“Well I, uh … Okay, see, my brother — my um, older brother, he uh … ” Oh, this is not going well. Where do I start? You try to catch your breath, but the thought of those gnolls and their canine hearing lurking just outside the door has you just about ready to dive through the window in panic.

Dr. Hartigan patiently sips herbal tea from a museum gift shop mug. “Relax, lad,” he says with trace amounts of amusement. “I’m sure your tale is a fascinating one. Just start from the beginning. Although, since you’ve apparently bluffed your way past Gackle and his silent friend, perhaps you should make it sound a bit more like an interrogation.”

“Huh? Oh! Yes, I, uh .. Yes! LORD MAELORIN’S PATIENCE IS WEARING THIN!” With an overly theatrical shout, you knock over dozens of Dr. Hartigan’s papers. Your hushed apologies start flowing almost instantly. (Roll D8 minus WIS modifier to determine guilt level. 1-2: You feel sorta bad about it. 3-4: You feel really bad about it. 5-6: Oh, you just feel awful about the whole thing. 7-8: You are under the effect of “Channel Jewish Mother” for 3D6 turns.) You scramble about to pick up the papers, and deliver a rambling summary of the events leading up to your current predicament.

The tale sprawls from Deerhaven Village to that day’s breakfast at Chat n’ Chew. Hartigan never once interrupts, though his brow furrows from time to time. He doesn’t look at you, but rather stares at a fixed point on the floor, hands clasped in his lap. When you finish, he remains distant for a moment, as his mind processes everything he just heard. “Hm,” he finally offers. “It’s good that you came to me rather than to O’Neill up at Columbia, he’s aligned himself with your pursuers. Maelorin has his fingers all over their Anthropology Deparment — not to mention the Linguistics Department, the College of Dental Medicine, and the Masters Program in Fundraising Management. There are those who say that he himself is a Columbia graduate, and played for the tennis team. Go Lions, indeed.” The professors finishes off his tea and sets the mug aside.

“What does he want with you, anyway? What did you say this place was, ‘Uncannibalized Topography’ or something?” It’s been quiet for a minute, so you throw in an “OUT WITH IT, WORM!” for good measure.

“Uncategorized Anthropology,” Hartigan says with a chuckle. “When the museum acquires pieces that … how shall we say, defy standard curation, they end up here. Pieces such as that sword of yours, which hail from corners of the world that the rest of society is blithely content to ignore.” He gestures to the artifacts littering his office. “Relics of arcane power, devices of non-human engineering — anything the museum wants to study, but would rather not display, they give to us. I joined the department sixteen years ago, which I believe would have been the year 3652 in your calendar?”

Of course, you are quite used to making that particular conversion in your head. “3652, correct. The year I was born, actually. STOP CRYING, YOUR TEARS ONLY FAN THE FLAMES OF MAELORIN’S RAGE!”

“Now I serve as the department’s chair, a position that is meagerly paid, but grants me full access to the artifacts. Plus, it comes with a rent-controlled apartment on 85th Street.”

“By the many scars of Garonash, what is it with you people and real estate?”

“$575 a month for 900 square feet, 5 minutes from Central Park? It’s not complicated. Regardless, five days ago, as I sat in said apartment finishing the Times acrostic, half a dozen of Maelorin’s kobold lackeys burst in and took me captive, escorting me here to my office, where I have been ever since. Not much of a melee combatant, I’m afraid.” Hartigan pats his bulky frame with a resigned smile. “Maelorin himself has yet to appear, but he sends minions to question me each day. The subject is always the same: Schreibwaffe, weapons marked with powerful runes.”

“Scribeswords.” Back home, the word is spoken with reverence.

“They sometimes go by that name, yes, though they are not always blades. It is a complex subject, one that allowed me to easily talk circles around my interrogators, so that they left with less information than when they arrived. But they never go without asking about a sword named Patience, and what I know of it. Which is nothing.” For the first time since you arrived, Hartigan rises from his chair. “May I … ?”

You check the door quickly, and pull the weapon off your back. Hartigan brings it to his desk and places it under better light. With the studied air of an experienced professional, he pores over the scabbard, hilt, pommel, and blade. The process takes several minutes, eliciting an occasional “Hm.”

Your head snaps back to the door with increasing frequency. You can’t shake the feeling that this ‘interrogation’ is taking too long. To burn off the nervous energy, you look around a bit. A small amulet on Hartigan’s desk catches your eye — it is engraved with the same star that’s on the talisman you used to bluff your way in here. Meanwhile, you can’t help but notice that in your haste to re-stack his papers, you missed an envelope with the word “Deerhaven” handwritten on the front.

“Well, you and your brother are correct,” the professor ventures at last. “There is an enchantment to this sword, almost certainly due to an inscription. The inscription will not reveal itself, and I have a hunch as to why.” He picks up the scabbard. “This is not an original part of the weapon. I’d say it’s 100-125 years old, well short of the blade’s lifespan. Without the original scabbard, the runes will stay hidden. As to where that scabbard might be, I have a hunch to that as well.” Something in the tone of his voice says that it’s a place he’d rather avoid. He sheathes the weapon and hands it back.

