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A Night in Maus

by Harley Stroh

Part Two

Based on the original Blackmoor Setting, associated characters and places owned by Wizards of the Coast,Inc. Used with permission, all rights reserved© 1975 Wizards.Dave Arneson’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

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A NIGHT IN MAUS, PART II

Col reined the ebon charger to a stop, atop a seaside hill. They had ridden hard all day and even a magical steed needed rest. Col leaned forward and patted the impatient warhorse on its broad neck. Below them sprawled an overgrown graveyard. The neglected headstones stood at odd and unnatural angles among the tufts of dead grass. Further down the hill were half a dozen barrow mounds, reminders of the savage tribes that had once called this lonely stretch of coastline their home. Shadow stomped and snorted with impatience, its breath coming in billowing white clouds. The frosty air was already filled with the smell of freshly turned earth, heralding the coming of night. In less time than it would take to drink an ale, the hills would infested with the living dead. Col held the charger in place for a moment longer. To the west, across the Black Sea, the sun shimmered and sank toward the horizon over the Realm of the Egg. Peasants whispered that every night the Egg of Coot devoured the sun, and every dawn Odir cut the sun free, releasing it to continue on its course. Astronomers had disproved the stories years ago, but riding alone on the cold northern shores, looking over the icy whitecaps of the Black Sea, the tales seemed almost credible. Col gave Shadow a nudge and the horse resumed its impossible gait, devouring the miles towards Maus. “You were nearly too late, milord,” the innkeeper said, barring the door behind Col. “I dearly apologize for your steed though –– my stable has room for no more.” Col eased tack and saddlebags to the floor. “You need’nt worry. She runs with her own tonight.” The innkeeper looked askance but kept his questions to himself. Inquisitors were always a strange lot, and prying into Cabal business served no man. “You’ll be wanting a room then?” he asked, fearing the answer. Again, Col shook his head. “Just some wine and a quiet corner. I won’t be staying the the night.” The innkeeper scurried to obey, muttering wards against deviltry and the mysteries of wizards as he vanished into the bustling kitchen. The waystation’s smoke-stained common room was packed with travelers of every station. Drinking flagons hammered on the rough tables in time to raucous war-dirges while dark-skinned, proud-eyed Peshwans diced with even prouder High Thonian noble-sons. At the head of the room, a portly priest of Odir struggled for preeminence with a half-elven disciple of Tsartha. To one side an ale-sodden dwarf was defending the pride of his race by furiously drinking all challengers under the table. Sitting next to the smoking hearth, a scarred veteran told war stories with his pitted broadsword in hand, and all the while a pretty maid kept up the pretense of singing to ward off the walking dead. Col elbowed through the crowd and made his way to the darkest corner to be found. Upon catching sight of the crimson mantle, the revelers made space for the sorcerer-hunter and Col quickly found himself sitting alone. Many inquisitors rankled at the dread their order inspired, but Col had long grown accustomed to the dark stares and furtive whispers. He had excelled in the calling of the sorcerer-hunter; now he reaped the bitter harvest of those years. And what would he have with a family, or friends? They would only be chinks

