“Hungry eyes peer down from craggy hills. They fix their feral gaze on twisting plumes of smoke rising from the homes of men. They wait for the dark. Brutish giants with obscene appetites for flesh and unnatural desires, ogres commit unspeakable acts on wind-blown peaks. They waylay travelers on whom they slake their fury and claim the skulls in remembrance of nights well spent. In the dark, they prowl the woods and dance their wild jigs on rocky mountainsides. The echo of the ogres’ freakish cavorting shakes the shutters of far-off homesteads in the misty hours before the morn, reminding men to treasure every sunrise, for peril lurks close at hand when darkness falls again.”
—Harlo Mardacci, On Giants and Giantkin
While orcs, hobgoblins, and bugbears are a threat to civilized man, they are predictable in their actions, and easily dealt with individually. The same is not true with ogres. These brooding menaces lurk on the fringes of society, striking out with terrific rage against those who can hardly hope to defend themselves. They are brutal children, prone to violence and completely lacking any sense of morality. For an ogre, cruelty is a sport and murder is a game.
Ogres are a sickness on the world. Horrific half-breeds of men and greater giants, these outcasts turned to unnatural ways and soon became twisted things. Malformed in body and psychotic in mind, ogres breed horror wherever they roam. They have plagued the realms of men since time immemorial, becoming legendary monstrosities whose ghastly reputation ensures even those who’ve never laid eyes on one fear them.
The savagery of ogres is especially terrifying, if for no other reason than they hold a distorted mirror up to mankind. Many monsters tear men limb from limb and devour them, but few enjoy it as much ogres do, or play with their prey in the manner a morally deficient sociopath might. Heinous torture and slow, painful consumption await those who fall into ogres’ clutches. Death comes slowly and only after a victim is broken in mind, body, and soul.
The most terrifying thing about ogrekind is their malignant sense of humor. What men call horror launches ogres into fits of oafish laughter. The look of anguish on a dwarf ’s face as his limbs are torn off, and the horrid sounds he makes, elicit wild guffaws from nearby ogres, and more than one no doubt mocks the poor victim, imitating his pained grunts with drooling glee. The sight of an elf with his back broken and his torso bent to force the back of his head to touch the small of his back is high comedy to an ogre.
In general, ogres possess no appreciation for anything beyond these evil torments, wild revels, lusty exertions, and the taste of savory, flame-broiled human meat. While some giants are known for cave paintings and other achievements in artistry, most ogres find such pursuits a contemptuous waste of time. They are not proficient at much beyond wholesale murder, although most tribes are industrious enough to forge basic tools and weapons.
Freakishly hardy, ogres develop faster than most other creatures, topping out in height and girth at only 6 years of age. Females keep steady supplies of young coming to replace the ones murdered by their jealous siblings, beaten to death by their male kin, or slain by the arrows of humans and elves. Most ogres’ lives are cut short by violence long before nature takes its course, and one who reaches 30 is considered a wizened elder.
Although they prefer to breed within their own family, ogres do occasionally force themselves onto other creatures. They revel in their basest desires, which sometimes leads them to assault those unfortunate enough to cross their paths. Few of their victims survive to bear the fruit of these exertions, but those half-breeds that live are occasionally kept by the ogres as children. These ogrekin are horribly malformed, their inbred genes mixing sourly with other stock and resulting in extreme aberrations. Ogre genes destroy a blood line. Ogrekin can mate with humans, but nothing in their family tree ever again resembles a natural human man or woman.
Ogre musk is vile and particularly pungent. A creature with the scent ability that has smelled it before can detect the reek of ogre at twice the normal range, and animals grow skittish when an ogre draws near. Ogres are fiercely territorial and use their spoor to mark their stomping ground. Piles of reeking waste are the first hints a party is entering ogre territory.
These contemptible creatures favor the night and lair in dark caves on lonely mountainsides. Although the sun does them no harm, ogres shun it when they can. Ogres flee a songbird’s morning call and the cries of roosters as if they were cavalry trumpets, lurching back to their inky caves and waiting for the dark night before returning to their grim business. Some ogres go as far as to worship the night and howl mournfully at the moon. The sounds of their savage cries are so terrifying they silence wolves and coyotes. Moonless nights are for killing, and those are an ogre’s favorite time to hunt. During the new moon in lands where ogres lair, even the bravest souls do not willingly walk the roads after sundown.
Ogres are fierce predators, laying waste to other species once they infest a territory. Their gluttony is only overshadowed by trolls, whom ogres envy and hate but fear too much to oppose. The only saving grace of ogrekind is their highly fractious nature. They murder each other as often as they do others, eating their own as readily as any other repast. Ogres never organize into groups larger than a few families loosely connected in a tribal fashion.
After an evening of slaughter, ogres dance late into the night, the jawbones and bleached pates of their kills jangling obscenely. The echo of bones clattering can be heard up and down the mountain when ogres are at play. Ear-splitting howls of beastly fury echo through the hills, and the aroma of the cooked flesh rides the wind down the mountain.
