The Company You Keep: NPC Wanted
-
Lady Dragonfly
- Posts: 1384
- Joined: Sat Feb 25, 2006 8:12 pm
- Location: Dreamworld
- Contact:
LOL, a lawful good half-orc pit-fighter is a hilarious oxymoron.Pellinore wrote:How about a Half-Orc Pit-fighter LAWFUL GOOD!!! Try that one out, lol.(I have already made one for a storyline to a campaign I am designing (Around the Bhallspawn storyline) but I would love to hear your take on it.
OK, I'll give it a try.
Man's most valuable trait is a judicious sense of what not to believe.
-- Euripides
-- Euripides
-
Lady Dragonfly
- Posts: 1384
- Joined: Sat Feb 25, 2006 8:12 pm
- Location: Dreamworld
- Contact:
Bogrut’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Orc
Class: Pit Fighter
After a few tankards of hemp ale, old Drumbag Darnblazer, a veteran of two campaigns and a former member of Amnish militia, would usually fill his pipe, recline significantly in his squeaky rocking chair, and clear his throat, which indicated that he was about to indulge in reminiscence. At that moment, Drumbag’s family members who happened to be nearby instinctively ducked for cover, except for young Bogrut who sincerely enjoyed his Dad’s fanciful tales of the allegedly heroic past involving bravery, chivalrous deeds and saving the world.
Inspired by these tales and fueled by his own unfettered imagination, Bogrut fashioned a tin cuirass and a wooden sword for himself and became fully engrossed in staging elaborate battles, using his mother’s small garden as the battleground. The neighbors were shaking their heads watching Bogrut trampling on the vegetable patch, hacking and slashing with abandon at the scarecrow and its weedy minions. The prevailing sentiment was that all those silly war stories and pointless games would eventually addle the poor kid’s brain.
When Bogrut came of age, Drumbag decided it was time to let the boy try his own hand at saving the world. He solemnly bestowed upon the young Half-Orc a slightly dented and scratched breastplate, a small leather pouch full of merrily jingling silver coins, his fatherly blessing and, most importantly, Darnblazer Family Cudgel, The Convincer. Bogrut’s tearful mother added to the pile a healing potion and a basket of homemade doughnuts. Bogrut reverently accepted the gifts, bade farewell to his parents, and left his hometown.
During his rather tiresome and uneventful travels across the countryside, Bogrut heard tales about the knightly Order of The Most Radiant Heart headquartered in distant Athkatla. His spirit soared. The young Half-Orc already envisioned himself in a suit of shining full plate armor, cavorting atop a magnificent white steed in front of some fine-looking Damsels begging him for help.
Immersed in these pleasant dreams, the intrepid adventurer directed his footsteps towards Athkatla. Upon arrival, he hurried to the Temple District where the towering statues of Knights erected along the perimeter of the edifice housing the hallowed Order of The Most Radiant Heart cast their reflection onto the limpid waters of the city canals. There, at the doorstep of the Order, our wannabe knight experienced a bitter disappointment. The Knights of the Order politely but firmly rejected his application, referring to their Codex that denied Paladinhood to all non-humans.
Taking pity on the disheartened Half-Orc, one of the younger Squires imparted to him the hushed rumors about upcoming changes in the Admission Rules.
With his hope rekindled, Bogrut secured a cheap room in one of the Docks District’s seedy taverns, The Vagary of Fortune, and ventured every day into the Order’s Courtyard to inquire whether the Rules changed yet.
Meanwhile, watching his leather pouch getting thinner and lighter with each passing day, Bogrut realized that he had to find a source of income or otherwise risk starvation. He found out that The Vagary of Fortune’s innkeeper, Madame Infusoria, was clandestinely running a highly profitable Gambling Den and a Dueling Pit in her basement. The Pit Manager registered Bogrut’s name in a tattered book and showed him the premises resplendent with garish advertisements of various lethal weapons, equally lethal local brews, and a dubious anti-Calimshan Itch ointment.
Many Pit Fighters found money and glory in Infusoria’s moldy cellar. Many more were carried away with their sculls cracked. Bogrut, a worthy son of gallant Drumbag Darnblazer, was a stout fighter intent on upholding his family honor and becoming the celebrated Champion of the Pit. Following the sacred traditions of jousting tournaments, he painted a radiant heart on his shield and renamed his precious heirloom cudgel The Holy Convincer, to the utmost joy of all betting fans.
Shunned by most of the Pit Fighters who envied his strength and perseverance, Bogrut made a very few friends among the duelists. The matters were further aggravated by the Half-Orc’s penchant for exposing any unlawful activity taken place in the Den, which amounted to reporting practically everything that was ever going on in the cellar to appreciative Madame Infusoria who liberally rewarded Bogrut in her bedroom.
