“I cast my vote for the walled house, as well,” the templar said, nodding agreement with the dwarf fighter.
“And I, also,” said the cleric firmly. “I favor the tavern,” said Valsavis. “Three against two,” the dwarf fighter said, shaking his head. “You are outvoted.”
“Is there anything in the rules that says we must all make the same choice together every time?” Sorak asked, breaking character for a moment to ask for clarification.
The gamemaster raised his eyebrows. “No,” he replied, “there is not, unless I have specified it in setting forth the situation.”
“I will choose the tavern then,” said Sorak.
“And I will go there with him,” said Valsavis.
“And the rest of you?” the gamemaster asked, again revealing nothing by his tone.
“It is their funeral,” said the dwarf fighter. “I still choose the walled house.”
The others all agreed and made the same choice.
“Interesting,” said the gamemaster with a faint smile, still giving away nothing. “Very well, then. The dwarf fighter, the templar, and the cleric proceed to the walled house, while the druid and the mercenary pan company with them to go inside the tavern. The first three reach the walled house, open the heavy iron gate, which takes an effort, as the hinges are very old, and they enter the courtyard, carefully closing and fastening the gate behind them. There does not appear to be anything of any interest or significance in the courtyard, so they proceed to the front door.” He paused. “What happens now?” he asked.
“Detect magic,” said the cleric quickly.
“You detect none,” said the gamemaster flatly.
“I examine the door carefully to see if it contains any nonmagical traps,” the cleric said, then quickly added, “I had learned to do so from watching the thief before.”
“You find none,” said the gamemaster.
“I find none, or there are none?” asked the cleric.
“You find none, and there are none,” said the gamemaster.
“Very well, we go inside,” the cleric said, satisfied.
“The templar, the cleric and the dwarf fighter open the door and go inside,” the gamemaster continued, “closing it behind them and throwing the heavy bolt.
It takes an effort to move the old bolt, but after a few moments, they manage to force it through. They are now in the dark central hall of the house. All around is dust and sand and cobwebs. It is very difficult to see.” The gamemaster paused again and raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.
“I light a torch I have brought with me,” said the templar.
“Very well,” the gamemaster said. “The torch is lit. Before you is a wide and winding staircase that leads to the upper floors and the towers at the east and west wings of the house.” He paused again and looked at them expectantly. “I think we should go up to one of the towers,” said the templar. “It would afford us a better view of the outside, and we would be in a more defensible position.”
“But which tower?” asked the cleric. “The one at the east wing? Or the west?”
“Perhaps it doesn’t make a difference,” said the dwarf fighter.
“Perhaps it does,” the cleric replied. “It is not yet sundown,” said the templar, “so we are still safe from the undead. And we have fastened the iron gate and bolted the heavy wooden door. If, by some chance, there are any undead within the house, they will not be about yet. We still have some time to search. We could split up and check both towers to see which would be the more secure. And I have brought more torches with me,” she added quickly.
The gamemaster nodded, indicating that was accepted.
“Very well then, I shall elect to check the east tower,” said the dwarf fighter.
“You are stronger and more able than I,” the cleric said. “I will go with you.”
“And I will examine the west tower,” said the templar, “after giving you two a torch to take with you.”
“Very well,” the gamemaster said. “You have split up. You take the winding stairs and ascend to the upper floors. The templar takes the corridor leading to the tower in the west wing, while the cleric and the dwarf fighter take the opposite corridor, leading to the tower on the other side. Simultaneously, you arrive at the tower entrances, which have heavy wooden doors.”
The gamemaster paused.
“We listen at the doors very carefully,” the templar said.
“You hear nothing,” said the gamemaster.
“We check for hidden traps again, as we saw the thief do,” said the cleric.
“You find none,” said the gamemaster.
They tried to think of various things that they could do to determine if there was anything dangerous on the other side of the doors, but the gamemaster replied the same way each time. Finally, the doors were opened, and they went through. The gamemaster told them that they encountered winding stairs leading up to the tower rooms. They exercised all possible caution going up them, checking for traps, stairs that might collapse underneath them, every possible trick they thought the gamemaster might throw at them, but meanwhile, Sorak realized that they were using up whatever daylight still remained to them. And he knew that when they reached the rooms at the tops of the towers, the sun would have gone down.
There were, of course, undead in the towers. The players fled from them, but the entire house was full of undead who had been lying in the other rooms, waiting for the night. The cleric protested that no magic had been detected, and the undead were animated by magic. True, the gamemaster replied, unperturbed, but the cleric had only cast a detect magic spell on the front door. Besides, the magic that animated the undead did not come into play until after sundown, and the cleric had not bothered to detect magic again after the first time.
With each encounter, dice were rolled, scores were checked, and one by one, the players died. Finally, only the templar remained, and she made it all the way to the front door, only to discover that the bolt they had managed to force through with so much difficulty would not open for her. And the undead were closing in by the dozens. She rolled to see if she would be able to open the bolt before they reached her. She rolled low, and her character died.
Exasperated, the player who had assumed the character of a templar glanced at Sorak and Valsavis, pointed at them, then turned to the gamemaster. “What about them?” she demanded. “You haven’t said what happens to them!”
The gamemaster merely shrugged. “Very well. They entered the tavern, locked the heavy wooden door from the inside, and spent an uneventful night listening to the undead howling in the streets. Eventually, they fell asleep and when they woke up, it was morning.”
“That’s it?” the templar said with disbelief. “They chose wisely,” was all the gamemaster said in reply.
“Gith’s blood!” the templar swore in frustration. “This is a stupid game!”
She threw down her dice and left the table.
“We seem to have an empty chair,” the gamemaster announced, calmly, glancing at the onlookers.
“I will join the game,” Ryana said as she sat down.
The other two players elected to remain. They paid ten ceramics apiece for the privilege of creating new characters and remaining in the game, though they lost not only their previous wagers, but all of their experience points as well, since their characters had died. As new characters, they were now starting out afresh, as was Ryana.
The dwarf fighter unimaginatively chose to remain a dwarf fighter. He was now simply a different dwarf fighter, and he had to roll to determine the strengths and abilities of his new character. He came off rather worse than he had the first time, which did not please him at all, and he continued to play in a surly mood.
The cleric decided to become a thief this time. She rolled, and her new character turned out to have better strengths and abilities than her last one. She seemed happier about this, even though she had lost heavily with her wagers as a cleric.