In the far reaches of the world, under a lost and lonely hill, lies the sinister TOMB OF HORRORS. This labyrinthine crypt is filled with terrible traps, strange and ferocious monsters, rich and magical treasures, and somewhere within rests the evil demi-lich who still wards his final haunt (Be warned that tales told have it that this being possesses powers which make him nearly undefeatable). Accounts relate that it is quite unlikely that any adventurers will ever find the chamber where the demi-lich Acererak lingers, for the passages and rooms of the Tomb are fraught with terrible traps, poison gases, and magical protections. Furthermore, the demi-lich has so well hidden his lair, that even those who avoid the pitfalls will not be likely to locale their true goal. So only large and well-prepared parties of the bravest and strongest should even consider the attempt, and if they do locate the Tomb, they must be prepared to fail. Any expedition must be composed of characters of high level and varied class. They must have magical protections and weapons, and equip themselves with every sort of device possible to insure their survival. For as the legend goes, "Abandon all hope ye who enter the Tomb of Horrors."

THE QUEST: (6,000 XP)
Locate Acererak's final resting place, defeat the demi-lich, and escape the Tomb alive (or, at least, with enough of you left to be revived).

Out of Character Thread
Setup Thread

The Adventurers

Agamemnon - Garren_Windspear
Graydon Vlanche - rstnme
Jiardem Maldranthe - Shockwave07
Thibor Cruxholder - True_Believer
Henleber - Belisarius
Quinn Mallory - NPC

"As I said a thousand times before, please, don't call me Mr. Cruxholder." Thibor says to one of his companions while he sips from his tankard. "I hate that name. They should have named me Goldenhammer or Hammerthrower, but no, they chose the worst name of all."

Thibor takes another sip before continuing his tale. "I put all the blame on that damned human priest that was trying to bring dwarfs to join his congregation. He must have let a crux in Moradin's Temple. For Moradin! The place is full of hammers and I had to use a damned crux, instead of a mighty hammer to defeat my assailants."

He puts his tankard down the table and uses his sleeve to clean his meticulously trimmed beard.

"But Cruxholder is your name is it not master dwarf? You should not be offended by such a title! Be it hammer or mace or even crux through that priest the deities placed a weapon there for you to wield against the assailants which would defile such a holy place! You were chosen that day to wield a weapon of the divine in the name of your deity; you should bear your name with pride and shout it to the heavens!" Agamemnon throws back his chair as he jumps to his feet. Thrusting his fist into the air he cries out "I am Agamemnon, Radiant Light of Pelor and you, you are Thibor Cruxholder, Protector of the Sacred Places! You and me my friend! We will cut a swath of right and justice across these lands the likes of which have never been witnessed by man or beast or god! The bard's will sing our tales that even our children's children's children will know of our deeds and bathe in the light of the eternal peace we bring!" Tears stream down the Githzerai's face as he finishes speaking.

"That reminds me that I need to buy a new book. The register of an adventure is pure history and history is a serious deed." Thibor says more to himself than anyone else. He fills his tankard again with ale to drink his tenth cup and then he resumes his conversation with his religious friend.

"I just don't share your enthusiasm, my dear friend. Sure we can do glorious deeds, deeds worthy of being registered on the atemporal pages of history, but just imagine how much glorious it would appear Goldenhammer when registered in history." He looks at the tavern's roof with imaginative eyes thinking in that possibility: Thibor Goldenhammer. He even lets a sigh escape.

"Somebody call a Bard?" Quinn says as he sits down at the table having just returned from the room upstairs. He turns back to the lovely maiden he returned with and gives her a wink before focusing his attention on his allies. "Well, my business is done; I'm ready to go adventuring again." Then, tuning in to the conversation, "You know, Thibor, Cruxholder is easier to rhyme with than Goldenhammer anyway." Quinn then raises a hand to signal another round of ale be brought to the table. The waitress, another lovely maiden, promptly replies and brings them a round free of charge, before giving Quinn a kiss.

"Humpf... I certainly don't. Your notion of history, my friend, if you excuse me, is the same notion an drunken orc has of applied mathematics. History has nothing to do with rhymes, comedy or tragedy. History is about real facts, impressive deeds and powerful names." Thibor says to Harlan. He doesn't like the way elves register their history, too fluffy for his taste.

"But I appreciate the cup of ale. You know I need to spend a fortune on ale to get satiated." He says changing his tone to a less challenging tone and patting his abdomen with his other hand.

Graydon ducks through the tavern door, his shaved scalp narrowly missing the timbers latticed across the ceiling. He grins, spotting his companions, and weaves through the throng of drinkers, arriving at the table and pulling a full bench for himself up to it. He plops a backpack by his side, and nods to the group, "Companions! I have brought back rations for the venture. Nourishing, if not exciting--but I suppose we've all had to swallow worse fare." He grins at Quinn. "Some of us more than others. Now, what plans must we lay before we're off? He flags down a waitress and orders their largest ale, which still manages to look a smidgen too small in his large hands.

Graydon nods, pulling a long strip of goat jerkey out of his pouch and gnawing on it, chasing the bite down with a mouthful of ale. A wistful, sad expression appears on his face, and he sighs. "Sooner we leave the better, I say. Unless you lads want to do more shopping."

To my knowledge, this island is very isolated and dangerous. We will probably do not have access to any supply after we leave. So we need to be very sure about our supplies. Lets double check. And after that lets triple check, just to be certain. History says those who are prepared have more chances to achieve success. Thibor says in his wisest voice.

I am certain that I need a new book and some pencils. Then he completes after another sip from his tankard.

Quinn places a scroll on the table. "Here is a list of all the supplies I have acquired and loaded on our wagon, which is now on board the ship. Beyond that there is what we have in our possession. And, if we're lucky, there might be some additional supplies on board the ship that the captain might impart to us. She has been rather generous of spirit up to this point." Quinn smirks at that last comment.

Graydon's smile is a reflection of Quinn's, and the giant gets a decidedly... competitive... glint in his eye. He looks over the list and, nods, "I usually consider it a sign of good faith having some tobacco leaves along. It makes a good gift and garners favor where you least expect it, in addition to helping along the slowest hours of the day. He pats his pack and grins. "Which is why I brought some!" He hands the list to Thibor, finishes his drink, and scans the room for a barmaid.

Thibor takes both lists and starts to look carefully at every item. It is always good to be prepared for everything and young people are always too hasty. They need to learn patience, after all the history took many millennia to reach today and it will progress for many more after their death.

He is missing at least half a dozen cup of ales before being satiated and prepared to go buy his book.

Suddenly while seeing the list of items, Thibor is struck with a sudden revelation of what item he thinks the list is missing. He jumps from his bench and hastily gets out of the tavern without saying a word, spilling the rest of his ale on his companions.

Quinn wipes the ale off his jacket. "What happened to not being in a rush?"

Graydon scowls at his breeches, where a pond-sized stain is blooming. "Yech. Seriously. Shall we head to the ship?" He attempts to squeeze as much ale as possible out of his pants, but it does little to alter the discoloration.

"I'm game if you both are. And I'm sure Thibor will be along soon enough." Quinn thumbs in the direction of the door.

Graydon nods. "I am always game. Let's be off." He stands and moves through the crowd, albeit somewhat less considerately this time, thereby creating a hole in the throng Quinn can follow. His scowl dares someone to mock his breeches.