Bogrut’s closest Pit associates were burly Anthrax Ironwart, a persistently drunk dwarf who was fighting in the Pit unarmed due to the simple fact that he had pawned his War Hammer to buy booze, and the Dwarf’s long-time sweetheart Borzilla, a dark, brawny female wielding a wicked chain whip and sporting numerous explicit tattoos that made Anthrax blush.
Alas, rivalry over a woman can ruin any friendship. Stolid Borzilla unequivocally displayed her preference for the young, handsome Half-Orc over the stone-broke Dwarf. Embittered by Borzilla’s open disdain and prodded by the vengeful Pit Fighters who generously filled him with liquor and lent him a few coins to buy back the War Hammer, Anthrax treacherously assailed his unsuspecting rival in a dark, secluded alley. The ensuing fight was brutal and merciless and might have resulted in Bogrut’s untimely demise, but the loud noise attracted a group of adventurers who happened to trudge through the muddy streets of the Docks District that night…
Well, that will be your party, of course. Depending on your alignment and mood, you can either dispose of the duelists or negotiate a truce. Bogrut will ditch Borzilla and join your party if you hint at your connections to the Order’s big cheese and promise to help him gain admittance. All for the Greater Good.
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Orc
Class: Pit Fighter
After a few tankards of hemp ale, old Drumbag Darnblazer, a veteran of two campaigns and a former member of Amnish militia, would usually fill his pipe, recline significantly in his squeaky rocking chair, and clear his throat, which indicated that he was about to indulge in reminiscence. At that moment, Drumbag’s family members who happened to be nearby instinctively ducked for cover, except for young Bogrut who sincerely enjoyed his Dad’s fanciful tales of the allegedly heroic past involving bravery, chivalrous deeds and saving the world.
Inspired by these tales and fueled by his own unfettered imagination, Bogrut fashioned a tin cuirass and a wooden sword for himself and became fully engrossed in staging elaborate battles, using his mother’s small garden as the battleground. The neighbors were shaking their heads watching Bogrut trampling on the vegetable patch, hacking and slashing with abandon at the scarecrow and its weedy minions. The prevailing sentiment was that all those silly war stories and pointless games would eventually addle the poor kid’s brain.
When Bogrut came of age, Drumbag decided it was time to let the boy try his own hand at saving the world. He solemnly bestowed upon the young Half-Orc a slightly dented and scratched breastplate, a small leather pouch full of merrily jingling silver coins, his fatherly blessing and, most importantly, Darnblazer Family Cudgel, The Convincer. Bogrut’s tearful mother added to the pile a healing potion and a basket of homemade doughnuts. Bogrut reverently accepted the gifts, bade farewell to his parents, and left his hometown.
During his rather tiresome and uneventful travels across the countryside, Bogrut heard tales about the knightly Order of The Most Radiant Heart headquartered in distant Athkatla. His spirit soared. The young Half-Orc already envisioned himself in a suit of shining full plate armor, cavorting atop a magnificent white steed in front of some fine-looking Damsels begging him for help.
Immersed in these pleasant dreams, the intrepid adventurer directed his footsteps towards Athkatla. Upon arrival, he hurried to the Temple District where the towering statues of Knights erected along the perimeter of the edifice housing the hallowed Order of The Most Radiant Heart cast their reflection onto the limpid waters of the city canals. There, at the doorstep of the Order, our wannabe knight experienced a bitter disappointment. The Knights of the Order politely but firmly rejected his application, referring to their Codex that denied Paladinhood to all non-humans.
Taking pity on the disheartened Half-Orc, one of the younger Squires imparted to him the hushed rumors about upcoming changes in the Admission Rules.
With his hope rekindled, Bogrut secured a cheap room in one of the Docks District’s seedy taverns, The Vagary of Fortune, and ventured every day into the Order’s Courtyard to inquire whether the Rules changed yet.
Meanwhile, watching his leather pouch getting thinner and lighter with each passing day, Bogrut realized that he had to find a source of income or otherwise risk starvation. He found out that The Vagary of Fortune’s innkeeper, Madame Infusoria, was clandestinely running a highly profitable Gambling Den and a Dueling Pit in her basement. The Pit Manager registered Bogrut’s name in a tattered book and showed him the premises resplendent with garish advertisements of various lethal weapons, equally lethal local brews, and a dubious anti-Calimshan Itch ointment.