Ogres are slothful by nature and more easily bored than most races. They can’t pay attention to anything for very long unless it’s squealing in pain or humiliation. Ogres laugh at little things. They find creatures smaller than themselves hilarious. The sight of a human adventurer brandishing a sword sends most ogres into hysterical fits of grunting guffaws. They don’t take humans, dwarves, elves, halfings, gnomes (especially gnomes), orcs, or goblinoids seriously at all, often laughing themselves to tears when such teensy foes challenge them. It’s not until they are harmed by these miniature enemies that the ogres fly into sputtering rages and spit their foes on their rusty hooks.
That having been said...
The party beds down in the cloak room for some much needed rest. The soft murmuring of Sif's prayers to Iomedae and Torag whispering among the sounds of the crackling fire. Belton, a worshiper of Desna the Queen of Dreams must exhibit his faith through 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep, a form of prayer specific to her worship and so he takes the first watch for a few hours after sunset til about the mid hours of the Boar*. Cröm takes the middle shift and in his vigil listens closely as something outside of the room opens the outer door to the Monastery and the hall is filled with the click of nails on the flagstones and the snuffling of wolves in considerable number. A great pack, a convocation of no less that 20 from the sound and smell of it, pass into Droskar's Crucible and disappear down the hallways beyond where the party have ventured, intent on some unguessable canine purpose. Emerging from their cell, our heroes make straight for the door directly ahead. Third-Circle Inquisitor of the First Echelon, Belton Harald, Lawmaster of the Celestial Doctrine of The Seven Scrolls of the Umbral Majestrix and locutor of the Fourfold Orthodoxies of The Stair of Stars feels carefully at the door, wary of untamed fire on the other side and finding no warmth, listens intently, his ear pressed to the ancient wood, waving his companions silent as he turns his prodigious awareness to the task of revealing the rooms dangerous contents. Again he is met with nothing. A void-like silence that reveals only that no living things shuffles about in the interior. Stepping carefully to the side of the door, he waits as Cröm, the long-journeyed wanderer of the wild steppes fierce plains of Kellid-stalked Numeria hefts his heavy Greatsword in readiness planting his feet in preparation to charge silent foes within. With his sounding-pole, Belton flips up the wooden latch-handle of the room only to discover it is locked. Eyes a-roll with impatience, Cröm sets to the stout door. It proves a formidable obstacle several tries, followed by combines efforts are required before it finally gives way.
The door swings slowly in revealing a small chamber that appears to be some sort of sitting room, complete with a single table and a pair of chairs, both in relatively good condition. Resting atop the table is a half-eaten crow next to a crude knife and a cracked mug. Seeing no live threat, Cröm satand aside and Belton swings into the room intent on the table and its strange repast. As such he does not notice the crude net-trap suspended over the table not the black-tarred jute trip-cord concealed in the shadows of the floor. Triggering the slipknot the net pours its heavy cargo of rocks and a Dwarven iron anvil down from on high. Ever a man of trepidation Belton leaps back like a running stag, narrowly avoiding the avalanche and causing swiftly concealed chuckles from Sif and Gaia. The whole of the party enters the room. A thorough regarding of the chambers contents ensues and nothing of value is uncovered.
Belton examines the far door, feeling lightly again for signs of a raging fire on the other side, listening intently at the door, consulting a periodical pamphlet with his horoscope for auspicious signs, before finally opening the portal to reveal the dank and foully musky chamber beyond. This spacious room holds two beds of filthy, moldering, insect-ridden, filth-caked, piles of straw, weeds, pelts, hides, partially tanned skins, untanned, rotting skins peeled from all manner of hapless animals, and assorted clothing of all colors and racial origins. The reek of this place near stings the eyes at first, so profound is its miasma. It tugs at the contents of the bowels beckoning a violent upheaval. Upon one of the filthy bed-like mounds is a covering of mis-matched gnawed-upon bones, a small sack, and an array of old tools. The other bed looks heavily indented and lumpy and used and contains a panic-stricken beautiful human girl bound in enormous thick ropes like the hawsers of sailing frigates.
Her mouth is gagged with a cruelly-tight greasy, stained rag completely muffling her voice and leaving only her eyes to plead with them for rescue. Belton, forwarned by the peril of the net-trap in the previous chamber, stops at the threshold and asked the girl in common if they will be safe entering the room. She shakes her head no, trying to warn them of something and the Inquisitor once-more employs his sounding-pole to poke at floor and ceiling, hoping to trigger any traps. Precious seconds tick by as the bound captive's muffled squeals and groans cry plaintively from the disgusting bed. Finally satisfied as to the rooms lack of immediate traps, Belton sallies forth into the room and to the bed with the captive, followed immediately by Cröm, Sif and Gaia. Who make haste toward the other pile of refuse to search for treasure. Belton cuts through the arm and leg bindings of the captive whereupon she instantly pulls the horrid gag from her mouth and yells, "AN OGRE IS COMING!!!".
