All the Lights in the Sky: Sessions 5 & 6

Our last couple of sessions have been short for different reasons, so here's another double report post.

The Calcifer Shrine, Second Delve

After camping for the night, during which Thomas recovers from his bout of flux (player returns), the party makes ready to reenter the ancient forge. Flint's player is absent this time, so the young chemist decides to stand guard at the campsite while the others explore. Thomas takes Flint's suit of ancient armor and lights up a fresh torch, and the party ventures once more through the great aldsteel doors.

The halls of the forge are quieter now that the oil gremlins' lair (7) has been thoroughly burnt. Xerxes and Tree show Thomas through the chamber of ice (5) before the group decides to take another crack at the reinforced door in the southeast (6) now that the pressure has been restored to the machinery in chamber 4. This time, the turning of the wheel engages the mechanism, and the door hinges open before them. A blast of heat emerges, even more intense than the rest of the place; Thomas and Tree are grateful for their suits, and Xerxes for his time in the smithy back in Roa.

The chamber beyond appears to be a smelter; molten metal pours from crucibles into ingot molds that disappear into recesses in the walls, moving on rolling belts. From the ceiling, a great blast of flame fills the space, shooting from a broken conduit. Thomas decides to brave it, counting on the ancient suit to protect him, and his risk is rewarded; he hardly feels the flames through the material. A bank of machinery with another turn-wheel stands on the west wall, while the door to the north bears another. Thomas tries the door, opening up a quicker way back to the entrance, and then the machinery. The flames blasting from above cease. From far off within the shrine, the party hears a great grinding of some other mechanism stirring to life.

They decide to check back in on the room they lit on fire first. Chamber 7 is now mostly cleansed of oil, only soot left; no gremlins jump out to attack. The south door is more aldsteel, not as heavily reinforced as the ones in and out of the smelter room, but still mechanically locked. Thomas remembers Flint explaining that aldsteel is supposedly indestructible except by itself, and remembers his great knife, made of the same stuff. He takes a shot at forcing the pins out of the door hinges with the knife. It works; the door falls from its frame with a mighty clang.

Chamber 8 is dominated by storage shelves. Searching, the party finds a dozen finished ingots of aldsteel, ready for working by arts now lost to common knowledge; a decorative jar holding 800 motes of Dust; and a pair of head-sized metallic canisters, both marked with alarming red sigils that conjure to mind images of explosions. Thomas, curious, tries to take the top off one of the canisters; it pops up to reveal a steadily blinking light, the canister starting to beep rhythmically.

Thomas: I grab the other canister and run!

Xerxes: Me too!

Tree: Uh, that's metagaming. I've never seen a blinking light or heard a rhythmic beeping in my life, I have no idea what it means.

Thomas grabs Tree with his free arm just in time to haul him from the room before everything explodes.

Ears ringing, the party ventures back into the storeroom to scoop up the scattered Dust from the now-shattered jar and collect the aldsteel ingots. Feeling flush, they next head for the great forge chamber (3) to see what all the noise is about.

As they enter, they find the flaming beasts standing watch as the great nested rings surrounding the altar grind into motion. They revolve around one another, lights shimmering and sparking on their inner surfaces, seeming to seek some precise alignment. Finally, just as they seem to be approaching the right configuration...they grind back to a halt, the lights dying.

The flaming beasts stand there for a moment, perplexed, before throwing their heads back and letting out echoing howls. Before the explorers' eyes, they merge, the fire of their forms twisting together into a single body, upright and humanoid. Standing before them, it bows. Then, with a final flash of flame, it vanishes. Around the delvers, the heat of the forge begins to cool, the lights filling the chamber fading...and the aura surrounding the sword floating over the altar disappears, the blade clattering down.

Tree rushes up to seize the blade immediately. As he holds it aloft, he can feel it humming with power. He quickly wraps it in his cloak to keep it safe.

The three aren't quite sure what to think of the display. Did they fail to repair the forge? Are they still missing some piece of the puzzle, or is it simply impossible? Without answers, they're left with little to do but depart, with plenty of proof for Monastery Burner in hand.

