Vulcarsgrave and the Obsidian Tower

Thunderhead's Journal Part IX

There comes a time when the spilled blood sets into the soul, and even the purest turn crimson. Inside, we are all red. We have come to a turning point in our sojourning. We must now decide whether the Faterinos stand for all that is just or if we were simply a cowardly band of ruffians and thieves all along, stumbling like a drunkard along the rocks of a rain-kissed embankment beside the sea, a wrong step away from plunging into the depths. It all began when we agreed to help that blighted scoundrel Cassot and his half-wit brother Cassow collect their dues from the turkey leg vendors. While we employed strong-arm tactics to get what we believed was rightfully owed to Cassot, he quickly proved himself to be a disloyal and treacherous knave by attempting to have us killed by men in his service by means of those damnable creatures that I am told are called Sneezebores. Needless to say, after our adventures with Heliosh, we are bone tired, weary, and yet new troubles seem to pick up where the last troubles ended. We did manage to keep a substantial amount of gold for ourselves after slaying the sneezebores, and luckily when we were brought in front of Captain Hendrix, we learned that Cassot was attempting to flee the city without paying his rightful due to Captain Hendrix, the white clad defender of the city.

We witnessed as Cassot and Cassow were given over to Morg, a wizard of some power. He made infected turkeys grow in size and ferocity, and we were forced to watch as these wicked birds ripped our former employers apart. Captain Hendrix allowed us the honor of trying out for the Final Defense Force if we would show up at Marmarin Hall the next morning in order to take whatever tests were necessary. Though we were loathe to give up our allegiance to Sentinel’s Hall so quickly, we kept our robes in case they should prove useful.

Meanwhile, friend Scratchand NabaYo Kinderhookian underwent an ordeal that makes me question all that I believe about the world. Buckles the bear was poisoned by a dart that was later revealed to have been dipped in Phalaxian lichen poison, a most evil and womanly way of slaying one’s enemies if I do say so. Nabayo told me a cloaked figure appeared to her at the foot of a Liridian tree, a tree needed to fulfill the prophecy of Isitha about healing Buckles with Nabayo’s tears, and gave her instructions to gather together the flowers of a Laridian tree, Halfling leaf, bat liver, the blood of a nobleman of Vulcarsgrave, and Vulcarian marble. Aerodosh, for that was the witch-woman’s name, said that if Nabayo combined these items into a paste, she would be able to save Buckles life and prove her worth to their order, the Hymnling Collective.

After much struggle and pain, Scratch and Nabayo were able to collect these items. They learned the secrets of the Alabasi Elves who first brought Vulcarian marble to the land, they successfully stole into a barn to shoot bats with fleet arrows, and ultimately convinced a nobleman to give up a drop of his blood, though I rather suspect the nobleman did a wise thing by offering up his blood; Nabayo was not going to take no for an answer. Upon returning to Aerodosh, Aerodosh withdrew a glowing seed and held it above Nabayo’s head. Nabayo had a dream vision, the details of which she seemed reticent to share with a lowly Dwarf, perhaps because it was too personal and the elf side of her desired privacy. Regardless, she did admit that Aerodosh informed her that she now has a deeper connection to nature. Nabayo, that seemingly cold and unshakable Nabayo, wept tears of bitter grief and sorrow and pain, and thus did she cure the bear and the bear did rise and Scratch did bear witness to a miracle of sorts. I would have given my beard all over again to witness such a scene.

Indeed, Nabayo seems changed, somehow deeper, like still water in a gully lake. These are old magiks at work, the connection that I will never know, like that of the mother to child, joined, growing together, the earth, Nabayo, Buckles, ocean to sand to seed. Alas, I am just an old warrior and set in my old warrior ways, but I do envy her connection to something greater than herself. With Buckles healed, Aerodosh told Nabayo that Nabayo’s very tears now have anti-toxin properties if wept in deep emotion. Scratch told me in confidence that he saw the very flowers move along with Nabayo’s own body movements. The earth is old and secret and wise.

