Follow up to The Sign of the Blue Dragon, with some musings on Megadungeons

I wanted to post some more information concerning yesterday’s post, The Sign of The Blue Dragon: A Drop In Locale For Your D&D Campaign.

If Sascha and Father Lucas had been able to spend some more time deciphering the various writings on the walls of the Tavern, they might, at the DM’s discretion, have discovered some of the following:

1. The Tavern shifts through time, as well as dimensions.

2. The actual number of Prime worlds the Tavern visits is smaller than the chronicler whose words they were reading, thought. This is due to the Tavern visiting some worlds at different points in time. The true number is closer to 50. 

3. They didn’t get to the actual description of the dungeon level which the anonymous wizard explored. It was composed of a buried city, as if the buildings and infrastructure of the city had melded with a very large, crafted dungeon.  It was inhabited by demons, as well as a few other evil, outer planar beings. (The little map which was placed in the illustration is not an actual depiction of the dungeon level; it is an easter egg.)

4. There are a few adventurers who have figured out enough about the route the Tavern travels, that they sometimes brave using it on a regular basis. It is these parties who are responsible for keeping the place stocked with alcohol.

Originally, my idea of the genesis of the Tavern involved a failed attempt at creating a series of gates. I was never quite happy with that conception, but, as no party had ever dared remain inside for any length of time, I never had an impetus to revisit the idea, or develop the Tavern further. After reading Philotomy’s essay, The Dungeon as Mythic Underworld, I had a few other ideas.

The Tavern began its strange journey, when a group of adventurers stopped a Demon Lord from drawing several Prime Worlds into its layer of the Abyss. The Tavern was originally located at a point of entry of Abyssal Energies into one of these worlds. Through the use of Wishes, and similar magics, the heroes created a convergence of these points of entry, using the Tavern to tie them together and create a sort of  inter-dimensional plug, or lock, stopping the transformation process and ending the Demon Lord’s plans. Though they were mostly successful, the only way the heroes could find to bring their plan to fruition, was to sacrifice the world from which the Tavern came. The Tavern was sort of a Trojan Horse in this regard and when the Abyss swallowed that forgotten world, the magics built into the Tavern went into effect. Now, as an unforseen byproduct of the spells used to empower the Tavern, it constantly Plane Shifts to the various nexus points which form the connections between the Abyss and the worlds involved in the original conflict. This includes the world from which the Tavern originated, which is now a part of a vast dungeon inside one of the layers of the Abyss. Or, perhaps, this layer is really just one big Dungeon.

Several days ago, I read a blog post where someone mentioned the idea of The Mythic Underworld Dungeon spreading its tendrils throughout the Prime Material. Not sure who that was, so, if anyone reading knows, please drop me a comment so I can attribute and link.  Could this layer of the Abyss be the Ur-Dungeon? Or, perhaps, the as yet unnamed Abyssal Layer may be just a part of The Dungeon, which runs through all the evil aligned Outer Planes. Perhaps it is a demi-plane, burrowing its way into the various underworlds, as well as the Inner Planes.  If so, what dark god or fell power might be behind such an influential force?

Going back to the Tavern, there is a slightly different version of this locale that I have used in past campaigns. This is The Sign of the Angry Dwarf, which, in addition to the properties of the first version, also confers Protection From Evil upon anyone inside the Tavern.  I’m not sure if the two taverns are the same, but the latter version is sometimes frequented by a Dual-Class Thief 4/MU 2 named Giovanni Casanova, who may know the secret to controlling, or at least guiding, the Tavern’s journey.

Any comments, critiques or ideas furthering this material are most heartily welcome!

The Sign of the Blue Dragon: A Drop-in Locale For Your D&D Campaign.

Adapted from the diary of Sir Alexian Balthafore, Warlord of Triested, Knight of Metrane.
Entry dated the first week of the month of Delgor's Victory, 1357 A.R.

My companions and I were traveling west along the King’s Road, in Eitar; our destination being Tusk Tavern, the famous roadside Inn located three days travel east of the capital.  I had never been this far south before, but The Elf assured me that we were still a little over a day away from the comforts of the Tavern, so, I resigned myself to yet another night of sleeping beneath starry wonder. Balston, growing ever more freakish and inappropriately jovial since the Incident in the lair of the Duergar, was laughing uproariously at something Sascha had said, while The Elf and I were busily engaged in arguing over exactly where The Battle of Tusk Tavern had taken place. (About half a mile south of the actual tavern, or so I’ve been told.) So, it was the always quiet priest, Lucas, who first noticed the strange alehouse.

“Surely, we’re not here already,” he said, pointing to the building and sign-pole which had just become visible, as we rounded a bend in the well kept road which ran through the light woodlands like a quiet stream.

“That is not Tusk Tavern,” The Elf said, a touch of disquietude evident in his voice.