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in the armor he had worked so hard to forge, either pawns for the Cabal or targets for his prey. The innkeeper brought Col a drinking-jack and a bottle of wine, refusing the inquisitor’s coins when the inquisitor tried to pay. It was like this wherever Col went: simultaneously envied and loathed by the people he fought to protect. Col retrieved an oiled rag from his saddlebags and removed his cloak, revealing the clockwork arm that stood in stead of flesh and blood. He tested the prosthesis, joints clicking as gears whirled and spun. The pistons and geartrains were driven by magic, so the arm never slowed or tired, but like any mechanism, it needed to be kept up. Col went over the arm thoroughly, removing any hint of dirt or precipitation, until the clockworks gleamed in the flickering torch light. The sorcerer-hunter began to polish and sharpen his short blade, pausing from time to time to sip the wine. Despite the best efforts of his stallion, he had missed his mark by a mere three leagues. And yet, those last nine miles to Maus would have been the most deadly. Entire armies had died on these shores; tonight they would wage war once more, but this time against the living. It frustrated Col to miss his mark by such a short distance, but in the end it would be an inconvenience, nothing more. Outside the waystation, the dead were awakening. They dragged their bony fingertips over the walls, rattled the shutters and tested the doors. The revelers increased the volume of their celebrations, drowning out the moans and sinister threats whispered through the walls. So long as the bars held and the bard kept up her playing, those inside would be safe. Those caught outside wouldn’t be so lucky. Until dawn, no door or gate in the entire North would open. Col watched the drinking and singing from his dark corner. It was the paradox of all inquisitors: the need to stand apart from those they protected. In the same way that inquisitors embraced and studied violence so that the common people would never have to, their calling also denied them the fruits of their works. An inquisitor fought so other northlanders could know peace, but no inquisitor ever died of natural causes. The sorcerer-hunter cleared his mind of the melancholy thoughts. Such were the domain of philosophers and sophists. On the frontier they amounted to little more than distractions, and were quickly eclipsed by needs far more pressing than peace of soul. The legions of dead scouring the lands outside were a testament to that. Col poured himself another jack of wine and laid the thick sword on his lap. It wouldn’t be long now.

* * * * *

“The Star of Terra,” Mordocai whispered in reverence, holding the shining emerald high. The gem flashes and sparkled with a brilliance all its own, shaming the dim light shed by the candles scattered about the room. “Well,” Garrote demanded, “does it hold what we seek?” “Patience, savage friend,” Mordocai said, dismissing the half-orc with a wave. “These things take time.” Garrote went back to the balcony. Several stories below, walking dead staggered through the dark cobbled streets, seeking the slow and foolish that had failed to find shelter before sundown. Corpses of all states mingled together; pale urchins, spotted with plague pox, stumbled alongside skeletal warriors girded in rusting armor; lopheaded hanged-men darted from door to door, testing each with a rattle, while solemn High Thonians, still garbed in regal robes, marched alongside their brides in search of prey. The cold night

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air rang with low groans, punctuated by the horrified screams of the dying. “It has begun to snow,” Garrote noted. “Maybe it will keep down the stink.” Unsettled by his own morbid fascination, the half-orc stepped away from the balcony, closing the leaded glass doors. He saw with disgust that the wizard was still admiring the gem, seduced by its charm. “How powerful,” Garrote demanded, shocking Mordocai from his revere, “can a gem predating the Wizard’s Cabal even be?” “Therein is the true beauty of this jewel,” the wizard answered softly. “After Skelfer Ard discovered powerful gems could be used to wield and harness White Magic, it was still a decade before he brought the Mage Wars to an end. During that time he shared his secrets with select apprentices. Most fought by his side during the last years of the Mage Wars, but a few disciples struck out to study White Magic on their own. Xavier the Gray was one of those traitorous few.” “So the Shattered Tower wasn’t destroyed until the very end of the Mage Wars,” Garrote reasoned. “Precisely. Xavier had ten long years, more than enough time to acquire the Star of Terra and then imbue it with the sum of his power. In the coming years, Skelfer’s loyal disciples, what we call the Wizard’s Cabal, sought to acquire all the most powerful gems for themselves. “But Xavier’s tower had been destroyed, his life’s work presumed lost,” Mordocai concluded with a flourish. “Thus we have the Star of Terra: an artifact torn through an infinitesimally small window in time, ‘twixt the discovery of the spell foci and the tyrannical reign of the Wizard’s Cabal.” Mordocai held the gem close, and his voice fell to a whisper. “Who can say what eldritch might has been lost all these years, hoarded by the Cabal? Who can say what precious spells were wrought by a mage powerful enough to challenge Skelfer himself?” Mordocai’s eyes fluttered shut in exultation. “Enough power, perhaps, to transform a practitioner of the Art into an archmage equal to the legends of yore.” Mordocai took a long, haggard breath. “Soon. Soon I shall know.” “All the better,” Garrote swore. “This accursed bauble stinks of wizards’ blood. Best to be done with it, and quickly.” “Friend savage, your kind will never appreciated the majesty of true arcane power.” Mordocai snuffed the candles one by one, then knelt on a bed of cushions, holding the glowing gem before him. “Watch,” the wizard instructed, “and learn what it means to be a command the very fabric of the universe.” Mordocai peered deep into the gem and intoned a phrase in Draconic. The Star of Terra lifted from his hands, borne up under its own power. The glow inside the emerald began to pulse, softly at first, then quickening, until it became a steady brilliance that illuminated the entire chamber. “Now,” Mordocai whispered, “to suffuse myself with the might of the ages.” The wizard offered himself up to the gem, repeating the spell like a mantra. The glow brightened until it dwarfed the noonday sun, but still the wizard refused to turn away. He renewed his efforts, his chants filling the room with the ancient, slithering tongue. Mordocai reached out to the gleaming, scintillating gem, and the gem reached out to him. Garrote took a step away, shielding his eyes from the blinding rays. Then the wizard began to scream.

