A Night in Maus

by Harley Stroh Part Three

Based on the original Blackmoor Setting, associated characters and places owned by ,Inc. Used with permission, all rights reserved© 1975 Wizards. ’s Blackmoor: A Night in Maus is ©2005 Zeitgeist Games, Inc. Zeitgeist Games is a trademark of Zeitgeist Games, Inc. All Rights Reserved.This product contains no Open Gaming Content

1 A NIGHT IN MAUS, PART III

The rotting corpse staggered down the cobbled street, stopping to test each window and door. Its gray fl esh hung in peeling chunks, and its boots left a trail of muddy grave dirt. The zombie carried a rusted longsword and a battered wooden shield; it had been a warrior once, but this one would never defend the people of the frontier again. While it moved with the awkward, unnatural grace of a broken marionette, bitter red embers burned in its eye sockets, betraying sinister cunning lurking within. It had both infi nite patience and insatiable hunger, and moved with the deliberate certainty known only to the dead. This one wanted only one thing – to feast upon the living, and it could wait as long as necessary. Another hunter stalked those same shadows. Unlike the zombie, Col, didn’t have all night. Yet he hung motionless, clinging to the underside of the eave, a handy trick he had learned from the swarthy rogues of Booh. Three ghouls had passed in the last few minutes, all of them stalking warm blood. Col could kill any one of the walking dead, but the sounds of a heated battle would only bring more, wasting precious minutes that were better spent in pursuit. The zombie continued on its stumbling way. As soon as it had passed out of sight, the sorcerer-hunter swung back to down the street and resumed his hunt.

Garrote paused in his fl ight to lean against the mud and plaster wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sellsword swallowed hard and fl exed his sword arm. He had cut down half a dozen zombies in as many minutes. None of them had come near to striking him – he was far too quick for that –- but the near constant battle had begun to wear at him. The half- was a master of the Balebourne style, the art of killing an opponent with a single perfect strike, but he loathed confl icts that lasted longer than the fi rst deadly clash. Running battles where swordsmen wore each other down to exhaustion, waiting for one to stumble onto the other’s blade, were just so tedious. Garrote held up the fi st-sized emerald, admiring the way it caught the moonlight. His Masters would pay well, very well, for the focus. With the dupe of a wizard out of the way, all that stood between him and the completion of his mission was a handful dozen restless dead, and Thanatos help any man that got in his way. Garrote pushed off from the wall and loped away, keeping to the shadows. The cobbled streets and plaster-walled houses of Maus’ merchant quarter gave way to muddy ruts and derelict tenements. Garrote dodged down a dead-end alley, and pulled himself atop a rotting brick wall. Below him stretched the slums of Maus, laid out like a pale corpse beneath the cold light of the moon. The Shallows. Never was there were a more desolate wasteland of humanity. Here, amid the brick-rimmed cesspools of fi lth and burned-out ruins, the pretty facade of civilization surrendered to an older, savage world. Here humans lived like rats, fi ghting each other for spoiled scraps of food. Here life could be had for a handful of soiled coins. Here urchins ran in wild packs, death was quick and the rule of the Guild was absolute. The half-orc smiled, showing tusk. It was good to be home. Garrote dropped down the far side of the wall, and then spun, sensing danger. A pair of ghouls burst from the shadows, hurling themselves at the half-orc with fevered abandon. Garrote stuck quickly, cleaving the fi rst from shoulder to waist, but then the second corpse was on him, knocking Garrote backwards into the mud. The half-orc felt a frozen numbness explode through his veins and had just enough time to feel the stinking breath of the ghoul on his throat. Then he kicked hard with the last of his dying strength, sending the ghoul sprawling. The ghoul came to its feet with startling quickness, but this time the half-orc was ready. It was a lesson taught to every urchin weaned on the Shallow’s withered teat: you had one, and only one, chance to surprise your prey. Snarling with barely checked fury, Garrote waved the ghoul forward. The unthinking beast sprang and Garrote’s katana 2 3 cut a bloody red swath across the alleyway, spilling the ghoul to either side. Breathing hard, Garrote whipped the rotting fl uids from his blade. Exhaustion and overconfi dence was making him sloppy, he thought with disgust, as he worked the cold from his limbs. It was time to fi nd a Guild safehouse and bring this foolish game to an end. Garrote started down the alley, then skidded to a halt. A dark fi gure sat crouched on the rooftop, a simple short blade glittering in the moonlight. “Col,” the half-orc grimaced, snapping his sword to the ready. “One chance,” the inquisitor whispered, his voice like leaves rustling over gravestones. “Surrender the focus and give yourself up.” “Try and take it,” Garrote taunted, “and the Cabal will need to replace another arm-” Before the half-orc could fi nish Col whispered a single phrase and a two searing blue bolts leaped from his palm, lighting up the alley. They struck Garrote full in the chest, sending his spinning him through a rotting wall. Col dropped to muddy the alley fl oor and started after the half-orc, wary of a trap. His eyes struggled out to make out shapes in the darkness, but the rogue was nowhere to be seen. The inquisitor’s metal hand fl exed impulsively. The half-orc could be anywhere in the rotting warehouse. Garrote was dangerous in a sword fi ght, but absolutely deadly in an ambush. But what were Col’s options? He could surrender the chase and try to catch up to Garrote in the morning. The thought of failure grated on the inquisitor even more than his fear of an ambush. Tightening his grip on his sword, Col stepped cautiously over the broken wooden planks and into the darkness.

