Titans of Moradin

Unfinished Business
The balance dictates that debts are to be paid.

хүнгүй hovers hovers above the fresh kills untouched and aloof.

He has become a swarm of the biting flies of the frigid plains. Those flies that so tormented the horses of his tribe.


The cold of the wind, the warmth of the sun, the smell of the horses, the rustle of the grass—as the bitter sweet memories unfold within хүнгүй’s disembodied thoughts, the swarm unconsciously comes together to form the shape of a cat with tufted ears.

The plains are open and free, but they provide precious little cover when the wyrm comes to feed. Even a shifter is hard pressed to escape. Only the ones that can become the most innocuous beings escape the baleful attention of the ravenous wyrm. The others perish, hunted down one by one.

Another shape emerges from the swarm – the shape of a winged reptile.

The balance dictates that spirit debts are to be paid, in blood or earth. The cycle turns. The prey feeds the hunter, and the hunter is ultimately returned to feed the prey.

The swarm descends, хүнгүй places a mostly human foot on the ground and bides his time.

What has happened to your arm?


“I was there,” thought Kendalius.

Chunks of black flesh stuck to the obsidian-edged death-bringer as he tore it from the chest of the ill-fated Illithid Grue. Lifting the axe still dripping with putrid offal, he shouted behind him down the hallway, “And let all who still breathe witness the felling of arrogance itself!” Coughing black blood, the defeated Grue fell to his knees and whispered a final curse as the elf walked away.

He remembered, “I stood in the court of the son of Jarot in Thronehold at the signing of the treaty. I can still smell the perfumed silks of Aurala-queen. I still remember the alabaster columns accented by alloyed gold and titanite in the style of my forefathers.”

As he walked down the corridor to meet the rest of the party, Steve met him at the corner, “Them’s all dead, elf-man. I killed em good.”

He replied only with a cold stare. “Their lives should have been mine.”

The rest of the party quickly caught up to the pair. He addressed the party leader, Lyrandyr, “What now, wife-stealer? Illithids seem to pervade these halls. Do we turn back? This evil may be too great for one with your level of…” scanning the half-elf with his eyes carefully for filth, ”...hygiene.” He reminded his leader, “Illithid blood isn’t cleansed as easily as the air is by your song.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that, cousin. It’s not the Illithid blood that burdens me – yours is in my keeping as well. Perhaps you’ll remember that, the next time your shadowy dance carries you away from my song. I wouldn’t want you to lose a step.”

Lyrandyr pauses, glancing meaningfully at the elven blood staining the avenger’s cloak.

“Don’t concern yourself too much – I’m sure my voice will carry even through the most…” – his voice deepens in an open mockery of the avenger’s gutteral tone – “vigorous of your dances.”

Continuing to think to himself, “I know his kind. Brigands and thieves. Kin to few and enemies to many. This one would sooner lift all our effects and dash for an exit, leaving us to perish here among the horrors of the black. Thankfully the exit is sealed.”

Forcing a smile, Kendalius extended his arm, placing his right hand onto Steve’s (remarkably clean) shoulder, “Very well then, friends! Let us dispatch these vermin and find a way into the tomb of Moradin.” He then extended his left arm, placing his left hand onto Denso’s shoulder, “And all the treasures hiding in this place will be ours!” Denso’s enthusiasm showed with his white smile.

Denso’s elation subsided quickly as he noticed Kendalius’s arm, “Friend, what has happened to your arm?”

The tattoo that once covered only his forearm has grown the length of his arm and began to cover his torso and upper back. Responding in a voice unlike his own, “The seedling growing inside me has fed on a lesser life and is growing.” The theme of the tattoo continued to reach across the uninked portions of his body, a thicket of thorny black death. “Do not begrudge me for the gifts of the forest lavished onto me, warrior. You had every opportunity at excellence as I.”

The party continued onwards as Kendalius continued to think to himself, “Should I die in this place, would anyone mourn my passing?”

Dragon Postponed

Dudeths, we are so goething back to killeth the dwagon

Plea's Heard. And A Warning.


Bolts of lightning strike near Mairil and Lyrandyr, forcing them to nimbly jump back.

“Silence ephemerals!” Father Ent’s mouthless voice thunders in the party’s head. “You would dare to strike at my children after I had given you leave to peaceably sleep beneath the boughs of my forest? Your words do not go unheeded, however.”

Lyrandyr gets an uneasy sensation that Father Ent is somehow addressing him.

“Though this act cannot go unpunished, I will let you leave my domain alive. You may not rest here again until you have slain the dark beast that you hunt.”

“Know this child!” inexplicably seeming to indicate Mairil, “That seed of which you speak may suddenly sprout if you allow this fallen elf to further transgress upon my domain.”


The party’s extended rest was interrupted by this forced reaction. Each player will start with one less healing surge.

Before the Arboreal Father
Neutral is as neutral does


Neither concerned nor particularly motivated to help, хүнгүй watches from myriad points at a safe distance.