The Get Rich and Become God Method

As Thomas, Xerxes, and Tree leave the forge to rejoin Flint back in camp, the group takes stock of its situation and realizes some things. They're now carrying quite a bit of money, more than two years' common wages between the four of them in Dust alone, plus some valuable treasure (including a door of solid aldsteel currently off its hinges, a fortune in the making, though they don't have a practical way of getting that down from the mountains by themselves). They could do what they promised to Monastery Burner, bring her the proof she wanted and join the Black Dogs...or not.

Thomas asks Flint what the bandits are to him; Flint says they're nothing more than a means to an end. Thomas turns to the group with another question: what do they want out of life? They could put their newfound wealth toward a peaceful retirement, but Thomas has been thinking about this Lord Raedric they've been hearing so much about, and he doesn't like the sound of him much.

Tree ponders the sword wrapped in his lap. "You said we were pit slaves," he says to Flint. "What's the opposite of a pit slave?"

Flint thinks it over. "Well...a god, I suppose."

Tree nods. "I like the sound of that."

A plan is formed, or at least the start of one. First, back to Velm to resupply and sell off some of the loot. From there, the Salt Way should take the group to Kyther, where Raedric waits. The group briefly considers trying to hide the entrance to the forge somehow--that aldsteel door is still here waiting for them--but decides it's not worth the trouble, hoping Monastery Burner will just assume they died when they don't come back. With nothing else holding them here, the four pack their bags, load up the cart, and begin their descent from the mountains.

Valit

As clouds blow in and it starts to rain, Tree has the first warning of danger approaching, a shadow passing overhead.

He tries to throw himself clear as something dives out of the air toward him, but too slow; the beast sinks its claws into his shoulders.

Valit: Airborne predators that hunt in flocks, bearing prey skyward with their powerful talons. With wingspans that can reach eight feet, they're more than capable of attacking humans, and won't hesitate to do so when hungry. HD 1, AC unarmored, bite 1d6 or grab (victim saves or is lifted), morale 7. No. appearing: 1d6+3.

Before the party can react, Tree is borne fifty feet into the air. Two more of the creatures dive down, one going for Thomas, the other for Xerxes, while two more circle above. The party loses initiative.

Thomas tries to get out of the way, but he's not fast enough either, and follows Tree into the air. Xerxes has a different idea, reaching for the pouch of sand he used to carry around the smithy to put out fires. With a quick throw, he's blinded the beast heading for him, avoiding its grasp.

Tree, struggling in the grip of the first beast, does the only thing he can think of: he draws his new sword. The blade sings in a perfect arc, cleaving the creature in half without slowing down. As he falls, Tree desperately grabs onto one half of the thing and tries to break his fall with it.

It does him no good. He lands with a bent neck.

The blinded valit launches itself clumsily at Xerxes, enraged. He strikes at it with his hammer, but the creature moves erratically.

Xerxes falls with a torn throat.

Thomas struggles to wrestle free of the beast hoisting him, reaching for a coil of potter's wire on his belt and desperately trying to get it around the creature's throat. He's too slow. Hoping to save his friend, Flint throws his spear at the valit. His aim is good, piercing its wings...and sending Thomas back to the ground.

Thomas lands head-first.

The two valit remaining above dive for Flint. Left unarmed, he sees only one option. One more vial of burning blue fluid, his last, streaks toward the closer of the two fliers. His throwing arm saves him again, the splash catching them both. He ducks aside before the flaming bodies land on him.

The last valit, still blinded, flaps away clumsily in a hasty retreat.

Flint looks around. He's the only one left standing.

He hurries to Xerxes, checks. No pulse.

He rushes to Thomas. Nothing to save.

He sprints to Tree. His neck is broken. He's breathing. He can be saved...but Flint is no doctor. He has no treatment supplies.

There's nothing he can do but watch as Tree breathes his last.

Alone on the mountainside, a soot-streaked boy stands surrounded by three dead men he was just beginning to know, and all their dreams of a changed world.

I CAST TESTICULAR TORSION

Magic duels are cool. I want them in my game.

What should they look like? They can basically be anything. The way they'll look will be informed by what spells are available in the game and how they work.

As a thought exercise, I started looking over the OSE spell list to see how a theoretical wizard duel might play out following those mechanics as provided, so I could see how one might want to change them to achieve a different result.

I quickly realized that when it comes to wizard duels (and small-scale tactical skirmish combat, the standard use case), the OSE spells are broken as fuck.

The Theory

You have 6 spell levels, theoretically of increasing power.