“Ever so slightly dangerous to have brought it here, unfortunately. Young man, I believe it is time for you to conclude your interrogation and make a hasty … oh my.” Hartigan trails off as footsteps and an imperious voice ring out from beyond the door.

“Corporal Gackle, I am here to interrogate the prisoner. I trust you haven’t eaten him yet?”

“WHAT? That sniv-ul-ing whelp … Gackle has been TRICKED!” The door splinters out of its latch ahead of the gnoll’s foot. His rabid stare finds you instantly. His halberd is ready to do the same. Snarling, he rears back to charge, oblivious to the sudden cacophony behind him — a crossbow shaft piercing bone and flesh, a muffled cry cut short, the clang of a parried halberd, and the sickening crunch as a gnoll loses his head. Before Gackle has a chance to wheel around, he is body-checked into the room in a flurry of cloak and steel.

He is out cold. Atop him, leather gloves clutching a scimitar, crouches a familiar figure.

It’s the hooded stranger from Union Square.

Oh, SHIT.

She rises to her full height and pull back her hood, revealing raven’s hair, blue eyes, and a scowl. The latter is aimed at you.

“I thought I might find you here,” she growls in a low voice. “Brennick’s a coward not to have come himself. Typical.” She steps off of Gackle, and you’re suprised to see that she’s actually no taller than you.

“Miss Dreadhope! Oh, thank heavens!” cries Dr. Hartigan. “I was starting to think my text message had been intercepted.”

“You know I don’t trust these things, Max, though it seems the circumstances were dire.” Much to your surprise, she pulls a talking-device from a hidden pocket, just like the ones you see everyone else in the city carrying. “Come on, let’s get the twin-hells out of here. I know a good place to hide.”

“I shan’t require a second invitation,” he says, gathering a few things from his desk. “Though I’m afraid we’ll need to make a quick detour. We must pay a visit to … (sigh) the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

The rogue smirks. “Some rivalries never die, eh Max?” She gives Gackle a kick for good measure, then checks the doorway, scimitar at the ready. “Stay close behind me, and stay quiet.”

Their backs are turned. You have but a split second to spare, and can grab one thing on your way out.

“Hey kid, you comin’ or what?”

• If the talisman came in handy, so will the amulet. I grab that. Turn to page 214.
• Why does he have an envelope with the name of my village written on it? I grab that. Turn to page 193.

The C train chugs its way uptown, towards the museum and towards a rather intimidating objective. This whole adventure so far has been for the sake of getting the sword into Brennick’s hands. You were quite under the assumption that once it happened, everything would be fine. Big brother would make it all better, the danger would pass, he’d take you to get some honeyed icemilk, then to see the Great Harbor Woman statue, then to see the Empire Skypoint, then to Port Authority so you could go the hell home. Wait a minute, you muse. Isn’t solving riddles involving ancient weapons while hiding from the forces of evil supposed to his job? One thing’s for certain: when Brennick told you to take this train from 14th Street to 81st Street, he neglected to mention that it would be stopping every five seconds.

Thankfully it’s almost midday, so the benches lining the train car are only half full. Brennick’s note doesn’t say much about this fellow at the museum, just that his name is Dr. Maxwell Hartigan and he works in the “Uncategorized Anthropology” department. After what feels like a fortnight, the train slows to a halt and the doors slide open. The blue and white tile on the far wall proclaims, “81st ST MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY.” A convenient arrow points the way.

As you make your way along the subway platform, your eyes widen. Fossilized remains of long-extinct creatures have apparently been uncovered right in the very walls of the subway station. How fortuitous that they built the museum here! It must have been so exciting to discover priceless fossils right here in the museum’s foundation, conveniently lined up like this.

At the end of the platform, stairs lead up to a modest set of glass doors, beyond which is the ticket counter. The woman behind the counter looks up from her glowing screen and smiles. “Hi there,” she says. “Will you be seeing any of the special exhibitions today?”

You fumble through your pack, looking for Brennick’s note. “Actually, erm, I’m looking for … oh, what’s it called, I have it written down here somewhere … here we go, Uncategorized Anthropology?”

The woman scrunches her nose. “I’m not familiar with any exhibit by that name, but you’re more than welcome to look around. It’s a suggest donation of fifteen dollars.”

A suggested what? “I’m sorry, come again?”

“The suggested donation is fifteen dollars.”

“Uh … does that mean it costs fifteen dollars?”

“It means that we suggest donating that amount to help us maintain and expand the museum, though you’re free to pay whatever amount you’d like.”

They make money this way? Too bad Brennick’s landlord doesn’t subscribe to that philosophy. You count out fifteen dollars and hand it to the woman. She gives you a ticket and a map.

