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Episode 76 – Krago’s Story

Krago tells the party his story:
He came to the Stone Tooth some 20 years ago as part of a band hired by none other than Bontelan Wright in pursuit of Durgeddin’s valuable weapons. He came with Lefto, Ahura-Mazda, Xodar, and an elf Ranger by the name of Isherfezzin. They were gratified to find the first level abandoned, and were able to extract some loot and one magnificent blade. This was the blade that they gifted to young Wicklow when they returned to Blasingdell to celebrate, rest, and resupply. When they returned to the Stone Tooth, encouraged by the prospect of great riches, they explored deeper. They encountered deadly cave monstrosities, including a powerful band of troglodytes. They were forced to flee and they were separated. Lefto was captured, and before they could mount a rescue, things went even worse for their expedition. Xodar, who had be acting disturbingly aloof and argumentative had found an artifact which had evidently been his ulterior motive in participating in this venture. He made off with the item, disappearing just when the party’s need for solidarity was greatest. Lefto was imprisoned, Ahura-Mazda had been lost, leaving only Krago and Isherfezzin to try and rescue their partners. As they sought a way back to Lefto, they came upon a section of the Foundry level that was strewn with age-old corpses from Durgeddin’s day. Isherfezzin had never encountered such death and destruction. He was stressed, frightened, and deeply troubled by the ill fortune that had befallen their companions. But it was when the dead rose and attacked, that he seemed to have snapped. He laughed maniacally as the rotten skeletons approached him with menacing blades and clacking bones. He fell, laughing and screaming, beneath a pile of undead foes. Krago, fought them, smashing them back into oblivion, but he was too late. Isherfezzin was dead. A door was flung open and more skeletons poured into the hall where Krago stood bleeding among the skeletal remains. Among these foes were two who towered above the others, with great horns protruding from their bestial skulls. He was driven back and was again forced to flee. Alone now, he sought a way out, hoping to return to town and organize a rescue or recovery party that was large enough, strong enough, and well-equipped enough to mount a successful operation. He followed the flow of the river, guessing that he might find an outlet. Instead, he found Nightscale. He was no match for her. Her interest in tormenting the hapless adventurer outweighed her desire to kill him, and she kept him chained upon her subterranean island for years uncountable. He lost all sense of time, and all sense of hope. He never thought he would one day be free, and he can scarcely allow himself to trust that he won’t be put back into chains by the wicked creature as soon as she becomes bored.

Krago fears that Nightscale will come back for him. She will get bored and will decide to come after them for her own amusement. She can come and go from her lair as she pleases, through a submerged passage from the Black Lake into the mere lying just east of the Stone Tooth. He suggests that they get off the shelf overlooking the cavern, so they move down the hall. They enter the room where Goerth had been slain, and where his headless body still lies. Krago looks around the room, and becomes lost in a few moments of reverie. He mentions how long it had been since he had been in this room… over a hundred years. Sartan seems confused, as he thought it had been more like 20 years since Bontelan Wright’s failed expedition. Krago replies that it was long before the expedition, long ago at the end of the hobgoblin wars… when he was known as Durgeddin. Sartan thinks Krago is nuts. But when Krago learns that there are Duergar at work at the forges, he becomes incensed that they would dare meddle with “his” foundry. 

Whether or not Krago was the authentic Durgeddin, Mishok figures this venerable dwarf might actually have the knowledge to make something useful with the forges. They decide that they will approach the remaining Duergar and persuade them to collaborate in getting rid of the dragon. They will proffer Krago as an apprentice of Durgeddin, who can help them gain mastery of fine blade-making techniques, in exchange for their help.

They proceed through the great hall and into the foundry. They see a rat scamper away from the door and Snurrevin crouch down where he seems to be listening to it. The two bladesmiths look baffled by this interruption, but Snurrevin arises and stares across at the party. He says, “So Goerth is dead. What is it you want of us?”

Mishok tells them that they are here with an apprentice of Durgeddin. They wish to rid this place of the dragon, and that this old dwarf will, in exchange for their help, teach them the secrets of forging superior blades. Snurrevin is skeptical, but Krago grabs a hammer, and the blade presently in-progress. He methodically hammers the glowing blade several times and then hands it over to Snurrevin who acknowledges the quality of the sword.

They discuss more details of their plan. They will build a ballista using scrap lumber and will forge massive projectiles. Mishok will make use of his ritual spell, Glyph of Warding. He will also craft incendiary spear tips using the infernal obsidian he had collected months earlier from a hellish portal. His companions wonder if they can find a net to try and restrain the dragon. The Duergar inform him that there are some old storerooms nearby containing an assortment of odds and ends, but they don’t know whether nets are in that inventory. They also contemplate the possibility of using Krago as bait to get Nightscale into position. Krago tells them it will take a couple of hours to do the work. He says they had better get started because Nightscale might come for them at any time.

If it Keeps On Raining…

When the water began rising around here, the first thing that happened is all the snakes left their brush-piles and hidey-holes and slithered on up to Whippoorwill Hill. The second thing that happened was Whippoorwill Hill was renamed Whippoorwill Island. There was one house that stood atop the hill, right in the center of town, and it was owned by Nelson Peduncle. Nelson was the biggest asshole for miles around, and so his new living circumstance was greeted with much delight. And frankly, the rest of the citizens needed something in which to find delight, seeing as their town was slowly being consumed by the river.

It was indeed a slow consumption. This was no raging torrent, of a frightening event bearing the full violence of nature. Our flood wasn’t like that. The placid, brown waters of the Rustaukee River simply rose little by little, day after day. One day it lay in its bed, languidly meandering through town as it always had, and the next it had topped over the bank, dampening the lawns in riverside parks, and turning hiking trails into squishier-than-usual affairs. By the next day, fingers of water had extended into the low-lying areas and and then steadily widened out, until getting around downtown became a nuisance. People took it in stride. Those encountering a puddle across their path, removed their shoes, rolled up their pant legs, and waded in.

I feel fortunate to live in a town occupied by such doggedly positive and unflappable folks. As the waters deepened and more streets became impassable, local residents began to refer to our town as “the Venice of the Midwest,” laughing as they sloshed around in waders, and cast lines for catfish on Main Street. Things did not remain easy, as the water levels kept climbing, but somehow it seemed the spirits of our townspeople could not be dampened. Most even took the eventual loss of their homes in stride. Ranch houses and Dutch colonials, having lost their moorings, gently jostled each other as they drifted away downstream. The locals, often floating on rafts or aloft in treetop platforms, jested “well, I was underwater on it anyway.” Those of generous heart, hoped that their migratory dwellings would well serve someone in need somewhere downstream.

These days, much time has passed, and the waters have not receded. We have all gotten used to it. Life goes on, as they say. Many of the young kids these days (those born after the flood) bear names like Gil, Brooke, Finn, and the like. Nelson Peduncle (that asshole) has passed on, but in the spirit of reconciliation, his house has been rechristened “The Peduncle Home for Wayward Reptiles.” In fact, the whole of Whippoorwill Island has been designated a wildlife sanctuary.

No one really knows where all this water came from, or if it will ever drain away and return this town to its original state. But, all in all, I think most of us have come to rather like it. Life is slow. We fish, we gather mussels and snails, we float in the eddies. Our kids swim like otters until they are spent and ready for sleep. We watch the sun sparkling on ripples at the end of the day.