All spells take 1 slot of their level and are cast the same way--1 full round, damage interrupts, must have a free hand and be able to speak.

This naturally implies that spells of the same level should be roughly equivalent in power, since they have the exact same casting requirements.

Now let's see if that assumption bears out.

The Problem

Hypothetical wizard duel, two magic-users of the same level, both know every spell they're able to cast. I take a look at the classic 1st-level spell list, and these in particular jump out at me as the spells most relevant to wizard duels--though of course a creative wizard might be able to come up with a use for others.

Charm Person: Neutralize a single target (by making them friendly) on a failed save (unreliably, more and more so as the game progresses and saves get better).

Light: Hamper/neutralize a single target (blinding it) on a failed save (unreliably).

Magic Missile: Harm a single target reliably (no save, can't miss).

Protection from Evil: Prevent harm unreliably (makes evil creatures' attacks and spells less likely to hit you, but does nothing to weaken their effects when they do) and situationally (depends on the alignment of your enemies).

Shield: Prevent harm unreliably (better AC means better chance of no damage, but no reduction in damage when someone does hit you).

Sleep: Neutralize multiple targets, reliably (no save), until higher levels at which point it becomes entirely ineffective.

Sleep is vastly overpowered compared to other 1st-level spells. This isn't necessarily a problem. You might want some variation in the power of spells at a given level; I think that makes things more interesting. In Magic: the Gathering, this principle is called the Jedi Curve: when designing a card that costs a given amount to play, the design team maps the "standard" power of a card at that cost as the Jedi Curve, and tries to fill each set with cards that sit above, below, and right on that curve. This is supposed to reward players for learning what cards are good for their cost and seeking out those cards to build their decks around. Similarly, if wizards in your game world know that some 1st-level spells are better than others, they'll be motivated to quest in search of those spells and compete with other wizards to secure copies.

However, I think something like the traditional Sleep is probably too overpowered. Its existence basically destroys the possibility of wizard duels even being a thing; every one will just become a contest to see who can cast Sleep first and win instantly, until you get to duels between wizards with more than 4+1 HD who are just immune to it, which also isn't interesting because it means they can just ignore it completely from then on without having to exercise any kind of competence.

What is it about Sleep that makes it so broken? I set out to understand better. The goal: map an ideal Jedi Curve for my own spell system that manages to account, at least somewhat, for the tactical infinity of OSR play as compared to the strict mechanics of Magic.

The Analysis

So we've already broken down what the most directly fight-related 1st-level spells do, how they're typically going to affect a duel. We can break down the effects of these spells into three categories of sorts, three metrics by which they can be compared. I'm going to call these effectiveness (at offense or defense), scope (how many targets they can affect or threats they can protect against), and consistency (how reliable the effects are).

As we saw, Charm Person, for example, serves to effectively neutralize a target in a fight: it makes the target friendly, causing them to stop fighting, causing the fight to be over and the caster to win. However, it's only effective against a single target, and it's not perfectly reliable, since the target can save against it.

Based on this breakdown, I come up with a few rough scales for each of the categories.

• In terms of effect, we have offensive spells that hamper targets; they weaken them somehow, but not enough to take them out of the fight. Then we have spells that harm targets, bringing them closer to being out of the fight directly. Finally, we have spells that neutralize targets, taking them out of the fight in one fell swoop. Defensively, we have spells that mitigate harm to the caster, making it less severe; spells that entirely prevent harm to the caster; and finally, certain spells might exist to reflect the harm from the caster back at its source.

These don't fully capture the effect of every spell that's useful in a fight, and they're not meant to. For example, you might have two spells that neutralize a target, but one might do so just temporarily, like Sleep, while another makes the subject unable to fight pretty much permanently, like Feeblemind. The second spell is obviously a lot more powerful in general, but in terms of effect on the balance of a single engagement, they're equivalent.

• In terms of scale, we have spells that affect a single target and spells that can affect a whole group.
• And in terms of consistency, we have spells that are unreliable in their effect, because the target can save against them or use some other readily available means to resist them; and then we have spells that are reliable in their effect, those that don't offer a save or any other clear means of resistance.

Both of these are spectrums, of course, not binary categories.

