A new Triangle D&D campaign will begin on September 11, 2010. Set 22 years after The Vivec Saga: Part 2, it will feature previously unexplored parts of the world and some descendants of Vivec Saga characters.
The world is changing. Magic seems to be draining from the world, perhaps returning to its source as the god of magic resumes his position. Undead have begun to plague the people of the world, spreading terror and disease. A global empire extends its grasp, for better or for worse. Will the new heroes be up to the challenge?
Find out in Legacy of Shadows!
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A New Home for Triangle D&D
It is with great pleasure that I introduce to you, avid Triangle D&D fans, our new home on the web. Over the course of the next few months, we will be transferring all the content contained in this blog as well as in our wiki to our new website. There's not much there yet, but keep checking back. I'm sure you'll be as glad as we are to have everything in one place.
So without further ado, I give to you www.mloclam.com!
So without further ado, I give to you www.mloclam.com!
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Bluwiki Back Online
Bluwiki.com was down for a few days, but now it's back online for all you die-hard Triangle D&D fans out there...
Friday, July 30, 2010
Rebirth: Campaign Chronicle
Campaign summaries from the Rebirth campaign are now being posted on the wiki page! The page will be updated approximately daily (for real this time) until they are all posted. You can read them here or click the new link in the sidebar. Enjoy!
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Black Sword, Chapter 6: A Small Injustice
The sun was sinking in the western sky as Ghaleon, Soirse, and Malcolm strode down the dusty street leading into town, the sounds and smells of The Tumblin' Dice fading behind them. As the daylight faded into the orange hues of dusk, Ghaleon led his companions on a twisting course through alleys and side-streets in order to reach the smiths' row.
"Why do we all have to stay at my house again?" Malcolm asked, annoyed.
"I already told you," Ghaleon replied smoothly, showing only a hint of frustration, "my manor is too far out of our way, and we have to get to the old man as fast as possible tomorrow morning. I don't feel like getting eaten alive by parasites today. It's almost been a week."
"And we don't know what Siobhan's going to need to make the cure," added Soirse.
Malcolm made no reply, and the three continued to wind their way through the back passages of Altair. Suddenly, Soirse reached forward and brushed Ghaleon's arm. He stopped immediately. Malcolm took two more steps and stopped as well. Another moment passed, and the warrior and warlock heard the approaching commotion.
Laughing and jeering drifted down the alleyway, followed by the silhouettes of three large men, the largest of whom seemed to be carrying something that writhed, squirmed and whined. Ghaleon stood in the center of the alley, ready to spring into a fighting stance as the men came into view. Night had fallen, and dim light flickered from the windows high above the alley. The faint glow that illuminated the men's faces revealed them to be as ugly as the words that drifted along before them. The wriggling bundle borne by the largest of them was revealed to be a very displeased young halfling.
"Out of the way, stranger," a gravelly voice called from the man holding the halfling, "You don't want no trouble here."
"Please help me!" cried the halfling, wrenching his body up and biting his captor's hand. The thug yelped and the halfling scrambled back behind Ghaleon. The large men began to pace menacingly and deliberately toward the warrior, grinding their knuckles into their fists and assuming other confrontational postures. Malcolm and Soirse emerged from the shadows on either side of Ghaleon.
"Best step aside," the ruffian on the left sneered, "This little peck was caught stealing bread from Bertram here," he motioned to the man on the right. "He knows what happens to his kind when they steal from normal folks."
Ghaleon bent his knees slightly, shifting his weight to his back leg, "You three should know better than to talk to me like that," he returned, maintaining eye contact with the largest thug.
"Ghaleon, we don't want any trouble," Soirse whispered to the fighter, "attention would not be good right now."
Grudgingly, he nodded, holding his gaze on the leader. "Just walk away. Turn around, leave this fellow alone, and go."
"You defending that little pile of scum?" the gravelly voice mocked, "What are you, some kind of peck lover?"
"Might be I am," Ghaleon replied sternly, "But if you're smart, you won't test me on it."
