The PCs at Start

The Player Characters start the game at 2nd level, already established in the world with modest skills. Each for his own reasons has read the Proclamation issued by the Condor of Lemia and chosen to pursue whatever opportunity can be found in the new frontier of the Domelands. Per the Intro Story each was allow to choose a single item not to exceed 2,000 gp in value, and no larger than what could fit into a modern sized pillowcase.

All of our players put great effort into establishing a fantastic cast of characters with layered backgrounds.

Norris of Mornsteading

Norris is a traveling priest of Elianor the Comforter.  He is a 40 year old Halfling – roughly equivalent to a 28 year old human – and has been wandering most of his adult life. He grew up in a farming family of Mornsteading, and was trained by the local priest. Most of his journeys have been to and from farming communities offering aid and healing where needed.

Norris has also been involved is a small number of battles, mostly skirmishes with bandits. An illness at a young age hampered his muscle development, so physically he is fairly weak. In spite of that, during your time as castaways on the open sea it has become clear that despite of his lack of strength his health is pretty robust – of all your shipmates he has weathered the lack of food and water and the oppressive sun the easiest.

Norris is about three feet tall with chestnut brown hair he keeps cut short. He has thick bushy sideburns that come down to his chin, but other than that he is clean shaven. He lacks the typical potbelly adult male halflings tend to develop and is instead quite lean though without any muscle tone. He goes about barefoot and the thick hair on the top of his feet is almost furry. He has something of a hatchet quality to his facial features, softened somewhat by his constant gentle smile which seems to be his default position.

He mostly kept to himself during the voyage although he was friendly enough when approached. After the shipwreck he freely opens us about his life, more than willing to share stories. His demeanor has remained calm and thoughtful throughout the whole ordeal, offering up magical healing when he can to extend everyone’s life and health – though his spell selection is limited by a lack of components.

He readily talks about his faith but is not an aggressive evangelist. At no point does he try to convert any of his boatmates or even ask them to pray, merely content with setting an example and helping where he can. As time passes it become clear that he doesn’t care for Ular or Blaine overmuch, but does his best to hide it out of courtesy and to keep the peace.

Norris was able to grab his book of prayers and rituals but nothing else before jumping ship.

Ostar Thistlenap

Ostar Thistlenap is an adult male gnome of 50 years of age -roughly the equivalent of a 24 year old human. He has a serious but kind demeanor, and seems to only speak after some thought. In fact he is perhaps the least talkative of the group, never failing to cast a vote but rarely adding to the discussions. His is a calm confidence , clearly secure in who he is and aware of his own strengths and limitations.

Ostar stands about 3 and a half feet in height; tall for a gnome. He is lean but well-muscled and appears to have lived a life so far of physical activity. A scar crosses his face from above his right brow down to his left cheek, putting a sizable dent in his long nose. He wears a black moustache trimmed neatly above a short forked goatee and wears his coal colored hair almost shaved at the temples and back, but several inches long on top. It would be a sinister picture if his large eyes weren’t so mild, and his expression so friendly.

Ostar tells few stories on the trip, but you learn that he got his facial scar from a redcap ax in a fight.  He is from the small gnomish village of Babblebrook off to the east, and left at an early age “to see what was over the next hill.” He can use arcane magic, and went from town to town seeking out wizards to train under – but never staying long enough to set up permanent residence as an apprentice. He is fascinated with mechanical things, and spent a year working in a locksmith’s shop.

He never comes out and says it, but you get the impression that Ostar has seen his share of fights. He tries to be respectful of everyone aboard, but clearly has limited patience for Blaine, and does not care for Ular at all. He may be most friendly with Norris, the two having a similar optimistic outlook though Norris skews more toward “hope for the future” and Ostar is more about “the present could be much worse.”

The item Ostar grabbed is a small inch thick book filled with thin pages covered with arcane symbols and sketches of lock innards and mechanical systems of gears. He spends about 2 hours every day nose deep in his book.

