Episode 3: Vincenzo Revealed

The 20-Sided Theatre, Episode 3: Vincenzo Revealed


Dramatis Personae:

Rhomande's Insufferable Basterds

Rhomande Sorfinde, Bard in Extraordinaire & Host-Proprietor of The 20-Sided Theatre – Rudraigh Quattrin

Dark Brother Smyd Kaltrops, President of Bear Industries – Cian Quattrin

Issa Featherfoot, Pengonquin Princess – Ceridwen Quattrin

Imenand Shenouda, President of The Shenouda Necromancy Corporation – Blake Parker

Thrimlach Lenanien, Secretive Elven Mage – Cian Quattrin

Vragul, Baron of Keepfield etc. (see “King of-” list) - Rudraigh Quattrin

Thorn the Trixie Pixie of Unknown Gender – Blake Parker

Maldreth the Impius, Ogroid high priest of Makar – Gabe Abinante



The DM – Rud

Torrea Marsvel - Cian 

Loramar (Thrim’s Raven) – Rud

Sir Isaac Newtot – Rud

Tusa the Wonderment – Ceri

Potato Rogue – 

Gutterspud – Blake

Officer Paddy – Rud

Chancellor Flibble – Blake

King Prautha Spudminster Von Yukon III – 

Tularria Moonsong – 

Cadet-Lieutenant Cidalan – Cian 




Scene 0: Show Opening & Theme Music and Story Thus Far


SFX: (90352_dobroide_20100213-tuning-02.wav)




SFX: (2d20 rolls)


The DM: Your Move Silent and Hide checks are successful. SFX: **Permanency**(reverb and/or effects on voice of the DM, as he is “outside” the world of the show)


SFX: (pause)(51136_rutgermuller_Cough (short))


Rhomande: Good evening Lords and Ladies. You have chosen your evening's entertainment quite wisely. You are about to experience the most wondrous spectacle in all of Western Scottalia. I am your Host-Proprietor, Rhomande Sorfinde, and I welcome you...to The 20-Sided Theatre!


The Wiz: **From “offstage”** Dancing lights! SFX: (121558_sbarncar_whistleandreport.aif x 5 (bunched in time with opening of Theme Music)


Theme Music: (VCMG – Victory Flower Fields – 20-Sided Theatre Edit)


SFX: (40555_frequman_pulley-2.wav)

Music Bed: (Sylvius Leopold Weiss – Courante in F Major.mp3)


Rhomande: The curtain rises, and we rejoin our Heroes --


The DM: (interrupting) Really? Heroes?


Rhomande: Yeah, Heroes.


The DM: Ugh...Give me a bluff check. SFX: (d20 roll) Godsdamnit. (muttered to self). Fine...Heroes.


Rhomande: Allow me to introduce you to our heroes: The Insufferable Basterds. 


Rhomande: Dark Brother Smyd Kaltrops! The Half-Bear Monk and President of Bear Industries. A shapeshifter of near insurmountable strength and speed.


Smid: SFX: (70333_mrbubble110_bear-roar.wav)The Scottalian Bread Merchants think they can strong-arm Bear Industries out of business‽ Not if I have anything to say about it. Which I will.


Rhomande: Thrimlach Lenanion! A blindfolded Elf Sorcerer with a potato perched on his shoulder and his minions Torrea Marsvel, an Undead Paladin and Sir Gnome, his faithful Gnome-Skeleton valet.


Thrimlach: Come along, Torrea. You too Sir Gnome! Or I'll put you in a maze!


Torrea: Yes sir.


Sir Gnome: Yes Master.



Rhomande: Imenand Shenouda. He is known throughout The Empire as The Weaponsmith and he serves as President and spokesman of The Shenouda Necromancy Corporation. A mummified Human Wizard, accompanied by his Skeletal-Cat Familiar, Bastet.


Imenand: SFX: (4914_noisecollector_cat2.wav) You can count on The Shenouda Necromancy Corporation. When you need it dead yesterday.


Rhomande: Issa Featherfoot, Pengonquin Princess. A 7' tall shapeshifting Penguin Rogue!


Issa: Bow before the Princess of the mighty Pengonquin tribe or I'll peck you in the face!


Rhomande: A tiny thief of questionable gender!  A master magician of variable size! Thorn, the Trixie Pixie!


Thorn: When I catch Vincenzo, he won’t know what hit him… or from what direction!


Rhomande: The terrible, towering Maldreth the Impius, the ogre-blooded Patriarch of the Church of War, dedicated to Makar, Father of Strife!


Maldreth: Where are you idiots?  I had plans for this afternoon, and they hinged upon your faithful acts of violence!


Rhomande: His Majestic Terror, Vragul, son of Vorbal, King of Town Hall, King of Wagon, King of Docks, King of Wife, King of Axe, and Baron of Keepfield!


Vragul: No!  Me King of Barony!  Get it right, dressy-elf, or me dispense swift lesson!  With Axe!


Rhomande: My humblest apologies, Your Majesty.


Rhomande: And last, but definitely not least: Yours truly, the inexplainable Rhomande Sorfinde! Bard in Extraordinaire, Beloved of Millions, The Light of the Shining Dawn…


Issa: (interrupting) *ahem* Get on with it!


Rhomande: An Elfen Bard of pan-dimensional acclaim. But you already knew that, didn't you? Lords and Ladies of my beloved audience, recline upon your gilded seats, quaff your libations and thoroughly enjoy your evening at The 20-Sided Theatre!

End Music Bed: (Sylvius Leopold Weiss – Courante in F Major.mp3)


Rhomande: Thus far in the tale of Rhomande’s Insufferable Basterds, our heroes have hunted the mysterious gangster Don Vincenzo, first across the kingdom of Scottalia, and then through the Plane of Haikon, an afterlife for potatoes.  


Rhomande: Our heroes are just now emerging from the great Desert of Tuberorsus the Blighted, where they vanquished a chaotic entity that had assumed the guise of an elder baked potato dragon.  


Rhomande: And now, let me proudly present tonight’s feature production – The Twenty Sided Theatre, Episode 4: Vincenzo Revealed.  Tonight’s episode is brought to you by Vragul, King of Sing.  Yes, friends, his majesty, Vragul the Half Orc King of Town Hall has entered the Arcane Auditory Trinket Industry.  


Rhomande: To preorder your copy of His Majesty’s forthcoming album, Vragul: King of Sing, simply visit the Box Office as you exit the Theatre.  


Scene 1: The Edge of the Great Blight

DM: It is late afternoon, and the setting potato sun reveals the Russet Hills in all their rolling glory –


Imenand: (interrupting)  Wait just a minute, voice.  Before we go on to Inner Haikon, I would like to skin and loot the Potato Dragon of the Hungering End.


DM: Really?  Are you sure?  I mean, the skin won’t be much good to you; it’s thick, but nowhere near real dragonhide.


Imenand: No, but that mass of treasure clinging all over its body does appear quite valuable.


Maldreth: Yeah, what’s up with that?  Did this dragon decide that it needed some sort of Treasure Rub before going on the grill?


DM: Something like that.  You know how potatoes have very limited imaginations?  This one knew that dragons hoard treasure, but it apparently didn’t know where or how to keep a hoard.  


Imenand: So, what?  It just rolled over every piece of treasure it ever came across, until it lodged into the skin?


Maldreth: Why not?  If I had crappy potato skin like that, I’d sure as hell try to cover it in gold, jewels, and magic items.


DM: Some of the treasure you probably don’t want to touch, since the infection from the Hungering End began to turn it into some sort of slime, but the rest is fairly amazing.  This potato dragon must have been a connoisseur, because he encrusted himself with various artistic masterworks – paintings, figurines, Doric columns, two or three larger than life sculptures, et cetera.


Thrimlach: Vragul!  I like the looks of that statue up there.  Use your great strength to bring it down!


Issa: (groan) C’mon, Thorn.  Let’s set up camp while they try to dislodge that ten-foot statue of Emperor Valdik the Sixty-Sixth from between that thing’s wings.


Thorn: I wasn’t about to cast Grease on it!  (pause) I mean… be right there!


DM: The camp setup goes quickly, and after a few hours the potato dragon has been picked clean of all its valuables.  The party settles in to trance, sleep, or prepare spells as necessary.  Maldreth, Imenand, Issa, and Torrea, give me listen checks.  (SFX: d20 roll x4)  And I’ll roll for the sleeping party members.  (SFX: d20 roll x6)


Maldreth: (SFX: flapping wings) Hey, did you hear that?


Imenand: Would you shut up?  I am researching the proper components to build a Flesh Colossus, and I can’t concentrate on my texts with all of your prattle!


Issa: Aw, go blow it out your (Penguin noises)!


Rhomande: Keep it down!  You are making it exceedingly difficult to maintain a state of trance!


Simultaneous Clamor

    Torrea: You must be imagining things, Spirit of the Swift Wind. (SFX: neigh)  I hear nothing.


    Thrimlach: (elven chanting: Tamhro mar ni’tro Daonnwa dobhantra ) “TAV-ro mar NI-tro DOWN-wa dove-RAHNT-wa.” ~ I trance, for I am not a stupid mortal.


    Thorn: (sleepy) No, Lady Titania, I don’t have the message from the Lord of the Underclover.  The…um… wargs ate it.


Vragul: (snore) King of Roof…  King of Wall… King of Bucket… (snore)


Smyd: (SFX: bear roar, pause, crickets) Knock off that racket, or I’ll maul ya!  I’m trying to hibernate!


Issa: I’m up!  Wait…  I hear wings!  (SFX: wing flap)


DM: Issa, Torrea, Maldreth, Imenand, and Brother Kaltrops are all awake, now.  I need each of you to give me a spot check.  (SFX: d20 roll x5)


Torrea: Yes, I now see them too, Spirit of the Swift Wind!  (SFX: neigh) You have my apologies for ever doubting you.


Maldreth: Makar, the Father of War, has truly blessed us!  He sends his Rotting Angels to test us and prove our strength through holy battle!  You’d better not make me look bad in front of my god, you imbeciles!


Imenand: I have reached my limit!  I will not tolerate further interruptions!  I shall erect my Cube of Force and cast a Zone of Silence about me. (SFX: cube of force, Blake silence)


Rhomande: Ten decaying winged humanoids did sweep down from the sky, their eyeless sockets blacker than…


DM: (interrupting) How do you know what they looked like?  According to these dice, you were still Trancing.


Rhomande: I had an extremely good look at one as it shook me from said Trance.


DM: True.  The undead angels attack each party member, clawing especially hard at Rhomande.  (SFX: d20 roll x10 or suitable number, 1 failure, last 1 crit)


Rhomande: (elven chanting, suddenly broken off)  Tamhro mar ni’tro Daonnwa dobhantra ) “TAV-ro mar NI-tro DOWN-wa dove-RAHNT-wa.” ~ I trance, for I am not a stupid mortal.

    Ouch!  That was quite uncalled-for!


DM:  They strike with putrescent, near-skeletal hands, the odor of decay scorching your eyes and nose.  


Maldreth: I have no nose.  Furthermore, most of my nervous system is purely for show at this point.


DM: Fine.  That applies to everyone but Maldreth and Imenand then.  Maldreth has no nose and the Weaponer’s Cube of Force prevents even smells from entering.  The angels can't sense the force cage, though, so one slams head first into the magic wall, lighting up the campsite like a Midwinter Evergreen.  (SFX: slam, splat, electricity)


Imenand: By the foulest names of all the gods below!  Who comes knocking at my Cube?  You will suffer the fate of… Wait.  We don’t have anyone who looks like that in this party.  I'd remember someone with half a face and one wing.


DM: Everybody but Imenand, make a Reflex Save.  (SFX d20 roll x7, 2 failures) Thrimlach and Maldreth, your flesh begins to rot, as the pools of putrescence slough onto you from the angels’ limbs.


Thrimlach: Egad!  Torrea, come and behold this marvel of magical science!  My hand appears to be rotting at a quite accelerated pace!  Oh… that’s different… YEOUCH!


Maldreth: Rotting flesh?  Hah!  Who cares?


DM: You should.  You’re undead, but you still make regular use of your limbs. You want desiccation, not putrefaction. 


Maldreth: Hrm.  Not the best of points, but well meant, I suppose.  These servants of battle shall perish before Maldreth the Impious!  By the might of the War Father, I command you!  Implode, servant of strife!  (SFX: Gabe implode)


DM: The rotting angel before Maldreth collapses inward upon itself, leaving no trace of blood or bone or putrefying puddle to soil the Battle Priest’s robes.  


Rhomande: Looks like my adventuring companions could use a little… Inspirational Music!  (SFX: lute strum)  The angels are falling and your bard is calling, now come shoo this thiiiing from meeee!  


DM: Rhomande, make a Fortitude Save.


Rhomande: Whatsoever for?


DM: For to avoid the ill effects of foetid odors, of course!  (d20 roll, failure) 


Rhomande: Oh… oh my… urk!  Thrimlach!  Fetch the herb kit!  Urk!


Thrimlach: I’ll get there when I get there, ceatharan!  But first, I need to Command Undead!  (SFX: Cian command undead)


DM: The rotting angels hiss and growl as the spell washes over them, but all quickly shake off the effects.


Thrimlach: Hrm… Well, then we try another tack!  How about a Prismatic Spray!


DM: Rays of blue and indigo light spread forth from Thrimlach’s hands, bathing his attacker in torrents of eldritch mystery.  After the spell fades, you behold a horrifying statue in the likeness of a rotting angel.  It’s not pretty, but at least it’s not so dangerous anymore.


Thorn: Hey, what happened to the music?  (SFX: d20 roll x4, fail)  I was really grooving to that!


Rhomande: urk… Technical… difficulties.


Torrea: Fear not, master Barf!  Spirit of the Swift Wind and I shall evacuate you soon!  Hahahaha!  (SFX: d20 roll x3, neigh)  Succumb to the blunt logic of my mace, you twisted monster!


DM: Torrea’s mace flares with holy light and crashes mightily upon the angel again and again, until a pile of shattered bones and pulped meat is the only remaining sign that the creature ever existed.


Rhomande: And you.. urk… think that I’m the showboat?


Issa: Rhomande, quit talking to that giant voice and do something useful!  


Rhomande: Like… urk… what?


Issa: Like this!  Peck PECK! (SFX: d20 roll x2, splat, squish) Oh… gross!  I take it back, Bard! Urk.


Smyd: Here, Rhomande, inhale this.  It will suppress your nausea and return you to fighting form.  Pardon me, for one moment.  (SFX: d20 roll x5, bear roar, Power Ranger style grunts?) And that’s for waking me up!  And that’s for unhooking my belt!


Rhomande: I regained my composure as I inhaled the bear’s pharmakon, and I beheld a symphony of violence, the greatest of praises to the Father of War.  The bear monk raked his claws through the angel’s spine in three places, then grappled with arms of coiled adamant.  He finished the combination by snapping the head clean from its neck with his mighty ursine jaws.


Imenand: Bard, if you will not make yourself useful, kindly feed yourself to your attackers!  Arc of Lightning!  And another!  (SFX: Blake lightning, x2)  There!  (sneeringly) Now the big, scary winged zombie won’t hurt you.  


Thorn: Would you mind throwing some of that aid over my way?  This thing is way too far inside my comfort zone.  I can’t get a proper bead for my Scorching Rays!


Imenand: (sigh) Go pulp that flying corpse, my cadaver collector.  Do not bother keeping any of its parts; they’re too far gone already.  (SFX: stomp, slam, splat, squish)


Thorn: Many thanks, Imenand.  I shall acquire you a Letter of Marque from either the Seely or Unseely court, the next time I sneak into one of those palaces!


Vragul: Stupid pixie always need paperwork for killing.  Vragul know only thing you need for killing: only need AXE!


Thorn: A capital idea, “King” Vragul!  And what’s better than an axe?  


Vragul: Nothing better than – 


Thorn: (interrupting) That’s right!  An axe empowered by Scorching Rays! (SFX: d20 roll, Sierra fire, explosion)


Rhomande: I scribbled my notes as quickly as I could, trying to capture the terrible power of our spellcasters and the might of Brother Kaltrops and the ferocity of King Vragul’s flame-enhanced axe assault!  Sadly, the carnage was over as soon as it started, and I was left to falsify a few details for dramatic effect.


DM: Well, at least he’s not singing any more.  


Maldreth: Agreed.  These shenanigans have gone on for far too long already!  Why can’t you fools vanquish my foes more swiftly?  If you’re not going to do it right, you shouldn’t be allowed to do battle at all!  By the holy blood that has been shed in the name of the Warfather, grant us an End to Strife!


DM: The two remaining undead angels cannot understand the ramifications of the spell.  They close on Rhomande, reaching for his slim elven arm with their filth-ridden claws, then their bodies flare with white, holy light.  They blaze for a full minute before the fires wink out, leaving only ash.


Vragul:  (petulantly) Spell no fun.  Vragul wanted be King of Death Angel.


DM: By the way, these rotting angels are very distinctly not potatoes.  They are most definitely made of meat.


Imenand: I had wondered at that.  I pray this does not portend a coming invasion.  This plane would fall like wheat before the scythe.


Thorn: Or it might rise like potatoes before the spade!  


Issa: Now you’re starting to sound like Rhomande!  We’d better get moving before the pixie turns to full-blown puns!


Thorn: You know… Fae Scholars hold that the pun is the lowest form of wit, while our bakers hold that the bun is the lowest form of wheat!


Issa: I hate you.  Pack up the tent.



Scene 2: The Philosopher, On the Road Again

DM: The party tears down and packs up the campsite with practiced efficiency.  Within half an hour, everybody stands ready to leave.


Maldreth: (groan) I suppose you meatsacks need a little stitching up, now.  By the ever-sharp Sword of War, be Healed!  (SFX: Gabe heal)


DM: Excellent.  Everybody’s wounds seal up and any effects from the magical rot aura are cured.  Now, give me spot checks.  (SFX: d20 roll x10)


Imenand: Look, comrades!  One of those abominable angels was intelligent enough to flee our might!  


Thrimlach: I’ve got him in my sights.  Let’s see if the rotten thing is resistant to Prismatic Rays!


Smyd: Get him!  (SFX: d20 roll x6, suite of magic spells)


Maldreth: No, you idiots!  The End to Strife is still in effect!  You all take damage!  (SFX: Gabe end to strife)


All: Groans of pain.


Rhomande: Of course, being too busy with quill and parchment, I was unscathed.  As we marched, Maldreth withdrew Thrimlach from death’s gates, and we allocated our one remaining flying carpet to facilitating the ritual.  Meanwhile, Torrea and I spread the light of healing over the other Insufferable Basterds.  The cobblestones passed beneath our feet – (SFX: cure)


Issa: Bard!  Get over here and heal!  Stop fiddling with that stack of papers!


DM:  Thank you, Issa.  You continue across the hinterlands of Haikon, unimpeded for six hours.  The earth-brown hills of the Russet Range roll merrily across the fertile land beyond the Great Blight.  Off in the distance, you espy a familiar potato sitting beside a road.  Sir Isaac Newtot inclines his bewigged head toward the road, deep in thought, but not so deep to negate basic manners when you catch up to him.


 Sir Isaac Newtot: Ah!  So very good to see you again, travelers!  


Maldreth: (groan) I tire of this plane and all its saccharine cheer.


Thrimlach: What ho, Sir Isaac!  Wait… sorry I must be having a flashback from that potion of scrying I brewed up.  Can anybody else taste fried potatoes? 


Imenand: It’s probably that moldering thing on your shoulder.


Thrimlach: (sniff) Nope… wait… it’s gone again.  Anyway, this one’s still alive, er… undead or post-living.  Definitely not fried, in any case.  Anyway, good to see you, fealsaran Newtot.  Any idea where this road goes?


Sir Isaac Newtot: Why, it goes directly to Khadavan, the heart of the first ever potato kingdom.  Quite an accomplishment for our people, would you not agree?


Thorn: Quite an accomplishment, I’d say.  What brings you to this side of the desert, then?  And did you bring any of your scientific equipment with you?  I have a very good bag for holding such items!


DM: Give me a bluff check, Thorn.  (SFX: d20 roll)


Sir Isaac Newtot: Why, thank you, kind pixie!  This astrolabe was growing rather cumbersome!  As for my business on this side of the desert, once a year, the potatomads stop in Tots Eisley to take the Select across Tuberorsus.  The nomads Selected myself, a jar of urine that had previously been vodka, and the grandest potato house in all of Tots Eisley.


Vragul: Vragul no care.  Me king of this place soon.  Just want know one thing.  How you get here before us?


Sir Isaac Newtot: Ah! Yes.  You see, I believe that time is corrigible in Haikon.  Being a heavenly plane, this plane exists in eternity, which is a zone outside of streaming time.  Within the plane, though, our minds still need the reference points of cause and effect, and thus a sort of ‘personal timeflow’ is created.  Simple science, yes?


Vragul: Not as simple as Axe.  Vragul defeat science-tato!  ME BECOME KING OF SCIENCE!


Sir Isaac Newtot: Bwaah!


Chorus (Ceri, Cian, Torrea): No! Wait! Don’t hit him, Vragul! Etc.


Chorus (Blake, Gabe, Bear, Thorn): Meh.  Whatever you want.  Go for it, your majesty!  Kick that potato’s ass! Etc.


Rhomande: Mass Fascinate!  (SFX: lute strum)  Yes, that’s it, everybody.  Listen to the sound of my voice, and calm the fuck down.  Now.  Your Majesty, would you not say that a king must have a properly large retinue?


Vragul: Me not know.  Ask wife.  She in charge of domestic sphere.  But me think she like me have lots people around.  Me become better orc whenever friends visit.  Drink twice as much when cousin Balrek in town!


Rhomande: Er… exactly my point!  Now, wouldn’t it be beneficial to Your Majesty to have someone not only famous – someone not only smart – but someone famous for being smart among your courtiers?


Vragul: Me suppose so.  Old King always have funny-hat orc stand beside him, back home.  Make him look smart.


Sir Isaac Newtot: Master Sorfinde, please!  Have mercy!


Rhomande: Silence, you!  I think His Majesty has taken a liking to you.  Charm Person.  (SFX: Rud charm)  At the end of this conversation, you will join hands with the Reverend Maldreth, over there.  He will transport you to a place called Scottalia.  Once there, you will seek out Theo the Wonderguard…


Thrimlach: (interrupting) No, ceatharan!  That was the first potato we met on the road.  This one’s going back to the Keep.


Rhomande: Ah, right!  Thank you, Thrimlach!  You will seek out the dread Yfirmadr, Queen of Vragul, at a place called Veraat Keep.  Now… when I snap my fingers you will bark like a chicken!


Smyd: Quit screwing around and have him answer our questions, Bard!  This has taken too long already!


Maldreth: Indeed.  Potato!  What were you doing before we arrived?


Sir Isaac Newtot: I was pondering philosophies.


Maldreth: Ah, a philosophical spud!  I’m a philosopher of a sort, too, you know.  What were you thinking on, then?


Sir Isaac Newtot: I found myself considering the road.  I meditated on the Roadtato we travel, wishing to deduce whether the whole road is a single potato soul who dreamed of being a road.  Alternatively, the road may be many countless potatoes who each wished to be cobbletots, or even the countless atoma that comprise them.  Or, perhaps there’s some mixture of the two, or a third option yet to be considered.


Maldreth: If each of these tots in the road is a potato soul, does that mean I can kill the road?


Sir Isaac Newtot: I suppose so.  Everything on this plane is a soul.  This begets the question of the soul’s immortality.


Maldreth: That makes me feel great, but we’re not going to get into that topic any time soon!  Anybody else want to ask this thing a question?


Thorn: I hate to ask, but what happened to the … um… other travelers who came across with you?  We’re not going to be haunted by the ghosts of vodkas passed, are we?


Sir Isaac Newtot: The house has become a stately manor in the countryside.  The urine went on with the nomads, to further unknown destinations.


Smyd: None of that matters!  Have you seen Vincenzo, philosopher?


Sir Isaac Newtot: Yes.  The stranger passed by this spot yesterday.  


Thrimlach: The one with the stupid hat?


Sir Isaac Newtot: The very same.  Her form was lithe and graceful.  And the plume on her hat was quite fetching.  Quite a lush, green sprig she was! 


Smyd: Which way?


DM: There’s really only one way Vincenzo could have gone.  The road ends about twelve feet behind you.


Smyd: Shut up, voice.  I didn’t ask you.  I asked Newtot, here.


Sir Isaac Newtot: Vincenzo passed me, heading toward Khadavan.


Maldreth: Excellent!  Now that we have direction, I shall call upon the Father of Slaughter to bestow a Fortunate Fate upon us!  (SFX: Gabe fortunate fate)  And I shall quicken a prayer to bring the Wails of the Banshee to this roadside!  (SFX: Gabe wail of the banshee)


DM: Thrimlach, Issa, and Rhomande all keel over, stone dead, but only for a second.  Their bodies immediately flare with pulsating red and white light, and they rise again, fully healed.  Sir Isaac Newtot is completely unaffected by the Wail of the Banshee spell.


Maldreth: Aw, come on!  Why not?


DM: You’re in the potato afterlife, and that spell only affects living beings.  He was already dead.


Maldreth: And what about the road?  Is it dead?  Or Afterliving, or whatever?


DM: Also unaffected by your spell.


Maldreth:  Great.  Damn.  Couldn’t kill the road, can’t kill you.  Fine, I’ll send him back to Scottalia.  


Thrimlach: Wait!  I have one last question before fealsarinn Newtot departs.  If a Sir Gnome falls in the forest, and nobody is around to see it, does he make a sound?


Sir Isaac Newtot: I don’t really know…


Thrimlach: (interrupting) But first you have to figure out what a Sir Gnome is!  I send you upon this… QUEST!  (SFX: Cian quest)


Maldreth: Whatever.  (Bored) By Makar’s sharp spear, transport this potato to our home plane!  (SFX: Gabe plane shift)  


Issa: But we never asked him how far it is to Khadavan!


Maldreth: It doesn’t matter.  Let’s go the only way the road leads.  We'll get there when we get there.




Scene 3: Arrival in Khadavan

DM: By mid-afternoon, the party arrives at the other end of the road.


Rhomande: Behold!  Spires and spuds soar into the cerulean expanse above.  The city of Khadavan bustles with the daily business of the cleverest of potatoes. 


DM: I thought I told you to knock that off.  While Rhomande makes a reflex save for the next seventy steps he takes, do you the rest of you have any business, now that you’ve come to a town?


Smyd: Yes.  We need to find a place to stay and we need to sell all of this loot.