You could also maybe break spells down by duration, like if you have a spell that weakens an enemy just for one round versus a whole fight. Some games do this, but I'm not generally inclined to do it for OSR stuff. In my opinion, when you start designing spells to work only for a certain number of combat rounds--the timescale of a single fight--you're getting away from the kind of tactical philosophy OSR play usually focuses on and more into crunchy skirmish wargame territory. Duration obviously matters on the timescale of an adventure or campaign, but that's not what I'm mostly concerned with when I'm trying to think about how a wizard duel might look in my game.

The Curve

Taking these metrics and applying them to classic spells, I come up with this general outline of what I think a "standard" spell of a given level should be able to do in a wizard duel based on classic OSR-ish spells. This goes up to 5th level, which is kind of the breakpoint where I like to think spells are more about affecting domain-scale stuff rather than personal adventuring.

1st Level

Hamper a single target reliably. This could be something like a blinding Light spell, if the target doesn't get a save.

Hamper a group unreliably. Something like a Fog Cloud, which has the obvious downside of also hampering your allies at close range.

Harm a single target reliably. This is your Magic Missile, the easiest balance point to compare magical forms of attack with physical; it's a bowshot that can't be dodged, but consumes whatever resources it takes to cast a spell (often much more limited than arrows) and might be interruptible depending on if you have all your spells take a full round.

Neutralize a single target unreliably. I might do this as a single-target version of Sleep that allows a save or some other countermeasure; perhaps a droning speech that can lull an unsupecting subject to unconsciousness, but they can stop their ears if they get wise early.

Block harm from a single threat unreliably. This is your standard Shield, easy enough.

2nd Level

Hamper a group reliably. Your Web.

Harm a group unreliably. Burning Hands, perhaps--blast a bunch of fools at once, but they can dodge.

Block harm from a single target reliably. This could be your Mirror Image. A group attacking you all at once could hit all the dupes at once and isolate the real you.

3rd Level

Harm a group reliably. Here you get your Fireballs and Lightning Bolts. Even if your opponents save, they're still getting at least somewhat fucked up.

Neutralize a single target reliably. Hold Person, assuming either no save or a difficult one.

Mitigate harm from a group reliably. Magic Armor; you're tougher, but they can still get through, or it only reduces harm rather than stopping it even when it works.

4th Level

Neutralize a group unreliably. This could be a Confusion; maybe it allows a save, or maybe it's always effective but doesn't always stop subjects from being dangerous.

Block harm from a group unreliably. Protection from Normal Missiles fits this; always good against arrows, does nothing for melee weapons.

5th Level

Neutralize a group reliably. This is Cloudkill, with the "weak enemies die outright."

Block harm from a group reliably. Protection from Normal Weapons, check.

Closing Thoughts

I notice the parameters actually get narrower and narrower at each level. That might feel counterintuitive, but I actually think it makes sense. Personal-scale combat is a pretty niche scenario in a good OSR game, and I think a good magic system should be about much more than that overall. If there are fewer and fewer tactical niches for higher-level spells in that scenario, it suggests that a greater proportion of spells at each ascending level are mainly focused on other things, operating at larger scales where the greater number of situational factors at play makes their utility harder to measure and compare. 

Is this useful? I dunno, I feel like it will be for me. It's something I can look at when I want to make a new spell to get a sense of how it might or might not fuck up my wizard fights. Having a reference like that will help me get over my analysis paralysis. Maybe it'll be useful for some of you too.

You Can't Elide What Doesn't Exist

Jared Sinclair says, "rules elide." In general, I agree.

For those not yet familiar and who don't want to read the whole post, I'll summarize briefly with one of Jared's own exercises. Think about picking a lock in an RPG. If you wanted, and everyone at the table knew enough about how lockpicking works in real life, you could resolve that entire process just by describing it in detail: the ref could decide what type of lock it is and how the mechanism works, the player could describe exactly how they use their tools to examine and work with it, what motions they make, and the ref could describe how each motion moves each pin or whatever other part of the mechanism. If you know enough, you don't even need to roll any dice (maybe--I have my suspicions about that, but that's a subject for another post) or rely on any set mechanics beyond what you all know about how to pick a lock.

Of course most of us don't know nearly enough about how lockpicking works to do that (I sure as fuck don't). Luckily, we don't have to, because instead of going through that whole process of describing every detail, we can just say, "roll 1d6, add your lockpicking skill bonus, if you get a 5 or higher you do it."

