Alert: Contains spoilers for the adventure “The Temple of Elemental Evil”
Made it to the campsite safely, although we had some excitement leaving the dungeon.
We were passing through all the bugbear/ogre bodies that Lydia burned at the bottom of the stairs, and met something coming down…black, oozing, and spreading from wall to wall across the stairs. Continue reading
Alert: contains spoilers for the adventure “Temple of Elemental Evil”
The hall led south from the guard quarters we had just cleared, until we could see some kind of light up ahead. It’s always hard to tell, since our shields shine so brightly, but this light seemed unnatural and purplish.
We could also see figures in the room with the light…horrible creatures, like a medusa, a fire giant, a beholder, some kind of were-tiger, a mummy, even a blue dragon and a wyvern! As we got closer, they looked very much like statues…but we’ve learned by now not to take chances.
I warned Tressarian that we were trying to be sneaky, and asked him what he could see. He told us the cressets on the walls (full of globby purple coals or something like that) were Evil – but that the statues didn’t “feel” Evil. There was some kind of magic in the room (the medusa’s cloak appeared to be magical) but that’s all he could tell us without actually entering the room. And even Ezekiel was showing caution and staying on the near side of the threshold. Continue reading
At the campsite between Homlette and Nulb again. Woods seem quiet.
This morning, we had breakfast in the old guard quarters – one of the first places we cleared in the Temple’s second basement.
Lydia used some kind of magic to figure out what was on the scroll we found in the coffer from the garbage pit. She hopes she can learn some of them, so she can use them again and again.
All loaded up with our anti-water spells, we headed to the one place we hadn’t really investigated – the northern pool of water. Continue reading
Alert: May contain spoilers for the adventure: “The Temple of Elemental Evil”
Well…it’s been a busy day for the map.
We found the room where some bugbears have been staying until recently – but just as we prepared to search it, Ezekiel got that glassy look on his face again and just stood there with a funny smile.
When he snapped out of it, he told us we had to go back to the Air Temple and trace a protection from evil circle around the pit, then dump holy water into it.
You don’t argue with Ezekiel when he’s in these moods, so we hiked all the way back, and Lydia drew the circle with a silver piece. Then we dumped Mikael’s water skin (which happened to be consecrated) into the pit. Continue reading
Alert: May contain spoilers for the adventure “The Temple of Elemental Evil”
It wasn’t over when the last salamander hit the floor.
While Wonillon ran back to help Raven tie up the evil priest (Raven smacked him around a bit to make him more pliable) and Ezekiel helped finish off the second werewolf, Lydia kind of sat down on the floor next to the fire-pit.
Mikael ran over to Ezekiel and said something in his ear, and then Ezekiel told me to grab any valuables from the bugbears as quick as possible because we had to get Lydia some help. After all, she’d been mauled pretty badly by the werewolf, and Mikael though a Druid of the Twelfth Circle or something like that could cure her if we got there super fast.
Lydia seemed really shaken up, and was crying a little, and looking at her silver dagger…but Mikael told her if we were quick we could maybe fix things. Continue reading
After successfully dragging Ezekiel out of the Temple, we decided we might as well take the treasure from the Water “Sanctuary” back to town.
Sir Rufus bought the ogre-sized bone armor just because it’s something you don’t see everyday, and Master Bern said he might have a use for the hydra heart.
I didn’t ask about what it might be.
Turns out it’s just as well we came back, because Raven disappeared to the tower for a few days to ask some questions of the monk master there. He says he’s been experimenting with his moves, and wanted guidance from someone more experienced. Continue reading
How will you survive the coming apocalypse?
Lots of people are worried about political disruption or violent riots. But I think we’re heading for something much worse.
What with economic turmoil, civil unrest, and contagious diseases, everyone needs to have a plan in place…but especially if you live in a city!
Your best bet is to get out…as soon as possible, perhaps even now! But to do that you need a plan and know what to prepare.
If “bugging out” isn’t on option for your family, fortifying in place is your next best bet.
By educating yourself, you can make the best choice to protect yourself and the ones you love.
Image credit: christinprophecy.org
But you can still be smart about this! Go ahead and make responsible plans…just be realistic about your end goal.
Image credit: Pixabay
That’s what you’re doing now, by the way. Reading posts and books is the first step to knowing your options and making an educated choice.
Assuming you’re not reading this while the rabid mob pounds on your door, you also have time to gather your resources.
Some of those resources should be hard copies of the information you find. If a blog post or article is especially helpful, save it to your device or print it and put the paper where you can find it! The last thing you want is to be counting on a good internet connection while fleeing for your lives.
If you have time to move to a rural property, do it. The more open space you have between you and possible rioters and looters, the better.
Finding skills you can learn to provide for yourself will also help you survive in the long-term. Do you know anything about farming? Can you hunt? Maybe get some chickens and goats to provide continuous food.
Remember: canned goods don’t procreate.
Do you have family, friends, church or school buddies that live out in the country? Make arrangements to stay with them if things hit the fan.
Even if you can’t completely move in with them, have a place where your family can sleep with a roof over their heads…where no one’s going to burn down the house in the night.
If you have elderly neighbors or relatives who live nearby, make plans to take them with you. Just like it’s smart to drill your kids on how to escape the house if there’s a fire, have a drill in place for how you will get out of the city if things get serious. Maybe have it on a printed sheet so everyone can know what’s going on (along with maps you might need).
Many “preppers” recommend packing a “bug-out bag,” which is an emergency pack you can grab on your way out the door if you need to evacuate. (See more later.)
The hard part will be judging when is the right time to leave. When your mayor de-funds the police? When a riot is announced for your neighborhood? When you see the angry mob blocking your neighbor’s driveway and throwing molotov cocktails?
That’s a choice only you can make…but hopefully, with enough thought ahead of time and the right resources, you will be confident to make the decision that’s best for your family.
There are resources for you to do that, too. Depending on where you live, this could work out really well.
For instance, if you have good relationships with all your neighbors, and all of you are committed to protecting and supporting each other, you could make arrangements to share out the duties of a self-sufficient community and provide for each other’s needs when crunch time comes.
Now let’s look at all these options in more detail:
In a total breakdown of the social order, lots of things will stop working.
People will stop trusting money. Stores will get tired of stuff being stolen, and stop stocking the shelves. Hungry people will do things they were always too afraid to do before…especially when the police aren’t arresting anyone for it.
When the rioters are looking for stuff to steal, they’ll go where it’s convenient. Whether they’re walking, or bring U-Hauls to load, the city has more targets (and Targets) close together. They get more bang for their club, if you like.
If you’re a long walk from anyone else, you’re much more inconvenient to steal from.
You can set up your own self-sufficient farm!
People don’t survive without food. How will you get it without the mega-industrial farms shipping products to the grocery stores? (Just read my post about 10 things I’ll miss after the apocalypse!)
Where you live (or move to) will determine what grows best and what resources are available to get you set up.
This is the shoe-shelf I made all by myself! #NailedIt I am totes qualified to do all our woodworking now.
But you can decide what you’re good at…and what you want to become good at!
Now is the time. Get books. Take classes. Dig that garden, plant those heirloom seeds (so they’ll keep coming back year after year!), and decide what skills you want to have when you can’t just order anything on Amazon!
Your mayor has deleted your city’s police and the resident angries are drooling over your iPhone.
If you’re looking at days or weeks before these laws go into effect (not months or years), you need a safe place for your kids and loved ones now.
This is where having friends comes in. Chances are you know someone who lives on a farm, or owns a cabin in the woods or something. You might even have a vacation home that’s in a less densely populated area (or even a “quieter” area)!
They might not be excited to have you just move in to their guest room…but lots of things are bearable if there’s an end-goal in mind.
Make those connections, build those relationships, and have a plan in place in case you need to get out right now.
If you’ve ever been camping out in the wilderness, think about what you would absolutely need for a back-packing trip. These are short-term supplies to get you to your “safe house.”
Once there, of course, you need to be making other plans. Are you spending the next five years in your mother-in-law’s cabin basement? Or is this just a stepping stone to something more sustainable?
I don’t have a good pic for this, so enjoy Gordan Freeman! Image credit: fanpop.com
If, for whatever reason, you just can’t get to a safe place outside the city, you should be making a plan to survive where you are.
