Greyhawk Redux



We tracked the orcs. Surprised and killed majority of the force of one tribe

Two tribes involved.

Leader of the other challenged us. Appears she was sweet on the dead leader of the other tribe.

Supernatural forces took an interest and created an arena atmosphere.

We won.

Took gear back for trade-in.


I am just a blacksmith. I don’t hope to understand how we were brought back from the dead, and the method used does not particularly interest me. As for why – well, motives tend to make themselves plain if one has enough patience. The question of who, on the other hand…
In the absence of specific knowledge, I am happy to accept the opportunity Moradin has granted to further his glory even if He was not the direct cause of my resurrection. It was disturbing, though, to learn that our possessions (and our bodies?) were copies of the originals. So long as the identify of our benefactor is unknown I cannot trust their motives, nor the tools he gave us. They must be destroyed.
How to rid myself of this impostor weapon? If I were not concerned by the supernatural nature of all that surrounds this episode I would easily melt it down myself. As it is, the best solution to a potentially evil item is a priest. Am I concerned that presenting this problem to one will compromise my identity and make my life forfeit? It cannot be entirely discounted, though I pray that the temples are not corrupted to that extent in this time. The fact is, though, that I have experienced death, and do not fear it again. Prudence is required, not least for the benefit of my fellow adventurers, but I am convinced that remaining true to my principles is more important than taking every conceivable precaution against discovery. I am certain enough magic exists in Wilderhaven to immediately uncover every jumper in the city, yet they choose not to.
What of the Decimation? Surely it was a great tragedy, and certainly many good dwarves I once knew were struck down before their time. But beyond this sorrow it is just as any other tragedy that happened before my birth or will after I am gone. Let the bards sing of them as they may, but it does not affect me. I do not see how jumpers were ever tied to the Decimation in the first place – but I doubt I would turn many minds at this late date.
Time for action has come. I have relinquished the befouled axe, and gathered material for a great hammer. Whether my fate is to adventure for long time or short, I look forward to forging again, and glorifying Moradin in the process. May He find my work satisfactory.

Near Field

We returned to Wilderhaven, our purses much improved by our successful escort of the formidable Lady Nora Stone-Arm and her family to Brock’s Aerie, and the removal of some poorly organized, but well equipped Brigrands from their lair at the side of the road. Perhaps the road will remain untroubled for a time, but this close to the border of the old one’s land, it seems any peace is temporary.

Shortly after our return, my companion Smitty took a terrible risk, taking his heirloom weapon to a priest of Moradin in the City. He claims he no longer trusted the weapon, that the weapon may somehow have been tainted by our journey through time. I find it hard to argue the point. The gear we “arrived” in this future time with… was it my gear from my first adventuring days? I can scarce remember it. Things mean so little to my people. Whatever his reasoning, the stubborn fool all but declared himself a jumper to a ranking priest of Moradin, and asked them to destroy the weapon. I will never understand the superstitions of the dwarves.

The curse of our unasked-for circumstances, we spend little time in Wilderhaven lest some error on our parts expose us as beings out of time and every hand be turned against us. As prudence dictated, then, within hours of Smitty explaining the absence of his axe to us, we had taken a contract from the Constable and were riding through the eastern peasant gate. A simple matter of chasing down a rogue band of orcs from the Black Sun tribe that had taken up raiding a nearby farming community, or so we thought.

When we arrived in the Hamlet, we went to the house of the farmer who had first reported the destruction of a neighbor’s farm. Two other farms had been destroyed since that fell night two weeks before. Several things struck us as odd. The farms that had been struck were not near one another. The most recent one was surrounded by other farms that had been left alone. In each case, the buildings had been put to the torch, the families killed, and then the bodies burnt separately from the buildings. The only thing the raiders left behind was a flag bearing the herald of the dark sun tribe.

The dark sun tribe is not often found raiding this area. Orcs may burn buildings, but they do not set fire to their victims. Orcs kill the men, rape the women, and maim the children; arrangement of bodies and painting with their blood is the closest thing orcs posses to an art form. Orcs do not target a single farm, if there are many to attack, they do so. Orcs do not go past three identical targets only to strike a fourth.

Unless that is, they are under orders, and the direction and discipline of strong leader.

As my companions enjoyed his goodwife’s beer and hospitality, goodman farmer Mike wove us a tale of extortion, intimidation, and terror. I know not if it was the taste of smitty’s ale, his relief at having someone to tell his tale, or the… comforting presence of a priest like Sven which made him so forthcoming.

F’Rog describes what has been done to the farmers in this community as a “protection racket”. He believes that the atrocities, the murders and destruction of lives and livelihood, were performed a the direction of someone from Wilderhaven. Should he be right, I will hold the worm accountable for the deaths of these good souls, whose only crime was to stand up to their oppressors and say “enough.”

In the morning, I shall try my luck with my basic knowledge of tracking, and see if we cannot follow the days-cold trail back from whence it came.

The Story So Far

I know not whether it is wise to record these thoughts, or sheerest folly. If you are reading this, I have provided the key to my cipher, or you have penetrated its secret. If I still live, you hold my life in your hands, for I have written without regard to the potential consequences.

My companions and I all died at the hands of the Sorcerer Acererak. It seems to me, that in the moment I died, there was a moment of disorientation, and then I awoke In a 5×5 chamber, with no access to the skills I had possessed but a moment before. I remembered everything of my life, my body seemed to be my own, and was fully healed, but I had no access to my magic. Over the course of the next few hours, I learned that my companions had all experienced the exact same thing, and that all of us, to a man, had the skills of a novice. Our memories were with us, but our skills had been left behind, and whatever force, Divine or otherwise had done this to us, had chosen to outfit us with only the most basic of equipment, although family heirlooms seemed to be with us still.

We were deep in the dungeons of what we have learned since to have once been a border keep. There were some undead lurking about, and a number of foul orcs were conveniently available to vent our frustration upon. But once they had fled, we found ourselves alone in the ruined keep. We followed a trail to the road, and eventually came to the city of Wilderhaven.

A chance encounter on the road had warned us to conceal what had happened, or we would have died then and there. In Wilderhaven we learned that we had traveled in time nearly 300 years into the future. A great tragedy, The Decimation had befallen Oerth in the meantime, and people like us were called jumpers, skaters, and less pleasant names. We learned that such folk were blamed for the tragedy, or hated for avoiding it. Regardless, they were quickly put to death by the harsh justice that prevails in this time. We learned to hide our archaic speech, changed the (familiar to us but now ancient) style of clothing that the agent of our misery had seen fit to provide us for something more suitable, and blended into the background of city life.

One event of note which occurred during this time was the formal execution of a group of captured jumpers. A magical light was placed inside an “arrival chamber” in all respects identical to those in which I and my companions awoke. The prisoner was then placed it inside this chamber, willing or not. The magical light winks out in the presence of a jumper. Perhaps an anti magic field is the cause. This merits further study, should we ever have leisure.

Taking up our old profession of adventuring, we found a nobleman in need of an escort. A few minor challenges, not the least of which was handling the nobles’ spoiled wife with grace, resulted in us acquiring the former possessions of a band of brigands and the beginnings of a reputation for reliability.

But somewhere, the Orcs of the Dark Sun tribe have our description, and I fear our stay in Wilderhaven will need to be brief, lest we risk discovery.


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