“No matter,” Sascha sighed, wiping some mud from the hem of her wizard’s robes. “As long as it’s warm and dry, we’ll settle for this place, for the nonce.”

No doubt, she and the dwarf would settle just fine. Balston could care less about who we were meeting at Tusk Tavern. Now that he had The Axe, I’m sure he was quite content to let me handle the more mundane tasks, like securing our allies and placing him upon the Dwarven Throne. Still, there was certainly no reason to turn down a little comfort, especially if the place had beds.

As we approached the building, the bend in the road leading us around to the clearing where the tavern squatted, like some great stone toad, I was duly impressed by the size of the place. Sixty to seventy feet in length, at least half that in width, single storied, with an old iron pole, standing out in front, from which hung a wooden placard, dark red in color, sporting an ophidian-like blue dragon with outspread wings. The building looked ancient, like ruins that hadn’t yet realized that they should begin to crumble.

“This place should not be here,” The Elf scolded.

“No, Tillian,” Balston patiently explained, “It should! I need a beer, so it definitely Should be here!”

Sascha laughed at her lover’s joke, and I wondered for the tenth time, whether or not her acceptance of the change in Balston’s behavior was genuine, or a sham, so that her dwarven lover might feel too self conscience to continue upbraiding her for her own dangerous toys.

I had to laugh at myself here. Balston was far too hot-headed to let a little hypocrisy interfere with his futile attempts to keep Sascha’s growing powers in check; also, no doubt, the brilliant wizardess had more effective ways of manipulating her stupid little ...

Gods, I’ve been traveling with these people way, way, too long.

We tethered our mounts, and I walked up the little path to the entrance of the building.

As I opened the grey wooden door which gave entrance to the tavern, my mind was pre-occupied with all these thoughts and more. I heard sounds of movement coming from inside the tavern, but that was hardly surprising. I opened the door, and saw four orcs; two behind the bar, one standing beside the fireplace which was far to the left, the other about twenty feet away, directly in front  of my current position.

“Orcs!”

I was already moving as I warned my companions, but not straight ahead. The orc who was hiding behind the opened door on my right had been betrayed by his smell, not to mention the sound of his obnoxious, tusk-mouthed breathing. I trusted my companions to watch my back as I whirled to the right and drew forth my sword, its dweomer-enhanced brilliance flashing in the darkened room, the sigils etched in the steel burning a yellowish-red; those sigils spat fire as I caught the sword of my attacker on my magically tempered blade, noticing at the same time, that this was the largest orc I had ever seen. I exerted my strength and drove his weapon upward, my prodigious speed and might granting me the time to force him back into the wall and drive my knee into his groin before he could counter. His strength left him and he dropped his weapon in agony and surprise; I sliced open his neck before his sword hit the ground.

Whirling around, I saw Balston, The Axe screaming in his hands, dispatch an orc with a single sideways blow, half slicing, half ripping the humanoid in half. I swear to Metrane, he giggled; I also noticed, for the first time, his eyes turn yellow. Sascha killed the last, using the little blue missiles I first saw her cast years ago, when she was just a young neophyte, new to the business of dealing death. I knew, of course that her serene, focused demeanor was just the action of her magical trance, but, I swear, if I wasn’t immune to fear, I think the sight of her so calmly engaged in the business of slaughter would scare me silly.

“Ha! By Kuekar that was fun! Just what I needed to build my thirst! Now, to slake it!”


“No doubt, the poor proprietor was slain by the orcs,” Sascha reasoned, following Balston to the bar. The dwarven warrior found a keg of something potable and began his quaffing.

“Mmm, not bad. Tastes kinda like that smooth, honey ale the gnomes brew, over in Nagan. Let me find ya a glass babe,” Balston exclaimed, slapping the wizardess’ behind as he moved past her to hunt under the bar for a cup.

It was then, that I and the others began to look around, deciding to pay attention to what the backs of our minds had registered while we were busy dealing with orcs and the rush of battle.

The walls were covered in writing. I mean, covered. In several different languages, using several different alphabets, and written by several different hands. Some of it looked more like math. None of the writing even resembled the languages with which I was familiar. I also noticed the large map, drawn upon a sheet of thin wood, which lay upon the floor of the tavern, near the bar. It was about six feet long, five feet wide, and depicted a dungeon, of all things, neatly painted, with all the familiar symbols and notes.

“Something is very wrong here,” The Elf complained.

“Yes, Tillian” Lucas reasoned, “But exactly what is that something? Other than the fact, that there are no orcs, this far south?”

“Sascha, can you read any of this?” I asked.

“Give me a moment to prepare.”

“Hey,” Balston said, ale dripping from his beard. “What’s with the map?”

