Text by Paul O'Connor, Dungeon Master
Winter's chill draws close as our intrepid heroes ride their disk across frozen waters, like some D&D homage to Washington crossing the Delaware.
Mephits streak down in icy fury; skeletons swarm the shore. But they were little match for the Pipes of FEAR (and yes, I'm as perplexed as anyone that skeletons know fear). Our heroes gain the far shore without hardly taking a scratch. In a twinkling, Omaha Beach turned into Malibu Beach!
On the island, a horse's tomb (quickly looted), and a burial mound, surmounted by a spiral stair. Iago was persuaded to dig, uncovering a stone lid, shrugged aside by Blah.
Below -- a burial chamber, a pile of treasure, and atop it the armored form the Axton himself, cradling his legendary axe in his dead hands.
(You know what happens next, of course).
Blah roped himself off and lowered down. He knelt before the dead king and said the axe was needed to unite his people ... but Axton was having none of it! Awakened from his slumber, he rose and began casting spells. Grovel, Blah! Hold, Arthur!
It was all a swirling melee, with Axton shrugging off Khostov's spells, trading blows with Blah, and managing to keep his britches up from Arthur's Chimes of Opening (and drat, but that would have been something).
The battle reaches fever pitch ... Axton raises his blade high overhead ... it glows, as if he's readying some mighty ritual ...
(... and then we broke for the night!)
