The Temple of the Daughters of Odin

The 11 adventurers had marched through the Wild for two days in their search for the temple. "Temple" was a misnomer, actually, as the place was more like a fortress. Had to be in this part of the world.

It had been 10 days since Turnips had started having his dreams. Or, at least, since he started telling us about them. Then they got worse. It wasn't just during the height of battle or while sleeping that Turnips would assume his Hannon persona, with its strange Northern tongue and accompanying Berserker battle rage. This certainly wasn't something that was advertised when the Admiral signed Turnips up for the "sugar cure." There must be something else afoot. And, while having a Berserker was defnitely handy in battle, we were now in real danger of losing the Turnips identity for good. This could not stand.

All morning the landscape was strangely silent. There was no sound nor sight of flying birds or ground creatures, both large and small. The land itself seemed to have lost some of its color. There was a faint charred smell to the air. The group was in a subdued mood, and even Bocking the Bard's songs could not rouse their spirits. In addition, for the past mile there was the strangest glow in the sky ahead of them. The orange glow would start then quickly fade. This would happen several times a minute.

Now there were faint, but growing, sounds of battle.

Not wanting to be taken unawares, the Admiral had ordered the fighters to the front of the group, in the Standard Adventuring Tactical Formation (SATF). Then came the theives, bowmen, and Zimbar the Halfling Paladin. In the rear were the healers and spell casters, as far away from melee weapons as was possible. Turnips was in the front line, as it was assumed that, during any combat, his Hannon Berserker persona would take over.

Rossaroni looked over at his friend, Turnips, as they trudged up the hill, whose summit must surely reveal to them what was afoot. Turnips was dressed in a leather jerkin, +1 enchanted chainmail (softly glowing green in the dim sunlight), an iron helm atop his head, and the famous Seven League Boots on his feet. On his back was the Bag of Holding, which contained all the Fellowships food and bedding. And a couple of ponies too, I think.

The Admiral remembered how Turnips had begged him not to interrupt the journey to Toronaga's Island for his sake. Rossaroni was adamant though. They had already lost Fedor. Another loss must be avoided, if possible. So the Planetary Sovereign put in to Woolly Bay, left the ship in the capable hands of the Chief, and made tracks for the Temple of the Daughters of Odin. Surely, the reknowned Sisters would know something about Turnips' Nordic affliction.

When they reached the summit a most unnerving sight greeted their eyes. Half a mile away stood the Temple, its sturdy polished granite walls rising twenty feet into the air. But surrounding the fort was an attacking army. Behind the army was a small hill, obscured by fog or smoke. Just then a orange glow flared up inside the mist and a glowing fireball flew towards the fort's wall, sending splinters of stone in all directions as it hit.

"Penna the Younger," ordered Rossaroni. "Come up here and tell me what your young elf eyes see." "Half-elf, Admiral," he joked. Even the sight in front of him could not douse his good humored nature. "On the left I see skeletons, perhaps 20 or 30 of them. The center has a troop of orcs. I reckon about 80 of them. On the right are 2 dozen earth elementals. And surrounding the hill are a dozen centaurs, galloping in a loose skirmish formation."

Undated picture of Penna the Younger

"I say, other than the chap with the fireballs, this lot doesn't look all that bad," Woodpecker-Smythe interjected.

"It's that 'chap' I'm worried about, Woody," replied the Admiral. "A low level sorcerer who can only summon elementals and skeletons could never throw fireballs like that. And they don't attack well defended castles either."

"So what's he up to then?" P the Y asked.

"Good question, my lad." The Freebooter responded. "Well, if he's not showng his entire hand, neither will I. No offensive magic until I give the word. Woody, can you whip up an illusion to hide or disguise us?"

Woody nodded and started rummaging through his pack. "Sure thing, boss. Give me a minute to find the blasted scroll."

The Admiral continued rattling out instructions. "Zimbar, you and the Padre are in change of dispelling those summoned creatures. You take the skeletons and the Padre will tackle the elementals, as they are a bit tougher to take down. Padre, keep your eyes open for any life-suckers. If that sorcerer is as bad as I think he is, he'll have a few liches or ghasts hanging about. And make ready with your bows, gentleman... and ladies," he said with a nod toward Lady Lyme-Weoghe, perhaps the best shot of the group, "I don't want those centaurs to get within 100 yards of us. Woody, are you ready?"