Poring over the map, you meander past the ticket counter towards the nearest exhibit hall. You unfold the paper and search every corner, absent-mindedly shuffling your feet. The ticket lady was right, there’s nothing on here about Uncategorized Anthropology. With a dejected sigh, you look up from the map.

And nearly fall over.

You are standing in a room that’s several stories high. It is made entirely of glass. In the center is a massive white sphere, ringed by a spiral walkway. The hall is alive with the excited chatter of children, not to mention the chiding of teachers as they herd their charges past the walkway’s display stations and into the sphere. The exhibits all seem to be about the ebon space beyond the sky. Beyond the sky! You start to feel dizzy.

You are struck agog by the Rose Center at the Museum of Natural History. Make immediate INT and WIS checks to avoid being completely overwhelmed by information. If either check fails, you must spend an additional 20 minutes wrapping your head around these strange new sciences. Once you have made both checks in succession, you have your bearings and may begin your search for Dr. Hartigan. Roll a D20 Investigate check at +1 every 10 minutes. SUCCEED 5 consecutive times — Turn to page 184. FAIL 3 consecutive times — You are back at the Rose Center, and must rest your feet. At each check along the way, roll a D10 to determine encounters:

• A gargantuan whale suspended by some manner of magic — Astounding!
• A whole herd of tusk-beasts, frozen in mid-stampede — Incredible!
• A humid little hut filled with hundreds of live butterflies — You feel just like the woodfolk!
• Life-like replicas of more animals than you can count — Wait, those are artificial replicas, right … ?
• An enormous cross-section of a tree that was thousands of years old — Imagine how tall it must have been!
• A huge moving picture show titled “Sea Monsters” — Sweet mercy!
• Ancient battlefields recreated in miniature detail — Fascinating!
• An exhibit about horses — Meh. Extensive, but nothing you didn’t already know
• An entire floor of actual dragon skeletons — Let’s just say these people have some pretty interesting theories about dragons
• Zombie werewolf shaman — Roll for initiative and turn to page 46

Page 184

It’s been quite an afternoon. While you could easily spend another several hours stumbling from one discovery to the next, you’re starting to wonder if maybe Brennick sent you on a wild fowl chase. For the last 45 minutes you’ve been on the 2nd floor, wandering around the “Peoples of the World” exhibits. At the corner between the halls for “South America” and “Mexico and Central America,” you lean up against the cold marble walls. Your feet are in dire straits. The museum is slowly emptying. Frustration is mounting. And you are starting to get the feeling that the sandwich you ate at the cafe was needlessly expensive. Just when you’re about ready to call it quits and head back to Brennick’s apartment, you notice something in the hallway corner. It’s faint, and obscured by shadows from the vaulted ceilings, but it’s enough to catch your eye.

A button. There is a small square of marble emerging slightly from the wall.

You cast a few quick glances around, but no one seems to be paying any attention. You press the square. With a dull scrape of metal, a small door becomes unlatched and slowly swings inward a foot or two. You push it farther open, and see a side hallway. It’s dark, with light spilling down from a wall fixture at the far end. Gently pulling the door closed, you venture into the half-light. There are a few doors, but the one beneath the light fixture is being guarded. A sentry stands at either side. They are tall and shaggy, with canine heads and fur. Each grips a halberd at the ready.

Those must be gnolls, you realize with a start. No way I can take down those things, they’d flay me alive. Rooting around in your belt pouch for some way to distract them, you hear a staccato intake of breath. One of the gnolls is sniffing the air, and starts to growl.

“Hey. Who there? You not smell like regular myoo-zee-um humans.”

The overpriced sandwich lurches in your stomach. You freeze. The gnoll clutches his halberd and takes a step forward.

“You no fool Gackle. Gackle smells you coming.”

The ice of panic rips through your veins. You ransack your pockets for any possible salvation. Gackle steps closer, framed by the light behind him. Suddenly your fingers find unfamiliar metal. Of course! The talisman I got from those kobolds on the 4 train! Before your brain has a chance to voice objections, you pull the coin from your pouch and step into the light.

(Roll two D20 Bluff checks at +5, one for each gnoll, every 60 seconds until they are out of range. If the check on either gnoll fails twice in a row, see the “Captured by Maelorin” section on page 323.)

“You there! Step aside. Maelorin sent me to question Hartigan. I trust you haven’t eaten him yet?”

Gackle stops in his tracks. “He send you? You just little pup.” Your heart won’t stop racing as he saunters up to you, but you maintain your cool. “You have tal-is-man?” he snorts, brandishing a talisman of his own. “May-lor-in getting desperate. Me, I earn this hard way. You, you too small. What you do to earn tal-is-man?”

“I, uh … killed some grandmothers. In their sleep.”

“That not hard. They asleep, they no fight back. Where fun in that?” Gackle leans in and gives you one last sniff. “Frost Blade doomed if you the best they can do. Ask your questions, then get out. You smell weird.”