* * * * *

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Col stood up, shouldered his cloak and pulled the crimson mantle down low over his eyes. “Master,” the innkeeper gasped, clutching his apron in fear. “Have we offended your lordship?” The inquisitor shook his head and tossed a handful of flashing gold coins onto the table. “For your trouble,” Col said, fastening a clockwork fist around the hilt of his sword. The crowd of drunken revelers watched in silence as the sorcerer-hunter faded and vanished.

* * * * * Mordocai was screaming in exalted agony, as if his soul were be ripped from his ragged throat. Which, Garrote mused, might not have been far from the truth. The wizard’s entire body was lit up like molten glass, light errupting from his very being. The half-orc had tortured many an unlucky soul in his tenure with the Guild. He had carefully removed entire swatches of skin, muscle, and bone, and used temple healers to keep the victims alive as their bodies were set to rot. None of his wards had ever wailed like this. Garrote wondered how long he should let the arrogant mage suffer, and if it was possible to drown in the blood of one’s own shredded vocal cords. The half-orc’s dark mediations were broken when a second flash lit the chamber. Garrote drew his blade and spun in a single motion. Through the glare of the gem he saw the telltale crimson hood of an inquisitor. Garrote snarled and spun back towards the dying wizard. He hit hard and fast, pulling the curved blade through the entire strike. The blade slid through Mordocai’s neck and spine, then broke free. The lifeless body of the wizard collapsed, gouting blood. The head spun twice then struck the floor, Mordocai’s eyes still tranfixed with a mix of wonder and agony. And then the room was plunged into darkness. Col entered the chamber, hood low, blade held before him. The same Cabalistic spell that hurled him across the miles would also produce a brilliant flash that was sure to blind any onlookers, and Col was careful to make certain he didn’t share their fate. But the chamber he entered was already lit with blinding light. Col saw the towering frame of a half-orc spin with the quickness of a tiger, a curved blade springing into the beast’s hands. The inquisitor had just enough time to recognize the savage visage before the half-orc turned back, cleaving the wizard’s head from his body in a single swift strike. Then darkness flooded room, and it was the hunter who found himself blind. Col could have made a desperate dash for Garrote but that meant death. The half-orc could see in the darkness, while Col would be fighting blind. The immediacy of this truth was reinforced by Garrote’s throaty laughter. “The Clockwork Inquisitor,” he said warmly. “I’d expected you sooner.” Col held his silence, trying to gauge the half-orc’s position as he moved through the room. He could call up a spell, but in the time it would take to whisper the words of eldritch power the half-orc would cut him in two. “Over here,” Garrote corrected with laugh. “I see the Cabal was good enough to replace your arm. The least they could do, really.” Col turned with the sounds of the voice. He could hear the half-orc circling around him, gradually

