at the Seven Suns and also helped Aldeth before killing an ogre/mage in the sewers.
Then cured the poison inflicted on me by Marek.
We did a plethora of minor quests in Baldur's Gate before going to the Iron Throne, and hence to Candlekeep.
Forgot to take an image at the throne.
Candlekeep was straightforward, but we have now arrived at Durlag's Tower. That will NOT be as straightforward, but our party is now powerful.
However, so far, we have cleared the upper floors. It was then that we discovered that our bag of holding was ftb. We therefore sold a lot of low cost items to make room for plunder. That was time consuming, but it does mean that we will have room in the bag tomorrow.
I have just come across Nirel's boots of protection! 50% MR. Imagine Viconia having those!
However, I have discovered that some DS equipment has been nerfed and the descriptions on the items haven't been altered. They are useless for my current run, but could be helpful in another when I will test them!
Currently looking for Otho's nephew.
We dropped off Jet' Laya and recruited Fergill Trollslayer, a Berserker Dwarf who was surrounded by swarms of Duerger.
We prevailed, though we did have to flee, heal ourselves and return.
The loot consisted of vast amounts of +1 axes, maces and armour. I would imagine that when we sell it, we will receive thousands of gp.
We proceeded further down where there were more undead which were all slain.
We then proceeded to Baldur's Gate and defeated assassins at the bridge.
Once inside we helped at the Seven Suns and also helped Aldeth before killing an ogre/mage in the sewers.
Then cured the poison inflicted on me by Marek.
We did a plethora of minor quests in Baldur's Gate before going to the Iron Throne, and hence to Candlekeep.
Forgot to take an image at the throne.
Candlekeep was straightforward, but we have now arrived at Durlag's Tower. That will NOT be as straightforward, but our party is now powerful.
However, so far, we have cleared the upper floors. It was then that we discovered that our bag of holding was ftb. We therefore sold a lot of low cost items to make room for plunder. That was time consuming, but it does mean that we will have room in the bag tomorrow.
I have just come across Nirel's boots of protection! 50% MR. Imagine Viconia having those!
However, I have discovered that some DS equipment has been nerfed and the descriptions on the items haven't been altered. They are useless for my current run, but could be helpful in another when I will test them!
Attachments
Last edited: