The Foot of Blue Mountain

A Single Haunted Hex

There is a hex not far from here, a day or so, o'er yonder hill. A simple jaunt, straightforward bent, that takes us to the hex, and then. A lonely hill, in plains flat-stretched, with gaping mouth, it beckons "in". And in this hill, foul ruins lie. A ghoul dwells in the barrow, shy. His name, Phospho, a legend, nearby:

In times less broken, it is said, a king did rule, with blessed hand. Tall and proud his sons did grow, and many ills befell their foes. They grew and grew and grew in turn, and each a kingdom he did earn. Poor Phospho, then, was all torn up. His land now gone, he screamed "enough!" He drew his blade, a mighty thing, and with a shout began to swing. Poor sons of Phospho, proud and strong, cut down quick, though did naught wrong. And Phospho, king of lands blood-soaked, spun around, let out a croak. Foul malaise over, brain sickness shed, fell right over, good as dead! So sons and daughters, others too, before begins conquest anew, take a breath, a moment 'fore. Check upon the weary head, that called and brought young you to bed. A sickness there, perchance may be, and only death shall set it free.

In legend, hark! Phospho is dead. But in this hex, he stands erect. A barrow-throne does he protect, and spares all those who genuflect. For the seat his blade now calls its ward, was once his son's, a Prince named Ford. Ford ponders dead, atop his throne, though quaintly so, without a head. At his feet, and to burrow's end, are many bones of once-good friends. Phospho to all, his blade did bite, and leave a hoard of treasures bright!

Sixty score gold pieces, trite, for behind the throne, a greater sight. A gold-crown, gemmed, worth Legion's number. The wearer feels a sense of wonder! And among the bones and robes of age, the gnarled staff of an old court mage! Its name is Baxter, an ornery sort, it speaks to trees and even orcs! Its spells may vary, pray dealer's choice, but this suggestion may warrant "noice!" The staff would shift and change and bend, and Baxter coils and strikes again! A serpent quick, and blue as day, who knows magic tricks and does your say!

Though Baxter is a worthy prize, foul Phospho guards with watchful eyes. Tall and strong just like his sons, hit dice are six, reroll all ones! His mail is mighty, AC four, thought I finished? Nay, some more! His mighty blade, of legends writ, is +2 to damage and to hit! His weakness then, I shall relay, though it is quite rude of me to say. Poor Phospho ne'er kept his cool, he raged and bickered much as a tool. If this anger, then, would be realized, his mail would shatter, AC 9!

We now depart our haunted hex, and you may wonder "what is next?" Nothing fool, unseemly lout. Blogpost done, I'll see you 'round!