Emitting an angered growl, the leader took three long, clumsy strides directly toward Ghaleon, swinging a gnarled and calloused fist as he came. In an instant, the fighter ducked the blow, loosed his sword, and barreled into the thug's stomach, leading with his shoulder. The mountain of a man collapsed with an audible thud, breath all fled from his lungs, gasping as he felt steel pressed to his cheek. He looked up, seething but powerless, and Ghaleon nodded. The thug rose slowly, backing away until he was out of reach of the warrior's sword. He and his friends turned and ran.
"Thank you, sir," the quivering halfling squeaked. He could not have been more than ten years old, "I thought I was done and gone."
"Run along," Ghaleon growled, "I'm no friend to your kind."
"But you saved me," he trembled, "And I want to thank you. My name's Nebin. See, my family and I don't --"
"I said run along," the warrior interrupted, angrily, "I don't give a rat's ass about your family."
Nebin's eyes started to water as he backed away. Soirse stepped forward and knelt, eyes level with the halfling's, and touched the place where his shoulder and his neck met, muttering some magic words. The blue-black bruise that covered the skin seemed to evaporate as she finished the brief incantation.
"Run along, Nebin," Soirse whispered, "You're welcome."
"Why do we all have to stay at my house again?" Malcolm asked, annoyed.
"I already told you," Ghaleon replied smoothly, showing only a hint of frustration, "my manor is too far out of our way, and we have to get to the old man as fast as possible tomorrow morning. I don't feel like getting eaten alive by parasites today. It's almost been a week."
"And we don't know what Siobhan's going to need to make the cure," added Soirse.
Malcolm made no reply, and the three continued to wind their way through the back passages of Altair. Suddenly, Soirse reached forward and brushed Ghaleon's arm. He stopped immediately. Malcolm took two more steps and stopped as well. Another moment passed, and the warrior and warlock heard the approaching commotion.
Laughing and jeering drifted down the alleyway, followed by the silhouettes of three large men, the largest of whom seemed to be carrying something that writhed, squirmed and whined. Ghaleon stood in the center of the alley, ready to spring into a fighting stance as the men came into view. Night had fallen, and dim light flickered from the windows high above the alley. The faint glow that illuminated the men's faces revealed them to be as ugly as the words that drifted along before them. The wriggling bundle borne by the largest of them was revealed to be a very displeased young halfling.
"Out of the way, stranger," a gravelly voice called from the man holding the halfling, "You don't want no trouble here."
"Please help me!" cried the halfling, wrenching his body up and biting his captor's hand. The thug yelped and the halfling scrambled back behind Ghaleon. The large men began to pace menacingly and deliberately toward the warrior, grinding their knuckles into their fists and assuming other confrontational postures. Malcolm and Soirse emerged from the shadows on either side of Ghaleon.
"Best step aside," the ruffian on the left sneered, "This little peck was caught stealing bread from Bertram here," he motioned to the man on the right. "He knows what happens to his kind when they steal from normal folks."
Ghaleon bent his knees slightly, shifting his weight to his back leg, "You three should know better than to talk to me like that," he returned, maintaining eye contact with the largest thug.
"Ghaleon, we don't want any trouble," Soirse whispered to the fighter, "attention would not be good right now."
Grudgingly, he nodded, holding his gaze on the leader. "Just walk away. Turn around, leave this fellow alone, and go."
"You defending that little pile of scum?" the gravelly voice mocked, "What are you, some kind of peck lover?"
"Might be I am," Ghaleon replied sternly, "But if you're smart, you won't test me on it."
Emitting an angered growl, the leader took three long, clumsy strides directly toward Ghaleon, swinging a gnarled and calloused fist as he came. In an instant, the fighter ducked the blow, loosed his sword, and barreled into the thug's stomach, leading with his shoulder. The mountain of a man collapsed with an audible thud, breath all fled from his lungs, gasping as he felt steel pressed to his cheek. He looked up, seething but powerless, and Ghaleon nodded. The thug rose slowly, backing away until he was out of reach of the warrior's sword. He and his friends turned and ran.
"Thank you, sir," the quivering halfling squeaked. He could not have been more than ten years old, "I thought I was done and gone."
"Run along," Ghaleon growled, "I'm no friend to your kind."