Your jelly-legs barely hold you upright, but you manage to make your way to the door. The other gnoll stares at you through half-closed eyes. With a deep breath, you open the door and hurry through, closing it swiftly behind you.

The office is bathed in a rich lighting that only antique lamps can offer. The furniture looks heavy, as if the wood was cleaved from trees hand-picked for their sturdiness. Books and manuscripts line the shelves. Archaic weapons clutter the room, as do artifacts whose purpose you can only guess. At the desk is a stocky little man with white, bushy hair. He swivels around in his chair, adjusting a tweed jacket that looks rather comfortable.

“Well then. Not particularly threatening, hm? Certainly not the type to be hanging around with gnolls. In fact, I’d almost say you weren’t one of Maelorin’s crew at all, if not for that token in your hand. But where are my manners? Welcome to the Department of Uncategorized Anthropology. I’m Maxwell Hartigan. How can I be of assistance?”

Your mind flashes back to Brennick’s warning: I don’t know if either will be able to help, and I don’t know if either is trustworthy. You’ll have to figure that one out on your own.

How do you proceed?

• They wouldn’t be guarding him if he was on their side. I tell him my story. Turn to page 123.
• He could be anyone. I pretend to be one of Maelorin’s stooges and question him. Turn to page 139.

With a furtive glance back in your direction, the hooded stranger disappears among the commuters. Damn, she definitely saw me, you think to yourself in a flash of panic. You briefly consider charging after her, but something tells you she’s adept at getting lost in a crowd. Something also tells you this won’t be the last time your paths cross. Alas, a problem for another time. Besides, Brennick won’t wait forever. You dart through the turnstile and head upstairs to the surface.

A sign above the stairs points the way: “Union Square — NW corner.”

Stepping out into the sunshine, you see that you are indeed on the corner of a park. Trees spring up from the square like an oasis in a desert of asphalt. It’s the first patch of grass you’ve seen since your arrival. This particular corner of the park is occupied by an open-air market. Merchants have set up white tents, and are selling fresh crops and meat. As you weave through people shopping for apples, corn, potatoes, and chops of porcine, you can see that the merchants have brought their wares in greatwagons from outlying farms. One of the merchants has posted a puzzling poster that says “Think Global, Buy Local.” Probably some kind of incantation, you think. My goodness, Farmer Gillett’s squash would have them lining up around the park.

One end of the park looks to be under construction, so you head the other way. (Roll D20 Trailfinder check to determine direction from position of the sun. SUCCEED — You are heading south. FAIL — You are unsure of your bearing. CRITICAL FAIL — You cannot find the sun, and believe it to be nighttime.)

As you walk, you scan every face. After two years here, who knows what Brennick might look like? Will you even recognize him? You pass a pen where several hounds are running about on a gravel surface. The size disparity among the hounds is both comical and disconcerting. At its far end, the park blends into a stone plaza. Broad, curved steps lead up towards a statue of a general on horseback. You look up at the man, wondering who he was or what he did, when suddenly a hand grabs your shoulder. “There you are,” says a voice, with a familiar twinge of irritation. “We really have to work on your definition of ‘first thing.’ I’ve been waiting here for like two hours, I thought the goblins had gotten you.”

Relief hits you like a sunbeam. You whirl around, and look up at your big brother.

He definitely looks older than you remember. His features are leaner, his brown curls cut short. You figured he wouldn’t be in his cloak and hunting gear, but to see him in a button-down shirt is still odd. The bag slung over his shoulder is the same type that you’ve seen used by the messengers who speed by on bicycles. But the weirdest thing about him is his face, and it takes you a moment to figure it out.

He’s wearing glasses.

“Brennick! Oh, thank Garonash!” you blurt as you grab his arms, and the rest streams from you in a torrent. “There were goblins in your apartment and they ransacked the place and then kobolds attacked me on the subway and I fought them off but then I got lost in the Financial District and there was a creepy guy sitting next to me on the bus and your neighborhood’s really expensive and oh did you see the farmer’s market??”

“Yeah, uh, we’ll get to all that, relax” Brennick says. His tone is a bit awkward. As he steps aside, you see why.

“Linda, this is my brother ___________.” (Write in the name you chose at the beginning of the adventure.) “___________, this is Linda.” The girl who steps forward to shake your hand has shoulder-length red hair, glasses almost exactly like Brennick’s, and a countenance that seems like it’s forgotten how to smile.

“Hi there,” she says. “Glad to see you’re okay. Nick was pretty worried about the gobblers or whatever.”