Old Jarl

Old Jarl is a half-orc who is sliding from middle to old age, about 55 or so. He’s not terribly tall for a half-orc, but still a good 5’10 or so. His skin has a grey cast to it that betrays his mixed heritage, and is creased and scored like old leather from years of working in the sun. He’s bald on top but has a fringe of grey hair circling his head that falls almost to his shoulders. His short stubbly beard hides the prominence of his jaw somewhat, although he has overlarge lower teeth that peek out of his bottom lip. His eyes are direct and watchful, absorbing everything.

Jarl grew up in the Scattered Isles, taking to sea at the age of fourteen. Since then he has been a professional sailor. Avoiding smuggling and pirate ships, he has managed to crew only for honest merchants his whole life and has a calm security where morality is concerned – things are right or wrong, and he does what’s right.

It is Jarl’s expertise that keeps everyone alive on this fateful voyage, his knowledge of the sea and boats. In spite of this he does not try to take command. It becomes clear that he does not want the burden of authority.  He sides with who he thinks is right, not who is winning in the various disputes in the boat. When it’s time to reminisce Jarl doesn’t describe his home, instead he talks about women he’s known in various ports, sights he’s seen, where the best beer and rum were to be found.

Instead of grabbing an item when the ship went down Jarl put the dinghy in the water.

Jerek Thirdfield

Jerek Thirdfield is a medium height middle aged man whose personality makes him far more imposing than his stature would suggest. He is balding and keeps the fringe of nut brown hair trimmed the same length as his short beard, which is showing grey on the chin. His frame is on the smaller side, but his torso is broad, suggesting that he could have an impressing barrel chest with a little work and effort. Old faded scars pattern his arms, chest, and back.

It is clear that Jerek is used to being in command and obeyed. He speaks in gruff direct sentences, and seems frustrated when people do not immediately do as he says without explaination. It is an obvious mental shift for him to be on a boat filled with people who do not instantly defer to him, demand that he explain his ideas, and challenge what he says. In spite of that he gamely attempts to rise to the occasion, and tries to minimize any power struggles he starts inadvertently.

Jerek was something of a militia leader in the small village of Stonemeadow. An indifferent farmer, he instead spent most of his time settling disputes and acting as an unofficial sheriff for the surrounding area. His wife and daughter passed away from an illness five years back, and when new leadership – younger men – rose to power in Stonemwadow and seemed less supportive and deferential to Jerek, he cut his ties, sold his land, and struck out for Norhall to start over.

Jerek has seen his share of fights, although he admits it has mostly been with drunken farmers or the occasional thief wandering through. He has been in a few actual pitched battles when a bandit group tried to set up years back. He and other mustered a militia and drove them off.

Aside from rags Jerek has a simple country sheath knife in a leather scabbard – single edged, about 8 inches long, with a heavy brass cross piece.

Ular Bronzeback

Ular Bronzeback is a surly dwarf with a sly dark humor. He’s from the Vordin Clan mines of the Dragonridge Mountains, and though he hasn’t said so you suspect he was exiled for some crime. To hear him talk he has been in numerous battles since he left the mines. It is worth noting though that when he describes his part in those battles, he is often hitting someone from behind or throwing a ranged weapon from a distance.

In the long seeming endless time drifting in the dinghy, Ular makes a number of suggestions you find distasteful. He quietly suggests that the wounded and ill be slain. Jarek makes a similar suggestion, but while Jarek’s motivation seems to be a wish to show mercy, Ular’s is a desire to conserve resources (food, water, etc…)

Ular is also the one to suggest cannibalism as an option when two of your companions die. He grumbles darkly when the rest of you respond with horror and instead push the bodies overboard. Later you can see him quietly chatting with each of the others – clearly trying to find out who will support his idea, even though the group as a whole has shut down the discussion.

Several times Ular’s temper and unwillingness to share time and resources with those who are weak almost starts a fight. He and Jarek almost come to blows, as do Ular and yourself. In each case Ular is willing to get nose to nose with someone, but backs down before actually swinging. In one instance you catch him surveying the group mentally to see if anyone will back him up during one confrontation, but no one seems willing to throw in with the dark dwarf. When you are forced to kill one of your shipmates because he goes mad, Ular stays well clear of the fight.