Many Pit Fighters found money and glory in Infusoria’s moldy cellar. Many more were carried away with their sculls cracked. Bogrut, a worthy son of gallant Drumbag Darnblazer, was a stout fighter intent on upholding his family honor and becoming the celebrated Champion of the Pit. Following the sacred traditions of jousting tournaments, he painted a radiant heart on his shield and renamed his precious heirloom cudgel The Holy Convincer, to the utmost joy of all betting fans.
Shunned by most of the Pit Fighters who envied his strength and perseverance, Bogrut made a very few friends among the duelists. The matters were further aggravated by the Half-Orc’s penchant for exposing any unlawful activity taken place in the Den, which amounted to reporting practically everything that was ever going on in the cellar to appreciative Madame Infusoria who liberally rewarded Bogrut in her bedroom.
Bogrut’s closest Pit associates were burly Anthrax Ironwart, a persistently drunk dwarf who was fighting in the Pit unarmed due to the simple fact that he had pawned his War Hammer to buy booze, and the Dwarf’s long-time sweetheart Borzilla, a dark, brawny female wielding a wicked chain whip and sporting numerous explicit tattoos that made Anthrax blush.
Alas, rivalry over a woman can ruin any friendship. Stolid Borzilla unequivocally displayed her preference for the young, handsome Half-Orc over the stone-broke Dwarf. Embittered by Borzilla’s open disdain and prodded by the vengeful Pit Fighters who generously filled him with liquor and lent him a few coins to buy back the War Hammer, Anthrax treacherously assailed his unsuspecting rival in a dark, secluded alley. The ensuing fight was brutal and merciless and might have resulted in Bogrut’s untimely demise, but the loud noise attracted a group of adventurers who happened to trudge through the muddy streets of the Docks District that night…
Well, that will be your party, of course. Depending on your alignment and mood, you can either dispose of the duelists or negotiate a truce. Bogrut will ditch Borzilla and join your party if you hint at your connections to the Order’s big cheese and promise to help him gain admittance. All for the Greater Good.
Man's most valuable trait is a judicious sense of what not to believe.
-- Euripides
-- Euripides
-
Lady Dragonfly
- Posts: 1384
- Joined: Sat Feb 25, 2006 8:12 pm
- Location: Dreamworld
- Contact:
Romuald’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: Wizard
Ah, my gentle reader, do you remember those heart-stirring moments when you were riding back home for summer break? You dismount and hurry past the scores of duly overjoyed servants lined up in front of the Manor under the vigilant eye of old Perkins the Loyal Butler… The Manor itself is full of your precious childhood memories… Smiling, you recall how one of your younger cousins accidentally locked himself up in a rusty Iron Maiden while playing hide and seek in the dungeon below… You can almost hear the familiar wail of the Ghost of Great-Great-Great Uncle Osric haunting his favorite wine cellar…
…Such fond memories kept flashing through young Romuald Hackamore’s mind while he was galloping towards his ancestral abode he had just inherited...
The Hackamore family chronicles contained more than enough accounts of piracy, treason, sorcery, and insanity to secure them a prominent position among the highest ranks of nobility. The Hackamores traced their pedigree back to Gutfrey the Bold who happened to be in the marauding retinue of Duke Weardfric the Conqueror when the latter disembarked at the Sword Coast during the Prohibition. Gutfrey made his fortune by plundering and pillaging, as well as by regularly selling his allegiance to the highest bidder – an occupation that eventually won him the coat of arms and grim Hackamore Tower.
Three hundred years later, the refined descendants of Sir Gutfrey abandoned the leaky and drafty Tower and built comfortable Hackamore Hall surrounded by parks with romantic grottos, dazzling fountains, and a lovely lily pond where the fair Hackamore brides used to drown themselves on the wedding day after finding their pearls’ sheen disappointing or catching their grooms with a Maid of Honor. A special pavilion constructed on the opposite side of the pond afforded a fine view of the white-clad maidens gracefully flinging themselves into the pellucid waters.
Despite all the worthwhile attractions, young Romuald, who was dabbling in magic, took on the role of scholar, poring over Hackamore Hall’s collection of old manuscripts in search of anything related to wizardry. His diligent efforts were amply rewarded: Romuald came across a tattered ancient manuscript containing a few vague references to Zhambonius the Warlock. According to the manuscript, Zhambonius, concealed from all prying eyes in the dank vaults deep beneath the Tower, had been conducting arcane experiments and hoarding magical artifacts until the authorities burnt him at the stake.
Having meticulously inspected every inch of the rough-hewn stone walls adorned with moth-eaten tapestries and portraits of long-faced dowagers, Romuald finally discovered a small secret door. He spent a week figuring out how to open it, until it dawned on him that perhaps he should try to cast Open. The recalcitrant door disappeared revealing a spiral staircase.