“Goblins,” Brennick quickly corrects her. For a moment, you all stand in silence. His discomfort at the forced intersection of his two worlds is painfully evident. “Well then,” he says at last. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

He leads you down a street away from the square, to an establishment that’s a few steps down from street level. An oversize replica of an icemilk sundae — easily as tall as Brennick — stands sentry by the door. The others pay it no mind, but you give it a wide berth just to be safe. Inside it’s cozy, with strings of colorful lights along the walls and decor that appears to have been chosen specifically because it looks a few decades old. (1% chance that skeletal warriors burst out of the kitchen — roll for initiative and turn to page 103.) When Brennick asks for a table, the server makes it a point to ask if everyone in their party has arrived, despite the fact that the place is almost entirely devoid of customers. She seats you at a table below an old-fashioned sign that reads “Mace Bugen: Notary Public.”

“Won’t Lord Bugen be upset if we’re at his table?” you whisper to Brennick. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with a sigh.

“Sorry we couldn’t pick you up from Port Authority last night. It was best not to know exactly when you were coming, all the less for Maelorin’s seers to detect. Truth be told, I wasn’t entirely sure you’d even come.”

“So what’s the deal with this Maelorin guy again?” Linda interjects. “You told me but I don’t really get it.”

Brennick’s eyes meet yours for a moment. The server brings some coffee, which he sips. “Maelorin is a mage, a sort of wise man who used to live in our village. He had the ‘friendly old man’ thing going — we used to do chores for him. About five years ago, when I was 18 and my brother was 10, we were hiking around the forest north of the village when we came across a horse that was saddled but had no rider. As we led the horse back home, Dipshit here started poking through the saddle bags. What he found was a book. It was in a language we’d never seen, except for the first page. On the first page was scribbled a note.”

You know it by heart as clearly as Brennick, and can’t help mouth the words as he recites it.

“Frost Blade, Burning Hammer
End of Day, Begin the Night
First Son of a Last Son
On the Weapon Will Gleam the Words of Garonash”

“Yeah,” says Linda, poking at her coffee with a spoon. “I don’t really get it.”

The server returns to take orders. Brennick and Linda have already eaten, but you’re famished. The menu items are written in cryptic phrases, though you’re pretty sure ‘Eat It and Beat It’ has something to do with eggs.

“Anyway,” Brennick continues, “we brought the book to Maelorin. I figured that was the end of it, but he started to get obsessed with the book, and kept asking us questions about how we’d found it. He made us take him to the exact spot we came across the horse. Eventually we found out that he thought the note in the book was some sort of prophecy, and that it pointed to me. My dad’s the youngest of four brothers, and I’m the elder of two. First son of a last son. The whole thing was starting to creep me out, and I was sick of village life, so I came here to join the Rogues Guild, figuring I could disappear for a while. But now Maelorin’s here as well.”

“So are you really a rogue?” you ask with a burst of excitement. “What rank are you? Lemme see your cloak, is it full of hidden pockets?”

“Uh, well … ” says Brennick, giving Linda a hesitant look. “She kinda got me hooked up with this web design firm, and that’s been cool. Technically I’m still in the guild, but the rogue thing has sorta been on the back burner.”

On the back what now? “Oh. Well I think there was a rogue in the subway station as I got off the train, a girl in a black cloak who saw me and then vanished.” Brennick flinches.

“Really?” says Linda, crossing her arms and staring intently at Brennick. “SOMEone at this table said that particular young lady was out of the picture. Was it me who said that? I don’t think it was me. Who was it? Wait, don’t tell me … ”

“Look, I-” Brennick protests, but Linda mutters something about needing to use the restroom and excuses herself.

“So does this mean Linda’s your girlfriend?” you venture after a pause.

“Sort-of girlfriend,” he snaps. “It’s complicated. Just be careful around the girl in the cloak if you run into her again. Avoid her if you can. Trust me. She’s dangerous, and I don’t mean break-your-heart dangerous. More like stab-your-face dangerous. But enough about that. Did you bring it?”

With a quick look to see if anyone’s watching, you sling the scabbard off your back and hand it to him. He unsheathes the sword part-way, examining the blade. “How’d you get it out of the armory?”

“I told Sir Lackworth that the mages needed it for a ceremony.”

That earns a chuckle out of Brennick. “Oh man, he must be throwing a tantrum. Nicely done. This is crucial, but we have to be quiet about it. When I said in my note that the mages were right, it was a deliberate half-truth. They were right about the weapon gleaming with the words of Garonash, but they’ve got the wrong weapon. I believe that Patience is the weapon. And I believe we can prove it.”

“What? But there are no words on it! What are you talking about?”

“Well, like I said, I haven’t completely given up the rogue thing. I found out some tidbits that Maelorin and his Frost Blade cronies don’t know. The thing is, I can’t really track down the leads. I’ve got pretty good cover from Maelorin as long as I stick to my desk at mDyne, but if I start poking around with a sword and cloak he’ll find me for sure. It has to be you. So here’s the deal,” he says, and pulls a letter out of his bag.

“There are two people who might be able to help us reveal the writing on Patience. One is a curator at the Museum of Natural History. The other is a professor at a school called Columbia. I don’t know if either will be able to help, and I don’t know if either is trustworthy. You’ll have to figure that one out on your own.” He hands over the sword, and sits back. He looks very tired.