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drawing closer. “I’ve always wondered,” Garrote’s voice came from behind. “Can you actually feel with a clockwork arm, or are they just good for hacking?” Col threw up his heavy sword in a desperate block. He felt the crash of Garrote’s katana against his shortsword and lashed out with a gloved fist. The blow glanced off Garrote, snapping the half-orc back and spinning Col around. The laughter was replaced by a painful cough, and Garrote spit a mouthful of blood onto the chamber floor. “Good, inquisitor, good. Let’s make this a little more challenging, eh?” Col heard a whispered command word, and then nothing. He strained his ears, then realized that the half-orc had activated some arcane item that silenced his movements. Without a warning of his attack, there was no telling which direction the next blow would come from. Col backed away until he felt the wall behind. Fear and uncertainty filled his heart. A lesser man might have abandoned himself to fate, hacking and slashing blindly in the darkness, but the sorcerer-hunter forced the emotions down, refusing to give into panic. He fixed his gaze on the faint light of the leaded-glass doors, then began to ease his way around the circumference of the chamber. Each step brought the threat of death at the balebourne blade. Col had crossed half the room when he spotted what he had been seeking: the dim silloutte of the half-orc against the glass doors, katana raised high with both hands. Col sprang, short sword hissing through the darkness before him. Garrote gave a shout of surprise and steel met steel, Col’s attack blocked by the half-orc’s blade. Garrote staggered backwards in alarm, slashing left and right, uncertain how his foe had managed to spot him. Col dropped low, and the blows passed harmlessly overhead. The sorcerer-hunter pressed his advantage, hissing an incantation. Mystic power sizzled through the air and Col’s sword flooded the chamber with light. The sorcerer-hunter pointed the crackling blade towards the astonished half-orc. “Now,” Col said with grim satisfaction, “things get interesting.” “A fair fight?” The bestial Garrote shook his head with a smile. He knelt to snatch up the Star of Terra then sprang through the glass doors to the balcony. The room was filled with crash of falling glass as Garrote climbed atop the railing. “What you have to decide, Clockwork Inquisitor, is how badly you want this,” Garrote flashed the faceted emerald, “and how badly you want to stay alive.” Col made a dash for the thief, but Garrote was faster. He leaped into the crisp air, and fell, clattering, to the slate rooftops below. An instant later the half-orc was back on his feet, dashing along the rows of roofs. Col swore softly, mindful of the legions of walking dead that filled the darksome streets below. Then he took a breath, placed a single boot atop the railing, and vaulted into the Blackmoor night.

Concluded in

A NIGHT IN MAUS, PART III

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Game Specific Information

The following sections give more insight and detail into the people, places and items presented in this portion of the serial.

Spirit Eve in Maus On the 14th of Eaiwe dead leaves rustle, planets fall into alignment in the southern night sky, the Negative Energy plane slides inexorably closer to the Prime, and the dead of Blackmoor walk the earth once more. Every community in the North celebrates Spirit Eve in its own way, but the citizens of Maus take special pains celebrating the Eve of the Dead, and for good reason: with its enormous population and long history, more dead rise here than anywhere else in the North. In the two weeks leading up to Spirit Eve, the entire city is abuzz with energy. Children and their mothers make sugar-candy skulls to place on the graves and memorials of dead ancestors. The tradition stems from a folk tale in which a young boy, caught abroad on Spirit Eve, encounters his dead father. In the story the boy sates his father’s hunger with a candy. Priests and undead-hunters are quick to note that the story is apocryphal; on Spirit Eve, the undead hunger only for the living. The eve of the 14th, the mighty city of Maus becomes a barren wasteland of empty streets and vacant byways. Taverns, inn and hostelries refuse to open their doors; even the Church of Odir closes its mighty bronze and gold sanctuary. Churches hold all night vigils for their flocks, with priests conducting ceremonies that stretch until dawn. Inns and taverns hold all night vigils of another sort, often hiring a priest or bard to sing and pray through the night, luring customers with the promise of a night of safety and revelry. When priests are in short demand, gold-grubbing bards have been known to double or triple their performance rates on this night, and it is not uncommon for popular skalds to come out of retirement simply to perform on Spirit Eve. In the soul-weary slums known as the Shallows, the holy day takes on a sinister air. Without priests or bards to ward against the walking dead, the poor of the city have created rituals of their own. At dusk on Spirit Eve they don the hides and heads of animals. Then they howl, rut and drink through the night, believing that the undead will mistake them for animals and pass them by. Evil cults are quick to take advantage of this custom. With low-born dressed in grisly masquerade, undead stalking the alley ways, and the Guard unable to patrol the streets, black-robed occultists can commit their dark rites in the Shallows without fear of interruption. And if, in the morning, a few whores or beggars turn up missing, the people of Maus have learned to look the other way.

