Session #43: Into the Crypts of St. Clewd

TL:DR Exploration of the Abbot's quarters reveals a staircase to the crypts below.  The mighty thews of Grak the Orc grind open a stone door to reveal a hidden sanctum of worship, full of ancient living worshippers, sonic fluctuations, a dimensional wormholes in the armoire, and a mysterious tale.

Dolmenwood and the Crypts of St Clewd are found in the Wormskin zine.

An uncomfortable but eventless night was spent dreaming of goats, ghosts and impotent rage.  Clonin found himself sitting on a cloven skull with gold teeth.  All woke early, eager for daylight.

Overgrown with moss, fungus and creeping vines, the old abode of the abbot was hardly more than an enclosed set of crumbling walls, though a sodden bookshelf told of a once erudite establishment.  The scrolls and tomes were long since victims of time and weather, but some fortuitous poking around revealed the tell tale sign of a hidden passage to the veterans of the barrow campaign.

Leaving above the sons of Heggid and the three rescued children (one named Violet, no doubt the scion of Harrowmoor), the intrepid adventurers descended in single file, the light of Erik's glowing sword dimly leading the way through a narrow winding passage in the rough direction of the Chapel.  Stepping over an underground stream that crossed the corridor, they turned and found themselves at a stone-filled arch with a bronze lever.  The lever cracked the door, but there was something heavy behind and it took all the strength of Grak and Danforth the Dangerous to shove it inward.  Passing within, it seemed that a large armoire had been shifted out of the way.

The room was furnished with pews, lamp light, frescoes and shrines but the sound in this place bent, reverberated and amplified in an unholy manner, sounding nothing so much like the opening notes to a drug filled nightmare.

The mind bending cacophony reduced all but Clonin to agonized writhing so that only he was alert enough to recognize and hail the group of clerics who then entered the chamber, demanding explanations for their presence even as the sounds returned to normal.  "Whence came ye to these protected crypts of St. Clewd and how do you ye bring with ye the chaotic happenings of the eastern halls?"

Even as the party attempted to get explanations of their own for these archaic monks, the weak reality in this place sunder once again, this time the armoire doors burst open to reveal a swirling dimensional portal forthwith flew a gargantuan pink and yellow worm, all eyes and mouth.  The clerics fled in terror.  Aliontus pulled out a Scroll of Wall of Iron, quickly spoke the eldritch syllables and a gate of solid metal crashed down, sealing off half the room, and the exit as well.

In the fracas, a further concealed corridor was discovered in a fresco of heaven's gate.  A short stair lead to a hidden library, where a single half blind scholar, related a story of ancient tragedy to the wondering party, now trapped in these crypts.

"Long ago, St. Clewd returned to us, but corrupted by chaos, which came with him.  The eastern crypts, where the chaotic effects of the dimensional cataract are still prevalent.   In the western crypts, wherein the Order of Wardens dwell to this day,  guarding the sealed tomb of St Clewd, who remains demented and warped. The monks have survived underground for three and a half centuries, renewed by the waters of resurrection, searching the archives for a ritual to resolve the chaotic energies..."

Dolmenwood and the Crypts of St Clewd are found in the Wormskin zine.

Session #42: Drinking in Prigwort and a visit to the Abbey of St. Clewd

TL:DR Via Prigswort, the travelers in Dolmenwood begin to explore the ruined Abbey of St. Clewd, encountering a necromantic gloam of blackbirds in a belfry.
Dolmenwood and the Crypts of St Clewd are found in the Wormskin zine.

The Company of the Font passed a pleasant evening in the refuge of St. Keye.  Keye was an innocuous saint of chroniclers and scholars, but the monks of this spartan place had made a point to study Keye's "Chronicles of the Brewmasters" and now produced a high quality, subtle flavored farmhouse ale.  The nightly meal was hearty, though accompanied by the liturgical reads from the Book of St. Keye.  

The Company were not the only patrons at the refuge.  There were woodsmen, travelers, and a beer merchant.  Tales were told of the outlandish breweries in the nearby town of Prigswort, of the curiously resident nature of hauntings in Dolmenwood, compared to the wandering dead of the Duchy of Aerik and the Barrowmoors, and most interestingly, the reward offered by the noble lady of Harrowmoor Keep for the safe return of her missing daughter, Violet.  

Nestled in a series of clearings in the deep woods, the Company of the Font came to the the town of Prigwort at the crossing of four of the largest roads which traverse Dolmenwood. Harne the Hermit told that Prigwort was the largest settlement within the wood, renowned for its breweries and distilleries, the like of which a common man has not encountered for which the rich and decadent pay much to sip. The wooden cottages and high-gabled inns — all decorated with colourful, heraldic imagery and elaborate wood carving — welcomed the thirsty travelers in. At the Oaf and Oast, the Company drank deep of the Lord Oberon's Ambrosial and caroused the night away, making fast friendships with the sons of Heggid the Brewmaster, who promised to leave their prosaic lives behind and bear torches to the ruined Abbey of St Clewd. Father Heggid was decidedly ambivalent about this development.