Garrote fl itted through the shadows, trusting in his skills to conceal any noise he might make. The rotting building had once been a warehouse for the merchants that plied their seasonal trade along the North Sea, but it hadn’t seen any cargo in years. Cooing pigeons had taken roost in the rafters, and large patches of sky could be seen through the holes in the roof. He made his way to the darkest corner of the warehouse and pulled himself silently into the rafters. The half-orc rested his katana fl at against the beams so that there was no risk of the blade refl ecting in the moonlight, then drew a long, curved dagger from his boot. The blade had been blackened with poisonous grease, what the Guild called Slayer’s Oil, and it was well suited to its purpose. The blade refl ected no light, and on the razor-sharp dagger, the slightest brush would bring death, swift and sure. The rogue watched Col move through the warehouse beneath him. Even the deepest black of night posed no challenge to Garrote’s dark vision. It was only a short matter of time until the half-blind inquisitor stumbled beneath him, and then – Garrote licked his tusks. This relentless inquisitor had harried him for too many years. He was like a rabid dog, sick with madness, and it was time to put the sorcerer-hunter down. Closer, Garrote thought, willing Col on. At last the inquisitor was directly beneath him. The half-orc tightened his grip on his blades, and let the hunter pass underneath him. Then, as silent as an owl in fl ight, he dropped off the rafter, blades striking as one, a hail of steel, poison and death. Col’s shortsword shrieked through the darkness, striking aside Garrote’s katana. The inquisitor’s other hand caught Garrote’s wrist in an iron grip, turning aside the assassin’s blade. The half-orc crashed to the fl oor, roaring with fury. Col’s boot smashed down on Garrote’s off-hand, kicking the poisoned dagger away. Col paused in his assault, dropping back to the balls of his feet. Garrote was no good to him dead, but was beginning to wonder if any other outcome were possible. He should have stayed down, cowed by the pain. Instead the half-orc came back, more driven than ever, his blade cutting left and right with savage quickness. Col danced backwards, each move simple and effi cient. Garrote pressed his advantage, spinning, cutting and slashing as he advanced. A lesser swordsman might have been awed by the advancing wall of death, but years of monastic training and hard- won battles had taught Col a simple truth about combat: it wasn’t the quickest swordsman who won, but the one with the steel in the right place at the right time. 2 3 Col fell back easily, taking note of Garrote’s tempo, then stepped into the dance of steel. The katana crashed against the inquisitor’s short sword, bringing the dance to a jarring stop. Col lashed out with his fi st, crushing Garrote nose with a wet snap. The half-orc never even tried to dodge the blow. Instead he caught Col by the chest, hoisting the inquisitor into the air like a rag doll. Col hung in the air for a moment, then Garrote hurled the inquisitor against the wall. He smashed through the other side, and fell, tumbling through the darkness. Col crashed to a stop at the base of the slope. His right side was numb and every breath brought spasms of shooting pain. The sorcerer-hunter craned a look over his shoulder – he was impaled atop the sharpened rods of a broken metal gate, hung up like a bleeding scarecrow. Col kicked his boots, trying to fi nd purchase in the icy mud, or the gate, oranything , but only succeeded in sending screaming lances of pain through his entire body. Col heard the half-orc’s deep laughter the rogue made his way out of the warehouse and down the muddy slope to stand before Garrote. “Now this is a pretty sight. The Butcher Street Almshouse,” Garrote said looking to the moldering ruins behind Col. “I remember this place. A mansion once, then a poorhouse used to keep urchins and orphans out of sight. High-borns hate to see anything so ugly as suffering children. There were at least eighty children living here –eighty ugly, pox-ridden souls– locked inside when the old girl burned to the ground.” Garrote smiled. “That’s