Bedlam ensues as weapons are drawn and the northward door to the chamber opens as if on cue, and a first-surprised, then-curious, then-furious Ogre holding a rotting burlap sack full of carrots and wild potatoes and a kind of crude bone-saw fashioned from a woodsman's two-man crosscut saw of Falcon's Hollow,Lumber Consortium manufacture with a bent-over, stripped four-inch-thick sapling arced between the handles and tied into place with old silk rope and hemp rope and some twine to make a crude but devilishly effective hacksaw for parting human meat and femur-bones. The brute peels the door from the wall, it's iron, Dwarvish hinges shrieking as well-forged metal bends and tears-free from stoutly bolted stone moorings. Hefting the door before him like a crude shield, the beast swings a large strange looking club of metal with a star-like head reminiscent of a Varisian Earth-Breaker hammer from his broad leather belt and roars in rage at the puny group.
Undaunted, the swift inquisitor charges at the hulking behemoth swinging the RoseWood sword and loosing his battle-cry in his fervor for the goddess Desna. The faux-giant meets his swing with a sweep of the unhinged door and deflects his blow with a satisfied grunt. On the heels of the avenging inquisitor, the mighty Cröm rushed to battle with this common foe of his people. His greatsword whirls in a wide arc and again the creature swings the thick oaken door and to the dismay of all, the blade binds and catches as it pierces the wood, held fast in the door as if gripped in a vice.
Sif, ever at the ready for battle, draws forth the Singing Sword of Arne Saknussem and fills the chamber with silvery light as the metallic voice of the blade joins her own rising battle-hymn. She rushed forward like a high wave on the ocean, crashing into the fray with her broadsword beating heavy blows down upon the armor of the Ogre, finding purchase here and there, her blade bites deep and let's spill the blood of the vile defiler as it towers over her, fully twice her size and several times her weight. Fearlessly, she stands in defiance.
Gaia, seeing that there is no safe way to unleash her dazzling blast of colorful radiance to stun the beast, quickly hurls her magic at Belton, enlarging his person to twice his normal size, near filling the room with combatants. Then with a deft spin she sweeps lithely through the whirl of fighters to land a blow against the hulking Ogre with her whipsword, her Elven fighting techniques evident in her uncanny steps and dazzling accuracy with her blade.
The captive girl, quickly makes her way to the pile of her discarded gear, slipping into her supple, Galtian leathers and sliding her narrow stiletto into it's sheath as she shoulders her masterwork composite longbow and straps her quiver to her hip, slipping like a shadow from the room to the antechamber next door and working at the lock to the western door that leads to the long hall through which the Ogre arrived.
Grekuhr the Terrible, the Ravager of Maidenly Flesh now stands in retort. Swinging wide his DoomStar Earth-Breaker he smashes through the guard of Belton Harald and his wide, cleaving swing send his unstoppable hammer into the side and ribs of brave Gaia, crushing her ribs with a sound like wet breaking branches, collapsing her lung and sending her reeling back against Sif.
Redoubling his efforts, Belton lashes out with righteous fury, smashing the tremendous Rosewood Greatsword into the stout oaken door-shield the beast raises in defense, but the beams and iron bindings of the door hold and the brute staves off his attack. Cröm is fully in the red haze of his berserker rage and fury now, frustrated to the point of madness by his stuck-fast sword. Letting go the sturdy handle, he clambers at the door to bypass it and rend the foul ogre with his totemic tusks. But the doughty Ogre is no easy foe and his hand-held door is an insurmountable wall. When the brutish monster blocks his goring attack his great tusks become lodged in with the small iron cell-barred window in the door and he is stuck fast by the face to the Ogre's shield.
In the next room, the wily human girl unbolts the door and peers into the gloom of the hallway where the back of the Giant-kin Ogre is showing, creeping down the hall toward the beast, her footfalls sound like drum-beats but the beast is so intent on his battle with the heroes in his lair he hears nothing and she is able to creep right up to his back, ready to take bloody vengeance for the terror it caused her with it's disgusting threats of molestation and cannibalism. Grekuhr had gloated that he would cut off her legs and burn the stumps she she could live while he ate her legs as he raped her without anything to block his way to her maidenhood. Choking back bile at the memory of this terrifying and disgusting threat, she stabbed at the armored back seeking to pierce his kidneys and liver, his unprotected spine and neck with it's enormous mortal artery. But the hide cuirass he wears is stoutly made, though crude in its construction. Her blade cannot find a gap to slip through and end him as he flails about, fighting against her rescuers.
Sif Amarth, daughter of the frozen north, strikes again at the long-armed brute, dealing further cuts to whittle the beast down to death's door, but for all her strong assault, the Ogre fights on. In support of her companion, Gaia strikes out with her supple sword but finds no gap in the beast's defense.