Many preppers encourage you to have so-many canned goods in your basement (three months, six months, whatever). This is great…if you’re sitting out an earthquake, flood, or pandemic.
We’ll ignore the question of whether you packed enough food for all your neighbors as well, and whether you’ll share your precious reserves with everyone who asks you…or start shooting them to keep the canned beans for your own kids.
Quite aside from that is the question: what happens in the spring? You survived the riots, you survived the winter-with-no-grocery-stores…what next?
Will you plant a garden in your backyard? Raid your neighbor’s house to see if he left any canned goods after he died?
If your climate is mild, and your neighbors are friendly, you’ve already dodged two of the bullets that take out apocalypse sufferers: exposure and violence.
But even if you live in a sweet little town where everybody knows everyone else and would never hurt a fly, you have to consider:
Make a list now of anything you know of in your area that might threaten your survival. Once you have it in front of you, you can make a plan to deal with it.
Which is another way of saying:
How do you survive an apocalypse? By focusing on what is sustainable.
Are you in a good place? Do you have people around that you can depend on? Is there plenty of room to grow your own food and raise your own animals…possibly in cooperation with your neighbors?
Then plant yourself like a tree.
Research the weapons laws in your area, and take classes on self-defense. If the police won’t answer when someone attacks your home, it’s a comfort to know you can protect yourself…
Vigilante patrols have not turned out well in the past, so I don’t think it’s time for that. But what if rioters announce they’re coming to burn your neighborhood, and you all block the in-coming roads with cars?
I’m sure that violates all kinds of traffic laws, so I can’t recommend it. God tells us to “honor the governor” and “those in authority,” after all.
But I am brainstorming what it might look like if the people who live near you have your back…and likewise know that they can depend on you.
Say if you keep chickens, and your next-door neighbor grows melons…it could be an excellent opportunity to take care of each other.
The only actions you can control are your own. The only people you can depend on are the people around you.
And they depend on you. So study all you can, pray, think, and make the choice that will best protect you and the people you love.
Odd thing to say in this kind of post, eh?
But there’s another side to this whole apocalypse thing.
I may be a prepping homesteader who sees the collapse of civilization looming closer every day…but NOTHING (not gold in my mattress, nor solar panels on my roof) will GUARANTEE the preservation of my lifestyle.
That’s why I say, “Survival isn’t everything”:
Say, for instance, to “act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God.”
And even if I stuff 100 years’ worth of canned vegetables in my bedroom and manage to survive all the bloodshed and starvation and disease that is coming on Western society…I will one day face my Maker, and He will ask me a very simple question:
He will ask you the same thing when you face Him. Every single person on this planet will one day be judged for everything they’ve done…but most of all for their response to Jesus.
I believe the cities that are burning in America and the people getting murdered are the prelude to the judgement of God (a nation can’t hum along merrily slaughtering its babies as we have done without facing consequences).
But I also believe that anything that happens here is nothing compared to an eternity of punishment, separated from God.
And let me never forget that, with all the thousands that will die in a civil war, and the millions more that will waste away in starvation and disease, Jesus the Anointed God-Man bled and died for every last one of them.
I don’t know who will win the election. And part of me doesn’t care. God never gets out of office. He’s King-of-the-Universe-for-Ever-for-Life.
So while you pack your bags, and plant your garden, and learn how to sew clothes or make medicine or whatever…don’t forget the poor souls who stayed behind.
Keep reminding them that Jesus loves them, which is why we love them, and that He wants them to survive the much worse judgement at the end of the world…they just have to trust Him and believe in Him. That’s it.
Thing is, the end of their world might be when a protester drives over them…or when two groups of rioters get in a firefight.
Or when the local pharmacy won’t stock insulin because people steal it too fast, and their diabetes kills them.
Let’s get to them, first!
Kimia Wood was raised by an aspiring author, so spinning words and weaving plots is in her blood.
She currently lives somewhere in the American Midwest, bracing for the collapse of society by knitting, baking, writing, hobby-farming, and reading as much Twitter as possible before the web goes dark.
Subscribe to the mailing list for periodic updates on her latest reading and writing adventures (as long as that’s a thing!). You’ll also get a FREE e-copy of her post-apocalyptic adventure novella Soldier.