a lot of ghouls and nasties. And with you bleeding all over their gate, I’m sure it won’t be long before they come looking for fresh meat.” The half-orc picked up Col’s fallen sword from the mud and examined the blade, turning it over in his hands. “Good dwarven steel. A bit heavy, and poorly balanced. And this?” Garrote fi ngered the ruby at the base of the pommel. “Your spell focus, I’d wager. I think I’ll keep it as a memento of our evening.” Garrote fi ngered a tusk. “When I was in the rafters, howdid you know where I was hiding?” “Magic.” Col coughed blood and tried to force down the rolling waves of pain. “My Master taught me to sense magic.” “Impossible!” the half-orc scoffed. “Wards disguise all that I own.” “Except for one: you were carrying the gem.” Garrote laughed aloud. “Of course. And now,” the half-orc gave a mocking bow, “goodnight and good-bye.” Col listened to the half-orc pad away. Above him, the smoke of hearth fi res passed beneath the twinkling stars. Every inquisitor wondered what his death would be like. Of all the ways Col had considered, this would be among the easier ones. The pain in his back had changed to an icy chill, his bleeding trickling to a stop. Col knew that soon that chill would spread through his entire body, and then not even dawn could save him. The inquisitor swung his legs savagely from side to side. The force tore at his back, ripping the wound open and causing the inquisitor to scream in agony. His blood fell in a steady stream down the bars of gate, steaming softly as they went. Col heard the sound of feet in the mud, and for a moment he wondered if Garrote had returned. Then he heard the hiss, not of living breath, but of undead hunger. Long, icy fi ngers investigated Col, uncertain at fi rst and then with a growing fervor. An iron grip cinched around Col’s ankle. Before the fi end could take a bite, Col kicked hard with other boot, crushing the monster’s temple. The thing screamed, an unholy, ragged cry that rang through the night. Col hooked both legs around the back of the zombie’s head and sat up, wrenching himself off the fence. The zombie fell backwards and the pair struck the mud, limbs tangled. Col rolled up atop the zombie and rained blows down on its rotting face, his studded gloves mashing the thing’s skull into the icy mud. Col pulled himself off the corpse, his breath coming in tattered gasps. Kneeling in the mud, he pulled a strip off his cloak and used the rag to bind his wounds. He needed a real healer, but the bandage would help to slow the bleeding. Dragging himself to his feet, Col staggered off in the direction Garrote had fl ed. The inquisitor’s trained eyes sought out the tell-tale signs: a droplet of drying blood, a heelprint in the icy mud, broken blades of frost-killed grass. 4 5 The inquisitor didn’t have far to go. He found Garrote at the end of a dead-end alley, his back to a wall. The half-orc was bleeding from a dozen ragged wounds, and his blade was covered with gore and black ichor. Fallen corpses were scattered down the length of the alley, but still a mob of ghouls and zombies were converging on the thief, howling with fevered hunger. The half-orc’s desperate eyes searched the darkened alley, frantically searching for an escape. His eyes alighted on Col’s dark form. “Inquisitor!” Garrote shouted. The mob of undead broke in two, eyes fl aring red in the darkness. The rogue reared back and hurled the shortsword end over end through the night. Col snatched the spinning blade from the air and waded into the fl ood of charging undead. The sword was a mine fi ghter’s weapon; it had been forged for vicious, close quarters combat. Its razor edge and heavy tang could cleave limbs and sever heads in situations where lighter, or longer, weapons would be worthless. The blood-hungry dwarf smiths had never imagined their masterwork would fi nd its way to the streets of Maus. But in the fi nal analysis, an alley fi lled with howling ghouls, and a mine shaft fl ooded with snarling might have been one and the same. The blood, chaos and the pain were one, and the blade sang with triumph. Col hewed a bloody line through the undead, striking every blow without an ounce of wasted motion. The