This rule elides the true process of picking the lock. It takes away the full detailed complexity of picking the lock and replaces it with something simpler, quicker, and easier for most of us to understand. Depending on the desires of your group and your game, this might or might not be a good thing. In OSR gaming, we place a lot of value on player skill over character skill; by using rules to elide what happens in the fiction, we take some of that load off the players to know how things work in the fictional world and apply that knowledge, and put more of that load onto the characters. Every game and group will have its own ideal balance of what to elide and what to play out in full.

Jared's argument, in the strong form, is that this is all rules can do. They cannot create or inspire or evoke, only elide. Broadly speaking, I agree. Every rule we set for our game simplifies some part of the fiction.

However, I believe Jared makes an important oversight. The strong form of Rules Elide presumes that everything in the game fiction has a real-world referend. Picking a lock is something that can happen both in the fiction of our game and in real life. We can assume, unless told otherwise, that it works the same in the fiction as it does in real life. When we then apply a rule to the fiction for lockpicking, we elide that process. It is implicitly the real-world process of picking a lock that our rules are eliding, not the fictional one.

But our fiction doesn't always have to refer to real life. The fiction can create new things wholly from imagination.

Rules Can't Elide Magic

Magic doesn't have a referend in reality. When we say, "My wizard casts Magic Missile," they aren't doing something a person can do in real life. The interaction cannot happen if there isn't a rule to say, "A wizard can cast Magic Missile."

Now, technically we can assume there's some elision of the fiction happening. We probably imagine that in the fiction, there's a whole lot going on when we say our wizard casts Magic Missile that we aren't bothering to describe in detail. We might have an idea of what some of those details look like, or we really might not care at all. But I argue that when we talk about rules eliding, that elision of the fiction isn't what really matters to us. It's the elision of the real-world referend.

The reason we care about rules eliding is because when they do, they're shifting that balance of skill and knowledge away from the players and toward the characters. We want to be careful and thoughtful about what we elide because we want to make sure we leave the things in the hands of the players that we want to be there. If we want to run a game that challenges the players' skill at creative logistics, we don't want a rule that says, "roll 1d6 to figure out how you get the wagonload of treasure down the mountain to town." We want them to figure that shit out and explain it.

But when it comes to magic, to interactions that exist only in the fiction, the players can't know anything about them until they hear them explained. We can't make a game that tests the player's skill at magic without reference to game rules, because magic isn't a thing the players can be skilled at. (I'll leave aside discussion of real occult practices as not really related to how magic is used in most games.)

Now, you can argue, "But when you establish magic in your fiction, it's not necessarily rules creating that magic. It's the fiction, they're not the same thing." In this case, they are--unless you really are establishing how magic works in your fiction down to the last detail, which is impossible, and then creating simpler rules to elide that complexity. However you establish it, your explanations are always leaving something out. So, yes, maybe in that sense, your rules are eliding the truth of magic in your fiction. But at that point, who cares? How is it useful to talk about rules eliding something that can't exist without the rules to begin with?

(This ties into another thing I've been wanting to talk about: when you play at the world, your setting is your system. Hoping to have another post for that ready sometime soon.)

I think Rules Elide remains a useful lens for thinking about modeling real-world interactions through game rules. But when it comes to interactions that are wholly fictional, things characters can't do at all unless something in the fiction establishes them as possible, I think the argument breaks down. You can't elide something that doesn't exist--not in any way that matters.

All the Lights in the Sky: Sessions 3 & 4

I'm definitely not gonna be able to keep up with play reports for every session now that school's back in. You're getting the highlights.

While Xerxes does his best to staunch the bleeding from the arrow Tailor just left in his leg, Thomas and Tree follow her into the old seafort. It looks to be in rough shape, the tower partly collapsed. Hailing the guards to open the gate, Tailor sends her men to take stock of the PCs' tribute while she brings them to meet the boss.

The Black Dog Bandits

The Dogs are led by Monastery Burner, who doesn't bother introducing herself to the two escaped pit slaves her lieutenant brings her. They don't make the best first impression. If they want in, they're going to help her with a little errand. A friend recently sold her a map purported to lead to an ancient forge up in the mountains to the west, where magic blades were made once. She wants the PCs to find it, if it exists, and bring back proof.