When Ezekiel and Wonillon finally got back to us, they said they’d had a scuffle with some bugbears. They claim that Ezekiel took two of them out with a single whack each, while Wonillon lay on the floor bleeding, and then Ezekiel chanted a healing spell over Wonillon that seemed to actually work!
Gonna have to keep an eye on Ezekiel. Maybe we didn’t pick out all the shards of potion bottles that the giant spherical rolling pin crushed into him. Continue reading
In the absence of a D&D summery this week, please enjoy this short story I wrote, inspired by the world of Greyhawk!
My brother is clamoring for it to continue to a better resolution…What do you think?
Marcius woke, shivering the whole length of his body. The back of his tattered tunic stuck to the stone wall, and his legs and arms had long passed the point where he noticed their throbbing.
By all rights, he should have been surprised at being able to sleep at all…but he couldn’t ignore the pressure of sheer exhaustion.
The clanks of armor and the flap of feet snapped his attention back to what had woken him.
Marcius peered through the bars of the cell, fighting the surge of panic that shot up through his heart.
He recognized the figure that led the small party — though Gorm, as he called himself, shared the ruddy skin and dark robes of a human cleric, the fangs sticking up from his lower jaw betrayed his orc parentage.
The green-skinned grunts behind him were dragging another prisoner — human, and dressed in something brown, though that’s all that Marcius could see underneath the mud and dried blood.
The orcs in chainmail dragged their prisoner to the wall opposite Marcius and began shackling him in the same way – locking his wrists in manacles just above the head…at just the right angle to prevent him from hanging his body in a comfortable resting position.
Gorm, the so-called cleric, approached Marcius.
At his smug smile and squint, Marcius felt the bile rise in his mouth.
“Good morning, holy warrior,” Gorm croaked past his fangs, giving a smile that revealed all their jagged glory.
Marcius tried to lick the roof of his mouth, and failed.
“I could tell you that Pelor has brought the sun back to the skies outside,” said Gorm. “And that in the peaceful lands of your home, the green fields wave back a welcome to the light.”
Marcius said nothing. There was no answer.
He knew as well as Gorm did that he was not out there, raising his sword against the invading hordes to protect his master and his people.
No, he was here, buried deep in a dungeon where the only light were the torches of his enemies…or their sickly green orbs placed at the foot of the stairs.
“You must long for it,” said Gorm, with another smile. “The holy warrior misses his brothers-in-arms – misses his polished armor and his sharpened sword. Perhaps we should have let you watch as we melted it down.”
Melting Marcius’ blade would negate the enchantment on it. It was just the sort of thing they’d do, though, as Quintus had been outspoken about his loathing for foul humanoids.
Thinking about it would do no good…but at the memory of his enthusiastic sentient sword, Marcius choked.
The two foot-soldiers, finished with their work, glanced at Gorm. At a nod from him, they passed through the cell-gate to head for the stairs.
“Have you spoken with your god, holy warrior?” asked Gorm. “Surely his light could do something for you here. Surely he would send aid to you…if he knew you were here, of course. The mighty master of light is strong enough to reach these halls, is he not?”
When Marcius didn’t answer, Gorm reached into his cloak.
“No,” he said. “Surely he would not abandon his child like this – would he, paladin?”
With the final sneer, he pulled something out of his cloak and shoved it into Marcius’ face.
It was a mask – worked to resemble a bear, or a wolf — it was impossible to tell which, exactly.
A red teardrop painted on the forehead was almost obscured by the crusty stains of real blood.
Marcius screamed, lunging to the side. The chains snapped metallically, bringing him to a halt; the manacles bit into his wrists and the fleshy base of his thumb.
The sores in those places broke open – warm blood trickled down his arms in well-worn patterns.
But he noticed none of that. Darkness clouded his vision, as the cleric’s taunting laugh echoed in his ears.
Pelor should hear him. Pelor was his Master, the Lord of Light. Pelor was the name he carried when he defended the widows of homesteads, and the orphans of besieged towns.
Yet here he was.
Marcius slumped, hanging in the chains. They were placed so high that he couldn’t kneel on the ground…either his swollen and aching legs must support him, or his shredded arms and wrists would.