ghouls and zombies fl ung themselves at him with savage ferocity, broken teeth bared, soiled claws struggling for a purchase, but the hunter rode the wave of violence like a wolf turned loose among mongrel dogs. The inquisitor burst free of the mob and took his stand beside the half-orc. They had both slain their share and more, but the crash of battle had drawn even more undead. The half-orc’s breath came in quick gasps. “This isn’t a fi ght we can win.” Col knew he was right. Already there were more undead than before; worse, the slow zombies were falling fi rst, giving way to quicker and deadlier ghouls and worse. “We have to go up.” Garrote shook his head up and cut down another zombie. “They’d tear us off the wall before we made the eaves.” “Then we’ll have to fi ght –” Col stopped mid-sentence. The assault had been relentless, but now the zombies and ghouls paused, hanging just out of sword range. It was as if they were waiting, commanded by something more powerful than their insatiable hunger. The inquisitor’s squinted, but all he could make out was a darkness, deeper than the night sky. The icy air grew even colder and Col felt a chill brush his heart. “Go!” “Eh?” “Go!” Col ordered. He dropped to brace the half-orc. Garrote didn’t need to be told again. He pushed off from Col’s shoulders as the inquisitor stood, vaulting to the eave. Garrote caught a beam and swung out of sight. The opaque darkness was closer now, and Col could make out a pair of eyes, burning gently like dying embers. “Garrote!” Col shouted, knowing he would get no reply. Ripping himself away from the glowing eyes, he threw himself at the wall, plunging his sword through the rotting wooden planks. Pulling himself up on the pommel, Col lashed out with his clockwork arm, seizing the rafter with a strength born of metal and magic. Where a normal hand would have torn free, the clockwork grip held. Pinching the beam with but two fi ngers and a thumb, Col wrenched himself toward the roof. Gasping with strain and the pain of freshly opened wounds, Col fl ung his elbow and sword over the edge. Garrote was waiting for him, katana raised in the moonlight. “It’s a lesson I learned a long time ago,” Garrote said. “If you have the chance to kill a man, do it.” The blade arced through the night like a falling star. Col released his hold and kicked away from the wall. The katana buried itself into the roof and the inquisitor tumbled backwards through the air, crashing to the hard alley fl oor. The ghouls were on him in an instant. Cold, soiled hands swarmed over him, pinning his arms and legs, and sending a numbing chill through Col’s bones. His sword lay just inches beyond his reach, half-buried in the muddy mix of blood and ice. 4 5 Past the snarling faces of the ghouls, the swirling darkness coalesced around the fi ery embers. In moments a shadow- fi gure stood above him, wrapped in rotting rags the color of smoke and dark mail carved from ivory and bone. A skeletal hand reached from the robes to steal Col’s soul, then hesitated. “You.” The revenant’s voice could have been mistaken for the distant howl of the northwind. The icy hand traced the lines of Col’s lips, cheeks and brow. The inquisitor tried to scream, but only moaned, his entire body frozen from the ghouls’ deadly touch. “Which scion’s spawn are you?” the shadow demanded, waving the ghouls back. “I’m Col, inquisitor of the Wizard’s–” “No,” the revenant pressed the bones of its fi nger to Col’s lips. It seemed to consider for a moment, the fl ickering embers burning into Col’s steel-blue eyes. “A bastard-childe, after all this time,” the creature declared, laughing. “The Lost Barons? Impossible. And yet–” The revenant rose away from Col and turned to confront the ghouls. “This one is already damned,” it declared. “His cold fl esh is not for you. Find other prey this night.” The ghouls loped away, and the revenant turned back on Col, its hand wreathed in blue fl ame. “Forget,” the revenant ordered, “and learn what it means to hunger.” It plunged a shadow-fi st into Col’s chest. Icy pain shot through the inquisitor, arching his spine in anguish. Col’s vision went red, before darkness and its sweet release swept over him. * * * * *