Wandering Monsters on Spirit Eve Check for wandering monsters once every 10 minutes spent outside, or whenever the characters make a significant amount of noise. Roll 1d6; an encounter occurs on a 1 or 2. If an encounter is called for, roll 1d12 to determine the creature(s) encountered. Note that if ongoing combat draws additional undead, things can get ugly very quickly. Going abroad on Spirit Eve can turn into a challenge for even an experienced party.

Roll (1d12) Result1 1d4 wraiths 2 1d8 shadows 3-4 1d4+2 ghouls5-6 1d8+4 zombies7-8 1d4 wights9-10 1d8+4 skeletons 11 1d4 mohrgs12 1d4 vampire spawns

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Clockwork Prosthetics: Of Man and Machine

Artificial arms and legs represent the culmination of clockwork science. Even the simplest of limbs are unique works of art, and as such are never simply for sale. Certain High Thonian nobles may commission the creation of clockwork limbs, but even this relationship is closer to that of patron and master-artist, than customer and merchant. This rarity has contributed to the mystique surrounding clockwork limbs. Every night bards can be heard telling tales of clockwork warriors smashing down stone walls with their steel fists, enduring attacks from all sides, vaulting to the tops of high towers, and carrying off the flaxen-haired princess. Likewise priests are quick to admonish any science that would give mere mortals the strength, quickness and endurance of gods. While clockwork limbs are truly miracles of science, they fall disappointingly short of their legends. University tinkers have found that the problem lies not with the limb, but with the muscle and bone to which it is attached. A limb is only one part of a complex physiological system; hips and shoulders must still anchor and support whatever feat the limb is attempting, and meat shreds long before metal. Some High Thonians visionaries have proposed solving the problem by replacing even more of the human skeleton with a metal frame. Their theories hold that a cohesive clockwork skeleton would be easier to build and maintain than a mishmash of limbs. To date, such theories remain just that, thoeries, and not even the most eccentric theorist has claimed to make experiments with clockwork skeletons. Outside of the university halls, such theories are regarded by the common man as either foolishness or blasphemy. To replace a limb lost in war is a service to mankind; to elect to replace a skeleton with metal is to challenge the widom of the Gods. The second solution to the problem of physiology is even more esoteric than the first. Certain Cabal wizards have met with clockwork tinkers to discuss the possibility of merging clockwork science and magic. Theoretically every clockwork limb is already a masterwork item, and thus should readily take to magical enhancement. This offers a potential solution to the physical limitations of the both the clockworks and the human. The challenges created by this solution are no less difficult than the first. The number of clockwork tinkers talented and skillful enough to create clockwork limbs can be counted on one’s hands, and none of these geniuses have the arcane knowledge required to create wondrous items. Finding a master-tinker and archmage willing to work together long enough to create an enchanted clockwork limb seems as doubtful as the odds of replacing an entire skeleton with mithril gears and adamantine springs.