Thorn: I wouldn’t mind taking in some of the local flavor.  I love how this place smells!  It’s like there’s a chip shop under every street!


Thrimlach: Indeed, Pixie.  And that potion keeps coming back.  I can’t seem to get the taste of stale chips from my mouth.


Smyd: Fine, then.  The three of us will handle the liquidation, while the rest of you gather provisions.  You sure you’re up to this, Thrim?


Thrimlach: Worry not, Kaltrops Deartharan.   I have a knack for haggling!


Smyd: (intrigued) Do you?  Then let’s gather some information.  (SFX: d20 roll)


DM: After about ten minutes of asking and another twenty walking, you stand in the storefront of Tusa the Wonderment, an elven earthbread mage.


Thrimlach: Let’s just get someone out to the counter, here.  (SFX: bell ring)  SERVICE!  I AM A PAYING CUSTOMER AND I DEMAND SERVICE!


Smyd: So what’s the angle here, Thrim?  I had some dodgy times in my youth, but I never tried anything in an adventuring shop.


Thorn: I can cast Glibness, if you need a hand.  Otherwise, I’ll just be inspecting these locks… er… cabinets!  Inspecting these cabinets!


Thrimlach: Quite a simple plan.  Just… Hold on, here she comes!


Tusa: Yes, travelers!  Tusa is present!  How might I be of service to you this day?


Thrimlach: I need some help with a Quest! (SFX: Cian quest) I need you to buy all of these valuable pieces of art and magical items.  And I need you to pay me the full market price, not any of that half-value bullshit.


Tusa: I… will open the coffers.  Let me see what you have.


Thrimlach: Thank you, potato.  And look at that!  Your quest is complete!  You’ve earned yourself 20 experience, to sweeten the pot!


Tusa: I hope you don’t mind taking these shiny coins, instead of our usual currency.  These are all we have after that outlander came through the shop.


Thrimlach:  Oh, those will be fine.  Just make sure you focus on the money, and ignore the pixie at the weapons cabinet.


Smyd: Wait, what outlander?


Tusa: The one in the floppy hat, of course!  The whole town’s been abuzz about her.  Caused quite a stir in the market after buying all of those alchemical components.


Smyd: I’m just one step behind you, Vincenzo.


Thrimlach: Torrea!  Fetch a larger money sack!


DM: While they sort that business out, what do the rest of you want to do?


Imenand: I wish to survey this place.  As a Grand Magus of the Illustrious and Holy Empire of Voladros, it is my solemn duty to inspect the physical, spiritual, and arcane defenses of every newly contacted people.  I head toward the town’s center, taking note of every church, school, and guard outpost along the way.


DM: The six of you – Imenand, Maldreth, Rhomande, Issa, Vragul, and the Collector – make an impressive parade as you stride through the starchy streets of Khadavan.  As you approach the Central Square, a voice calls out to you from a dark alleyway.


Potato Rogue: Pssssst!  Hoy!  You-ah, wanta buy-a some bread?


Imenand: No, I would not.  Father Maldreth, please ensure our friend’s undivided attentions.


Maldreth: Pfft.  Hold him yourself.  I’m going to the back of this alley to see what’s in that giant potato building.


Rhomande: I’d be glad to oblige, Weaponer.  None can resist the charms of my honeyed tongue!  (SFX: Rud charm, lute)  Now, potato.  Tell us what you thinkyou’re doing talking like that, or I’ll have King Vragul split you lengthwise with the dull part of his mighty axe.


Vragul: Me hate this place.  No can stand weak potato people.  Weak people have weak king.  Need better king.


Potato Rogue: Whoa!  I’m just lookin’ to move some potato loaf, folks.  Just trying to make a living.  Or an afterliving, as it were.


Rhomande: Look, friend.  We don’t have to let this happen.  We’re all civilized species, here.  You just tell me where you learned to sell bread like that, and I’ll keep his Majesty otherwise occupied.


Potato Rogue:  Look, I’m copyin’ this funny lookin’ guy I saw at the market yesterday.  He was a sight with that hat and that sword!


Imenand: This stranger, tell me more about him.  What did he look like?  Sound like?  Smell like?  Tell me everything, and you may have the chance to emerge from this in one piece.


Issa: Yeah, one big flat piece.


Vragul: King size potato pancake piece!


Potato Rogue: Yipe!


Rhomande: You’re not helping!  Hey, eyes this way, spud.  Thaaat’s right.  Focused on me, and not great green tower of murder.  Now, what do you know about the stranger?


Maldreth:  I’m back!  You’d never believe the luck!  There was this abandoned church at the other end of this alley!  Well, it’s abandoned now, at least.  Ah, and you’re such good parishioners!  You’ve even secured the inaugural sacrifice for the First Temple of the Warspud!


DM: Oh, dear…  Let’s skim over this part, shall we?


Rhomande: But, I’ve prepared a truly masterful ballad to commemorate the occasion!


DM: That’s twice the reason to move on.



Scene 4: Blinded by Too Many Eyes

DM: By the time you enter the town square, Thrimlach, Smyd, Thorn, and Torrea have returned from their shopping trip.  As you step into the open space, you notice some potato guttersnipes playing football.  Maldreth and Imenand, give me Kowledge checks.  (SFX: d20 roll x2)


Maldreth: Hey, look!  Those potatoes are using a Halfling-breed Tuber, as a ball!


Imenand: Wait… That’s no ball.  That’s a bullynip!


Thorn:  What’s a bullynip?


Maldreth: It’s a sort of root vegetable that gives off a scent that drives people mad.  It acts on bullies as catnip does on felines.  


Issa: I hate you and your puns.  Someone go help that thing; it’s starting to make whiny noises.


Thrimlach: I’ll just have Sir… Damn and blast!  Sir Gnome is away on a Quest!  Now, who will I get to headbutt that bully-ball into the next yard?  


DM: While you discuss the matter, the gutterspuds have finished their game, and the bullynip tater has rolled away.  Crying.


Thrimlach: I’ll approach the guttersnipes, as I select a spell from my tomes.


Gutterspud: Oi!  Don’ you look funny?  Jus’ like that bloke wot the City Eyes took from the square yes’erday.


Imenand: The City Eyes?


Gutterspud: Yeh.  The Eyes.  The Pigtatoes.  The Copperskins.  The Totes in Cloaks.  You know, gov.  The ci’y watch!  Wot, ye daft?  Everywhere’s got eyes!  


DM: The Gutterspud takes note of the fluttering purple lights surrounding Thrimlach’s hands.


Gutterspud: Whoa!  Whoa!  No need for none o’ that, gov!  We’re all good li’le spuds ’round ’ere!


Thrimlach: (menacingly)  It’s not nice to pick on defenseless little potatoes, you know.  No matter how small and kickable they might be.  You never know when some evil wizard will walk by and cast a spell to teach a young gutterspud a lesson in compassion.