Ular is stout and broad of shoulder, although his posture is terrible. He hunches over giving his back a high roll and causing his short stubby neck to stork upward. The total effect makes it almost look like his head is growing out of his chest. He kept his beard trimmed short, about 2 inches in length, and his black unruly hair is tied back with a leather thong, which accents the irregular streak of white that grows from his widow’s peak. His hands are knobby and bulbous and his arms are thick, meaty, and simian.

Aside from rags Ular has a wickedly curved throwing hatchet which he plays with idly.

Blaine of Westborough

Blaine is a fat bald man in his late twenties. There is a childish softness to both his features and his personality. Over the course of your time adrift, his plump fatness melts away into loose folds of skin and suet that hang grossly from his frame. He’s slightly above average height, not quite tall enough to be remarkable, and his soft hands are prone to splinters and blisters. His complexion is pale, and he is covered in angry red sunburns for days.

Blaine initially claims to be a former sergeant of the guard in West Borough, but as you open up with each other he admits he is an orphan who was taken in by a temple of Machelle (the demi goddess of mid-wives). He was raised to be a temple scribe, but was lazy and inattentive both in his studies and his duties. Realizing that his shortcomings were going to deny him any real chance for advancement, he answered the Condor’s call – thinking he could make a career as a warrior. It is clear that he assumed his height and weight would make him a natural combatant. It is also clear that he has actually never been in a fight.

Blaine’s personality can only be described as childishly whiny. He frequently bemoans the situation and declares that all is lost, and believes he was robbed of his destined future as a great warlord. In group discussions he waits to suss out which opinion carries the majority before voicing support.

Blaine is clearly afraid of Ular, and resentful of Jarek’s natural leadership. He is aware of the low opinion you all have of him and sees this as a gross injustice. At one point he is caught attempting to filch an extra sea biscuit and barely escapes a beating. Even though me seems childishly petulant most of the time, his selfishness has a vicious streak that runs deep. He talks less and less as your voyage goes on.

When abandoning ship the one item Blaine grabbed was a sugared rum cake, which he greedily ate immediately so he would not have to share it.

Intro Story

Each of you, for your own individual reasons have seen the poster, hear the criers, and decided to strike out at the Condor’s call to forge a new life in the Domelands. Some sell all that they own, some had nothing to sell, but all find their way to the port town of Broadkeel seeking passage to the capital city of Lemia: Bornos.

Many a merchant vessel has decided to set aside trade for the time being and instead ferry adventurers, soldiers, farmers, and all those intent on new life or fast fortune to the grand city of Bornos. It is on just such a vessel, the Singing Bounty, that you find yourself along with 30 other hopefuls, and on a sunny morning the Bounty launches taking you all into an uncertain future rife with hope, fear, danger, and potential.

The captain, a swarthy dwarf named Ironcraw, calls out to his crew to cast lines and haul anchor. The sail, shining in the morning sun against a clear cloudless sky, hoists high and fills with the lusty breeze billowing out of the bay. You hear the creak of timber and rope and the Bounty adjusts to the sudden strain and then she almost leaps forward, kicking up spray over the rails which falls on your face like cool wet kisses. Across the waves you see the two other ships which are making the same journey alongside you keep pace with the gliding roll, angled wakes flowing behind as the trio of ships cut through the water.

As the day rolls by you interact with those around or not, as your nature and personality allows, but you come to have a grudging respect for Ironcraw’s crew – a salty collection of races and nationalities, raw and unrefined to be sure, but hard working, good natured, and for the most part moral and gods fearing.

As for your fellow passengers you find it harder to judge. A few claim to be farmers but clearly are not; others claim to be seasoned adventurers but your practiced eye tells you a shovel or reaping scythe fits better in their hands than a sword. Some keep to themselves, some seem desperate for conversation. Some are confident, some look terrified, and a few look bored. All are careful not to reveal everything in conversation or manner, holding secrets from strangers and new friends alike. But that’s hardly surprising, for aren’t you doing the same?