Using Clockwork Limbs in Your Game

Characters will find it difficult to acquire clockwork limbs. Since each limb is unique and fitted for a specific individual, and are too intricate to retrofit, “looted” limbs amount to little more than curiosities. Determined characters might win a limb as the gift from a noble patron, or even build one themselves. This second option is an exhaustive endeavor, requiring at least 10 ranks in both Knowledge: Engineering and Craft:Clockwork. Typically, the abilities of these limbs are limited to the realm of human potential. A clockwork limb has a Strength score ranging from 1 to 18; regardless of its rating, a limb can only function up to the ability of the wearer. The exception to this is any act in which the limb is isolated, e.g. pinching or crushing something in its grip. Magical limbs ignore these limitations, and are treated instead as wondrous items, obeying all the rules regarding their creation and use. If a limb were ever made that was backed with a reinforced skeletal-frame, it would also ignore these shortcomings. Such a framework has not yet been created, but High Thonian nobles are always pressing the boundaries of clockwork science. The rarity of clockwork limbs cannot be overstated. Magical clockwork limbs or body-replacements are unheard of, and should be treated with the same awe and respect as artifacts. GMs should include them in their game only with the greatest of care, and even then, only at high levels.

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The Merchants’ Guild

Rogues rob with bow and steel, Kings with tax and royal seal. But Merchants are the worst, ‘tis said, rob you with your daily bread. -childrens’ rhyme

The vast majority of the business conducted by the Merchants’ Guild is mundane, legitimate and mind-numbingly dull. Ruled by a council of guild masters representing the interests of merchants in major cities across the north, the Guild spends most of its time monitoring trade, negotiating tariffs and taxes with representatives of the Regency Council, and otherwise insuring the smooth exchange of goods and services. But as cities grow on the frontier, so too grows the barons’ reliance on the Guild. The lands of the North are still too wild and unsettled to support large populations – the farmlands of the North simply cannot grow enough food to provide for their cities. The Merchants’ Guild makes up for this shortage by importing foodstuffs and manufactured goods, which are exchanged for raw materials harvested from the frontier. The North’s reliance on the Guild for peoples’ daily bread gives the merchants extraordinary bargaining power, and where power and greed walk hand in hand, corruption is sure to follow. As a group, the Guild isn’t evil, simply indifferent. The sharp-eyed scriveners and their well-fed Masters know that everything has a price. While some might accuse the Guild of cruelty, the truth is that the Guild is neither cruel nor kind. Every decision made by the Masters is held accountable by the bottom line; if an action is profitable, they pursue it, heedless of ethical complications. With their deep coffers and massive treasuries, the Guild has enough coin to field an army that would threaten any single baron, but the Guild’s machinations are too subtle and far reaching for such brute tactics. The true strength of the Guild lies in its mundane record keeping. Know what a man buys, and you know the man is a truth embraced by the Guild. Their scriveners keep meticulous records of everything bought and sold in the North. These records provide intimate knowledge about the hidden dealings of barons and kings. If one baron is secretly girding for war, the Guild knows. If another is coveting his neighbor’s reasources, the Guild knows. And if the two should go to war, the Guild will provide weapons and armor for both. In keeping with their philosophy of profit above all, the Guild maintains a network of black markets, fences and fixers that spans the entire North. Stolen goods, deadly poisons, dark artifacts, assassinations, and even slaves can all be had for the right price. The Guild is careful to keep a discreete distance from these operations, but the trail of soiled gold coins inevitably leads back to their coffers in Blackmoor and Maus. The Guild’s plans span whole decades. A ghetto-shark aims to make a quick profit in a single night. The Guild aims to make continuous profits over several lifetimes, by establishing deep roots and foundations that can endure any crisis (and even the dedicated efforts of do-gooding “adventurers”). After Marfeldt’s legendary looting of the Guild coffers thirty years ago, many have come to assume that the Guild lacks the power or will to pursue those who pray on them. Nothing is further from the truth. The Masters see annoying do-gooders and petty thieves as just another business expense; hiring an assassin is expensive work. So long as their losses are small, the Guild chooses to ignore them. But if, at any time, those losses grow too great, the Guild moves with the speed and finality of an executioner’s axe, calling in their best bounty hunters and assassins, and erasing all traces of those foolish enough to cross the Guild.