How long had this gone on? How many days had this fiend with the shape of a man, who worshiped an obscene and vile god, come down here to taunt him?
How often had he been forced to face that thing – that symbol of all that was twisted and murderous in this castle?
That reminder – in physical form – that he had failed…that the patrol had been slaughtered…that he, Marcius Farin, had been dragged from his company and his duty, and locked up here…perhaps to die, perhaps worse –
Worse? To renounce his oath. He was no ignorant blade-for-hire…He served a higher authority, and dedicated himself to the cause of his master.
From his sword to his speech to the manner in which he passed his free time, everything was a reflection of that greater light – the great Pelor, whose sun shone on the just and the unjust, and whose will was the protection of the helpless and oppressed.
And now…where had that brought him?
Marcius realized he was sobbing. A fiery pain stabbed through his limbs, raising them above the constant ache that racked his whole body – and making them worthy of his mind’s notice.
But there was nothing he could do. He could no more protect the innocent than he could keep himself alive. No more than he could make the sun rise.
He was nothing.
Gorm laughed again — for as human as his face was, his voice sounded like a pig fused in an unholy union with a bear.
“We’ll talk again tomorrow, holy warrior,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll find something more to talk about. You must tell me all about the wonders of Pelor, and how he takes care of his faithful servants.”
Gorm turned and strutted out – locking the cell with the keys at his belt before climbing the stairs.
In the sickly green light of the orbs by the staircase, Marcius huddled against the wall at his back.
Sweat coated his face and ran into his eyes. With a shaking arm, he drew his hand far enough over to wipe the hair out of his eyes.
Across the way, the new prisoner was watching him. He twisted his hands in the manacles, as though testing their tightness…but Marcius knew there was no way to slip out of them.
How often had he tried? Even with shredded skin and blood-slicked arms, the metal was sized just right to keep his bones pinned.
How often…? How often had this happened? How long had he spent in this hell-hole?
And could Hell itself possibly be any worse?
A part of him rebelled at that thought. Ever since he was a child in his father’s house, he had trained his body and disciplined his mind for service to Pelor…and, by extension, as a symbol of Good and comfort to all innocent people who depended on him.
And that had brought him – what?
Was this, then, to be his end? This dim, stinking dungeon would be his grave?
Or would one day…one black-as-night morning…would his resolve break? Would the torture of his body and mind become too much, and would his mouth speak words that he himself would never dream of?
At the horror of that thought, Marcius sank into a revery that eventually led him to sleep…or rather, the shifting consciousness that served him as sleep in that place.
Once or twice, he started awake, straining his ears for an unfamiliar sound…
A soft crunching – like the chewing of flesh and bone…accompanied by stifled gasps of pain.
But his blurred eyes could see nothing in the dimness – and even if there were undead in the shadows beyond the cell, preying on some helpless victim, it wasn’t like he could do anything to help them.
Finally, he heard the familiar alarm of morning – the thump of the cleric’s boots, and the jingle of his chainmail and keys.
Gorm reappeared – this time alone – and placed a torch in a bracket along the wall before unlocking the cell door.
Marcius already felt the tears coursing down his face. His heart pounded. He had no more blood to bleed, no more strength to stand –
“Morning has dawned yet again,” said Gorm, with another of his hateful smiles. “Or do I need to tell you that, holy warrior? A devoted acolyte of the sun-god surely knows when the sun rises and sets. Who am I to tell you differently, my righteous friend?”
Marcius could think of nothing to say. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his cheek against the wall, steeling himself.
“I hope you have enough light to see, you little human weakling, you,” said Gorm. “I have something to show you. Open up and look, now. I think you’ll find it very interesting–”
Something clanked and gurgled.
Surprise overpowered Marcius, and he instinctively looked.
First, he noticed Gorm’s starting eyes and pale complexion.
Next, he noticed the other prisoner, pinning a metal bar from the prison floor against the cleric’s neck with his elbows – and hauling back for all he was worth.
A moment later, the prisoner raised his knee to Gorm’s back, and convulsed backward with a jerk.
Gorm gave an explosive cough, and crumpled to the ground, a little trickle of blood darkening his mouth.
The stranger exhaled, and straightened up, letting the bar drop.