"But you saved me," he trembled, "And I want to thank you. My name's Nebin. See, my family and I don't --"
"I said run along," the warrior interrupted, angrily, "I don't give a rat's ass about your family."
Nebin's eyes started to water as he backed away. Soirse stepped forward and knelt, eyes level with the halfling's, and touched the place where his shoulder and his neck met, muttering some magic words. The blue-black bruise that covered the skin seemed to evaporate as she finished the brief incantation.
"Run along, Nebin," Soirse whispered, "You're welcome."
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Cyrus's Speech before the Ice Fortress
Brothers and sisters of Altair, the time to march on our enemy has come! Our ancestors have fought and died defending our beloved city. Now that honor is ours. We go to face the greatest enemy our city has yet known.
Many of you remember the lash of the Fire Legion. Many of you remember its tyranny and oppression of our people. But the foe before us seeks not to conquer or enslave, but to destroy. We must succeed, or there will be no tomorrow.
But fear not, the sun will rise again! We are strong, we are brave, and we will not perish from this land. Let us defend what is rightfully ours! Altair!
-Cyrus
Many of you remember the lash of the Fire Legion. Many of you remember its tyranny and oppression of our people. But the foe before us seeks not to conquer or enslave, but to destroy. We must succeed, or there will be no tomorrow.
But fear not, the sun will rise again! We are strong, we are brave, and we will not perish from this land. Let us defend what is rightfully ours! Altair!
-Cyrus
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Black Sword, Chapter 5: Rivals
Ghaleon staggered back as a burly fist slammed into his stomach, hitting his breastplate and tilting it into his abdomen. Torvald did not even seem to notice that his fist had struck steel as he took up a fighting stance. Amidst his attempts to regain his footing, Ghaleon drew a small hand crossbow strapped to his pack. He recovered with a flourish, loosing a bolt at his adversary. Torvald dodged to the right just in time as the bolt grazed his left bicep, digging a shallow channel in his skin as it passed.
Torvald was upon him before he could even cast away his crossbow. Growling, he launched another huge fist directly at Ghaleon's face. The blow found purchase, and Ghaleon's became a world of red and green starbursts. As the warrior dropped to his knees in the dust, Torvald gloated, "There. Had enough?"
The sound of metal scraping against metal rang out as Ghaleon leaped to his feet with a rabid fury burning in his eyes. His sword drew a wide arc in front of him, and Torvald backpedaled just quickly enough to avoid the strike. With a lunge, he caught Ghaleon's hand as the swipe neared its end, twisting it until it released and the blade clattered to the ground. With one fluid motion, pulling the arm around behind the warrior's back and pressing his foot to the back of the legs, Torvald forced Ghaleon back on his knees.
A thick, muscled arm whipped under Ghaleon's chin and closed around his neck. A knee in his back pushed him prone in the dust with Torvald's crushing weight forcing the breath from his lungs. Ghaleon kicked his legs furiously and tried to pull with his arms, but Torvald had taken a position that allowed him to evade these blows. Each breath required greater strain. Sputtering in the dust, Ghaleon began to drift into a blurry haze. The world seemed to darken and drift away, then nothing.
***
Ghaleon awoke with a start as Soirse completed a minor spell of healing. He sat bolt-upright, eyes darting every way in an attempt to find Torvald, but his childhood rival had moved on. He struggled to his feet, picking up his sword with his dirt-caked hand. Silently, he sheathed the blade and turned away, walking toward the bridge.
No one spoke on the rest of the journey to Ollidar Fallone's manor. Ghaleon huffed and fumed, furious and impotent. Soirse struggled to stifle laughter over Ghaleon's plight while still feeling a pang of empathy. Malcolm just walked. The mansion was a picture of faded opulence. Immense and heavily ornamented, the splendor it still displayed served only to accent that which it had lost. The grounds were slightly overgrown; the gilding around the doorway was mildly tarnished. The three travelers approached the door. Ghaleon knocked.
After a few moments of silence, the door opened. In its place stood an average-sized man, trim but not slight, dressed in older, but still exquisite clothing. His brown hair hung like laurels around his otherwise bald head; his brow furrowed with stress.