The following day dawned bright in the clearings of Prigwort and the Company dragged their aching heads out of the last soft bed the would experience for some days. A long dusty tramp along the Swinney Road with the Sons of Heggid (Harne the Hermit having stayed behind clutching a cask of saison) brought the party to the foot of a rocky hill, where the road split: a well-used track ran around the base of the hill to join Fort Road; and an overgrown path wound up, via a series of paved avenues and stairways, to the summit of the hill. "Up there," said the Sons, "is the Abbey of St Clewd the Righteous, but we have never been."

The way passed through the toppled frame of the old gate and into the former central courtyard of the monastic complex.  Most of the buildings were reduced to rubble, now so overgrown as to pass almost unnoticed. The main chapel, though heavily damaged, remained largely intact, as did a smaller stone building and a crumbling bell tower, which seemed to be the nesting place of a flock of black birds. The whole place had an eerily silent look and the hair stood up on the nape of every travelers' neck.

The explorers first decided to visit the ruined bell tower to get the lay of the land. Entering the dank and mildewed lower chamber they discovered a narrow stair above and three dirty faces staring from a small doorway below. The three face were that of little children, aged no more than a half-dozen summers who told a strange tale of their lives collecting bones and eating worms with their good friend Mr. Rag-n-Bones, who lived in the Belfry. Leaving the Sons of Heggid below with the children, the heroes ascended the stairs, which betrayed them, sending Grack tumbling down, broken but unbowed. Above there was a chamber full of strange ornaments made of small bones lashed together in the likeness of small manlike figurines. They made a diorama across the floor of an invading force descending upon a collection of small boney homes. Calling out to Mr. Rag-n-Bones, the searchers found no answer and so settled down to wait.

As dusk settled over the ruined hilltop, there was a bustling and squawking of birds which rushed into the room and coalesced into an unnerving figure of man made of beaks, claws and feathers. "Who are you who tarry so long in my chambers?"

The conversation that ensued was tense, meandering and strange. The gloaming creature claimed to have great knowledge of the wood but revealed little, claiming the small children as its friends and asserting its right to collect the bones of the dead supplicants of Clewd. Finally, its patience wore thin and it attempted to drive the interlopers from its home, but was surprised by the power of their arms and convictions, and soon a scattering of black birds was sent in retreat.

Session #41: Into the Dolmenwood, through the Wenchgate

Atanuwe, the Naglord

Updated: The whole tale told, 8/26/18.

Leaving the Barrowmounds behind, it's evil weakened but still lurking, the Company decided to visit the enchanted Dolmenwood, hoping to find a holy place in which to consecrate a new church.

Preparations for the journey were not auspicious:  The Company deposited the cursed relics of Dekeon in the Church vaults at Ironwood Motte, but refused to tithe the Church, which disappointed the Father.

In a final audience, the Company demurred when given the opportunity to pay monetary tribute to the Duke, who was enraged and banished them from Ironwood Motte, despite their heroic exploits saving his son the year before.
It seemed that tales of the wealth dragged out of the Barrowmaze had reached the ears of the great and powerful, and they expected their due, but the Company held tight to their hard earned gains and took themselves to the Road.

On the first day of their journey, the Company met Harne, the Wild Man of the Wood, on the Horse Eye Road.  Harne told many tales of fungus, fairyies and mysterious stones.  He warned of the Nag Lord a many hoofed petty god, and other weirdness.  Harne also claimed to know the way to the ruined Abbey of St Clewd, so he joined the the Company in their travels.
Passing, farms, fields, and distant plumes of smoke without interest, the Company entered the Wenchgate by way of innocuous pleasantries.  Faces in the twisted wooden arbor spoke strange messages and prophecies.  Further, the Company met a talking tabby cat with wings.  It asked for help freeing Treemother from spiders but the travelers bade it fend for itself and marched on.
Near the end of the first day in Dolmenwood, the Company arrived at the Refuge of St. Keye, a simple monastery dedicated to brewing simple beers, a welcoming place.

Clonin the Bearer of the Font, spoke long into the night with the head monk of the refuge, Brother Alfred, and learned much.

The forest of Dolmenwood lies in the little-frequented northern reaches of the kingdom of Haven, under the rule of the Duchy of Ironwood. Though men, with their fortresses and cathedrals, now claim dominion over this stretch of tangled woods, fungus-encrusted glades, and fetid marsh, other powers held sway here in ancient times and — some would say — remain the true masters of the realm.

Within the forest, the magical and otherworldly are always close at hand — rings of standing stones loom in glades hallowed by pagan cults of yesteryear; the energy of ley lines pulses beneath the earth, tapped by those in possession of the requisite secrets; portals to the perilous realm of Fairy allow transit between worlds, for those charmed or fated by the lords of Elfland.  Even the herbs, plants, and fungi of Dolmenwood have developed in odd directions, absorbing the magic which infuses the place. Some say that the waters are enchanted. Some say the stones and the earth itself. Perhaps both are right.

Dolmenwood and the Crypts of St Clewd are found in the Wormskin zine.