Col awoke in the alley. The supernatural numbing of the ghouls’ touch had been replaced by the natural chill of a late autumn night. He sat up slowly, head pounding, back wracked with pain. The fall, Col realized. He had lunged for the roof and then the half-orc had sent him sprawling. He must have cracked his head in the fall, but then what had happened to the ghouls and the swirling darkness? The inquisitor stood on shaky legs, dragging his sword behind him. The furious pounding in his head grew worse. Col leaned against the alley wall, trying to force the pain down. The noise in his head was a heartbeat, but not his own. Garrote? The inquisitor stilled his thoughts and listened. Yes, it did belong to the half-orc. But how? And how long had he been unconscious? The rogue should have long since vanished. Unless– Col smiled through the pain. It was still Spirit Eve. Every inn and hostelry in the North would be locked tight until dawn. The half-orc had been caught in a own trap of his own making. Once again the inquisitor started after the half-orc, following by the heartbeat echoing in his ears.

“Only in Maus,” Garrote swore aloud. Every tavern he found had turned him away, refusing to unbolt the doors. Dodging undead, the half-orc had broken into a wine shop, taking a cask of wine and a loaf of bread he found behind the counter. Now he sat at the peak of a steep roof, warming himself by the heat of a chimney, waiting for dawn. “Only in Maus,” Garrote repeated, tearing a hunk of bread from the dried loaf and washing it down with a swallow of wine. Below him ghouls and nasties wandered the street; Garrote was safe, hidden in the shadow of the chimney, so long as he kept quiet. Still the sight of the dead grated at his sensibilities, and as the wine had its way with him, he found himself longing to taunt the undead. What a night it had been, what with the dogged inquisitor, hordes of walking dead, and a gem belonging to a long dead mage. When dawn came, Garrote swore he would eat the largest meal of potatoes and ham he could fi nd, and sleep for a week.