Then Grekuhr deals back his reply in plain savagery. Brutally shouldering the door-shield to bash the Numerian Barbarian's bones to splinters, the added weight of Cröm being stuck fast to the door by his tusks causes the door to slip from his fingers! Cröm staggers back unharmed and the released door falls from his face to the floor. Then enraged by his failure to crush the puny man with the door, Grekuhr lashed out with a wide and mighty swing of his Earthbreaker. The muscles of the giant-kin strain with furious effort as he goes into his swing, the star-shaped head of the weapon smashes into and through Cröm cracking bones with its impact and rending flesh as it passes from him and continues on its deadly arc. Gaia, still so close to the brute from her laudable efforts to cut it down, is directly in its path and suffers more than a glancing blow. The heavy adamantine hammer smashed into her slender torso, smashing four ribs to splinters, tearing into and through her perfect skin and crushing vital organs, throwing her several feet back to the base of the second fetid bed-pile, unconscious and rapidly dying, her agony-wracked breaths coming in short whimpering gasps as her world turns into black oblivion. But the wrecking swing of the Earthbreaker is not finished yet! The hammer continues in it's swing and finally crashes to a halt in Belton. staving in his gaulded leather armor like cloth and dealing a bruising blow to his ribs and arm.
Sif cries out in dismay at the fate of her companion, rushing to her friend's side and trying to stop the crimson waterfall pouring from her ruined chest. She exclaims in fear and helplessness as her ministrations do nothing to stabilize her dying friend, desperate for help. Belton, seeing his comrade fallen and expiring, reaches out with his power and seals the bleeding wounds, Desna's holy power flares gold and radiant purple though Gaia's tattered flesh and Gaia's chest relaxes, her breaths coming more naturally now as the animal panic of death passes and she lapses into deeper, comatose sleep, away from the pain of the waking world.
The near fatality of their fair and kindly friend rallies the heroes and they lay to this vicious brute with all their cunning, strength and battle-training. Blades fly like a maelstrom from all hands including the newly freed maiden and the horrible Ogre is brought low. Roaring and gurgling on it's own blood as it heavily expires on the chamber floor, bleeding from a score of wounds.
Cröm, enraged by the Dwarven Door's hampering of his attacks, sets immediately to reducing it to a pile of splinters and kindling, smashing it utterly beyond all hope of repair in a fuming, sputtering, curse-spewing froth of unrestrained fury.
Belton drops to a knee beside the fragile form of Gaia, praying rapid, heartfelt prayers to Desna and pouring forth a wash of golden healing pranic light into and over her ghastly wounds, shattered bones snap and pop back into place and flesh knits itself together as the divine magic works its course. Then he retrieves the healing draft he found ion the adventurers backpack by the well the day before and pours the entire contents into her slack-jawed, lifeless mouth. Continuing his prayers and joined by Sif with her supplications to Iomedae and Torag to protect the last of this dear companion's life. Slowly, by degrees, Gaia returns to awareness and her eyes open and she smiles up at their desperate, fearful faces. Here folded wings shiver and rustle with her return to life so near was she to the dark gates of Pharasma's boneyard. some of the light of her divine heritage sparkles in her eyes as she rises, partially restored and moves away from the sticky pool of her own blood to rest in a less corrupted spot. The least wounded take a moment to hunt up the Ogre's treasure. On the spare bed is a complete set of masterwork artisan’s tools useful for making Craft (stonemasonry) skill checks. In addition, there is a small sack containing 620 gp in assorted coins and a single ruby gemstone worth 300 gp. Although not magical itself, the gemstone radiates faint conjuration magic.
The assembly gathers to rest. having accomplished a legend-worthy feat. The destruction of a bull Ogre in its den. And as they gather strength to continue, they call upon the newly freed maiden to recount her grim tale of how she came to be in the clutches of horrid Grekuhr. She confirms, as her strong accent suggests, that she is a lady of neighboring Galt. Today, only one color comes to mind when people think of Galt: the bitter crimson of blood. The Red Revolution has gripped the land for more than 40 years, and it shows no signs of ending. Galt has seen more than a dozen governments rise and fall since Hosetter’s death, and all they have shared is bloodshed, chaos, and eventual collapse. The beautiful galleries and lofty universities of Galt have been destroyed, and its people are driven by paranoia, fury, and a bitter refusal to recognize the cause of their troubles. The collapse of any organized army has allowed brigands and savage beasts to thrive in the wilds. At the same time, Galt’s neighbors fear that the rhetoric of Korran Goss might send the bloodthirsty Galtan mobs spilling out across the borders. In the early days of the revolution, neighboring Andoran offered shelter to refugees from all walks of life; today it fears the growing darkness, and soldiers spread throughout the Verduran Wood and the Five Kings Valley turn back any Galtan who seeks passage into their land. Through this cordon, Miss Reynard has slipped, running the blockade and slipping over the border past the watchful eye of the Eagle Knights. A true smuggler's run and an impressive feat in itself by any standards.
With healing potions and spells enacted for all who needed them, the group has an easy time convincing the new maiden to join them. And to initiate her into the fold, Belton inexplicably starts by getting Cröm and the rest to accompany him outside tothe ruined Stables where he retrieves the Rosewood Sword and the hideous, plant animated Rosewood Creeper Zombie he created out of the Slain Orc Chieftain from the previous day. The unsettling plant-thing then accompanies them, like a shambling, fetid freak-show, as they move back into the ruins and away from the ever-emboldening Razorcrows flocking in the courtyard walls.