At last Aerodosh gave Nabayo the sap of the Axamer flower, a potion that if smoked (and if the smoker survives the experience) will help Nabayo’s magical powers grow. In addition, a tattoo of the Hymnling Collective appeared on Nabayo’s hand. Aerodosh says that if we were ever to encounter any magical creatures or plants, we should bring it to her in the grove.

A far cry from the experiences of Woodbine, Donaldino, and myself! Finally, after what seemed like a fortnight, the Faterinos were brought back together at our makeshift flophouse. We determined that with some of our new found wealth, it would be prudent to invest in a piece of real estate to serve as our headquarters! The thought thrills me, at least, a home, a true home to make up for the dark halls of the Gloamingborn, now lost to me forever. We all slept a long time then, regaining strength, dreaming what dreams we would, whether ill or good, and awoke to find ourselves in the mouth of hell.

A creature 20 feet tall and composed of the corpses is rampaging the city. Its torso is comprised of men I personally killed. Is this the retribution promised by St. Cuthbert to to those who would kill for reasons impure? Is this his retribution in the form of the dead? I know not, all I know is that we are Faterinos, and we will not shy from our own fates. This may be the last journal entry that this old Dwarven fool ever makes. If so, let them say that we fought and died valiantly, and that the sins we may have committed were washed away and chastised in blood spilled freely, bravely, in the defense of the weak. To battle, friends, Faterinos, to battle and whatever hells await us.

Heliosh Goes to Hell

It pains my elven ears to have to explain to Thunderhead that he must devour his fiercely dwarven words. It appears he very well may have to open a barber shop right here in the Old City of Vulcarsgrave. I hope that he is not maddened enough that he will allow his fellow Faterinos to receive complimentary cuts. My locks do seem to grow fuller and longer in these summer months of Deidra. But knowing Thunderhead, his shears may cut a little too close to the neck. I did not, however, intend for this to occur. I, like my compatriots, believed Heliosh to be a knavish scamp, hell-bent on destruction for his own anarchic gain. When I followed him into the uneasy Vulcarsgrave night, I intended to put an end to his madcap reign. He deftly traversed the empty back alleys of the Fringe, as I followed him as closely as if I were his his dark shadow. We watched as the Faterinos and the Helions quickly disposed of the garish clown gang. I can only imagine the blood that Nabayo soaked with her rapier and Donaldhino with his rape. Near the end of their assassination campaign, however, Heliosh must have heard my silent steps, for he turned a corner, awaiting my arrival. We immediately began combat. Blow for blow, we were evenly matched. That is, until his dark hell beast emerged from the shadows. The wild monster gnawed my arm and left me pinned to the ground. Damn the coward who uses a beast to do his fighting! In this bruised and bloody state, I was forced to hear the story Heliosh wished to tell after I was forced into revealing my intentions of ending the life of
this swine. He explained that he was not the man I believed him to be. Heliosh was merely a legend that he adopted to embolden the lives of the Fringe dwellers, yet what his true identity may be was not revealed to me. He acquired the hell hound to further develop this myth. But now he believes the Vulcarsgrave City Guard have conspired to move the shipment of flaming brain into the Fringe, devastating these already diseased fools. But why is the question that must be answered. So the plan: Heliosh the myth must end in order to stop the terror being swept across Vulcarsgrave. I, despite my best efforts to not be swayed, finally succumbed to the logic he presented. Therefore, we aligned to fake Heliosh’s death in order to further investigate this conspiracy, rather than continue his original barbaric plan of unleashing the flaming brain within the walls of Vulcarsgrave. Yet where this man’s true allegiances may ultimately lie will yet to be seen. I will keep a watchful eye, and I know the cynical Faterinos will also be mindful of those attempting to cross us. Thunderhead’s axe does not forgive, nor does Donaldhino’s yodeling. I can only say that however illogical it may be, my chaotic spirit yearns to crumble the powers held at the top of Marmyrin Hall. And I can only hope that this plot somehow involves the gem guild, so the Faterinos may finally get our revenge and loot the basilisk shit out of that damn guild. We are Faterinos!