Carrying a torch and peering apprehensively into the forbidding darkness, Romuald ventured forth – downstairs and then along a short sloping passage that ended at another locked door. Careful examination of this door revealed a half-faded inscription, “No sooner spoken than broken”. A riddle? Romuald scoured the adjacent walls hoping to find the password under cobwebs. He found nothing. He squinted at the inscription and gave a random answer. He was immediately showered with angry sparks painfully stinging his skin and burning tiny holes in his robes. Leg? Promise? Another batch of fiery sparks… He heard Osric wailing madly nearby. Silence? The door swung open.
Bolstered by a vivid mental picture of the hidden artifacts, Romuald gingerly clawed his way down a dark, decrepit passage until he came up to yet another locked door bearing the inscription, “Mountains will crumble and temples will fall, and no man can survive its endless call”. Another ruddy riddle! This time, instead of guessing the password, Romuald attempted to pry open the lock with his dagger but almost choked on the yellow-green fumes as the deadly trap sprung. The Nine Hells! Coughing and wheezing, he crawled out of the poisonous cloud. As the noxious smoke dissipated, he once again examined the inscription. Time? The door was unlocked and Romuald dragged himself onward, feeling winded and sore all over.
He found himself in a vault littered with moldy scrolls, broken wands, and other useless junk. Unsurprisingly, there was another door across the room, and Romuald groaned. This door’s riddle read, “If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven't got me”. Romuald muttered a curse. Perhaps the door misinterpreted his words, for it erupted with lightning bolts sending him scrambling away. He slumped onto a heap of trash and wept, mopping away his tears with a crumpled piece of parchment and wondering whether the mysterious treasure behind the riddle-warded doors was ever worth all the pain and misery. Deep in his heart, however, he knew it was, and kept dodging the searing thunderbolts until he finally guessed the right answer – Secret.
The chamber beyond the last door was unfurnished except for a small, predictably locked coffer perched atop a rune-covered marble dais. To Romuald’s immense relief, there was no riddle to be found. He jimmied the lock, raised the lid, and looked inside. The coffer was empty. A fruitless dagger-aided search for secret compartments reduced the empty treasure chest to a pile of splinters.
Romuald kicked the dais. The ground violently shook and the ancient runes flared to life forming a string of flaming words:
DUDE, THOU ART SUCH A COVETOUS KNAVE, IT DOTH MAKETH ME NIGH SICK IN MINE OLDE GRAVE.
Romuald staggered and ran for his life as the suddenly engulfed in flames tower began to crumble around him.
In Baldur Gate III, you will meet dispirited Romuald wandering about the smoldering ruins.
Romuald will join your party if thou wilst givest thy worde unto him that thou wouldst ne’er e’er askest of him any riddles.
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: Wizard
Ah, my gentle reader, do you remember those heart-stirring moments when you were riding back home for summer break? You dismount and hurry past the scores of duly overjoyed servants lined up in front of the Manor under the vigilant eye of old Perkins the Loyal Butler… The Manor itself is full of your precious childhood memories… Smiling, you recall how one of your younger cousins accidentally locked himself up in a rusty Iron Maiden while playing hide and seek in the dungeon below… You can almost hear the familiar wail of the Ghost of Great-Great-Great Uncle Osric haunting his favorite wine cellar…
…Such fond memories kept flashing through young Romuald Hackamore’s mind while he was galloping towards his ancestral abode he had just inherited...
The Hackamore family chronicles contained more than enough accounts of piracy, treason, sorcery, and insanity to secure them a prominent position among the highest ranks of nobility. The Hackamores traced their pedigree back to Gutfrey the Bold who happened to be in the marauding retinue of Duke Weardfric the Conqueror when the latter disembarked at the Sword Coast during the Prohibition. Gutfrey made his fortune by plundering and pillaging, as well as by regularly selling his allegiance to the highest bidder – an occupation that eventually won him the coat of arms and grim Hackamore Tower.
Three hundred years later, the refined descendants of Sir Gutfrey abandoned the leaky and drafty Tower and built comfortable Hackamore Hall surrounded by parks with romantic grottos, dazzling fountains, and a lovely lily pond where the fair Hackamore brides used to drown themselves on the wedding day after finding their pearls’ sheen disappointing or catching their grooms with a Maid of Honor. A special pavilion constructed on the opposite side of the pond afforded a fine view of the white-clad maidens gracefully flinging themselves into the pellucid waters.