They'll have help, and supervision, from Flint, newest member of the Black Dogs and new replacement PC for Yuri's former player. The soot-streaked kid with the bulging pack tells Thomas and Tree to keep their distance from him if they plan on lighting any torches--he is apparently very flammable. Before heading out, the party ask if they can have their cart back, now emptied; with Flint's encouragement, Monastery Burner reluctantly agrees.

With map and cart in hand, the three head back outside the walls to recollect Xerxes, who's managed not to bleed out. Flint takes a look at the wound, but it's beyond his skill. He knows a doctor in Velm who could probably help. The others aren't too keen on going near town, given the whole escaped slave thing still ongoing, but they decide it's a risk they'll have to take. They camp out beneath the fort's walls for the night before setting off, Xerxes bundled uncomfortably into the cart.

Velm

The journey back west through the hills proves uneventful. By afternoon of the second day, the party gets their first sight of Velm's walls. For all but Flint, it's by far the largest structure they've ever seen. The watchers at the gates are alarmed to see the wounded Xerxes in the cart, asking if the Black Dogs got them; the party wisely takes advantage of the ready excuse. The watchers are distracted enough from any questions about the group's identities to usher them inside.

The doctor, Tonie, scolds the PCs for getting themselves in a position to be shot and Flint for handling the wound like an amateur. She can take care of it, but first the group must overcome their poverty. Flint offers some of his "product" in trade; no sell. She agrees to accept some strong spirit he has left and makes it clear this is the last time she does him a favor.

Properly dressed now, Xerxes' wound still needs time to heal. The market square is dizzying to the pit-dwellers. Tree, remembering the hand he hacked off the metal-plated figure in the underground chamber, asks Flint if he knows anything about it. Flint, surprised, recognizes the metal as aldsteel, the stuff of the gods, said to be indestructible by anything but itself. The group agrees selling it could be a good way to cover some living expenses. A merchant points them to the smithy. Juno, the smith, quickly does her best to hide her amazement from the rubes, and they end up settling for a steal of 75 motes--not that she knows how to work the stuff anyway.

Asalam, the oily innkeep, is happy to rent the group a private room for a week. Deciding to hole up and avoid attention, the group wiles away their time until Xerxes can walk again before bidding Velm farewell.

The map says to follow the southern source of the river to its origin. The pit-dwellers entertain thoughts of showing Flint their crash site, but don't pass as close as they expected. The kid is fascinated by the story of their meeting with the luminous figure in the underground chamber; clearly, these men are blessed by the gods somehow. As he ponders the matter, Thomas, eyes peeled for a conspicuous X on the ground, trips into a hidden recess in the mountain slope, finding himself before a set of mighty aldsteel doors into the rock....

The Calcifer Shrine

Credit to Dyson, barely had time to key this one but fuck it we ball

New session, and Thomas' player can't make it, so as the party makes ready, he suddenly finds himself wracked by a stomach bug and has to step away. Tree, Flint, and Xerxes--still limping--forge ahead into the hot, sooty passage.

The stonework is immediately familiar to the pit-dwellers from the chamber they explored, and Flint can only guess it must be the work of the gods, finer than any human tools could make. A great frieze of a smith at work, flanked by hounds, greets the explorers, seeming to move in their torchlight. The first door they try, south into 6, is heavy aldsteel without a visible mechanism; heat radiates from it. Xerxes, accustomed to it from his smithing days, tries pushing it open and finds his hands blistering. The party moves on.

To the north, their torchlight reveals what at first appears to be statues standing in the alcoves, but reveal themselves on approach to be suits of some kind of armor, two present. Each encases the whole body, with a clear plate for the visor, the rest made of some flexible dark grey stuff that isn't metal. Tree, feeling adventurous, steps into one, which seals around him on its own; as it does, he realizes he no longer feels the heat of this place. Since it seems to be safe, Flint takes the other suit.

West, and the party find themselves in a cavernous space, flickering firelight dancing across the walls from some unseen source far brighter than their torch. The room is dominated by an assembly of great rings half emerging from the floor, nested one within the next, all at different angles. In the center, above a metal alter--or anvil?--floats a sword, wreathed in a firelight nimbus.