They move as one deeper into the bowels of the ancient Dwarven monastery. Through a short passage they come to an ancient library. The double doors leading into this chamber are shattered and broken, one of them lying on the floor. The room beyond is in an equal state of disrepair. What was once a library is now a shattered mess with one corner being completely collapsed and dominated by a wide pool of stagnant water. Thick fungus grows on most of the books that still remain on the shelves lining the walls. They group separates to search the room, hoping to unearth valuable tomes to sell int he cities after they return from the wilderness. They find that this room was once the library of the monastery, filled with books on dwarven lore and history. It has long since been plundered of nearly anything of value and fungus has claimed nearly all the books that remain. Sif espies a gold-bound tome in one of the bookshelves that has managed to avoid the destructive fungus. As she pulls it from the stacks the fungus lets off a puff of spores that forms a cloud of an inhaled poison affecting everyone within 10 feet of her. ( inhaled; DC 12; initial 1d2 Con, secondary 1d2 Con). In addition, anyone who breathes the spores has strange shadows and flittering movement appear in the corners of their vision causing them to jump and start at ephemeral phantasms. Carefully cleaning off the book they discover that it is written in Dwarven. Gaia looks at it and translates that it contains hymns to Torag, the god venerated here before Droskar. The book is beautifully illuminated and is worth 100 gp, but might fetch as much as 300 gp if sold to a dwarven collector or cleric. Folded into the last page of the book is a scroll of spiritual weapon. A fascinating clerical spell that summons a weapon made of force appears and attacks foes at a distance, as you direct it. The weapon takes the shape of a weapon favored by your deity or a weapon with some spiritual significance or symbolism to the caster. It strikes the opponent the caster designates, starting with one attack in the round the spell is cast and continuing each round thereafter until it's power fades. Belton is intrigued and covetous of this magic.
Moving on they come to a tumbledown, desecrated shrine. Pews of darkwood lie tipped over and covered in dust on either side of this ancient shrine. At the far end sits a large ceremonial anvil, but its surface is defaced and ruined. This shrine was once dedicated to
Torag, the god of the forge, but when the monastery turned to Droskar’s worship, this chamber was defaced and left to rot. Of particular note is a space atop the altar containing five small depressions. Unable to determine the purpose of the depressions, the party carries on to the next chamber, carefully moving the deathless zombie intot he room first to trigger any traps left by the wily dwarves. Gaping holes in the roof allow faint light to enter this ruined chamber. One of the stone columns that once supported the ceiling is toppled, its broken pieces littering the floor. A thick patch of black mushrooms hides in a nearby corner, giving the room an earthy scent that is barely noticeable above the stench of wet fur. This chamber is the home of Graypelt, the sinister worg who sees himself as the ruler of the surface ruins. Long before Graypelt came to this place, the dwarves used this chamber for storage, along with the basement below. Graypelt is a cunning foe and recognizes these heroes for a serious threat the moment they enter. With Grekuhr dead, he is cautious in dealing with the intruders. His first act is to spring up from out of hiding atop the ruined column, baring his teeth and bristling with malice and threatening power. When Aasimar Belton appears the pit-spawned terror speaks, demanding to know why they have disturbed his rest. They tell him of their need, and he tells them he is willing to let them take he mushrooms if they assist him in ridding the monastery of some of the other monsters. Some dead but living things, remnant from the Dwarven domination of this place still yet linger in these halls and the hellhound would see them gone. In return for this he will tell them of the Ironbloom mushrooms and allow them to take them.
The door swings slowly in revealing a small chamber that appears to be some sort of sitting room, complete with a single table and a pair of chairs, both in relatively good condition. Resting atop the table is a half-eaten crow next to a crude knife and a cracked mug. Seeing no live threat, Cröm satand aside and Belton swings into the room intent on the table and its strange repast. As such he does not notice the crude net-trap suspended over the table not the black-tarred jute trip-cord concealed in the shadows of the floor. Triggering the slipknot the net pours its heavy cargo of rocks and a Dwarven iron anvil down from on high. Ever a man of trepidation Belton leaps back like a running stag, narrowly avoiding the avalanche and causing swiftly concealed chuckles from Sif and Gaia. The whole of the party enters the room. A thorough regarding of the chambers contents ensues and nothing of value is uncovered.
Belton examines the far door, feeling lightly again for signs of a raging fire on the other side, listening intently at the door, consulting a periodical pamphlet with his horoscope for auspicious signs, before finally opening the portal to reveal the dank and foully musky chamber beyond. This spacious room holds two beds of filthy, moldering, insect-ridden, filth-caked, piles of straw, weeds, pelts, hides, partially tanned skins, untanned, rotting skins peeled from all manner of hapless animals, and assorted clothing of all colors and racial origins. The reek of this place near stings the eyes at first, so profound is its miasma. It tugs at the contents of the bowels beckoning a violent upheaval. Upon one of the filthy bed-like mounds is a covering of mis-matched gnawed-upon bones, a small sack, and an array of old tools. The other bed looks heavily indented and lumpy and used and contains a panic-stricken beautiful human girl bound in enormous thick ropes like the hawsers of sailing frigates.