Despite all the worthwhile attractions, young Romuald, who was dabbling in magic, took on the role of scholar, poring over Hackamore Hall’s collection of old manuscripts in search of anything related to wizardry. His diligent efforts were amply rewarded: Romuald came across a tattered ancient manuscript containing a few vague references to Zhambonius the Warlock. According to the manuscript, Zhambonius, concealed from all prying eyes in the dank vaults deep beneath the Tower, had been conducting arcane experiments and hoarding magical artifacts until the authorities burnt him at the stake.
Having meticulously inspected every inch of the rough-hewn stone walls adorned with moth-eaten tapestries and portraits of long-faced dowagers, Romuald finally discovered a small secret door. He spent a week figuring out how to open it, until it dawned on him that perhaps he should try to cast Open. The recalcitrant door disappeared revealing a spiral staircase.
Carrying a torch and peering apprehensively into the forbidding darkness, Romuald ventured forth – downstairs and then along a short sloping passage that ended at another locked door. Careful examination of this door revealed a half-faded inscription, “No sooner spoken than broken”. A riddle? Romuald scoured the adjacent walls hoping to find the password under cobwebs. He found nothing. He squinted at the inscription and gave a random answer. He was immediately showered with angry sparks painfully stinging his skin and burning tiny holes in his robes. Leg? Promise? Another batch of fiery sparks… He heard Osric wailing madly nearby. Silence? The door swung open.
Bolstered by a vivid mental picture of the hidden artifacts, Romuald gingerly clawed his way down a dark, decrepit passage until he came up to yet another locked door bearing the inscription, “Mountains will crumble and temples will fall, and no man can survive its endless call”. Another ruddy riddle! This time, instead of guessing the password, Romuald attempted to pry open the lock with his dagger but almost choked on the yellow-green fumes as the deadly trap sprung. The Nine Hells! Coughing and wheezing, he crawled out of the poisonous cloud. As the noxious smoke dissipated, he once again examined the inscription. Time? The door was unlocked and Romuald dragged himself onward, feeling winded and sore all over.
He found himself in a vault littered with moldy scrolls, broken wands, and other useless junk. Unsurprisingly, there was another door across the room, and Romuald groaned. This door’s riddle read, “If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven't got me”. Romuald muttered a curse. Perhaps the door misinterpreted his words, for it erupted with lightning bolts sending him scrambling away. He slumped onto a heap of trash and wept, mopping away his tears with a crumpled piece of parchment and wondering whether the mysterious treasure behind the riddle-warded doors was ever worth all the pain and misery. Deep in his heart, however, he knew it was, and kept dodging the searing thunderbolts until he finally guessed the right answer – Secret.
The chamber beyond the last door was unfurnished except for a small, predictably locked coffer perched atop a rune-covered marble dais. To Romuald’s immense relief, there was no riddle to be found. He jimmied the lock, raised the lid, and looked inside. The coffer was empty. A fruitless dagger-aided search for secret compartments reduced the empty treasure chest to a pile of splinters.
Romuald kicked the dais. The ground violently shook and the ancient runes flared to life forming a string of flaming words:
DUDE, THOU ART SUCH A COVETOUS KNAVE, IT DOTH MAKETH ME NIGH SICK IN MINE OLDE GRAVE.
Romuald staggered and ran for his life as the suddenly engulfed in flames tower began to crumble around him.
In Baldur Gate III, you will meet dispirited Romuald wandering about the smoldering ruins.
Romuald will join your party if thou wilst givest thy worde unto him that thou wouldst ne’er e’er askest of him any riddles.
Man's most valuable trait is a judicious sense of what not to believe.
-- Euripides
-- Euripides
-
Lady Dragonfly
- Posts: 1384
- Joined: Sat Feb 25, 2006 8:12 pm
- Location: Dreamworld
- Contact:
Artemis Entreri? Unfortunately, Salvatore beat me to the draw.
I think I neglected this thread for too long. Here is another heroic tale:
Filimon’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Gnome
Class: Gadgeteer
…With a deafening noise the gnomish flyer scraped the rugged surface of the mountain side, lurched sideway, and plunged into a narrow crevice, sliding deeper and deeper into the darkness. The rough walls slowed its wild descent enough to lessen the impact when the small aircraft finally hit the bottom and fell apart. A disheveled gnome tumbled out of the wreckage, staggered a few steps and collapsed on the jugged rocks…
After waking up in a dark cavern, the gnome found himself unable to recall his own name or the preceding events. Still dazed and confused, he felt in his numerous pockets for clues to his identity. The search yielded a sizable wrench, a handful of bolts and screws, a bat droppings-operated Torch/Lockpick TurboCombo™ and a crumpled but still legible Denizen ID bearing the name of one Filimon Cloppfizzle of Dingy Downs. Relieved that at least he was not going to drag out a wretched existence as a Nameless One, Filimon proceeded to examine the crash site. Memories kept trickling back into his mind as he sorted through the debris. Some were pleasant, like a memory of the rapturous Oooohs and Aaaahs from a gaggle of comely gnomish girls watching him saunter toward the sporty flyer. Then he recalled that he took his Dad’s flyer without permission. That gave him pause.