6 7 His masters in the Guild could wait for their pretty little bauble – “Garrote.” The half-orc scrambled to his feet. The cask of wine, forgotten, pitched off the edge of the roof and crashed against the hard stone cobbles, several stories below. “Col,” Garrote swore. The inquisitor – only the devils knew how he had found him – was standing at the end of the roof peak, sword in his off-hand, wind whipping at his long cloak. “Damn, inquisitor, you just don’t know when to stay down.” Garrote leveled his long katana at Col. “A dozen times you’ve escaped death tonight, and yet you cast away fate’s bounty like slop to hogs.” The inquisitor strode down the peak of the slate roof, not bothering to raise his weapon. “The something different about you,” Garrote mused. “Colder, as if that were possible.” The half-orc shrugged and took up a fi ghting stance. “You’ll be colder yet when I’m done.” “Give me the focus,” Col said, “or die.” “You can best me in a running battle, inquisitor,” Garrote conceded. “But no man alive in the North can beat me to fi rst blood. And friend, one strike’s all I’ll need.” Col came at Garrote, and the half-orc lashed out with a lightening-quick feint. Col blocked the fi rst, but was off balance for the half-orc’s second strike. He fell to the slate shingling, katana hissing overhead, and began sliding towards the edge. Col seized Garrote’s ankle with his metal fi st. Garrote yelped and lost his balance, sliding after the inquisitor. The rotting roof gave way beneath them, and pair fell crashing into the inn room below. They landed on a rough-sawn table, breaking it in two and scattering the drunken revelers. They both came up, blades in hand, slashing at each other as they tumbled into the crowd. They broke apart, swords fl ashing in the smoky torchlight, the crowd forming a circle around them. Both warriors were hurt and bleeding. Col’s back wounds had reopened, and the half-orc sported a long, shallow gash across his belly. Each warrior was exhausted, every last reserve of will long spent. Col fell back into a fi ghting stance, his eyes dulled and blurred. “Cease!” Garrote shouted, backing away. “This is idiocy!” “Surrender yourself and the focus.” “I can’t do that,” Garrote protested. “Then we die,” Col answered dryly. “Have you no woman, no love?” Garrote demanded, backing over benches and tables. “No fat, sweaty wife with a mob of ugly children awaiting your return? Have you nothing to live for?” “Only this,” Col said, advancing on the half-orc, “ and the rule of the Cabal.” The half-orc stopped up short, regarding the inquisitor in disbelief. “I have committed every sin worthy of punishment,” Garrote whispered angrily. “I’ve bedded hundreds of whores between here and Ten, killed entire tribes of Afridhi in their sleep, stolen a king’s ransom from the Regent of the Mines, and lost it in the same night. I’ve pissed on the sacred groves of the Westryn Elves, slain ogre-lords atop the Kerman Peaks, spit in the face of barons and made love to their wives. And still I crave more.” Garrote regarded Col with disgust. “Life is wasted on you, inquisitor.” The half-orc reached inside his belt pouch and tossed the Star of Terra into the air. At the same moment the inn’s massive doors were wrenched open, revealing the fi rst rays of sunlight. The crowd erupted with cheers at the sign of day. The emerald spun in the air, fl ashing brightly in the sunlight. Col caught it in his glove and looked back to the half-orc, but Garrote had already made his escape, vanishing into the wave of cheering revelers that fl ooded the streets of Maus. Col watched in silence, his sword resting against the ground. The Star of Terra, set by the Cabal as bait for ambitious