Gutterspud: (frightened) We was just having a little fun.  Well, whuh… we’re sorry, I guess.


Thrimlach: You GUESS? (SFX: electricity, fire)


Maldreth: Tell us where the stranger went, or I’ll put an end to your insignificant soul.


Rhomande: I can sing a ballad, if you have the time!


Chorus: NO!


Gutterspud: Well, he was a slim fella.  Kinda husky voice, and that funny accent with all the Rs and the vowels.  Potatoes don’t just got eyes, y’know.  Wore gloves, but I caught a glimpse of some tat-tater-toos on her peel.  Big floppy hat, with a white sprout.  Kept trying to sell bread, ’til some o’ the City Eyes came along.  Then ’e pulled out that sword and julienned them spuds!  Big puff o’ smoke, and didn’t see nothing more.


Issa: A literal puff of smoke?


Gutterspud: Yeah, blue smoke an’ all!  


Rhomande: I’d like to take this opportunity, Lady Featherfoot, to point out that I have been with you during the entire expanse of time within which these events happened.


Issa: We don’t care, anymore, Bard.  You’re not Vincenzo, we’ve got the message.


Imenand: Little sproutling, answer my query and escape unharmed.  What charges did the guardsmen present to Vincenzo?  Why was she to be arrested?


Gutterspud: I dunno, probably salesmanship without a license or sommat.  You can ask ’em yourselves.  The Masher King makes sure all his officers are swimming in paperwork, for some reason.  Don’t care why, though.  He gets some dull records, and I get to go about me business without the Eyes on my peel.


Thorn: And what’s the word on the street?  Who’s seen the stranger since the market?


Gutterspud: Well, the Eyes put out the word that they’ve caught ’im, but I dunno if that’s some sort of propagander malarkey or Harvannë’s truth.  


Smyd: And where would they take their prisoners?


Gutterspud: To the city lockup, of course.  They’d throw ’er in the pit, with all the rest of the criminals.


Thrimlach: TO THE DUNGEON!


Maldreth: (wistfully) I love dungeons.  You!  Guttersnipes!  Lead us to the City Dungeon, and I’ll reward you with a ruby the size of your thumb!  


Gutterspud: Hey, we ain’t dumb.  You gotta show us the payment first.


Maldreth: And a feast fit for a king!  If you’d just come this way, the First Temple of the Warspud will treat each of you to the finest food that divine channeling can conjure!


DM: Sigh.  After the feast… it really is a feast, isn’t it?


Maldreth: Of course it’s a feast!  How else am I to attract parishioners?  I can’t just put half the population to the sword, you know!  I only have one sword, for starters.


DM: Thank the gods for that.  As you finally step more than ten feet into the town square, you are greeted with the sight of the great Keep of Prautha the Masher, a towering accomplishment of potato architecture.  Atop the outer wall, seven foot spikes adorn the crenellations.  Atop each spike is thrust a massive fried chip, some still sizzling from the heat of the oil.  


Rhomande: It would seem that Prautha’s greatness comes at a steep price.


DM: As you stare at the grisly spectacle, Loramar, Thrimlach’s stitched raven soars down from the battlements to alight on its master’s shoulder.  (SFX: fluttering wings)


Loramar: Hey, boss. <kwork>  I lost track of the monkey when we took on that potato dragon.  You’d <caw> ahem.   You’d be proud of what we did to that baked bastard.  <kwork>


Thrimlach: Loramar!  It’s you!  Now I understand all of that interference I’ve been getting!  What have you been eating?


Rhomande: Never mind that nonsense!  What happened to my dear pet monkey?


Loramar: <kwork> Well, like I said, we took out that potato dragon.  Man, oh man!  It had so many shinies!  Anyway, some potato threw a net over us and sold us to the king.  I was able to slip through the bars of our cage.


Thrimlach: Must have been one terrible cage.


Loramar: Not really <qwork>.  Had to do it in sections.  The monkey was a better surgeon than you’d suspect, though.  He stitched me back together, then I flew out the window.  Got kinda side tracked by those fries on the spikes, though.


Rhomande: Then Prautha still has my monkey!  I always knew he had delicate fingers, but you’re right.  I’d never have thought him able to do such fine needlework.  Look!  He’s even signed his name!


Vragul: Me no care about stupid twice-dead manybird.  Want find Vincenzo and go home.  Wife pregnant.  It bad luck to let wife name first child alone.  Child grow up be stronger than father!


Smyd: Vragul has a point.  Let’s get going to the dungeons, first.  We’ll conclude your monkey business later.




Scene 5: A Safety Meeting with the City Eyes

DM: As you head toward the First Municipal Dungeon, you pass two city guards, standing resplendently in their plump, round armored uniforms.


Officer Paddy: Come on, Clancy!  It’s time to work.  Ah!  ’Tis a lovely day, isn’t it, outlanders?  Hey!  You over there!  I see you, Sigurd Von Kartof!  Keep movin’, keep movin!  We don’t all have the luxury to stand around and gab all day, ye know!  Dreadful sorry you had to witness business such as that!  Now, how can I serve and protect you this fine day, outlanders?


Thrimlach: We’re looking for an outlander man wearing a hat.  Or maybe it’s a woman, now.


Officer Paddy: That’s business for the Eyes only!  Please move along.


Thrimlach: I’ve got eyes.  They don’t look like anyone else’s, but they do most of the same things.


Smyd: (stage whisper) Thrim, why don’t you just pull the old Shop Swap Con again?


Thrimlach: I don’t think that’s quite the appropriate response in this situation.  This calls for something more… subtle.


Rhomande: Indeed it does!  With but a strum of my lute (SFX: lute strum), and a judicious application of a spell to Charm the most savage of Monsters (SFX: Rud charm), you have fallen under my power.  Now, officer...?


Officer Paddy:   Pat, Master.  Officer Pat Tato.  Paddy to me friends.


Rhomande: Now, Officer Paddy.  Tell us all we wish to know!


Imenand: Why did you arrest Don Vincenzo?


Officer Paddy: We picked that one up for illegal breadmongering and selling questionable foodstuffs.  No potato ever looked like that bread.  Kadavanian bread isn’t branded, for one.


Vragul: Me tired of this!  Where you take Vincenzo?  Me introduce Vincenzo to Bloodless.  Introduce many time, if need.


Officer Paddy: We took her to the King, so he could dispense swift justice.  The sentence was a year’s imprisonment in the dungeons.  Pretty fair, if you ask me.  


Thorn: Well, hey.  If you have Vincenzo in the dungeon, can we go in and talk to her?


Officer Paddy: Sure you can!  Just gotta pay the admission fee.  Clancy!  Collect two coins from each of these patrons and show them the waiting room!  (to the party) Lieutenant Cidalan should be at the desk.  Just hand him these tickets, and he’ll give ye the tour.  Now, then.  Move along!  Nothin’ to see here, now.