Her mouth is gagged with a cruelly-tight greasy, stained rag completely muffling her voice and leaving only her eyes to plead with them for rescue. Belton, forwarned by the peril of the net-trap in the previous chamber, stops at the threshold and asked the girl in common if they will be safe entering the room. She shakes her head no, trying to warn them of something and the Inquisitor once-more employs his sounding-pole to poke at floor and ceiling, hoping to trigger any traps. Precious seconds tick by as the bound captive's muffled squeals and groans cry plaintively from the disgusting bed. Finally satisfied as to the rooms lack of immediate traps, Belton sallies forth into the room and to the bed with the captive, followed immediately by Cröm, Sif and Gaia. Who make haste toward the other pile of refuse to search for treasure. Belton cuts through the arm and leg bindings of the captive whereupon she instantly pulls the horrid gag from her mouth and yells, "AN OGRE IS COMING!!!".
Bedlam ensues as weapons are drawn and the northward door to the chamber opens as if on cue, and a first-surprised, then-curious, then-furious Ogre holding a rotting burlap sack full of carrots and wild potatoes and a kind of crude bone-saw fashioned from a woodsman's two-man crosscut saw of Falcon's Hollow,Lumber Consortium manufacture with a bent-over, stripped four-inch-thick sapling arced between the handles and tied into place with old silk rope and hemp rope and some twine to make a crude but devilishly effective hacksaw for parting human meat and femur-bones. The brute peels the door from the wall, it's iron, Dwarvish hinges shrieking as well-forged metal bends and tears-free from stoutly bolted stone moorings. Hefting the door before him like a crude shield, the beast swings a large strange looking club of metal with a star-like head reminiscent of a Varisian Earth-Breaker hammer from his broad leather belt and roars in rage at the puny group.
Undaunted, the swift inquisitor charges at the hulking behemoth swinging the RoseWood sword and loosing his battle-cry in his fervor for the goddess Desna. The faux-giant meets his swing with a sweep of the unhinged door and deflects his blow with a satisfied grunt. On the heels of the avenging inquisitor, the mighty Cröm rushed to battle with this common foe of his people. His greatsword whirls in a wide arc and again the creature swings the thick oaken door and to the dismay of all, the blade binds and catches as it pierces the wood, held fast in the door as if gripped in a vice.
Sif, ever at the ready for battle, draws forth the Singing Sword of Arne Saknussem and fills the chamber with silvery light as the metallic voice of the blade joins her own rising battle-hymn. She rushed forward like a high wave on the ocean, crashing into the fray with her broadsword beating heavy blows down upon the armor of the Ogre, finding purchase here and there, her blade bites deep and let's spill the blood of the vile defiler as it towers over her, fully twice her size and several times her weight. Fearlessly, she stands in defiance.
Gaia, seeing that there is no safe way to unleash her dazzling blast of colorful radiance to stun the beast, quickly hurls her magic at Belton, enlarging his person to twice his normal size, near filling the room with combatants. Then with a deft spin she sweeps lithely through the whirl of fighters to land a blow against the hulking Ogre with her whipsword, her Elven fighting techniques evident in her uncanny steps and dazzling accuracy with her blade.
The captive girl, quickly makes her way to the pile of her discarded gear, slipping into her supple, Galtian leathers and sliding her narrow stiletto into it's sheath as she shoulders her masterwork composite longbow and straps her quiver to her hip, slipping like a shadow from the room to the antechamber next door and working at the lock to the western door that leads to the long hall through which the Ogre arrived.
Grekuhr the Terrible, the Ravager of Maidenly Flesh now stands in retort. Swinging wide his DoomStar Earth-Breaker he smashes through the guard of Belton Harald and his wide, cleaving swing send his unstoppable hammer into the side and ribs of brave Gaia, crushing her ribs with a sound like wet breaking branches, collapsing her lung and sending her reeling back against Sif.
Redoubling his efforts, Belton lashes out with righteous fury, smashing the tremendous Rosewood Greatsword into the stout oaken door-shield the beast raises in defense, but the beams and iron bindings of the door hold and the brute staves off his attack. Cröm is fully in the red haze of his berserker rage and fury now, frustrated to the point of madness by his stuck-fast sword. Letting go the sturdy handle, he clambers at the door to bypass it and rend the foul ogre with his totemic tusks. But the doughty Ogre is no easy foe and his hand-held door is an insurmountable wall. When the brutish monster blocks his goring attack his great tusks become lodged in with the small iron cell-barred window in the door and he is stuck fast by the face to the Ogre's shield.