I will kill you

Imagesfuzzy wuzzy

I curse the beast that has unleashed this wretched malady upon my beloved Buckles. I will hunt you down and do whatever is necessary to find the remedy for my Buckles Baby Bear.

The Art of Thunderhead

The images haunt my dreams. Perhaps by expressing myself in my crude hand, I can lay my burden down, at least for a while.


Thunderhead's Journal Part VIII

I believe the Faterinos have an authority problem which leads us to turn on any who would dare influence our behavior. Can you blame us? Burning liquid! Tanneries! This masked Heliosh who presumes to dictate to us the terms of our adventuring! The Faterinos can only be guided by the tenaciously bullheaded whims that we have learned to trust. The day that we are bullied into going along with some madman’s plan for the world, a madman more than content to destroy the city itself, will be the day that this dwarf hangs up his boots and becomes a barber.

I wonder how it felt for the fiend we were riding with to be taken unaware with an axe to the belly? Did he think to himself, “I have underestimated these Faterinos!”? No! He told me he thought we could have been brothers! BROTHERS! I have only a four siblings now, and they are called Faterinos. The sheer arrogance of the statement made me feel better about disemboweling the wretched cur. Have we made enemies? Of course we have, but the day you start dancing like a marionette for the enjoyment of others is the day that you cede true freedom. Consider our strings cut.

-Thunderhead Gloamingborn

Kelsey and his Graham Cracker
meeeples iz peeples

As I open my fly for the umpteenth time today to urinate on this elderly gentleman in front of me, I am once again reminded of the honesty and purity of my poor, dear, very very dead mother. For she was the lady who first revealed to me the healative properties of a good old decrepit gent drain-on-him session. Kelsey is his name. I found him last night in the midst of a particularly depraved Halfling Hash den. Some uniquely talentless and TRAGIQUE! bards were attempting and failing to perform their amateurish and undercooked rhythmic dance story songs when I locked eyes with Kels. His eyes said no, but my mid section said yes. The chasm of lust and intention proved too much for me to boo-bear and here I am now pouring a vast yellow stream into his old dusty maw, dribbling the golden liquid all over my new sheepskin rug (you can also double it as a child syrup blocking sheath!).

Which brings us to Dorff . . .

I am not talking about Stephen, but the Deuces are wild! His Blade is limp and soul is dim, but he could take a neon rod of life better than this poor Grammarian ever could. Open and close and reignite the prose. The cloven hooves are not your table wine flagons! My observations are cloudy and my mind is filled with insects and they all want me to tell them a story so tell them I will.

Open the doors and close the legs of the whores. Can’t stop the music like a Jennered Bruce who is loose and cannot get past the smell of goose, the goose is his lady and her stead is a man who knows the lady who OWNS us all. Do you understand the web I weave in this world wide cataclysm of sexual urges and fooded purges. When the sheepskin rug is upon my stiff and savory whole I cannot unleash the stream of yellow and pillow without a visual reminder of the lady I once loved more than any one else in this sad little world of ours, Turmusa. Oh Turmusa! Why did you have to eat that bar of poison that I gave you to eat! It was a prank of most hilarious dimension, you flat footed de la whore! I tire of these reminisces and hope that my fellowrinos are ready for the most unpleasant and tiring tires that tired. Open the gates! Flood the pates! Give me a rind and I will tell you want is on my mind! Can I borrow a feeling? A Rub for my steaks? A placeholder for the one who cannot grape? I know not much of who or what or where? But the urge to pee inside of Kelsey’s mouth is strong. He knows this and I know this. I hold him down and he swallows. I lift him up and his spits it back up. Yes, he will be a good one, if he is not Dorff than he is the next best thing.