Filimon knew that he had to find his way out as soon as possible. Still he lingered… The young gnome was suddenly overwhelmed by a strange, unsettling sensation of being somehow incomplete. Rigorous testing confirmed that all his body parts were intact and functional. Was he drained of whatever meager amount of mana he might have possessed? Was he stripped of his mortality while he was lying prostrate? Before Filimon could distress himself even further, he remembered. The Z-box, a marvelous blend of Illusion and cutting edge Gnomish Hi-Tech, a wondrous item created by legendary artificer Kvass the Frothy himself, was gone without a trace. Along with Zap-a-Zit, Filimon’s favorite game of all time.
Crashing his Dad’s flyer in the Underdark was shocking; losing the Z-box was unfathomable.
Certainly, the loss of mortality would’ve been less aggravating.
Filimon found faint footprints on the dusty floor. Robbers, no doubt. Fuming with indignation, he resolved to follow the trail. After several hours he came up to a small grotto hidden behind overgrown mushrooms. The grotto served as a dwelling to a shriveled hermit who claimed ignorance of the worldly affairs but was willing to refresh his memory if the gnome… just one time… Confronted with Filimon’s wrench instead, the presumptuous grotto-dweller promptly recollected a small party of grey dwarves passing his mushrooms recently. Filimon delicately bonked the hermit on the wizened head, to ensure full cooperation, and as a result, not only was he provided with valuable intelligence about the Duergar Compound lying just south of the grotto, but the hermit volunteered to personally escort him. Filimon declined the offer, applied his wrench once more, and departed in the southerly direction.
Direct assault on the heavily guarded Duergar Compound’s iron gates was an impossible feat for a gnome but the hermit mentioned a crack in the remote stone wall. The worthy recluse was in the habit of sneaking through the crack into the grey dwarves’ well-stocked pantry.
Upon successful penetration of the dwarven fortress, Filimon went on scouting, deftly avoiding an occasional patrol. The Compound was a multilevel structure with a labyrinth of tunnels and corridors leading to the living quarters above and the mines and forges below. On the main level, the tunnels converged at a spacious cavern apparently served as a Feast Hall. In one of the nearby tunnels Filimon discovered two armed to the teeth sentries pacing in front of a padlocked door. Must be the Treasury where his stolen Z-box was deposited. He climbed up a high, narrow ledge. His perch allowed him an unobstructed view of the Hall and the tunnel with the guarded door.
After a long day of mining and working their forges the duergars predictably flocked into the Feast Hall to unwind. Having downed his first dozen mugs, one of the grey dwarves hopped up onto a grimy table and started a merry song, “A wee pot o‘barley pop…” followed by “A bony lass is a pain in the…” , with the whole crew enthusiastically joining in. The carousal went on until some hotshots started to trade punches, perhaps for the love of athletic competition. Their mead-sodden brethren eagerly took sides and a general scuffle ensued. Concealed on his ledge, Filimon was observing with admiration the spectacular parabolic trajectories of the knocked-out teeth and even made an attempt to estimate the terminal velocity of a dwarven tooth in a potential field.
The duergars guarding the entrance to the Treasury watched the fistfight yearningly. Finally, unable to resist the temptation any longer, they abandoned their post and joined the fray. Filimon, hardly believing his luck, slithered his way down and stealthily walked to the padlocked door.
The gnome picked the lock with practiced ease that could put even the most accomplished burglar to shame, and warily entered the dark chamber. He lit his torch and almost dropped it with a stifled cry as many eerie lights suddenly shone all around him – his own torchlight reflected in several wall-mounted mirrors. In addition, the room appeared befogged by swirling yellowish smoke seeping through the nostrils of a loathsome-looking stone gargoyle tucked in between a massive ironbound chest and a tall wooden cabinet. Smaller chests and boxes were piled along the walls.