6 7 sorcerers, had been recovered. And yet, he felt anxious and empty, as if he had failed somehow. The inquisitor took a seat at a table in the corner of empty tavern. A barmaid began the herculean task of cleaning up after the night’s revels, collecting the spilled and broken mugs. Col took a small mug and a half-empty bottle of wine. “I’ll keep these.” “Suit yourself,” she said, wiping down the table. The barmaid hoisted a tray of mugs and dirty plates onto her shoulder and left for the kitchen. Col poured himself a glass, absently spinning the gem on the table before him. Muffl ed sounds of revelry and celebration made their way into the inn, borne on the crisp morning air, but inquisitor remained where he was, mulling his wine, the gem, and the half-orc’s parting words.

Game Specific Information

The Lost Noble Houses In the long and violent history of the North, many noble families have risen like shining stars, only to vanish after a generation or three. It is impossible to say just how many noble lines have been lost before the march of the ages, but this much is known: though a family may be stripped of its fortunes and holdings, many are the wandering knight-errants laying claim to a house’s former glory. Some of these claimants might be pretenders to the throne, low-born warriors hoping to elevate their station, but others may be legitimate heirs, burning with the desire to reclaim their house’s lost glory. The Rule of Blood declares that not even a king can divest a family of their rights as nobles. A king can take away a family’s lands and wealth, which is often just as effective as taking away their noble rank. This practice this has created the Lost Houses, noble blood-lines with no recognized representatives. The reasons for a noble house’s demise are as varied as the houses themselves. Often, with no heir-apparent, a house simply dies out. On occasion, a power-hungry king strips a prominent baron of his rich lands, awarding them to toadying and simpering puppets. Other times tragedy strikes, and a house’s only heir is killed by disease, dies in war, or falls before an orcish blade. And sometimes, a strong noble line is wiped out by a competing house, struck down by assassins, treachery and profane spells in a single night. From time to time a young scion will emerge, declaring herself to be the living descendent of a lost house. Each claim is thoroughly investigated by the regency, the high sages and crown-astrologers. In every case, the burden of proof rests upon the claimant, but if the claims prove to be true, the scion is awarded her rightful title and any lands or holdings that are her due. Often these lands have been lost to the wilds or absorbed by other noble houses, creating great strife amongst the established houses. For this reason, other noble houses will spare no cost attempting to establish reasonable doubt against claims, even going so far as sending assassins to do away with persistent scions. As is it said amongst the Slayers, “If a House has been lost once, it can be lost again.”

What follows is a list of the more notable lost noble houses. This is by no means a complete list, nor the fi nal word on the matter. In a frontier as rugged and wild as the North, the codifi cation of noble genealogy is a subject best left to sages.

Soderlen: The scions of House Soderlen, master magicians and sorcerers, disappeared in fi nal days of the Mage Wars. It is said that some clue to their demise still lurks in the spider-haunted ruins of their mountain fastness.

Osborg: The sole heir of House Osborg was stolen from his crib in the dark of winter. Exhaustive searches, mundane and magical, failed to locate the child; it was whispered that that the Emperor of Thonia bore an unrequited love for Lady Osborg and 8 9 that his royal thieves stole the child in attempt to blackmail the lady into accepting his love.

Mesina: House Mesina, commonly referred to as the Black House, bears a special place in the annals of history as the only noble house to have been eradicated in open war. A house of dread assassins, House Mesina was accused of collaborating with dark powers and even, it is said, the Egg of Coot. The other noble houses banded together and took up arms against the house. After a long and bloody siege, the last Mesina stronghold fell to the combined might of the Barons, who razed the citadel to ashes and salted the earth with the bodies of the dead.

Berstad: Lady Berstad and her three sons vanished while traveling in the Duchy of Ten. No trace of them or their escort was ever found.

Aris: House Aris was wiped out during the years of the Creeping Death, a peculiar magical plague that struck down only High Thonians, and left low-born untouched. The dedicated elders of House Aris were instrumental in defeating the plague, and it is feared that if the Creeping Death were to strike again, nothing would stand in its way.

Kordgard: Lord Kordgard of the Iron Mask was banished to the dungeons of Castle Blackmoor, his lands and holdings divided amongst the other Barons. His crimes were never openly declared, and ––with the family scattered to the four winds–– it is doubtful they will ever come to light.

Tybir: Lord Tybir the White, Paladin-Mage of legend, disappeared during an assault against the Temple of the Frog. His family declared that that they would not rest until his fate was known, and sent generation after generation of heirs in search of their lost founder. The last of the line carried this dark legacy on to its end, and was devoured by the Great Dismal Swamp twenty years ago.

Khores: It is said that the power-hungry lords of Khores sold their souls to demons and worse. Whether or not this is true, none can say, but it is known that the entire family vanished without a trace in a single night, leaving only a wailing babe. The Wizard’s Cabal took the child in their care, and the child has not been heard of since.

New Feats

HIDDEN BLOODLINE [special] You are a member of one of the lost noble houses of Blackmoor. Prerequisite: Must have at least one High Thonian ancestor. Benefi t: +3 nobility points. Special: Hidden Bloodline can only be taken at character creation, and only becomes active after the character earns 1 level in noble, and petitions the Council of Barons to reinstate her family’s titles and ancestral holdings. (This alone should be a quest of enormous magnitude.) With the character’s bloodline once again recognized, she inherits all the dangers that comes with being an upstart young blood in a society of jealous, scheming, power-hungry true bloods.