"May I help you folks?" the man sighed.
"Ollidar Fallone?" Ghaleon asked politely.
"I am he," the man responded.
"You owe my associate some money," Ghaleon said, growling out the word "money" as his rage from his previous humiliation came surging back.
"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," Fallone replied coyly.
"I don't have time for this," Ghaleon threatened, gripping his sword hilt as he stepped forward, "Jagg needs his gold." At the mention of Jagg Mitchum, Ollidar Fallone's face showed recognition. The merchant fidgeted nervously.
"I... ah... do recall some dealings with the esteemed Mister Mitchum, long ago, vaguely," Fallone stammered, "though I was quite certain I... ah... fulfilled all my obligations."
"Not according to Mister Mitchum," Ghaleon replied, loosening the sword in its sheath, "seems you owe him some three hundred gold pieces."
Ollidar Fallone's face could not hide his nervousness, and recognition of the sum played across his face. "I suppose my accountant, yes, my accountant could have made some error. I'll have a word with him."
"I'll have a sack of gold in my hand." The blade slid an inch in the sheath.
The merchant coughed and scuffed his feet. A bead of sweat formed on the side of his nose as he sniffed uncomfortably. "My good sir," he said, "I'm afraid I am a bit... ah... deficient in funds at the present time." The sword slid out an inch further. "But," Fallone interjected, "I have an armorsmith in my employ, one William Welles." Ghaleon remained stoic, while Malcolm's expression dimmed at the mention of the armorsmith. "He's working on a rather lucrative contract, you see, yes and once he finishes I should be able to pay in full. I'm afraid that's all I can promise right now," Ollidar stammered hastily.
Ghaleon considered the offer for a moment, then replied, "It'll have to do. I'll be back for the gold." He turned and walked away, sword rattling in its sheath, without even waiting for the door to close. Soirse and Malcolm paused for a moment, then turned to follow.
***
"Where are we going?" Malcolm asked as Ghaleon, walking briskly since the trio departed from Ollidar Fallone's manor, turned down the smith's row, where the dwarf had his armor shop.
"To get Jagg his money," was his equally brisk answer.
"What?" Malcolm inquired, "I thought Fallone didn't have it."
"You're an armorsmith right?" Ghaleon asked, then without waiting for Malcolm's response added, "Getting rid of some competition."
The warrior came to a halt in front of a small brick and stone shop with a well-made but plain sign hanging out front that read "Welles' Armor." He loosed his pack, dropped it at his feet, and extracted a large, worn burlap robe. Slipping it over his armor, he turned to meet Malcolm and Soirse's confused looks.
"It's Brother Ghaleon, for the moment. Wait here."
The others complied, and Ghaleon pulled the hood of the monk's robe over his head as he entered the shop.
Moments later, he emerged carrying a well-made, unadorned breastplate in his hands. "Go get your cart," he said curtly to Malcolm in a tone that brooked no argument. That night, the taverns buzzed with talk of a monk pushing a cart filled with armor down the smith's row.
Torvald was upon him before he could even cast away his crossbow. Growling, he launched another huge fist directly at Ghaleon's face. The blow found purchase, and Ghaleon's became a world of red and green starbursts. As the warrior dropped to his knees in the dust, Torvald gloated, "There. Had enough?"
The sound of metal scraping against metal rang out as Ghaleon leaped to his feet with a rabid fury burning in his eyes. His sword drew a wide arc in front of him, and Torvald backpedaled just quickly enough to avoid the strike. With a lunge, he caught Ghaleon's hand as the swipe neared its end, twisting it until it released and the blade clattered to the ground. With one fluid motion, pulling the arm around behind the warrior's back and pressing his foot to the back of the legs, Torvald forced Ghaleon back on his knees.
A thick, muscled arm whipped under Ghaleon's chin and closed around his neck. A knee in his back pushed him prone in the dust with Torvald's crushing weight forcing the breath from his lungs. Ghaleon kicked his legs furiously and tried to pull with his arms, but Torvald had taken a position that allowed him to evade these blows. Each breath required greater strain. Sputtering in the dust, Ghaleon began to drift into a blurry haze. The world seemed to darken and drift away, then nothing.