A plea for mercy


Father Ent, I plead with you for mercy. Kendalius has been unkind toward your children, but it was surely done in haste, likely caused by his restless sleep. See here, he is the one chosen to bear your seed; even now, its brambles grow around his arm. Recall, fairest guardian of the god, of the agreement we made when the seed was placed and of our faithfulness in obtaining the information of the librarians at your request.

history: Roll(1d20)+10:16,+10 Total:26

(thanks for the tip on the dice roller)

In the Sanctum of the Ent-Lord

(sort of assuming here that Nuri fails the bluff check) 


Elvish is a beautiful language – lyrical and elegant. In its graceful lilts one can hear the rustle of golden leaves in the fall, the happy patter of a forest stream bolstered by spring rain, even the weight of traditions that were ancient when the first man awoke to walk under the stars. It is poetry given form, song given structure, history given voice.

It is especially jarring, then, to be woken by curses in Elven, like being slapped with filth wrapped in finest silk, like being pulled from the release of sleep by a lover's kiss, only to find yourself in the embrace of a troll.

These are the thoughts that run through Lyrandyr's mind as he stumbles to his feet – only to be replaced by an Elven curse of his own as he notices the party's avenger racing after a retreating earth elemental, axe at the ready.

Shouting to the others, he chases the other elf, only to have the chase suddenly ended in the grove of Father Ent, and to find himself surrounded by a group of agitated and hostile forest elves. Glancing around, Lyrandyr sees Kendalius kneeling before the great tree, flinty-eyed and haughty, pleading forgiveness for some wrongdoing.

Muttering to himself, Lyrandyr strides forward, trying frantically to recall the formalities of his elven relatives. Raising his voice, he calls out in sing-song Elven, in the solemn tones of the ancient dialects:

"Tree-friend, ent-brother, I beg you, stay your anger!

Forgive this little one his misguided deeds, whatever they may be.

Corpse-maker he is, and filth-spreader, death-bringer, all of these, but know this – many are there that count themselves his enemies, many who may one day find eternity granted by his obsidian blade – but you are not among them, nor are your people.

We will control his rage, restrain the corruption that roils inside him, keep him from staining this bastion of life, the Ent's deep-dwelling."

Drawing back his sleeve, Lyrandyr raises his arm, showing the living tattoo that covers it.

"By leaf, by bark, by the seed that links us to your domain – I swear it."

Diplomacy: Roll(1d20)+14: 17,+14 Total:31

(I used the official D&D dice roller, here: http://www.wizards.com/dnd/dice/dice.htm)

These Rocks Are Speaking To Me


Kendalius wipes the blood from his nose. Visibly shaken from his communion with Asmodeus, he rises to his feet. “The floor is much softer in this part of the dungeon,” he thought to himself.

“Would the fleshling prefer marble? Or steel, perhaps?” he heard a voice invade his mind.

“Did that..rock..just bear witness to the thoughts passing through my head?” The rock does not move nor respond to his sly telepathic test.

Still unsure if he is awake or still dreaming, he kicks the rock aside cursing in Elvish. As he turns around to face his companions, he is faced instead with a large pile of carefully organized rocks. With many voices now instead of one in his mind, he discerns the threat, “You may find rock is less malleable than flesh, trespasser.”

Clasping his execution axe tightly, he shouts, “And you may find me less malleable than most, FOUL GEODES!” As he brings his execution axe to bear on the pile of neatly stacked rocks, they all move simultaneously, parting along the path of his axe causing it to smash against the dungeon floor. Noticing that he unintentionally woke some of his companions in the commotion, he preemptively addresses their collective concern in an austere tone, “These rocks are speaking to me.”

“Fleshling, there is much hate and evil we sense in you. Father Ent must surely be told of the threats you pose to our peace here.” The pile of rocks collapses suddenly, and the constituent earthen creatures begin rolling away dispersing from Kendalius.

Reaching out with his mind, he tries to call them back claiming, “No I mean no harm. You misunderstood! I seek refuge and peace, not conflict and destruction.”

Roll: Bluff 12

Finding rest


Mairil, observing the calamity of Kendalius’ failed pleading with Lord Asmodeus, slyly moves to the edge of the company inside the unnatural forest. Removing her cloak, she lies down to rest. Deeply uneased by the earthen life around her, both of stone and of tree, she takes comfort knowing that the gods are near. Soon, she finds herself dreaming well. Her dreams do not frighten her but rather bring expressions of peace and a glow to her face. Her staff, lying near her, appears to glow in response to hers as though they share an inexplicable connection. The knowledge these two have of one another does not go unnoticed by those in the company she finds herself in. It is as though her staff carries a life within, similar to her own.

The squeals of fear jolt her awake. Quickly, though she returns to her rest, her untenable courage is imputed to those around her and their own fears begin to subside. Even during rest, she is preparing her mind for the battle on the morrow, fortifying her mind with assured knowledge of the strength and skill she will bring with the company during the impending battle.

The Cries of the Fallen
Night in The Unnatural Forest


The razorclaw shifter swarm druid from the cold and arid steppes, who has always been part of this party, is disturbed from his sleep. He twitches a tufted ear to identify the noise. It sounds much like someone having a bad dweam. In lynx form, хүнгүй rises silently and stalks from the camp to escape the mewling cries. At the verge of the firelight, the lynx seems to disintegrate and disperses into a swarm of crickets that seek rest in the tree canopy.


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