My impertinence is not your concern, young fools. I hold in my mind the key to this whole journey we are all on, but I feel as if your trust has not yet been earned. What shall you have to do to get into the mind of a poet and a thief and a liver and a giver and a maniac and a poet and a sadness in a bag? NOONE, not Herman, nor his hermits, but perhaps you, perhaps. PERHAPS.

The Words and Deeds of Woodbine Grimsleep

Dear Diary,

Life was easier before I stopped drinking. At least when I was four sheets to the wind there was a reason I didn’t understand what was going on around me. Now that I’m clear-headed, I just get confused a lot and NabaYo Kinderhookianyells at me. Fair Nabayo, she has no idea how I feel about her. I know she hates humans, and I think she especially hates me sometimes, but I cannot get her out of my mind. The meaner she is, the more I like her. I think there’s a word for that, but I don’t know what it is. I’ll have to ask Donaldinho Yorgelater. At any rate, Donaldino has been encouraging me to express my feelings through writing and what he called “the poet’s art” and not through my axes. He said it would be “anger management.” I don’t really know what that means. I thought I was managing my anger pretty well on those orcs? I guess that’s just something he picked up along the way. Donalidino is so good at controlling his emotions and never doing anything to put the group at risk through reckless action, not like stupid old Woodbine. I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on myself for not understanding, Donaldino is truly a genius, and I am a simple man thrust into an unusual situation.

Still, I guess I should get to the point, Diary. Thunderhead Gloamingborn, the bravest dwarf I’ve ever met, and I have become half-members of Sentinel’s Hall. We will have a job tomorrow at 6 AM which should prove interesting. We will have to complete our assignments as a unit, but I know that there is nothing that can stop us when we put our heads together. Thunderhead feels deeply, we all know that, but I think he has a soft spot for me, unlike Nabayo. Sigh. Scratch seems to know more about my feelings than he lets on, but that’s classic Scratch for you. I think it’s safe to say that the Faterinos are my best friends and would never let anything bad happen to me. I would gladly die for any one of them if necessary. Even Nabayo, cruel as she can be, stopped to help me when I stumbled in that damned lair beneath the lake. If she didn’t care, why would she stop for me……? Sigh again. Perhaps I’ll ask Donaldino to teach me a love potion one of these days.

Anyway, after getting orders to meet up with Cassot the next morning, we headed over to the tanneries to see if we could track down the fiends from last night. They gave us the run around, but something wasn’t quite right over there. After Nabayo spent some quality time with Buckles, that damned bear who I am quite sure hates me and knows exactly how I feel about Nabayo, we headed to the granary to find out about someone called Heliosh, an almost mythical fighter/rebel within the city. Some people say he isn’t real. It makes me a bit nervous, but I try not to show it around the guys. I want them to think I’m awesome, you know, Diary?

As it turned out, Donaldino was able to learn that Heliosh really does exist, and that he grew up under a different name in The Fringe where he draws fighters and robbers to him. It seems like maybe he’s the guy running the show, the guy Luvneihas been looking for. Part of the problems seems to be that people from the Fringe protect him and keep him hidden from outsiders. There also seems to be rumors that he leads raids on other districts and burns people alive. They say he’s wrapped in rags when he goes out to hunt. Lord, what would father say about all this? He’d say nothing. He’s dead and I avenged his death thanks to the Faterinos. No matter what happens, I owe them.

In the Fringe, Donaldino, with an assist from Nabayo, performed a beautiful song called, “Jer Majesty is a Very Nice Boy.” Very catchy, great bridge, I think this one could really get some play. Anyway, as this was going on, Scratch found himself in a bit of a pickle, provoking a fight with a clown faced man, part of Heliosh’s gang it seems, who has been selling the Flaming Brain to the poor citizens of the Fringe. Scratch almost got taken out, but he escaped, as he does. We all ran to catch up with the fiend, but a HUGE battle erupted. After one of our fiercest battles ever, we managed to slay our assailants, take a few of the injured captive, including one called Zweezo. He had a tattoo on his wrist and smelled of the tannery. I think I know where we are headed soon. I look forward to interrogating the survivors. To think, they tried to kill us, THE FATERINOS, defenders of Good, friends to the animals! The mere thought of it makes me sick. I try to stop the sickness, but it won’t stop, it frightens me…but I like it.