“It’s good to see you, little brother. Mum and Papa okay?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. Papa’s taking Dwarven language lessons.” A pause. “Your sort-of girlfriend seems nice.”

“Mm-hm. She’s an optician. Sorry, an ocularist. Once you get used to their words for things, it’s hard to switch back and forth.”

“Is she ever coming out of the restroom?”

“Probably not. Welcome to the long, slow hell that is dating.”

And with that, the server arrives with your ‘Eat It and Beat It.’

-A curator of antiquities will know how to decipher the sword. I head for the Museum of Natural History. Turn to page 77.
-Someone in an academic position can solve this. I head for Columbia. Turn to page 115.

You sheathe the blade and look around, but none of the other passengers seem to have paid any mind to the melee battle that just occurred in their midst. If anything, they’re mostly just agitated at the fact that the train still hasn’t moved. One gentleman in particular sighs and mumbles an epithet — clearly, his destination is far more important than everyone else’s, and no one can understand the extent of his inconvenience. (Roll D20 WIS check at +3 to resist giving the guy a look that says, “We’re on this train too, jackhole.”)

Turning your attention back to the slain kobolds, you quickly search them for any clues. (Loot: $11.00, Potion of Minor Healing.) One of them has a small token in his pocket, some sort of talisman. You drop it in your belt pouch just as the train crawls back to life.

You briefly consider keeping one of the kobolds’ Mets caps, but really, are they any more likely to hold onto the division lead this year than they were last year?

At last, the train stops at Bowling Green. The doors open, and the now-familiar unfriendly voice makes an announcement that several of the passengers were dreading. “Attention passengers. Due to an earlier incident, this train is being taken out of service.” The collective groan drowns out the rest of the announcement, which unfortunately includes any information about what you’re supposed to do now.

A tide of people sweeps you off the train and towards the exit, past a transit employee who, against all probability, is singing “Good morning” to the grumpy throngs. You head up a wide set of stairs, once again opting against the ensorcelled self-moving stairway. “Powered by demons, for all we know,” you mutter. The stairs lead up through a glass & steel canopy, depositing you into a plaza. Your feet stop, because your eyes can’t help but look around — and in particular, up.

You’re at the foot of what appears to be a canyon of buildings, reaching into the sky farther than the tallest trees back in Owlsong Forest. The canyon ends at a round park circled by an iron fence, with a fountain at its center. Below that is the plaza, bordered on its other side by a grand, white building with stone steps and columns. It appears to be a museum dedicated to indigenous cultures.

All around you, people swarm about their business, brushing past your shoulders. Most are in suits. “How strange I must look in my cloak and hood,” you muse. And yet, getting their attention turns out to be harder than it looks.

“Excuse me? Excuse me, sir? M’lady? Hello? Can anyone tell me where Union Square is? The train died or something, can you tell me where I am? Erm, hello?”

Finally, a man in a stern suit & tie pauses, and regards you with an arched eyebrow. “This is the Financial District,” he says flatly. “You need to go uptown.” Before you can ask how to get uptown, he’s off.

Unsure what else to do, you head past the park towards the canyon.

You are lost among the winding streets of the Financial District. Roll a D20 Streetwise check at -2 every 5 minutes. SUCCEED 3 consecutive times — Turn to page 118. FAIL 3 consecutive times — You are back at Bowling Green and must begin again. At each check along the way, roll a D10 to determine encounters:

• Large brass monument of a bull that seems to attract worshippers from around the world
• A white-columned edifice that houses a financial market of considerable magnitude
• 2D4 fruit vendors
• An old church with honored burial ground (2% chance of non-hostile ghost encounter)
• DEX check! Nearly run over by bicycle messenger
• 1D4 guards in heavy blue armor, advanced weapons at the ready
• An unlimited number of markets selling lunch, spaced every 50′, each charging an extraordinary amount for what looks like a pretty straightforward salad
• An entrepreneurial gentlemen selling watches on a folding table
• Phase-shifting dire werebeetle (Turn to page 48.)
• 1% chance of protest rally, automatic FAIL on Streetwise check while you find a way around

Page 118

Finally, a lucky break. You happen upon the Whitehall subway station, and judging from the map by the turnstiles, these trains go right to Union Square. (See page 61 for subway entry rules.) The stairs descend quite a ways into the earth, and right as you get to the uptown platform a train festooned with a big yellow ‘R’ lumbers to a stop. You hop on and grab a seat. “Any kobolds this time?” you half-joke to yourself. Thankfully, no. But the thought reminds you of the kobold’s token, which you dig out to examine. About an inch around, it’s engraved on both sides — one with a snowflake, the other with a star.