Having recovered from the initial shock, Filimon approached the cabinet, eyeing the smoking gargoyle askance. The cabinet was chock-full of books and scrolls of political nature. The gnome browsed through the dusty tomes with genuine interest – Chieftain’s ABCs… Grimoire of Statecraft: Carrot and Stick… Design Ideas for Modern Torture Chambers… Rabble-Rousing Speeches, volume XVIII…
A small scrap of parchment slipped out of one of the books and Filimon picked it up. The fragment was covered with finely drawn lines and ovals:
0101 1001 0010 0011
At first glance, the puzzle did not make any sense, yet it felt vaguely familiar. A faint memory stirred in the back of Filimon’s mind but failed to surface. He sighed, pocketed the scribble and turned his attention to the ironbound chest.
Surprisingly, it had a keypad lock:
1 2 3 4 5
6 7 8 9 0
He did not know the passcode. Then it occurred to him that the lines and ovals drawn on the parchment might have been the passcode he was looking for. He hastened to test his theory and punched the zeroes and ones, to the same disappointing effect. Something was amiss.
From the corner of his eye he thought he saw the gargoyle move. Alarmed, he looked at the statue. The gargoyle was glaring back, its sharp teeth bared. The billowing smoke took on a nasty greenish heu and Filimon started feeling sick from the poisonous vapors. He hurriedly stuffed the gargoyle’s nose, ears and mouth with all the bolts and screws he could find in his pockets. The creature hissed and stretched out a clawed hand. Filimon hurled weighty Chieftain’s ABCs towards the menacing beast and made a beeline for the door.
By that time the Feast Hall battle was over. Some of the battered combatants were clinging obliviously to a barrel of ale and singing with heartfelt emotion, “Me ain’t got no elbow room in me forsaken stony tomb” while the others were contentedly snoring on the floor. Filimon retired to the storeroom to ponder his predicament.
Then he heard some scraping sounds. Somebody was squeezing through the crack! The startled gnome hid himself behind a crate and watched a group of intrepid adventurers materialize in front of him...
In Baldur Gate III, you can expect a surprise party at any moment.
I think I neglected this thread for too long. Here is another heroic tale:
Filimon’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Gnome
Class: Gadgeteer
…With a deafening noise the gnomish flyer scraped the rugged surface of the mountain side, lurched sideway, and plunged into a narrow crevice, sliding deeper and deeper into the darkness. The rough walls slowed its wild descent enough to lessen the impact when the small aircraft finally hit the bottom and fell apart. A disheveled gnome tumbled out of the wreckage, staggered a few steps and collapsed on the jugged rocks…
After waking up in a dark cavern, the gnome found himself unable to recall his own name or the preceding events. Still dazed and confused, he felt in his numerous pockets for clues to his identity. The search yielded a sizable wrench, a handful of bolts and screws, a bat droppings-operated Torch/Lockpick TurboCombo™ and a crumpled but still legible Denizen ID bearing the name of one Filimon Cloppfizzle of Dingy Downs. Relieved that at least he was not going to drag out a wretched existence as a Nameless One, Filimon proceeded to examine the crash site. Memories kept trickling back into his mind as he sorted through the debris. Some were pleasant, like a memory of the rapturous Oooohs and Aaaahs from a gaggle of comely gnomish girls watching him saunter toward the sporty flyer. Then he recalled that he took his Dad’s flyer without permission. That gave him pause.
Filimon knew that he had to find his way out as soon as possible. Still he lingered… The young gnome was suddenly overwhelmed by a strange, unsettling sensation of being somehow incomplete. Rigorous testing confirmed that all his body parts were intact and functional. Was he drained of whatever meager amount of mana he might have possessed? Was he stripped of his mortality while he was lying prostrate? Before Filimon could distress himself even further, he remembered. The Z-box, a marvelous blend of Illusion and cutting edge Gnomish Hi-Tech, a wondrous item created by legendary artificer Kvass the Frothy himself, was gone without a trace. Along with Zap-a-Zit, Filimon’s favorite game of all time.
Crashing his Dad’s flyer in the Underdark was shocking; losing the Z-box was unfathomable.
Certainly, the loss of mortality would’ve been less aggravating.
Filimon found faint footprints on the dusty floor. Robbers, no doubt. Fuming with indignation, he resolved to follow the trail. After several hours he came up to a small grotto hidden behind overgrown mushrooms. The grotto served as a dwelling to a shriveled hermit who claimed ignorance of the worldly affairs but was willing to refresh his memory if the gnome… just one time… Confronted with Filimon’s wrench instead, the presumptuous grotto-dweller promptly recollected a small party of grey dwarves passing his mushrooms recently. Filimon delicately bonked the hermit on the wizened head, to ensure full cooperation, and as a result, not only was he provided with valuable intelligence about the Duergar Compound lying just south of the grotto, but the hermit volunteered to personally escort him. Filimon declined the offer, applied his wrench once more, and departed in the southerly direction.