Imenand: One thing before I go into the dungeons!


DM: Yes?  What would you like?


Imenand: I shall cast a spell of Blighting upon this whole square.


DM: You do realize that this will have massive repercussions in the real worlds.  You can’t just go around blighting the souls of dead and yet-to-be-reborn potatoes!


Imenand: Have you met me?  Of course I can!  (SFX: Blake blight)


DM: But.  But… famines for hundreds of years…


Imenand: Yep.  You’re welcome.


Maldreth: This is a great deed performed in the names of the Twin Gods of Weapons and Massacre!


Issa: Wait.  Didn’t the note in Scottalia say that Vincenzo had come here to treat with the Potato King?


Imenand: And what of it?


Issa: I, for one, would prefer to gather all possible information before undertaking an extermination.  I propose we visit Prautha before entering the dungeons.


Thorn: Issa has a point.  No use getting ourselves locked in some dungeon.  This has “trap” written all over it!


Smyd: Agreed.  Hey, Clancy!  Give us our money back!  We’ve decided not to take the tour!  We’re going to visit the palace instead!



Scene 6: Meeting the Potato King

DM: Because you are outlanders, the staff of King Prautha’s many-splendored palace immediately transmits your request for an audience.  


Thrimlach:  Really?  Wow!  That’s trusting!


DM: About as trusting as you were when the Empire showed up on your shores.  According to the servants, Prautha is a forward-looking monarch with habit of inviting outlanders to speak with him.


Rhomande: As my Insuffrable Basterds approached the great bronze doors of the throne room, a commanding voice did boom forth, cutting off the wonders of this stone-and-bronze gateway in a plane of potatoes.


Chancellor Flibble: All who stand before the mighty potato monarch must beg for his clemency.  Now, enter and prostrate yourselves before the throne of the inestimable King Prautha.


Imenand: Prostrate?  Me?  Hah!  No.


Maldreth: He’s got it the wrong way round!  I’m not the one who will be begging for clemency.


Chancellor Flibble: You will prostrate!  For the Potato King is a mighty and jealous king.


Imenand: And what is he so jealous of?


King Prautha: All.


Torrea: Well, Spirit of the Swift Wind (SFX: neigh) and I certainly won’t be prostitrating ourselves. 


Maldreth: Hold on.  Just think for a minute.  Torrea, get back on your horse.  Chances are, even though this one’s clever enough to be a king, he’s just like all the other potatoes we’ve met.  


Thorn: Gullible?


Vragul: Yummy?


Maldreth: Stupid.  They get the general idea, but they can’t really define anything clearly.  I say we go in there standing straight up, and we just tell him that we’re prostrated.


Imenand: Quite cunning, Father Maldreth!  With potatoes’ … evolutionary diversions from our own physiology, he may not be able to tell the difference!  Now, let me just settle myself atop this Floating Disk (SFX: Blake floating disk), straighten my robes, and untangle my wrappings.  There!  Now I am fit for an audience with a king!


Rhomande: Rather fetching, if I might say so.  By the by, I do know a lovely tailor back home who would die to design a suit of clothes for you.  She’s been looking for inspiration for some time, now.  When we get back, remind me to introduce you to Tularria!


Issa: Great!  Now you’ve got the bard started!  Let’s just get in there and get this over with before he starts designing tuxedoes for me! (Wak)


DM: Thank you, Issa.


Issa: (teacher’s pet) You’re welcome, giant disembodied voice!  


DM: The bronze doors swing open revealing a grand hall, packed with potato guards.  Atop a mighty golden-yellow throne sits the Masher of Haikon, King Prautha Spudminster von Yukon III.  He is an average-sized potato, sitting in the middle of a platinum crown.  


Maldreth: Does the crown look valuable?  I’ve got ranks in Appraise! (SFX: d20 roll)


DM: Oh, very valuable!  And that’s just the start of it.  A bejeweled scepter leans across the throne’s arm rests.  As you look around the room, you realize that nothing here is made of potato: the marble is actually marble, the emeralds and sapphires of the scepter reflect light in the usual fashion, and even the flagstones appear to be imported granite. When you finally stop before the throne, the matter of prostration is never addressed.  


Prautha: Chancellor Flibble, read these criminals their doom!


Thrimlach: What!?


DM: An anti-magic zone flares into life, dropping Imenand to the floor. (SFX: )


Imenand: Ouch!  Mother fucker!


Thorn: By Queen Mab's definitely-not-aging face!  I can't shrink down!


Maldreth:  Oh, Makar of the Blood-Soaked Boots, what have my idiot companions done to deserve your displeasure?


DM: As hundreds of potato guards take defensive positions around you, a penguin in a red and white checked gingham toga timidly emerges from behind the throne, unrolling a scroll.


Issa: You!  I recognize you, Flibble Kelpbeak!  You traitor!  You’re the one who enslaved the Water Lander Tribe and sold them to the seals, six seasons past!


Prautha: Chancellor Flibble is one of my favorite kingly possessions.  I sent my agents far and wide to find one such as him!


Chancellor Flibble: I had no choice, Princess Featherfoot.  You would not understand.  And, sadly, I have no choice now.  As foreigners without the written existential permission of the king, you have all been found guilty of vile and inpotatoid transgressions against the Kingdom of Khadavan and the Goddess Harvanne.  Guards.  I must request that you take these individuals into custody.  And send them to the Chipper.  I am truly sorry, Princess.


Issa: I’ll never forgive you, Flibble Traitorsbeak!


Rhomande: The attendant potato guards cascaded through our party, herding us toward a secret pit-and-slide system.  We wrestled with the massive guards as best we could, but even Brother Kaltrops could not fend off twelve attackers at once.  Although, I am proud to tell you all that Thrimlach-ceatharinn, whose form had proven frail time and again, did stand bravely against his attackers, using only his walking staff.  But no amount of elvish determination could save him from joining us in the pit.  After a four-minute slide through twisting, turning pipes, the system dumped my Insufferable Basterdsinto the only cell of the City Dungeon.




Scene 7: Vincenzo Revealed, or Sold to the Great Horrible One

Rhomande: One by one, we awoke and our eyes adjusted to the gloom of our cell.  We all sat atop a hill of potatoes of various sizes and shapes, while the walls soared fifty feet above us.  


Maldreth: And all our gear is gone.  Climbing these walls will be tough work.


Vragul: Where we be?  Why Vragul’s wings no work?  Why Vragul so HUNGRY?


Lt. Cidalan: Well, you’re sitting in Khadavan’s only cell in its only dungeon.  You’re wings don’t work because the magic that fuels the graft is being suppressed by these pillars up here.  And you’re hungry because I hadn’t tossed today’s meal down, yet. 