Diary? What happened? I don’t remember writing that…that filth above. Please help me contain this anger, I just want to be normal. Father always said I had a bit of the barbarian in me, but can it be controlled? I just want a family and a picket fence and a half-elf wife with a bad attitude and a wicked smile……but such is not the destiny of a Faterino. The destiny of a Faterino is a shallow grave in a potter’s field, and maybe, if we’re lucky, a song or two about our deeds played in the darkest of taverns. I can live with that.

Perhaps Donaldino was right. I feel better after writing this. The heat inside me is gone. Everything is cool again.

With all sincerity of heart,

Woodbine Grimsleep

DM log Session 14

Here’s what happened in Session 14:




The Fringe
Tannery Ward

Broken Seal of Sentinels Hall – Sword
Broken Seal of Sentinels Hall – Shield

Thunderhead's Journal Part VII

The thrill of victory!! In spite of my beardless state, I was finally given a task worthy of my ability! A steel cage match! Of course, they never could have suspected that Thunderhead Gloamingborn was trained in the art of the squared circle by the greatest luminaries of the day: Andre the Hill Giant, Ric Flayer, and of course, Hulk Drogon. Sentinel Hall has gained a stout ally this day, and the noble Woodbine too, who acquitted himself with a chivalry hereto unknown in the barbarous types. I am proud to share an apprenticeship with Woodbine. Though he is simple, he has seen much suffering in his short years. I think perhaps Sentinel Hall will give him the discipline and purpose he seeks, though, we will both always be Faterinos first. Starting as a homeless dwarf bent on revenge, I find myself in the company of good friends, military comrades, and the lovely Cirrus, flower of my life. Moradin, if you listen, let us stay at high tide, I am not yet ready to diminish back into the sea.

strange times in the fringe

I am perplexed by the mores of Vulcarsgrave. A simple elven warrior is not equipped to cope with the gnarled nature of such a perilous megalopolis, as Vulcarsgrave. Extol Obad-Hi! For I have the Faterinos to ensure I am not lured too deep into the seedy underbelly of the Fringe and the unsavory characters that inhabit this godforsaken ward. We began our adventures seeking Swazo and killing many humans in the process (highlight of the day). I had a notable kill. I did not learn his name but I do recall his ocular matter staining my boots after his orbits burst into flames. Our BFF from the shit tunnel, Isidro, was got. In an acrid manner, his orbs burned from his skull, slit throat. My simple elven logic leads me to believe his strange feather tattoo may have something to do with it. Scratch got word from Lovne that folk legend, Helliosh is up to no good. Scratch and I seek Helliosh and stumble upon a Isitha, the seeker. This lady has all the answers, which is great, because apparently our fates are entwined. She says the faterinos are dreamy, because she often has visions of our awesome conquests. She was so kind to share her visions of the future, battle royale, Scratch vs Hellios, crossbows, clown suits and jewels. Scary goings on at the tannery, but she did leave us with these words, “Friends come dear, heroes may come from the darkest place”. Lets get ready to rumble. Oh yeah, tryout updates: DY, Thunderhead and Woodbine all took a stab a guild and I am happy to report it was a cage match to the death and the faterinos came out on top. Thunderhead and Woodbine are sharing an apprenticeship, we are making things happening. I am confident in our ability to twist fate and have scratch on the other end of that crossbow and assassinate Helliosh. I am looking forward to quick halfling hash junket with DY, for research purpose only. In order to better understand the mindset of the addict combatants Helliosh has unleashed onto the city. Isitha said it’s good for you. It may help me fit in here in Vulcarsgrave.


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