In the next room, the wily human girl unbolts the door and peers into the gloom of the hallway where the back of the Giant-kin Ogre is showing, creeping down the hall toward the beast, her footfalls sound like drum-beats but the beast is so intent on his battle with the heroes in his lair he hears nothing and she is able to creep right up to his back, ready to take bloody vengeance for the terror it caused her with it's disgusting threats of molestation and cannibalism. Grekuhr had gloated that he would cut off her legs and burn the stumps she she could live while he ate her legs as he raped her without anything to block his way to her maidenhood. Choking back bile at the memory of this terrifying and disgusting threat, she stabbed at the armored back seeking to pierce his kidneys and liver, his unprotected spine and neck with it's enormous mortal artery. But the hide cuirass he wears is stoutly made, though crude in its construction. Her blade cannot find a gap to slip through and end him as he flails about, fighting against her rescuers.
Sif Amarth, daughter of the frozen north, strikes again at the long-armed brute, dealing further cuts to whittle the beast down to death's door, but for all her strong assault, the Ogre fights on. In support of her companion, Gaia strikes out with her supple sword but finds no gap in the beast's defense.
Then Grekuhr deals back his reply in plain savagery. Brutally shouldering the door-shield to bash the Numerian Barbarian's bones to splinters, the added weight of Cröm being stuck fast to the door by his tusks causes the door to slip from his fingers! Cröm staggers back unharmed and the released door falls from his face to the floor. Then enraged by his failure to crush the puny man with the door, Grekuhr lashed out with a wide and mighty swing of his Earthbreaker. The muscles of the giant-kin strain with furious effort as he goes into his swing, the star-shaped head of the weapon smashes into and through Cröm cracking bones with its impact and rending flesh as it passes from him and continues on its deadly arc. Gaia, still so close to the brute from her laudable efforts to cut it down, is directly in its path and suffers more than a glancing blow. The heavy adamantine hammer smashed into her slender torso, smashing four ribs to splinters, tearing into and through her perfect skin and crushing vital organs, throwing her several feet back to the base of the second fetid bed-pile, unconscious and rapidly dying, her agony-wracked breaths coming in short whimpering gasps as her world turns into black oblivion. But the wrecking swing of the Earthbreaker is not finished yet! The hammer continues in it's swing and finally crashes to a halt in Belton. staving in his gaulded leather armor like cloth and dealing a bruising blow to his ribs and arm.
Sif cries out in dismay at the fate of her companion, rushing to her friend's side and trying to stop the crimson waterfall pouring from her ruined chest. She exclaims in fear and helplessness as her ministrations do nothing to stabilize her dying friend, desperate for help. Belton, seeing his comrade fallen and expiring, reaches out with his power and seals the bleeding wounds, Desna's holy power flares gold and radiant purple though Gaia's tattered flesh and Gaia's chest relaxes, her breaths coming more naturally now as the animal panic of death passes and she lapses into deeper, comatose sleep, away from the pain of the waking world.
The near fatality of their fair and kindly friend rallies the heroes and they lay to this vicious brute with all their cunning, strength and battle-training. Blades fly like a maelstrom from all hands including the newly freed maiden and the horrible Ogre is brought low. Roaring and gurgling on it's own blood as it heavily expires on the chamber floor, bleeding from a score of wounds.
Cröm, enraged by the Dwarven Door's hampering of his attacks, sets immediately to reducing it to a pile of splinters and kindling, smashing it utterly beyond all hope of repair in a fuming, sputtering, curse-spewing froth of unrestrained fury.
Belton drops to a knee beside the fragile form of Gaia, praying rapid, heartfelt prayers to Desna and pouring forth a wash of golden healing pranic light into and over her ghastly wounds, shattered bones snap and pop back into place and flesh knits itself together as the divine magic works its course. Then he retrieves the healing draft he found ion the adventurers backpack by the well the day before and pours the entire contents into her slack-jawed, lifeless mouth. Continuing his prayers and joined by Sif with her supplications to Iomedae and Torag to protect the last of this dear companion's life. Slowly, by degrees, Gaia returns to awareness and her eyes open and she smiles up at their desperate, fearful faces. Here folded wings shiver and rustle with her return to life so near was she to the dark gates of Pharasma's boneyard. some of the light of her divine heritage sparkles in her eyes as she rises, partially restored and moves away from the sticky pool of her own blood to rest in a less corrupted spot. The least wounded take a moment to hunt up the Ogre's treasure. On the spare bed is a complete set of masterwork artisan’s tools useful for making Craft (stonemasonry) skill checks. In addition, there is a small sack containing 620 gp in assorted coins and a single ruby gemstone worth 300 gp. Although not magical itself, the gemstone radiates faint conjuration magic.