Rhomande: A strawberry-blonde male human of about twenty years stood at the top of the sixty-foot pit.  We, on the other hand, lay strewn about the bottom of the pit, atop the bodies of Khadavan’s criminals.  The human at the top was wearing a uniform reminiscent of that worn by the city guard, and he carried an unwieldy box.


Lt. Cidalan: You’re in luck, though!  You get to eat this confiscated bread!  It’s even real bread, not potatoes!  I think you’ll like it.  It came all the way from Scottalia!


Rhomande: The human upended the box, showering us with authentic, trademarked loaves from the League of Scottalian Bread Merchants.  


Imenand: Who are you?  And why do you wear that uniform?


Lt. Cidalan: Oh, sorry.  I’m Cadet-Lieutenant Cidalan, here on … um… foreign exchange, I think my commander called it.  And I’m doing my duty as a Lieutenant in King Prautha’s City Guard.  Pretty neat, dontcha think?


Maldreth: Not really.  I can think of a few better purposes for you.  Answering questions, for one.  


Lt. Cidalaln: Sure thing!  I needed to study for my exams, anyway.  This will be like a practice quiz!


Imenand: Why are we in this pit with all the scum of this city?  Don’t they have separate cells for important prisoners such as ourselves?


Lt. Cidalan: Well, there’s just the one cell.  (whisper) These guys aren’t very smart.  There’s only this one cell, so they throw all the criminals into the pit you’re enjoying currently.  There’s this wide-spaced grate at the bottom – you can’t see it, because of all the bodies, but trust me. It’s there.  Anyway, every 20 days, this gi-normous rock up here crashes down and chips all the criminals.  Whatever falls through the grate is boiled in oil and put up on spikes along the city ramparts.  Once up there, it’s all up to the po-ta-crows.


Thorn: What?!  We can’t let that happen!  We’d make terrible chips!


Vragul: Me always think grandmorc make best pixie chips.


Smyd: We have to talk to the king, then.  Cidalan, you have to take us to him immediately!


Lt. Cidalan: (with your mouth full of popcorn or something?)  No can do, buddy bear.  The king’s busy right now.  Captain Pat says he’s in negotiations with the Great Horrible One.  He’s hoping to get a good price for the outlaw.


Thrimlach: What sort of hairbrained egomaniac would call himself “the Great Horrible One”?  Who is this person, and where do I get myself a title like his?


Lt. Cidalan: Er… I don’t really know who this Great Horrible One is.  All I’ve been told is that he’s not from around here.  


Smyd: No, no!  Wait!  Back up!  You said something about “the outlaw”.  You mean Vincenzo?  He’s here?


Lt. Cidalan: She’s here.  Well, there.  In the pit.  With you. 


Rhomande: Beneath a particularly flat potato, we found unmoving humanoid form, and nearby, Thorn was trying on a large hat with an upturned brim.  Smyd grabbed Vincenzo's shoulders and tore the bandana from her face, revealing a gentle elven countenance.


Issa: (Scooby Doo reveal) Gasp! Tularria Moonsong!


Thorn: Who in the name of the ever nurturing spirit of nature is Tularria Moonsong?


Tularria: (waking up) ooh, ouch.  Tularria Moonsong was the high singer of a tribe of elves, off in the swamplands of the Vensgow in Central Scottalia.  This was, back before Rhomande’s band of Heroes had met you, Thorn.  Her land was plagued with an army of goblin-folk and their tremendous dragons.  Revalix, the largest of the dragons had killed her brother, and she composed a song to honor her heroes when they slew the beast and avenged Maithrinn Softstep.


Rhomande: It was the first time any other being’s song had moved my heart.  Don’t hurt her, Smyd!  She’s been through enough as it is!


Smyd: And how would you know what she’s been through?


Rhomande: Because it was all at my behest!  Behold!  The true face of Don Vincenzo!  The one and only, the Ineffible Rhomande Sorfinde, Bard Extraordinaire!


Thrimlach:  What?  You? Now we’re all going to die in this Antimagic Field, you bastard!


Thorn: Why, Rhomande?  Why?


Imenand: What a dick.


Smyd: You spoony bard!  This is all your fault!  (SFX: bear roar)


Maldreth:  Addlebrained Elf, tell me why I should not allow Brother Kaltrops to eviscerate you this instant.


Rhomande: (choking) The potato king has my monkey.  You heard the franken-raven.  And this made a far better story than just asking for your help.  I’m sorry.  Please let me down.


Lt. Cidalan: Hey!  Quit killing each other down there!  Word’s come down from the top.  You’ve got your next audience with the king.  And this one’s going to be a doozy!


Rhomande: The guards descended in a potato skin bucket and tied us down from elbow to ankle, allowing only the tiniest of steps.  They then frog marched us across the City Square, and once more through the bronze doors of the palace.  We soon stood once again before the despotic Prautha the Masher.  The penguin traitor stood at his master’s side, unrolling a long parchment. 


Chancellor Flibble: For your crimes against Potanity, you are to be severely punished; however, His Majesty has elected to spare you the chipper, that an alliance be forged between this realm and that of the Great Horrible One.  To cement this bargain, all foreigners are to be remanded to the Bloody Sands.  Have you any final words?


Rhomande: I have but one question to demand of the Masher: Where’s Nelio?!


Thorn: Wait.  Who’s Nelio?


Thrimlach: It’s his pet monkey.  Nelio and my raven were “accidentally” hit by a Prismatic Eye a few weeks ago.  


Rhomande: And I want him back!  Especially now that Thrim’s got his pet!


Prautha: Ah, yes!  The wyrmlingsbane monkey amused me for a time.  It, too, has been sacrificed to the Bloody Sands of the Great Horrible One.  And now, you shall share in its fate!


Rhomande: And with those words still hanging in the air, the palace dissolved around us, and all went black.  


Scene 8: Credit Where Credit Is Due

Music Bed: (Credit Where Credit Is Due - VCMG)



Thrimlach: Visit The 20-Sided Theatre online at twentysidedtheatre.com and 20sidedteatre.tumblr.com.


Rhomande: The 20-Sided Theatre is a joint production of Bear Industries and the Shenouda Necromancy Corporation.   Episode Four stars Gabriel Abinante, Blake Parker, Ceri Quattrin, Cian Quattrin, Rudraigh Quattrin, and Chris Wong


Smyd: Written by Rudraigh Quattrin and Edited by Blake Parker.


Issa: Sound Effects Design by


Imenand: Music by


Maldreth: Join us next time at The 20-Sided Theatre!



Scene 9: The Tweest?

Issa: Rhomande?  Are you there?


Rhomande: Issa!  I’m here.


Issa: I’m scared, Bard.  Sing a song of courage for me.  I command it.


Rhomande: What’s there to be scared of, Lady Featherfoot?  We’ve been in worse jams.


Issa: That giant disembodied voice? (pause)  It’s gone.