Session 5 Recap – October 13th, 973
The Taxman’s Last Collection
After Barin gave the party everything he knew about the tax collectors and their carriage, the group settled in at his smithy to plan the ambush. A flurry of ideas were proposed—some cunning and others catastrophically impractical. The most acute disappointment of the night came when someone realized the driving rain would prevent simply setting the carriage on fire and waiting with bows for the occupants to run out.
Given the length of the night, it was difficult to recollect in the morning exactly who suggested the fire but it was most likely Wolfgang “Let’s set off a boiler explosion in the basement of the jail” Spicebeard.
Shamus, ever the party’s moral compass, voiced concern that the tax collectors would be riding with innocent hostages but was reassured by Barin that their modus operandi was torture, not hostage taking. He tried to come up with a plan whereby the party would attack wearing masks and capture the tax collectors and leave them alive. The remainder of the party, however, had been incensed at Barin’s descriptions of the tax collectors’ brutal tactics and convinced Shamus that death was, in this case, a perfectly reasonable form of diplomacy.
“Kill the bastards quick,” muttered Gareth. “They’ve earned the short version of justice.” Merrythought just smiled and asked, “Do we get to keep the masks, though?”
The Trap
Cassyndra proposed the final plan: a magic-assisted ambush. With repeated castings of Mold Earth, she excavated a fifteen-foot pit directly across the road, then covered it with Silent Image. The illusion wasn’t perfect, but the rain would hide its flaws. Boulders were positioned innocently nearby, and Hunkle took his place beside them, ready to turn “innocent” into “lethal.”
The plan was straightforward. The horse-drawn carriage would blunder into the pit; Hunkle would hurl the boulders down upon it while the others peppered the survivors with missile fire. Shamus stationed himself further up the road, axe in hand, tasked with felling a tree to block any escape if the carriage somehow avoided the trap.
Gareth, appointed leader of the ambush, positioned himself in a hidden position on the opposite side of the pit from Shamus and would start the festivities with an arrow to the driver. He carried a whistle: one blast to continue the attack, two to abort. In the latter case, the party would vanish into the night and regroup at a rally point where their borrowed cart and mules waited. It was, by all accounts, a perfectly rational plan—at least until people got involved.
The Ambush
As daylight waned, Heka’s sharp eyes spotted the carriage approaching through the downpour. Cassyndra renewed her illusion, and the others took their positions. The carriage creaked forward—overloaded, underhorsed, and mud-caked. A miserable-looking ranger held the reins while three others huddled inside. Despite his weariness, the man somehow noticed Shamus at the roadside.
“Ho, stranger!” he called.
Caught flat-footed, Shamus shouted back, “Your mom’s a ho—that’s what!” (or words to that effect) and sprinted toward the pit trap. Incensed, the ranger leapt down in pursuit, the other three following at his heels.
What followed was chaos. Arrows and spells cut through the storm; Gareth blew his whistle twice—then twice again—each time signaling retreat, each time ignored. With the philosophical air of a man who has been here before, he sighed and joined the attack. “Apparently that means go now,” he muttered.
Quickly realizing their difficulty, the tax collectors fell back to their wagon but one of their horses was slain early on and the cart was left immobile. The party obeyed Barin’s dictum to “hit hard, hit fast, and keep hitting until they quit moving” to the letter and their opposition never had a chance to get their feet under them.
Wolfgang used Zephyr Strike to quite literally disembowel one of the collectors; Merrythought’s Dissonant Whispers drove another shrieking into the rain; Laveleen’s Eldritch Blast caught the fleeing man in the spine, staggering him long enough for Hunkle’s warhammer to deliver the coup de grâce. It was, all told, a fine evening’s work with the party not having suffered a scratch. Curiously, only four bodies were found—not five, as Barin had warned—but it was clear that no one had escaped.
Aftermath
The looting commenced with professional enthusiasm. Cassyndra picked the lock of the strongbox with what she described as a “wavy lockpick and a raking motion,” while Merrythought offered live commentary: “Elegant, immoral, and mildly arousing—truly the hallmark of a successful heist.”
The records within were unexpectedly mundane—no evidence of atrocities, only notes about “forbearance” of taxes deferred to the next year. The discovery raised uncomfortable questions, which everyone politely ignored in favor of further inventory.
The party followed their escape plan to the letter. The carriage, banner, manacles marked with the Crown’s insignia, and the dead horse were all consigned to the pit. The surviving horse bore a Crown brand, and to prevent future complications, it was quietly euthanized and handed over to Wolfgang for rendering. As per the usual anti–Speak With Dead protocol, the tax collectors’ tongues were cut out, larynxes crushed, and remnants tossed into the pit. The pit was filled in—a tidy communal grave beneath the rain. By the time the party left, the rain had already wiped out all of their tracks.
The Road Back
En route to Dolven’s Hollow, soaked and weary, the party’s guard slipped. Out of the darkness on their left came a shape—man-sized, silent, and wrong. A corpse in chainmail staggered from a ditch, eyes burning faintly. Before anyone could speak, it lunged.
The undead fought with the fury of something that hated being alive. Its strikes were clumsy but tireless, each one flinging black droplets that hissed where they landed. Ant slashed at its pelvis and split it open from stem to stern; two necrotic testicles and a wash of thin black fluid, foul enough to shame a plague house, spilled onto the ground. The stench was indescribable.