The days roll by like the waves underneath you, one much like the one before it. It is a fifteen week journey from Broadkeel to Bornos, but the steady wind and smooth sea has shortened the expected time to fourteen weeks which has all in good cheer. It is the beginning of the eighth week, the thirty sixth day at sea, when you come out on deck to see an odd sight. Where a bright rosy sunrise should be breaking over the waves instead you see a rusty red orange smear wiped over the eastern horizon. The crew stands still – the first time you have seen such a thing from the industrious and hardworking sailors. All heads are turned to the east save one. Old Jarl, as his fellow sailors call him, a grey haired leather skinned half-orc who seems wise with old lore stands looking north, one hand wrapped around his coarse beard under hard piercing eyes. Your ears pick up mutterings from the crew: “An ill omen.” “Out of the worst tales.” “Never have I seen a morning sky that bad.” Your eyes however are mesmerized by Old Jarl until you slowly turn to the north and seek out his focus.

It is not hard to find. On the northern horizon is a pitch black storm cloud, rolling and pulsating like boiling bile, illuminated in erratic flashes of unnatural indigo lightning. Aside from the color and activity something strikes you as profoundly odd about the stormfront. Turning back you see that Old Jarl is now looking at you and, noticing the uneasy puzzlement on you face, says with a grim expression, “It’s coming towards us. Against the wind.”

The breath holding stillness is suddenly shattered by Ironcraw’s rough barking voice, shouted out over his forked goatee. “To your tasks! We sail for speed! Passengers all below deck. Crew all hands ON deck. MOVE PEOPLE.” Immediately the ship becomes a flurry of activity. You hurriedly head below deck and into the cargo hold. Rough partitions were set up using pieces of old crates to create the illusion of privacy in the damp hold and you hurriedly make your way to your assigned “cabin.” As you do you hear the word being spread around by the other passengers. “Is something wrong?” “Why should I have to stay below?” “All this over a sunrise? They aren’t all pretty you know.” “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” “The ship is moving more, isn’t it?” That last comment give you pause – the ship is definitely rocking more than normal. A few people stumble around you. Determinedly and guided by a gut instinct, you enter into the small stall that has been your personal area since leaving Broadkeel. You weren’t able to bring much – the passage fee was almost everything you could scrape together – but you never would have left without… there. There it is. Your hand finds the sailcloth wrapped bundle that contains your prize possession. Quickly securing it to your person with some twine you join the other passengers in the central area of the cargo hold.

Time goes by, marked by nervous conversation and an increased violence in the ship’s movement. One passenger, a youthful swordsman whose normal bravado is now completely gone, looks around and asks, “How long has it been? Can it be night already? The porthole windows have gone dark.” Sure enough a quick glance confirms it – the sky is as dark as midnight. Darker; no stars reflect on glass or wave. A tall scholarly man in robes who has largely kept to himself pulls a gnomish timedisk out by a gold chain and tersely says, “It is but noon.” Just then a sailor stumbles down the stairs. “We need aid,” he breathlessly gasps. “Any man who is willing to pull an oar head to the benches. The wind, though strong, will not save us alone.” Every man and woman volunteers.

As it happens, there is not room for every man and woman on the rowing benches. You and the rest of the passengers are split up into three groups of ten. Forty men row at once – twenty passengers and twenty crew. Every hour ten of each cycle out to rest. You find yourself in the second group – the first batch to row a full two hours. Once your breath synchronizes with your rowing the steady beat of the bosun’s drum hypnotizes you after a time, so that the movement of the ship and the noise of straining lumber falls away into a no-time of drum beats, oar strokes, agonized muscles, and falling sweat.

You are startled when your relief, a young redheaded woman intent on owning her own farm, taps you on the shoulder. Dazedly you stand and move away from the bench. Reality drives the rower’s fog out of your mind with a gasp of breath. The first thing you notice is that the ship is violently heaving. The second is the distant roar of primal wind above. Exhaustedly you stumble up to the deck, determined to see the situation.