Garrote the Halfblooded, Guild Assassin

The half-orc called Garrote was born in the infamous slavepits of the Blackhand orcs, where he fought for every scrap of food and shred of respect. Forced to serve in the death-marked Ebon Company, Garrote distinguished himself simply by being the only survivor on seven separate missions. Rising through the ranks of the Ebons, Garrote proved a quick learner as well as a survivor. On the eve of his sixteenth birthday, Garrote stole into the slave master’s tent and strangled the ogre-lord in his sleep. Fleeing with the slave lord’s sword, Garrote swore that he would never call another creature master again. The half-orc

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wandered for several years, earning his keep as a sellsword, bounty-hunter, and reaver. The world has never shown Garrote any kindness, and he offers none in return. Presently Garrote sells his services to the Merchants’ Guild, working as an intermediary between upstanding Guild members and the less-savory citizens of the North’s underworld. In many ways, Garrote is typical of mid-rank Guild assassins. Talented, driven, and accustomed to high-stakes danger, these men and women live and die by the blade. Garrote is different from his peers in that he has no delusions about his place in the Guild hierarchy. He knows that the Guild will use him until he is no longer valuable, and then discard him like so much ghetto-trash. Garrote plans on taking the lion’s share and being gone long before then. Garrote, male half-orc Rog5/Ftr2/Asn2: CR 9; Medium Humanoid (half-orc); HD 5d6+2d10+2d6+9; hp 62; Init +7; Spd 30ft.; AC 17, touch 13, flat-footed 14; Base Atk/grapple +6/+9; Atk +9 melee (1d10+5/17-20, +2 keen katana); Full Atk +9/+4 melee (1d10+5/17-20, +2 keen katana); SQ sneak attack +4d6, trapfinding, evasion, trap sense +1, uncanny dodge, death attack, poison use, +1 save vs. poison, improved uncanny dodge; AL LE; SV Fort +5, Ref +10, Will 0; Str 16, Dex 17, Con 12, Int 14, Wis 8, Cha 9. Skills and Feats: Appraise +6, Balance +8, Climb +9, Disguise +3, Hide +17, Intimidate +7, Jump +7, Listen +7, Move Silently +17, Search +10, Sense Motive +11, Sleight of Hand +8, Spot +7, Tumble +7; Combat Expertise, Exotic Weapon Proficiency, Improved Initiative, Quick Draw, Stealthy, Two-Weapon Fighting. Possessions: Reaper (+2 keen katana), +1 studded leather of stealth moves, thieves’ tools. Typical Assassin Spells Preapared (2; base DC = 12 + spell level): 1 –– sleep, true strike.

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Updating the License: Wizards or its designated Agents may publish updated versions of this License. You may use anyauthorized version of this License to copy, modify and distribute any Open Game Content originally distributed under any version of thisLicense.10 Copy of this License: You MUST include a copy of this License with every copy of the Open Game Content You Distribute.11. Use of Contributor Credits: You may not market or advertise the Open Game Content using the name of any Contributorunless You have written permission from the Contributor to do so.12 Inability to Comply: If it is impossible for You to comply with any of the terms of this License with respect to some or all ofthe Open Game Content due to statute, judicial order, or governmental regulation then You may not Use any Open Game Material soaffected.13 Termination: This License will terminate automatically if You fail to comply with all terms herein and fail to cure such breachwithin 30 days of becoming aware of the breach. All sublicenses shall survive the termination of this License.14 Reformation: If any provision of this License is held to be unenforceable, such provision shall be reformed only to the extentnecessary to make it enforceable.15 COPYRIGHT NOTICEOpen Game License v 1.0 Copyright 2000, Wizards of the Coast, Inc.System Rules Document Copyright 2000 Wizards of the Coast, Inc.; Authors Jonathan Tweet, Monte Cook, Skip Williams, basedon original material by E. Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson.Dave Arneson’s Blackmoor: A Night in Maus Part Twoby Harley Stroh, Copyright 2005 Zeitgeist Games, Inc.

The Adventure Continues

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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