***
Ghaleon awoke with a start as Soirse completed a minor spell of healing. He sat bolt-upright, eyes darting every way in an attempt to find Torvald, but his childhood rival had moved on. He struggled to his feet, picking up his sword with his dirt-caked hand. Silently, he sheathed the blade and turned away, walking toward the bridge.
No one spoke on the rest of the journey to Ollidar Fallone's manor. Ghaleon huffed and fumed, furious and impotent. Soirse struggled to stifle laughter over Ghaleon's plight while still feeling a pang of empathy. Malcolm just walked. The mansion was a picture of faded opulence. Immense and heavily ornamented, the splendor it still displayed served only to accent that which it had lost. The grounds were slightly overgrown; the gilding around the doorway was mildly tarnished. The three travelers approached the door. Ghaleon knocked.
After a few moments of silence, the door opened. In its place stood an average-sized man, trim but not slight, dressed in older, but still exquisite clothing. His brown hair hung like laurels around his otherwise bald head; his brow furrowed with stress.
"May I help you folks?" the man sighed.
"Ollidar Fallone?" Ghaleon asked politely.
"I am he," the man responded.
"You owe my associate some money," Ghaleon said, growling out the word "money" as his rage from his previous humiliation came surging back.
"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," Fallone replied coyly.
"I don't have time for this," Ghaleon threatened, gripping his sword hilt as he stepped forward, "Jagg needs his gold." At the mention of Jagg Mitchum, Ollidar Fallone's face showed recognition. The merchant fidgeted nervously.
"I... ah... do recall some dealings with the esteemed Mister Mitchum, long ago, vaguely," Fallone stammered, "though I was quite certain I... ah... fulfilled all my obligations."
"Not according to Mister Mitchum," Ghaleon replied, loosening the sword in its sheath, "seems you owe him some three hundred gold pieces."
Ollidar Fallone's face could not hide his nervousness, and recognition of the sum played across his face. "I suppose my accountant, yes, my accountant could have made some error. I'll have a word with him."
"I'll have a sack of gold in my hand." The blade slid an inch in the sheath.
The merchant coughed and scuffed his feet. A bead of sweat formed on the side of his nose as he sniffed uncomfortably. "My good sir," he said, "I'm afraid I am a bit... ah... deficient in funds at the present time." The sword slid out an inch further. "But," Fallone interjected, "I have an armorsmith in my employ, one William Welles." Ghaleon remained stoic, while Malcolm's expression dimmed at the mention of the armorsmith. "He's working on a rather lucrative contract, you see, yes and once he finishes I should be able to pay in full. I'm afraid that's all I can promise right now," Ollidar stammered hastily.
Ghaleon considered the offer for a moment, then replied, "It'll have to do. I'll be back for the gold." He turned and walked away, sword rattling in its sheath, without even waiting for the door to close. Soirse and Malcolm paused for a moment, then turned to follow.
***
"Where are we going?" Malcolm asked as Ghaleon, walking briskly since the trio departed from Ollidar Fallone's manor, turned down the smith's row, where the dwarf had his armor shop.
"To get Jagg his money," was his equally brisk answer.
"What?" Malcolm inquired, "I thought Fallone didn't have it."
"You're an armorsmith right?" Ghaleon asked, then without waiting for Malcolm's response added, "Getting rid of some competition."
The warrior came to a halt in front of a small brick and stone shop with a well-made but plain sign hanging out front that read "Welles' Armor." He loosed his pack, dropped it at his feet, and extracted a large, worn burlap robe. Slipping it over his armor, he turned to meet Malcolm and Soirse's confused looks.
"It's Brother Ghaleon, for the moment. Wait here."
The others complied, and Ghaleon pulled the hood of the monk's robe over his head as he entered the shop.
Moments later, he emerged carrying a well-made, unadorned breastplate in his hands. "Go get your cart," he said curtly to Malcolm in a tone that brooked no argument. That night, the taverns buzzed with talk of a monk pushing a cart filled with armor down the smith's row.
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