Before long the train pulls into Union Square. You make your way along the green-painted platform and head upstairs, emerging in a foyer near the turnstile. Looking around to get your bearings, a swish of movement catches your eye … was that a cloak you just saw? A few steps later you see it again — definitely a cloak, and a leather jerkin. Not a regular city denizen. Whoever it is, she pulls her hood up just before you get close look at her face. She heads down the hallway, away from the turnstile. You don’t think she saw you, but you’re not sure.

You could follow her, but Brennick isn’t going to wait forever, and if you don’t meet up with him now there’s no telling when (or how) you’ll find him.

-Brennick will want to know who that is. I follow the hooded stranger. Turn to page 73.
-If I don’t find Brennick, I may not live to see another sunrise. I head to the surface. Turn to page 81.

Whatever they were looking for, they didn’t find it. Nor did they find Brennick.

You begin to sift through the debris for any indication of where he might have gone. (Roll D20 Perception check at +2 to determine length of search.) You notice that the goblins completely ignored his refrigerator magnet poetry. “Makes sense. Goblins aren’t exactly fans of the alphabet,” you think to yourself. “Plus, those things stopped being interesting, like, twelve years ago.”

Looking closer, you see that stuck under the words ‘death’ and ‘cheese’ is a Whole Foods receipt for Pringles … but who would wait in line at Whole Foods just to buy Pringles? Wait, it’s a clue! The goblins wouldn’t have cared about the receipt unless it was from Trader Joe’s, and Brennick always used to tease you about eating Pringles. You snatch the receipt off the fridge. Written on the back is a note:

Sorry for the subterfuge, little brother. I thought it best in case Maelorin’s goblins paid a visit. I’m crashing with my girlfriend. (Well, sort-of-girlfriend. It’s a long story.) Meet me first thing in the morning at Union Square. Go to Borough Hall and take the 4/5. Don’t try contacting me with a scrying spell—Maelorin might be listening in, and my apartment gets lousy reception anyway. Help yourself to rations. If the toilet keeps running, jiggle the handle.

P.S. Had a chance to draw Patience yet? LOL

There is a crude map drawn underneath.

You breathe a sigh of relief, with just a touch of irritation. Looks like you’ll be spending the night here amidst the rubble. The goblins cleft the mattress in twain in their futile search, so you wrestle the couch upright and lay down, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep does not come easy. None of this makes sense—the Maelorin you remember would never align himself with the Frost Blade. It wasn’t that long ago that you & Brennick ran about his garden with wooden sticks, pretending to fight goblins. Now he sends them to ransack Brennick’s apartment? Seems like everything turned upside-down once they found that damned book and its damned prophecy. At last, your eyes grow heavy.

(Standard 8-hour rest; spells and daily powers replenished. Roll D10 for random encounter. 1-2: Car alarm for 25 minutes. 3-4: Party at upstairs apartment, heavy bass. 5-6: Toilet running, handle not jiggled. 7-8: ConEdison starts digging up street for no discernable reason. 9-10: Zombie ambush! Turn to page 122.)

You awake to find that the towel Brennick uses as a curtain does little to keep out the sun. You pack and head out. Squinting at the receipt-map, you follow Degraw and take a right onto Court Street. By the light of day, the boutiques are opening their doors. There are also several land merchants. You pause at the window of one such merchant, glancing at the adverts. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muse. “How is he able to afford living here? The Rogues Guild must be treating him well. Hey look, a 1BR with exposed brick and original wood floors … ” (Roll a D20 WIS check at +3. SUCCEED—You resist, and walk away. FAIL—”Well, I mean, I at least have to ask.” Lose 3 hours.)

Across Atlantic Avenue, you come to the courthouse marked out on the map. Its dome and columns would tower over anything in Deerhaven Village, yet in these surroundings they seem modest. You spot the verdant globes of the subway entrance and descend. (See page 61 for subway entry rules.)

The crowd on the train platform is quite different from the one you encountered at Port Authority. There are far more people, but none say a word, each intently focused on their destination. The train rumbles into the station almost immediately. It gleams with a surprising, sterile modernity—nothing like the dingy train you took last night. As you board, a very polite and well-spoken woman announces, “This is a Manhattan-bound 4 express train. The next stop is, Bowling Green.” A nice man adds, “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.” How they manage to sound so friendly at this hour of the morning is beyond you.

(Roll a D20 DEX check. SUCCEED—You maintain your footing when the train lurches into motion. FAIL—The large man you just inadvertently body-checked is not amused.)

As the train speeds into Manhattan, nearby passengers seem barely aware of you. None look you in the eye. Suddenly the train grinds to a halt, eliciting a wave of sighs. A far less friendly-sounding man makes an announcement.

But you hardly hear it because your heart just skipped a beat.

A flash of steel from the far side of the car. Kobolds. Two of them … ? No, three. Wearing Mets caps for cover. “Garonash’s blood, they must’ve followed me,” you mutter.

“Have good sleeping in messy apartment?” the lead one cackles, weaving through the passengers. “It no matter, you sleep long time now!”