The assembly gathers to rest. having accomplished a legend-worthy feat. The destruction of a bull Ogre in its den. And as they gather strength to continue, they call upon the newly freed maiden to recount her grim tale of how she came to be in the clutches of horrid Grekuhr. She confirms, as her strong accent suggests, that she is a lady of neighboring Galt. Today, only one color comes to mind when people think of Galt: the bitter crimson of blood. The Red Revolution has gripped the land for more than 40 years, and it shows no signs of ending. Galt has seen more than a dozen governments rise and fall since Hosetter’s death, and all they have shared is bloodshed, chaos, and eventual collapse. The beautiful galleries and lofty universities of Galt have been destroyed, and its people are driven by paranoia, fury, and a bitter refusal to recognize the cause of their troubles. The collapse of any organized army has allowed brigands and savage beasts to thrive in the wilds. At the same time, Galt’s neighbors fear that the rhetoric of Korran Goss might send the bloodthirsty Galtan mobs spilling out across the borders. In the early days of the revolution, neighboring Andoran offered shelter to refugees from all walks of life; today it fears the growing darkness, and soldiers spread throughout the Verduran Wood and the Five Kings Valley turn back any Galtan who seeks passage into their land. Through this cordon, Miss Reynard has slipped, running the blockade and slipping over the border past the watchful eye of the Eagle Knights. A true smuggler's run and an impressive feat in itself by any standards.
With healing potions and spells enacted for all who needed them, the group has an easy time convincing the new maiden to join them. And to initiate her into the fold, Belton inexplicably starts by getting Cröm and the rest to accompany him outside tothe ruined Stables where he retrieves the Rosewood Sword and the hideous, plant animated Rosewood Creeper Zombie he created out of the Slain Orc Chieftain from the previous day. The unsettling plant-thing then accompanies them, like a shambling, fetid freak-show, as they move back into the ruins and away from the ever-emboldening Razorcrows flocking in the courtyard walls.
They move as one deeper into the bowels of the ancient Dwarven monastery. Through a short passage they come to an ancient library. The double doors leading into this chamber are shattered and broken, one of them lying on the floor. The room beyond is in an equal state of disrepair. What was once a library is now a shattered mess with one corner being completely collapsed and dominated by a wide pool of stagnant water. Thick fungus grows on most of the books that still remain on the shelves lining the walls. They group separates to search the room, hoping to unearth valuable tomes to sell int he cities after they return from the wilderness. They find that this room was once the library of the monastery, filled with books on dwarven lore and history. It has long since been plundered of nearly anything of value and fungus has claimed nearly all the books that remain. Sif espies a gold-bound tome in one of the bookshelves that has managed to avoid the destructive fungus. As she pulls it from the stacks the fungus lets off a puff of spores that forms a cloud of an inhaled poison affecting everyone within 10 feet of her. ( inhaled; DC 12; initial 1d2 Con, secondary 1d2 Con). In addition, anyone who breathes the spores has strange shadows and flittering movement appear in the corners of their vision causing them to jump and start at ephemeral phantasms. Carefully cleaning off the book they discover that it is written in Dwarven. Gaia looks at it and translates that it contains hymns to Torag, the god venerated here before Droskar. The book is beautifully illuminated and is worth 100 gp, but might fetch as much as 300 gp if sold to a dwarven collector or cleric. Folded into the last page of the book is a scroll of spiritual weapon. A fascinating clerical spell that summons a weapon made of force appears and attacks foes at a distance, as you direct it. The weapon takes the shape of a weapon favored by your deity or a weapon with some spiritual significance or symbolism to the caster. It strikes the opponent the caster designates, starting with one attack in the round the spell is cast and continuing each round thereafter until it's power fades. Belton is intrigued and covetous of this magic.
Moving on they come to a tumbledown, desecrated shrine. Pews of darkwood lie tipped over and covered in dust on either side of this ancient shrine. At the far end sits a large ceremonial anvil, but its surface is defaced and ruined. This shrine was once dedicated to
Torag, the god of the forge, but when the monastery turned to Droskar’s worship, this chamber was defaced and left to rot. Of particular note is a space atop the altar containing five small depressions. Unable to determine the purpose of the depressions, the party carries on to the next chamber, carefully moving the deathless zombie intot he room first to trigger any traps left by the wily dwarves. Gaping holes in the roof allow faint light to enter this ruined chamber. One of the stone columns that once supported the ceiling is toppled, its broken pieces littering the floor. A thick patch of black mushrooms hides in a nearby corner, giving the room an earthy scent that is barely noticeable above the stench of wet fur. This chamber is the home of Graypelt, the sinister worg who sees himself as the ruler of the surface ruins. Long before Graypelt came to this place, the dwarves used this chamber for storage, along with the basement below. Graypelt is a cunning foe and recognizes these heroes for a serious threat the moment they enter. With Grekuhr dead, he is cautious in dealing with the intruders. His first act is to spring up from out of hiding atop the ruined column, baring his teeth and bristling with malice and threatening power. When Aasimar Belton appears the pit-spawned terror speaks, demanding to know why they have disturbed his rest. They tell him of their need, and he tells them he is willing to let them take he mushrooms if they assist him in ridding the monastery of some of the other monsters. Some dead but living things, remnant from the Dwarven domination of this place still yet linger in these halls and the hellhound would see them gone. In return for this he will tell them of the Ironbloom mushrooms and allow them to take them.