Xerxes tries to approach, because hey, he's a smith. Before he can pass the innermost ring, flames flare to life in the far alcoves. Four-legged beasts take shape, approaching the altar. Xerxes expects an attack, but they merely pad do the southern door, herding the party over before waiting patiently. The message is clear.

In the passageway beyond, the group circles back northeast to confirm the layout. As they turn to head back again, they come face to face with three wandering oil gremlins. Tree's immediate reaction is to throw his torch at the one in front. His arm is good; it lights up, sizzling and melting as it flees in desperate panic. A failed morale roll sends its friends after it. The party follows at a distance.

South into the four-way intersection. The door west is scratched, dented, and splattered with crude oil. To the east, burbling and banging sounds. Further south, silence. South again first. At the end of the long passageway, a break from the heat. Great floes of ice burst from broken pipes and tubing, connecting back to a great cylindrical metal vat, rimed with frost. A figure stands frozen within the ice, upright, but headless. Xerxes and Tree recognize it--another of the metallic beings they met before, though this one seems more slight, less imposing. Flint can only surmise it's a Guardian, one of those who watch over the gods' old holy places. It seems to have been frozen in the middle of trying to reconnect one of the damaged hoses.

The group continues east, turning north. The door ahead is more heavy aldsteel, but this time bearing a wheel that looks meant to be turned. Tree gives it a try. There's a series of thumps, a hiss of pressure, then...nothing. The PCs figure they're missing something.

Back to the far west intersection, then east this time, into the room where they heard the burbling and banging. The explorers immediately realize they're not alone. More oil gremlins are hard at work attempting to smash banks of machinery in each of the alcoves along the walls, with limited success. They stop at the intrusion. One speaks. "Who...you?"

The PCs are open to talking. The gremlin asks if they've come to destroy this place; it tells them of its kind's desire to break the machines, to claim the blade, and to be free to leave and destroy all they like with its power. Tree is curious about why the gremlins are so bent on destruction, but the gremlins aren't really equipped for self-examination. Frustrated and suspicious, they attack.

Tree quickly lights up the first one. Since fire seems to work so well, Flint decides to bring out some of his product. A flask of glowing blue-white liquid emerges from his pack; with a good throw, it explodes into blue flames that reduce two more gremlins to oil in a second. The remaining two are braver this time, but they turn out to die just fine to Flint's spear and Xerxes' hammer.

The party is left to examine the machines in the alcoves. Each bears another turn-wheel and a symbol of the First Speech, which Flint doesn't recognize. Xerxes tries one of the wheels. With a hiss of pressure, a glowing bar illuminates part of the chamber ceiling, filling up a series of seven notches--a gauge. With a couple more lucky guesses, the explorers figure out a combination that seems to work; from somewhere in the distance, they hear a rumbling of something activating, and the machines cease to respond.

(This is a super easy puzzle I stole from Mass Effect. You have 5 buttons, marked 5, 7, 11, 13, and 17. You have to press three buttons that total between 31 and 34. They got it in two tries by guesswork even without being able to read the numbers--I had the gauge on the ceiling be marked with visible notches, so they just went by that.)

Unsure of what they just did, the group heads back into the intersection. Last unexplored way is the battered door to the west. Beyond, a roughly cubic block of machinery, clearly damaged by the partial collapse of the ceiling, has leaked black oil over the whole floor. In the south of the chamber, several more gremlins are trying to break down another of the heavy aldsteel doors, so far apparently without success.

The party lights the floor on fire. The gremlins go bye-bye. The players are excited to walk in and see what's up, until I remind them that the room is currently on fire. They'll have to wait a while.

Back to the room with the ice. Seeing that the frozen Guardian seems to have been trying to reconnect some of the tubing, they figure maybe they should try to do the same. They quickly discover that the ice is no mere frozen water; Tree comes into contact with some trying to chip at it with his pickaxe, and is only saved from a nasty burn by his new ancient armor. Getting the idea, the group spends several turns trying to figure out a way to repair the mechanisms without having to smash open all the ice floes and risk releasing more of the coolant. They burn through their only torch while they're at it, improvising a replacement using Flint's spear and some of the crude oil dripped by the gremlins. After a couple more turns of debating, though, they decide they aren't making any headway just now. Resolving to regroup overnight and return with the hopefully recovered Thomas in tow, the party retraces their steps back out of the dungeon and emerges into the light of the setting sun, still empty-handed for now.