Your hand instinctively finds the hilt. “Yes Brennick, I’ve had plenty of chances to draw this blasted sword,” you think to yourself. “And you know what? I’m getting the hang of it.”

Roll D20 for initiative.

The bus lurches into its berth, and the driver’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker.

“This is Port Authority Bus Terminal.”

“Well it certainly isn’t Deerhaven Village,” you think to yourself.

The fume-filled air nearly chokes you as you duck into the entry corridor. Orange brick lines the walls. From dozens of identical berths, passengers stream into building. (Dwarves: roll Detect Grade/Slope check with WIS bonus. SUCCEED – “Hm, this floor slopes slightly … ” FAIL – “Nice flat floor you have here.” CRITICAL FAIL – You become disoriented and have to lie down.)

You follow the tide of travelers to the end of the corridor, towards a mural depicting two local guards patrolling the complex. The image is reassuring, but you can’t help the creeping feeling that you’re being watched. Past the mural, stairs lead to the main level. Some of the stairs move on their own, but this is no time for sorcery. You hurdle the motionless stairs.

“Follow the signs that point towards the subway. ‘Twill not be far,” the letter had said. “You will pass a news stand and a small bakery that is called ‘At the Good Bread’ in a foreign tongue. If you happen to stop there, pick me up a cinnamon roll. Through a large set of doors will you pass. Seek the A/C trains, emblazoned in blue circles with the legend ‘Downtown & Brooklyn.’ You will have to transfer to the F at some point. Good luck, and may Garonash be with you.”

Choose your path for gaining entry to the train:

- Lawful, paid entry: 2 silver
- Stealth: Must roll DEX check of natural 20 every 3 hexes between turnstile and platform.
- Combat: Must defeat/subdue guards, raising an alert which spawns additional guards every 60 seconds at PC level +5. Flagged as hostile for 12 hours.

The train platform is eerily quiet at this late hour. You pace past steel columns, wastebaskets, and benches that look as though they were intentionally designed not to be comfortable for anything. A mysterious puddle stains the floor next to one of the wastebaskets. (Roll INT check +3. SUCCEED – You manage not to think too much about the source of the stain. FAIL – You think way too much about the source of the stain.) Suddenly, an ominous wind begins to rustle your cloak. As it builds, lights appear at the end of the tunnel. Is the train an A or a C? Nay! ‘Tis an E!

- I take a chance on a swifter transit, and board the E train! Turn to page 89.
- I wait on the platform for an A or C train. Turn to page 91.

Page 89

You board the E train. Its denizens are mostly revelers subdued after a night of carousing, along with a mix of tired laborers and unfortunate vagrants. (Roll D10 for random encounter before West 4th Street. 1-2: Religious zealot. 3-4: Young people selling sweets to raise funds for their athletic team. 5-6: Mariachi band. 7-8: Train stops for no reason. 9-10: Couple arguing about something inane.) At West 4th Street, you dart off the train and seek stairs leading down to the F train, emblazoned in orange. (Roll D12 against a Luck check to determine length of wait on the F platform.) Turn to page 104.

Page 91

An A train arrives, and cautiously board. You remain on the train as it passes under the East River into Brooklyn. At Jay Street/Borough Hall, you exit just as the F train is arriving across the platform, confirming your hunch that it really didn’t matter which train you took. Hurry, the doors are closing! (Roll Bend Bars/Lift Gates check with STR bonus. SUCCEED – You force the doors back open. Way to make everyone wait, asshole. FAIL – Dammit. Roll D10+4 to determine length of wait for next train.) Turn to page 104.

Page 104

You enter the F train in the foremost car. Immediately, you sense that the train’s denizens are more likely to shop at thrift stores, eat sushi and listen to Pavement. They regard you with suspicion. You are not one of them, and they know it. You need only go one stop – thank Garonash – and by the time you are departing, they are already turning their attention back to the glowing devices they carry.

As the train speeds away, you exit through the nearest stairway. For the first time since leaving South Station 6 hours ago, you are outside. The street is lined with merchants and restaurants, though you doubt you could afford most of the merchants’ wares. “300 gold pieces for shoes?” you ponder. “Why would I pay that when the store’s name ends with a comma?”

Undeterred, you continue on past Baltic and Butler Streets, turning right onto Degraw. The apartment lies just ahead, but your feet grow heavy with doubt. Could the Frost Blade really have returned? Is this all just another one of his elaborate pranks on little brother? Time to find out. You cast a spell of scrying to let him know you have arrived.

Strange, there is no answer …

Suddenly, your nose stops you dead cold. You’d know that odor anywhere: Goblins, there can be no mistake. By the light of their campfire, you can make out two of them guarding the door.

- I sneak closer to get a better look. (Roll a DEX check. SUCCEED – Turn to page 111. FAIL – Turn to page 107.)
- Goblins? Not on my watch. I draw Patience from its scabbard and charge. (Roll D20 for Initiative.) Turn to page 126.