While Sascha readied herself, we began looking around. The building was 55’ x 70’. Few items of interest were in the common area, though we did find a Scroll of Dispel Magic, laying amidst an odd assortment of more mundane items. Also a helm, which wasn’t magical, but was exceptionally well made. Inks, pens, an artist’s palette, chalk, and a few more unrecognizable writing utensils were present. The head of a young, Blue Dragon was mounted and hung on the wall. A small kitchen area was in the back, as well as a storage room with a trapdoor, which led to a small basement, containing wine, kegs of ale, a bed, a stack of books, and a small alter to an unknown divinity. We took the books, though we could not yet translate them. The alter was a simple affair of wood and cloth; the holy symbol was a simple geometrical shape, black with a white circle for the background.

 
“Alexian, get up here!”

The Damn Elf, again. We ascended the stairs. The Elf was fretting, and pacing about, while Sascha and Lucas were conferring with each other, discussing the various notes and scribbles which adorned the stone walls of the tavern.

“No, Lucas, see here? The wizard who wrote this was convinced that there was a larger pattern. That’s why he took a chance and left the tavern long enough to explore a level of the dungeon and make that map! It all comes back to the dungeon, somehow.”

“Dungeon? What Dungeon?”

“The map on the floor Balston,” Sascha said, pointing to the map and smiling at me from across the room.”

“Still,” Lucas said, in that stern, serious way of his, “We should probably be leaving right about now.”

“You guys want to explain all this?”

“The tavern travels between worlds, Alexian. It shifts, in some sort of weird pattern. According to the notes those people left behind, there’s at least 80 or 90 different places the tavern shifts to, remaining in any given location for a variable amount of time, usually somewhere between one to two days.”

“But not always, Sascha,” Lucas said. “Sometimes it shifts after only a few hours, sometimes it might remain in a single location for a week or more. None of this information is certain enough to bet on. We should leave, now.”

Sascha was ignoring the cleric, explaining to Balston how the dungeon tied in and that at every fifth stop, like clockwork, the tavern went back to the dungeon.

“Well,” said Balston, a smile upon his lips, “Looks like it’s time for another dungeon adventure!”

“No! We’re leaving now! We’re too damn close to go and throw everything away just because you want to go on an adventure!”

“Lighten up Alexian, we’ve got a little time. We’ll catch up with the Corswedan ambassador later. They need us more than we need them! This’ll be fun. I need a vacation, anyway.”

For about the hundredth time, I wondered at my insanity, for helping this insane little murderer try to usurp the throne of Korocia. The fact was, I needed him. I needed him to succeed. I needed Korocia to unite and enter the war on our side.

“No Balston, we’re going now! We’re going to Tusk Tavern, we’re going to meet the Ambassador from Corswede, we’re going to convince the elves to back us up magically and help us neutralize the Arcanists, and we’re going back to Korocia, so you can show off that Damn Axe, and let Kuekar order all his priests to back you against anyone who actually has a legitimate claim to Korocia’s throne, and we’re damn well doing so right now!”

Balston looked at me, I saw his grip tighten upon The Axe. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw The Elf back away, readying a spell. I heard Lucas behind me; he would try to help me, so long as I was still playing ball. If he thought I might actually kill Balston, he would try to immolate me in fire, or Plane Shift me to the Abyss; whatever it took to make sure Balston lived to fulfill Kuekar’s plan. Sascha, well, that was obvious. But, as I saw Balston’s eyes beginning to turn yellow, and his hair begin to turn white (wondering, at the time, what in the hell that could mean,) it was Sascha who came to my aid.

She began stroking the dangerous dwarf, whispering in his ear, caressing his neck and hands. I noticed it was working, he was beginning to calm down. With a motion of her eyes, she told me and the others to leave the tavern. We exited calmly, walking some way down the road, before stopping to wait for the rest of our party.
A few minutes later, Sascha and Balston came out, laughing and playing.

“Come on, Cavalier,” Balston exclaimed, a keg of ale under each arm. “These won’t last long, so let’s high forth and get to your precious Tusk Tavern!”

We left, but as it was getting late, we made camp a few miles down the road.

I couldn’t sleep. I mounted my horse, and rode back toward what I now thought of as The Sign of the Blue Dragon.

Sure enough, it was gone. It was then, that I admitted to myself, that part of me wanted to follow Balston on his mad adventure. Just say to hell with the war, with Triested, with Metrane. Fuck Pharj Mudast, let someone else kill his sorry ass! Let the dwarves fight their little civil war, while Rearkron waxed strong and readied to invade Korocia.

I knew I never would, of course. I was the last Knight of Metrane. I had my duty, my god, and my friends. I didn’t fight through hell and death, just to turn back when things got sticky. But, I understand how Balston must have really felt, that all the politics was sucking the life out of what we did. Whatever happened to those days, when we would find a dungeon to invade, for the wealth, the glory, and the sheer hell of it?

*Tavern Placard made with Gimp. Tavern maps made with Dungeon Crafter III.

With affection, this is dedicated to the original players of the Kastmaria Campaign.