8 9 New Monster

ANCESTRAL REVENANT Medium-Size Undead (Incorporeal) Hit Dice: 8d12 (52 hit points) Initiative: +9 (+5 Dex , +4 improved initiative) Speed: 30 ft., fl y 60 ft. (good) AC: 19 (+5 Dex, +4 Defl ection), touch 15, fl at-footed 14 Base Attack/Grapple: +6/- Attack: Incorporeal touch +9 melee (1d10+3 plus 1d6 Constitution drain) Full Attack: Incorporeal touch +9/+4 melee (1d10+3 plus 1d6 Constitution drain) Space/Reach: 5ft. by 5 ft. Special Attacks: Constitution drain, create spawn Special Qualities: Undead traits, unnatural aura, daylight powerlessness, incorporeal, turn resistance, darkvision 60 ft., spell resistance 20 Saves: Fort +6, Ref +8, Will +6 Abilities: Str -, Dex 20, Con -, Int 14, Wis 14, Cha 18 Skills: Hide +13, Intimidate +12, Intuit Direction +6, Listen +12, Search +10, Sense Motive +8, Spot +12, Knowledge: Noblility + 10 Feats: Alertness, Combat Refl exes, Improved Initiative Environment: Any land or underground Organization: Solitary, council (5-10) Treasure: None Challenge Rating: 8 Alignment: Usually lawful evil Advancement: By character class

Sometimes mistaken for wraiths, ancestral revenants are the manifestations of wicked nobles that suffered violent deaths. Made up of darkness and whispy shadows, they can take form as they appeared immediately after death, garbed in tattered and soiled fi nery. Their eyes fl icker like dying embers, and fl are when they catch sight of their prey. Most undead cares little for the affairs of mankind, arising at dusk only to sate their endless hunger for the living. A revenant, however, still considers itself to be part of its noble house, and the urge to participate in intrigue and machinations can override its hunger. Revenants carry grudges from feuds and wars long since ended, and remain true to their old loyalties. Dark rumors whisper that some of the more successful houses are secretly ruled by ancestral revenants, the ancestors guiding their beloved houses from beyond the ages and from beyond the grave.

Combat Ancestral revenants cling to unlife. They will not endanger themselves by heedlessly attacking a superior opponent. Otherwise they are implacable in combat, slaughtering foes as if to demonstrate their power over the living. The lust for violence can be interrupted if the revenant is confronted by one of noble blood. The revenants love to parlay with other nobles, simply because it makes them feel as if they were alive once more. Create Spawn(Su): Any humanoid slain by a revenant becomes a wraith in 1d4 rounds. Its body remains intact and inanimate, but its spirit is torn free from its corpse and transformed. Spawn are under the command of the revenant that created them and remain enslaved until its death. They do not possess any of the abilities they had in life. Constitution Drain(Su): Living creatures hit by a revenant’s incorporeal touch attack must succeed on a DC 14 Fortitude save or take 1d6 points of Constitution drain. The save DC is Charisma-based. On each such successful attack, the revenant gains 5 temporary hit points. Daylight Powerlessness(Ex): Revenants are utterly powerless in natural sunlight (not merely a daylight spell) and fl ee from it. Unnatural Aura(Su): Animals, whether wild or domesticated, can sense the unnatural presence of a revenant at a distance of 30 feet. They will not willingly approach nearer than that and panic if forced to do so; they remain panicked as long as they are within that range.

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System Rules Document Copyright 2000 Wizards of the Coast, Inc.; Authors Jonathan Tweet, Monte Cook, Skip Williams, based on original material by E. and Dave Arneson. Dave Arneson’s Blackmoor: A Night in Maus Part Three by Harley Stroh, Copyright 2005 Zeitgeist Games, Inc.

10 11 The Adventure Continues

A Brooding Terror Lies in Wait

The Redwood Scar is the first published adventure in Blackmoor since 1987. Journey Back to the Days of the First Fantasy Campaign in this adventure module for Dave Arneson’s Blackmoor

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