The movement of the ship is so violent that you have to climb up the stair to the deck using your hands as well as your feet. As you do, a sailor flies down past you screaming, “Pull in the oars! They’ll break and tear timber! Pull them in damn you!” Coming out on deck you see indigo lightning flash, hear a roar louder than anything you have ever experienced and are suddenly thrown through the air. You crash into the ship’s rail, desperately grabbing it as you do so. The roar is the wind, a constant force strong enough to tear cloth. Many sailors on deck are now shirtless. Rain cuts like thrown razors as it flies with the wind, and you are soaked to the bone in an instant. Scattered lanterns weakly cast globes of light onto the deck, flames fluttering even under glass shutters. Lightning flashes from somewhere every half second bathing the deck with an odd purple strobe effect, disjointed from random directions. Idly you think to yourself the staccato thunder claps barely make it through the intense roar of the wind, a though far too calm for the moment. The rail bucks and moves underneath you like a wild horse trying to throw its first rider, and once again you descend into a timeless mind frame – focused solely on hanging to the rail in the howling darkness. Every so often your feet are drenched. After the third drenching you realize it is not a wave soaking your feet, but that the ship is rolling so badly that your feet are dipping into the wild sea.

You have no idea how long you cling to that rail – feet dipping, lightning strobing, rain cutting, wind roaring – when almost suddenly the movement stops, and the ship lies still. Slowly, with limbs you have forgotten how to use, you clumsily climb off the rail and on to the deck. Sitting flat on your rear, you survey the scene. The ship is still and unmoving, a calm circle of sea in the center of the storm. The wind and its roar has stopped, and now you hear a constant crash of thunder and the lightning continues to strobe in the dark clouds above and around you. Every sailor you see has rope tied around him and to a piece of the ship; two lines providing two anchor points. The sail hangs in tatters from the yardarm, and several deck timbers are cracked and warped. Captain Ironcraw, lashed at the wheel next to the pilot, pulls out a long knife and cuts his anchor lines free. His voice, obviously screamed from the strain on his face but only cutting through the thunder like a whisper, calls out, “To arms!”

“Are we supposed to fight lightning and wind?” you think to yourself, when suddenly a black tower shoots out of the sea and falls across the deck, splintering the rails and deck and sending the mizzen mast flying. It is huge, dark, and rubbery. Circular growths, each as big as a man, cling to the deck, and boiled octopus in spiced broth – a port town delicacy - springs to mind. A sailor not far from you screams “KRAKEN!!” at the top of his lungs before you see what you now know is a gargantuan tentacle flex and with an earsplitting shatter tear the Singing Bounty in two. The deck slopes suddenly and you almost gently slide into the sea. Water and darkness enclose you like a blanket.

Thrashing in the water, you begin tearing off clothes, belt, boots, and gear as you struggle to break your head free of the surface. Everything comes loose except your pants, shirt, and the sailcloth bundle strapped to your back. You pause and consider dumping even that most prized object when something hard and wooden grazingly hits you in the head. Reflexively you grab ahold of it and recognize the shape of an oar, securely held at the other end. You use the oar to pull your head free of the water. At first all you can do is fill your lungs with air but hands grasp you by the arms and shoulders and haul you out of the water.

You find yourself in one of the ships dinghies alongside fourteen other people, including Old Jarl. The small boat rocks up and down over the ripples emanating from when the Singing Bounty went down. The storm continues to roar above and around you but your boat is within the area of calm sea that stopped your now sunken ship dead in its tracks. The lightning continues to flash repeatedly, showing you wreckage of the other companion ship now sunk as well (you later learn that the third ship was unable to race the storm wand was sunk earlier in the day). Four other dinghies are becalmed in the center of the unnatural storm, the closest a mere thirty yards away. And then, the Kraken surfaces. It resembles a dark black squid on a massive scale, and its great eye balefully stares about the scene with dark intelligence. The mouth, a foul yellow colored beak, opens wide and a tentacle grabs a dinghy and feeds it into the great maw, horridly barbed tongue thrashing wildly. Your boatmates frantically rush to put oars in the water, but Old Jarl quietly shakes his head – there is no out running this doom.