W-S closed his eyes, chanted quietly for several seconds, and the group faded into near invisibility. Only a slight shimmering in the air betrayed their presence. The Admiral hoped it would be good enough to get close to that hill before whatever was in there noticed them.

The Admiral looked over his motley group. "Alright people, no attacks till we're spotted. Stay alert for surprises."

"Follow me..."

A Secret Council

The Admiral, Turnips, and W-S beat a hasty retreat from the Hydra’s Lair and made tracks for the Admiral's ship, Planetary Sovereign. The trio wound their way through the city's narrow streets and soon came to the docks and safety.

W-S breathed a sign of relief. "I say, that was jolly good fun. Let's do it again. I know this bar over in the Nymph District where the ladies..."

"I'm not in the mood for another 'adventure' Woody," interrupted a still down-in-the-dumps Turnips. "I still don't see what our purpose was in going to that benighted tavern-slash-casino. The Admiral said it was all part of his 'plan.' " Lord Turnips added air-quotes for emphasis. "All I know was that we were there for an hour and didn't do anything other than get accosted by some low life NPCs."

"But that is where you are wrong, dear friend," replied the Admiral, as he led them into the Sovereign's salon. "You failed to see me concluding my business arrangement with the Hydra's proprietor, the esteemed Master Schlamazel the Butcher. Everything is still going according to plan, as you shall see tomorrow evening when you and Woody attend the great Council I am convening up at the Keepe."

"I smell an adventure!" Beamed an excited W-S. "Do tell us what's in store for us. Please, please, please, please, please!" "Now, now, Woody," replied the Freebooter. "For reasons of operational security it would be best if we wait till tomorrow. Come now, let us forget the travails that face us, and have some rum to celebrate our successful escape roll against those thugs. Schott! Flagons for my guests! ... Schott! Come here! Oh bother, it's so hard to find good oafs these days..."

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Turnips and Woodpecker-Smythe arrived at the Keepe the following evening. Even as Schott led their horses away to the Keepe's stable, they were still in the dark as to the purpose of the Council. "I say, we're still in the dark as to the purpose of the Council," said Woody. "Just cool your jets [Editor: huh?], Woody. We'll know in two shakes of a lambs tail," replied Lord Turnips.

Turnips was in a much better mood now after a good night's sleep and an afternoon teaching his son and heir Stuart some of the finer point of his profession. Young Turnips had impudently stated that all the cool kids at school wanted to be mages, but the elder Turnips explained to his son that 6 generations of Turnips have had the same profession and Stuart was going to make number 7. At least his son didin't come out and say he wanted to be a healer, Turnips thought with relief as he smiled to himself.

The two openned the door to the Keepe's meeting room. The room was dominated by a large circular wooden table, highly polished and inlaid with intricate carvings of strange creatures, half of which probably didn't even exist. The table was surrounded with 12 chairs, with no one chair more ornate or larger than the rest. This was a table meant for equals.

Almost all the chairs were full. The only empty seats were on either side of the Admiral. The other nine seats were occupied by a diverse group, ranging from a fierce northern Barbarian, an armor plated Paladin, a flambouyantly dressed eccentric who could only be a healer, and a ravishing pair of twin sisters who were seated in the 12th and 13th seats. Oh wait a minute, she must be an illusionist, there are only 12 seats here. The Admiral waved them over. "Turnips! Woody! Over here! I've saved some kick ass seats for you!" The duo sat down.

The Admiral began. "Now that everyone is here, let us begin." He solemnly looked around the room. "Thank you all for coming here tonight. I look around the room here and see representatives from many peoples and many cultures. Though we come from different backgrounds, and have different reasons for why we came, after tonight we all share a common purpose. And that is an unwavering desire to rescue Lady Marzipan from the clutches of the Dread Sorceror, the Dark Lord, Lord Toranaga. Let us vow that, from this day, till we acheive sucess or draw our last breath, that we shall not rest until she is returned safely from the Dark Lord's island fortress. Our goal here tonight is to come up with a plan to save her, and then to outfit our group, our fellowship, if you will, to go forth and sail into immortality!"