Gareth suffered the only injury in the fight, a slash from the creature’s necrotic sword that he later described as “the coldest thing I’ve ever felt—like my blood was trying to crawl away from me.” The blow didn’t cut deep, but it left the flesh around it gray and puckered, and for several heartbeats he swore he couldn’t feel his own pulse. He said afterward that it wasn’t pain so much as absence—as if something inside him had been quietly stolen and hadn’t yet noticed it was gone. When the color finally crept back into his skin, he muttered, “Next time someone asks what despair feels like, I’ll lend them the scar.””
Shamus looked the wound over and muttered a prayer; Gareth only shrugged. “It’s fine,” he said. “Cold’s good for the swelling.”
When at last the undead creature fell, the rain hissed over its cooling remains. Somewhere behind the hiss, one of them swore they heard a laugh—or maybe it was just thunder.
The Last Laugh
Closer inspection revealed the corpse had once been a fighter—a big man, his features twisted into a permanent rictus grin. His sword and spear, both once wreathed in necrotic shadow, became plain steel the moment he died. His chainmail and shield were battered beyond repair, though the latter might yet serve. Etched in fading gold across his breastplate were the words:
“Rudric Thorn, The Last Laughers.”
Beneath that, a grinning mask over crossed daggers.
He carried a shovel battered by use and still clotted with fresh soil. Dirt caked his boots and packed beneath his fingernails. A silver badge in his pocket, now blackened, bore the same grinning mask and daggers; on the reverse, the motto read: “If we can’t live well, we’ll die laughing.”
Tucked into his pouch was a badly damaged journal. The final line, still legible despite the damp, read:
“If I die, don’t bring me back—unless it’s for the punchline.”
The rest was smeared beyond recovery, though hints of names, sketches, and bawdy jokes remained—enough to suggest the “Last Laughers” had once been mercenaries with more humor than sense. On the dead man’s forearm, a faint brand glowed once under the torchlight, then faded with the last of his unholy spark; it was quickly recognized as a symbol previously described in Nelson’s letters.
Judging the equipment unserviceable, the party left it behind. Only Laveleen kept the journal, tucking it away with a frown that suggested she meant to learn what she could.
Return to Dolven’s Hollow
By the time they returned, dawn was breaking pale and wet. Shamus, wringing rain from his cloak, reflected on the day’s achievements. For once, he had managed to keep the party’s atrocities to a dull roar—and, perhaps more impressively, survived an entire day without a near-death experience.
It was, all told, a day well spent.
Homework And Announcements
Loot & Gear
- You’ve all reviewed the loot manifest from the tax collector ambush. If you’re claiming something for personal use, make sure it’s removed from the manifest at the next session.
- The tax collectors were human; if you want their armor, Barin can refit at ¼ listed price. It’ll take a couple of days, so you’ll head into the next delve in your current kit and pick up the refits afterward.
XP & Admin
- XP from today’s session was 270 XP unless I said something else at the table in which case we’ll go with that.
- I’ll update Hunkle’s sheet to reflect the maul purchase from a few days ago.
The Heat in Manchester
- Tomorrow (in-game), copies of The Royal Standard arrive from Manchester: your jail raid is front-page news. The city is stirred up and actively looking for whoever did it. Probably don’t go back… yet.
The New Job (Short Arc, 1–2 Sessions)
- The rains opened a sinkhole near Dolven’s Hollow, exposing a long-buried stone passage.
- The townsfolk sensibly haven’t gone in—and would love you to make sure nothing comes out. Since the torrential rains have stopped, you really have no excuse to say no…
- That expedition is our next adventure which will take 1-2 sessions. After that, the region goes open-world while Manchester cools.
After the Sinkhole: Open Threads to Pull
Here are leads you can chase while laying low. Think about what your characters want to do once they’re back from the sinkhole.
- Northern Logging Road – Patrol ambushed by an eldritch thing; Ironbark thinks it won’t return. (He’s very confident. How comforting.)
- Escort to the Teacher’s Tomb – The Society wants a guided tour of somewhere that has “Tomb” in the name. And is in Manchester. What could go wrong?
- Half-Sunk Stone Gate (Iron Pines) – A door that, perhaps, doesn’t want to be found.
- Hollowmere Dig Site – Varnes visited and came back… different. Soil remembers things people don’t.
- Chapel Archives (near Nareen’s Hill) – Records were moved. By whom, and why? Paper trails make good nooses.
- Withers Outbreaks – Westhill, Dredge Ferry, Varnock, and five more settlements need help—or quarantine.
- Slavery – If you want to make powerful enemies quickly, taking on the slavers is the express lane.
- The Philogiston Works – Industrial alchemy, loud pipes, brighter fires. Smells like profit, or catastrophe, or both. It’s in Manchester so maybe it’ll have to wait for a bit.
- Nelson’s Possession?
- Rudric Thorn & the Last Laughers – What happened to these guys that one of them ended up an undead wight wandering the countryside with a shovel and an unfortunate tattoo?
- Laveleen’s Jail Records – Cults, mysterious lenses, mass murderers? It would seem to be a case of three plotlines for the price of one. Or is it?!?
Regional Map
- Either this week or next, I’ll have a regional map ready with notes from Dolven’s Hollow and Rudric’s journal marked in. Use it to plan your route while the heat dies down.
Thanksgiving
- I’m available all the Wednesdays this month but you may not be. Kindly email me your plans so I can judge whether we should have a session on the 19th (the week before Thanksgiving) or the 26th (the day before Thanksgiving; seemingly a long shot).