A second dinghy is grabbed – the one closest to you – and feasted on. Of the two other remaining one decides to try to run for it anyway and madly starts rowing in the opposite direction. A robed man with an impressive beard, one of your fellow passengers on the doomed voyage, stands up in the dinghy and faces the sea horror. The other dinghy, coming to the same conclusion Old Jarl did, sees it’s retinue dive over into the sea attempting to escape by abandoning ship. The Kraken rushes forward, whipping its long grotesque tongue back and forth through the water, spearing people on its cruel barbs. You and your companions watch, grimly waiting your turn.

Suddenly the standing man in the other remaining dinghy shoots out a green beam of light from his hand, which connects with the Kraken’s eye. The eye swells and explodes in a spray of jelly like gore, and the Kraken emits a high-pitched shriek. Its tentacles flail about, whipping the sea into a froth and sending your dinghy dancing among the dark waves. You see the other dinghy, where stood the beam emitting caster, fly to pieces as a tentacle lands a direct hit. After a moment of shrieking and thrashing the Kraken sinks below the surface and the sea grows calm. You wait for a tense couple of moments for the sea beast to reemerge, but instead the storm slows and begins to break up. Minutes later early stars beam down on you through a scattering of clouds and the sea returns to normal, such as it can be.

You drift for days, aimlessly bobbing over waves under an unrelenting sun. Two men die from their wounds. A third simply jumps overboard and disappears into the deep. Another goes mad and has to be killed by the rest of you for your collective safety. The dinghy had two small barrels of fresh water nailed to it, as well as a small box of sea biscuits as emergency provisions. You thank Ironcraw’s foresight and wish him home safely to whatever god he worships. His preparedness saves you and the others from having to make unsavory decisions for survival. Even still, not knowing how long you may be drifting, the group keeps strict rations on the food and water which keeps everyone alive but greatly weakened.

As men who may be doomed to die a slow death you begin swapping stories. Secrets are spilled (although perhaps not all of them) and after a few days you know your fellow boatmates better than anyone you have ever known in your life, and they you. A few you frankly don’t care for – such circumstances can bring out the worst in a good man, much less in one who is lacking – but most you form a deep brotherly bond with.

After two and a half weeks pass since the fateful encounter with the Kraken, Old Jarl mentions that he thinks you may be drifting into the Forbidden Isles, where the Wildmen dwell. Asking him to explain he tells this tale:

The Forbidden Isles are a dramatic name for a handful of small islands inhabited by the Wildmen. There’s nothing really special about the islands except that the Wildmen are incredibly xenophobic, to the point where they will slaughter other tribes on sight, much less strange folk who arrive by boat. Their shamans are not to be disregarded, and their warriors are hardy and skillful for all their lack of civilization, so everyone avoids them.

They’re hairy, almost like apes, and use weapons and tools made of bone and rock. The islands are volcanic, and are warmer than what you would expect to find this far north. They are lush and covered with vegetation. IF we can manage to avoid being killed by the locals, we may be able to rig up a boat that lets us properly navigate. Maybe even jury rig a sail. Normally I’d advise avoiding those islands like the plague, but given the circumstances…

Two more days of drifting and you see land on the horizon. It is not long before you are approaching a sandy beach, jutting out of dense jungle on a small island…

The Proclaimation

ADVENTURE

TREASURE

LAND

The great Northern Dome has fallen!

For the first time in our history the Domelands can be entered!

The Condor of Lemia has entered the Domelands and occupied the lost city of Norhall. Any man who travels to the area around Norhall and stakes a claim and holds it for a year and a day shall own that land under the Condor’s Writ.

Any man can be a landowner!

The Domelands are not for the faint of heart however. Forgotten ruins scatter the realm along with old graves and lost mines. Unclaimed riches of long ago await those brave enough to find them. Any man willing to work for the Condor as a Lemian soldier or a free adventurer will receive a generous bounty for any help civilizing and reclaiming these lost lands. All interested seek out the Temple of the Wanderer in the city of Bornos.