At this point, where there should have been raucus cheering and shouts of "Here, here!" and "We're with you Admiral!" and "Excelsior!" from 11 excited voices, there was only one voice, one Woodpecker-Smythe crying "Here, here! We're with you Admiral! Excelsior!" And Lord Turnips was curiously looking at the other faces, wondering why they weren't jabbering like W-S was. An awkward silence filled the room.

The Admiral broke the silence, "But what kind of a host would I be if I didn't serve dinner to my hungry guests before we get down to business. Schott! Bring in the mutton!"

As the guests started to eat, Woody, oblivious to the awkwardness, turned to the Admiral. "I've got an excellent felling about this, Admiral. I look about me and see the finest our land has to offer. Free men and women, here by choice, virtuous and honorable, ready to lay their lives on the line for truth and justice. By the Maker, it makes me proud to be alive!" Turnips, a touch more savvy than the eager Woodpecker-Smythe, raised a finger to interrupt W-S, who was now describing how the upcoming rescue would be enshrined in the annals of history and be immortalized by epic song, story, and verse from now until the time the Maker undid the world.

"Ahem, if I may, Woody," said Lord Turnips. W-S, now red in the face from his verbal exhortations, fell silent. Turnips continued, "Admiral, I couldn't help but noitce the, how shall I say, lack of enthusiasm among our guests with our upcoming quest. Would I be correct in surmising that these people are not here of their own free will?" "Wha-wha-what!" exclaimed Woodpecker-Smythe. "Turnips, are you saying that the Admiral kidnapped these people? That's monstrous!"

"Easy now, Woody," explained Rossaroni, "It's a little more complicated. All of these men and women do share one thing in common, appart from their skill in swordcraft and magery. And that is, their lack of skill at gambling. Each and everyone of them has run up extrodinarily large gaming debts at the Hydra’s Lair. Dangerously large. You see Fedor over there? 5000 pieces of gold he owes from the dice table. Lyme-Weoghe? She lost the deed to her father's blacksmithy. And Bocking, the foreigner, has fallen so far in debt in trying to earn his Guild membership money, that the very same guild has put out a contract on him."

Turnips was looking bemused with a slight grin on his face. The only term to describe Woodpecker-Smythe is agog.

The Admiral continued, "These people were all offered a choice by my business parter, Mr. Schlamazel. Debtor's prison (or worse), or a noble and virtuous adventure, as Woody would say. So they really are here of their own free will, if you look at it a certain way."

"You sly dog," chuckled Turnips.

"I'm not sure I like the smell of this, Admiral," said W-S. "It just doesn't seem... um, right, I guess. What about asking for volunteers? I'm sure the tavern is filled with young adventurers yearing to prove their mettle." "When was the last time you were at the tavern, Woody?" the Admiral retorted. "It's only filled with old men and thugs like the Schotts. I had a notice posted on the Help Wanted board for two months with no answer. And all I wanted was someone to go pick up my drycleaning! I knew I could count on you two, old friends, but we'll need a little more muscle for this job."

"Well, all right" replied W-S. "I guess I don't really have much choice in the matter. And, as I am your busom friend, in thick and thin, through orc raid and orc raid reprisal, I will stand by you now."

Turnips and W-S turned to their delicious mutton, one of the Admiral's specialities, from a recipe he acquired while adventuring near Buccaneer Islands many seasons ago. After finishing his delicious mutton, Lord Turnips raised one final question of the Freebooter. "Admiral, one question has been nagging me, old friend. These people are here to pay off a debt to Schlamazel the Butcher, right? But what does Schlamazel the Butcher get out of this? I mean, he gets along and respects Lady Marzipan just like the rest of us do, but I don't see how he will profit from this."

The Admiral uncharacteristically hemmed and hawed. "Hem... haw."

"Well, we just have to do Schlamazel the Butcher a little favor on the way to rescue Marzipan, that's all."

"And just what kind of favor would that be?" asked Turnips.

"Nothing really. Nothing."

"Admiral..." chided Lord Turnips.

"Hem. Haw. Well, we just have to stop at a certain harbor along the way, and, er... sack it."