A vision, a haunting dream of an open tomb, haunts the dreams of a magically-addicted scholar Igbold. His concubine sells the map that he scrawled in a night-terror stupor to the highest price at an Unnamed Tavern.
That highest price was to Jestur, a story-teller of ill-repute, a concoctor of tails and perhaps this very one. An former jester, he convinces the captain of a palace guard, Swann, to go into the business of treasure-hunting.
“Even a barbarian can do it!”
“Barbarians have axes and rage”
“Well I’ve got this!” Jestur responded, holding a wooden scepter with a jingles hanging from it.
The two travel toward the location of said map, whereupon they come to a field of desolation, a promised crop gone horribly wrong, a tiny estate confiscated by the king. At the center is Malfor, a shattered farmer with a large bag, with all the tools of his now dead trade. Without much convincing he decides to join the troope. After all, as Jestur explains “Reaping monsters has got to be easier than reaping wheat!”
After spending the night in camp, the neophyte-adventures venture forward to their destination- an opening in a cliff that glows at night like a beacon. Not many have talked about it, but surely it is the glow of gold.
“Too easy,” Swann remarked.
“Scared?” Jestur asked.
“No just putting you on your guard. It is a lovely shade of filthy rich is it not?”
At the entrance to our yonder tomb, the trio find the walls lined in spectacular golden plates, each more valuable than the next. However something odd is amiss, the cave is crowded with riches. Pouches purses and packs lay piled high against the walls.
Thinking it is an offering, the three put their savings on the piles.
“One thing I know my friends is you take the gold when you are leaving!” Jestur gestured.
Moving south into the wide high tunnel something was amiss, the men of this accidental company faced a horrible monstrosity that had taken the cave as its refuge- an Ettin. A fierce battle was waged, where the Chivalier swung his sword but was dashed against a wall, dazed; the former-Jester threw bags of gold at the creature; the Farmer impaled and injured the creature but was so wounded he was lost from the battle and perhaps this world. A possible new ally, a tall greenish gnome fought mightily, strangely for his race, with an odd ferocity that none could compare. It was he who cleaved into one of the giant's heads, and continued to best it as our original comrades distracted it.
Finally the fall of their most inculpable comrade, Malfor, the Farmer, drove the Chivalier to dare a splendid slice upon the creature- who fell barely missing Jestur.
When the dust settled, the two survivors raced to their friend, seeing him on the brink of death. Gnome approached, Jestur realizing that he was not a gnome but a Gnorc- a gnomish with veins of orcish lineage. Taking a ring from his hand filled with rings, the Gnorc placed it upon the fallen, explaining it as a magical lure to the farmer's spirit. Not a way of catching but a way of catching souls.
While Otilio, the Gnorc, attended to his patient, Jestur and Swann moved ahead in the tunnel. There they saw a wand burning brightly as a torch floating in the middle of a chamber that opened to the west of the corridor. Silk curtains tied with golden rings neatly invited the visitors. This Jestur found all too inviting, and despite warning from a shouting Otilio, he took the wand which was in reality a clever lever. Swann reacted instantly, as if saving the King himself, he rushed to Jestur and pulled him by the neck to escape the dividing stonewall.
But it was too late and the two suddenly plummeted as the floor became a slide, carrying them to a dug-out chamber filled with sand. Locking them in place Jestur and Swann were not alone and they soon discovered that perhaps wearing armor in the desert sands is a good idea. For the floor moved and waved as hungry things snaked up and down toward them.
Grabbing Jestur leg for a supper, the man screamed as Swann hacked at the creature.