As he straightened his arms, Marcius saw that his hands were entirely red. Now that they were closer together, he could see the pulpy stubs were both his thumbs had been.
From the blood around his mouth, the stranger had chewed them off.
Marcius felt oddly sick – but as he hadn’t eaten anything in several days, nothing happened.
“Oy,” said the stranger, and stepped forward, holding out his hands. “Do me a solid, man?”
Marcius continued to stare.
“Snap out of it, greater-goody,” said the prisoner. “You’re a paladin of Pelor, right? Can’t be all bad, right? So lay it on me before we blow this.”
After all this time…how long had it been, again?…surely the power of Pelor had left him.
Surely, in this vile place –
Marcius reached out — he couldn’t lower his hands below his head, so the stranger stepped forward and raised his arms. Marcius cradled the strangers’ hands in his own, closed his eyes, and started mouthing a prayer.
If Pelor heard him…if Pelor regarded him…then surely it was Pelor’s will that he help someone else…
At the long sigh of relief, Marcius opened his eyes.
The stranger examined his hands, turning them over as he opened and shut his new fists – complete with new thumbs.
“Feels good enough to function,” he said. “Now—”
He bent over Gorm, and within seconds was unlocking Marcius’ manacles with the keys.
As soon as his arms were free, Marcius sank to the ground. At the sudden relief, every nerve in his body seemed to fire, and every tense muscle collapsed.
The stranger busied himself rooting through Gorm’s body.
Yes, the cleric that had tormented him for time without measure was well and truly dead. And so easily. It made him wonder– But he was too tired to wonder. Besides, there was no time for it.
Marcius forced himself to crawl forward and join the hunt.
While his new companion stripped off the chainmail and pulled it on, Marcius detached the cleric’s small hammer — Gorm’s main weapon, a mace, was hanging from a loop on his other side.
Good thing he’d done some practicing with maces. They couldn’t compare to his old sword, of course, but at least he’d have an idea what he was doing.
He looked up at the stranger.
His new companion was standing again, and muttering something.
“Well, been worse,” he said at last, and looked down at Marcius. “Can you stand, paladin?” He held out a hand.
Marcius honestly didn’t think he could…but he said nothing. Instead, he took the offered arm and scrambled upright – letting the stranger pull him to his feet.
“Marcius Farin,” he panted. “Do you have a name, my generous friend?”
“Generous is new,” said the stranger. “Call me Benj.”
He picked up his length of metal and hefted it a moment. “Nope. I’ll trouble you for the hammer. Hope we meet some grunts soon. I don’t do much with blunt trauma. Needlessly delays things, if you ask me.”
Dark spots washed before Marcius’ eyes. “You realize we have no real chance –” he began.
“Stuff it, city boy,” said Benj. “Is that any talk for a paladin of Pelor?”
He headed for the door of the cell.
Marcius said nothing and followed.
Benj took the torch from the bracket and held it in his off-hand. He glanced up the stairs, then along the wall that led farther into the dungeon.
When he looked back at Marcius, he smiled. “Guess you can’t do another number on yourself, eh?”
Marcius shook his head.
“Ever been down that way?” He pointed into the darkness. “Is there another stair you could find for us?”
“Sorry,” said Marcius.
Benj glanced up the stairway again. “Known impossibility,” he grunted, and turned toward the darkness, “Or unknown possibilities.”
He shrugged. “Come on, man. We’ll stick together, that’s all.”
He headed off along the wall.
Who knew what they would find over there? On the other hand, could it be more threatening than the full guardhouse at the top of the prison stairs?
Marcius followed close behind.
Kimia Wood lives somewhere in the American Midwest, bracing for the collapse of society by knitting, baking, writing…and other excuses for not gardening.
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Alert: May contain spoilers for the adventure “The Temple of Elemental Evil”
Night passed quietly. Rest seemed to do Ezekiel good.
First thing, he pulled Mikael aside for a “strategy session” – both of them being “cleric types” and all.
So Raven and I went through Bel-Sornig’s room to make sure we hadn’t missed anything. No sign of a secret passage…so that’s good, I guess.
I think Ezekiel said something like he got “something” to “replace” the healing potions he lost, but I’m not sure. He was kind of muttering. Continue reading