Direct assault on the heavily guarded Duergar Compound’s iron gates was an impossible feat for a gnome but the hermit mentioned a crack in the remote stone wall. The worthy recluse was in the habit of sneaking through the crack into the grey dwarves’ well-stocked pantry.
Upon successful penetration of the dwarven fortress, Filimon went on scouting, deftly avoiding an occasional patrol. The Compound was a multilevel structure with a labyrinth of tunnels and corridors leading to the living quarters above and the mines and forges below. On the main level, the tunnels converged at a spacious cavern apparently served as a Feast Hall. In one of the nearby tunnels Filimon discovered two armed to the teeth sentries pacing in front of a padlocked door. Must be the Treasury where his stolen Z-box was deposited. He climbed up a high, narrow ledge. His perch allowed him an unobstructed view of the Hall and the tunnel with the guarded door.
After a long day of mining and working their forges the duergars predictably flocked into the Feast Hall to unwind. Having downed his first dozen mugs, one of the grey dwarves hopped up onto a grimy table and started a merry song, “A wee pot o‘barley pop…” followed by “A bony lass is a pain in the…” , with the whole crew enthusiastically joining in. The carousal went on until some hotshots started to trade punches, perhaps for the love of athletic competition. Their mead-sodden brethren eagerly took sides and a general scuffle ensued. Concealed on his ledge, Filimon was observing with admiration the spectacular parabolic trajectories of the knocked-out teeth and even made an attempt to estimate the terminal velocity of a dwarven tooth in a potential field.
The duergars guarding the entrance to the Treasury watched the fistfight yearningly. Finally, unable to resist the temptation any longer, they abandoned their post and joined the fray. Filimon, hardly believing his luck, slithered his way down and stealthily walked to the padlocked door.
The gnome picked the lock with practiced ease that could put even the most accomplished burglar to shame, and warily entered the dark chamber. He lit his torch and almost dropped it with a stifled cry as many eerie lights suddenly shone all around him – his own torchlight reflected in several wall-mounted mirrors. In addition, the room appeared befogged by swirling yellowish smoke seeping through the nostrils of a loathsome-looking stone gargoyle tucked in between a massive ironbound chest and a tall wooden cabinet. Smaller chests and boxes were piled along the walls.
Having recovered from the initial shock, Filimon approached the cabinet, eyeing the smoking gargoyle askance. The cabinet was chock-full of books and scrolls of political nature. The gnome browsed through the dusty tomes with genuine interest – Chieftain’s ABCs… Grimoire of Statecraft: Carrot and Stick… Design Ideas for Modern Torture Chambers… Rabble-Rousing Speeches, volume XVIII…
A small scrap of parchment slipped out of one of the books and Filimon picked it up. The fragment was covered with finely drawn lines and ovals:
0101 1001 0010 0011
At first glance, the puzzle did not make any sense, yet it felt vaguely familiar. A faint memory stirred in the back of Filimon’s mind but failed to surface. He sighed, pocketed the scribble and turned his attention to the ironbound chest.
Surprisingly, it had a keypad lock:
1 2 3 4 5
6 7 8 9 0
He did not know the passcode. Then it occurred to him that the lines and ovals drawn on the parchment might have been the passcode he was looking for. He hastened to test his theory and punched the zeroes and ones, to the same disappointing effect. Something was amiss.
From the corner of his eye he thought he saw the gargoyle move. Alarmed, he looked at the statue. The gargoyle was glaring back, its sharp teeth bared. The billowing smoke took on a nasty greenish heu and Filimon started feeling sick from the poisonous vapors. He hurriedly stuffed the gargoyle’s nose, ears and mouth with all the bolts and screws he could find in his pockets. The creature hissed and stretched out a clawed hand. Filimon hurled weighty Chieftain’s ABCs towards the menacing beast and made a beeline for the door.
By that time the Feast Hall battle was over. Some of the battered combatants were clinging obliviously to a barrel of ale and singing with heartfelt emotion, “Me ain’t got no elbow room in me forsaken stony tomb” while the others were contentedly snoring on the floor. Filimon retired to the storeroom to ponder his predicament.
Then he heard some scraping sounds. Somebody was squeezing through the crack! The startled gnome hid himself behind a crate and watched a group of intrepid adventurers materialize in front of him...
In Baldur Gate III, you can expect a surprise party at any moment.
Man's most valuable trait is a judicious sense of what not to believe.
-- Euripides
-- Euripides
-
Sir Redweed
- Posts: 87
- Joined: Sun Jun 15, 2003 10:11 am
- Location: Cumberland Gap, TN
- Contact: