eliminate all else, we will find the way. There are certainty a fair number of folk from the Flanaess treading Weird Way. After all, we have noted Aerdians. citizens of Dyvers, Kettites and other Westerners, and an odd Frusti or two. Some establishment here serves to transport these folk to and from their own countries," Gord asserted.
"But what if they merely use the tokens as we did?" Chert asked.
"Then we find the gate that leads to Greyhawk and acquire an 'exit' token in much the same manner as we got our hands on the magical disc that got us in here in the first place." -
"Yuuch! Don't you remember what else we got our hands on when we 'acquired' the key to unlocking that enchanted gate?" Chert asked, screwing up his face so badly his friend had to laugh.
"If you walk around looking like that we may not need to leave. Chert. Why, you fit right in with all the rest of the strange folks here!" Chert changed his expression to a menacing one, and Gord continued to chuckle off and on again as the two searched the business district of Weird Way for a travel agency that could provide them passage to Greyhawk.
The Pagoda of Pools was the department for extraplanar travel, as well as the means to access the upper, lower, and similarly removed planes. Eventually the pair discovered that the Explorer's inn also provided a service that allowed its customers to chronogate time and the more unusual probability lines as well. All the other establishments along Weird Way were as they seemed, more or less. Chert looked grim, but Gord was still jaunty.
"Loath as I am to reveal our inexperience and ignorance, I believe it is time to find a knowledgeable and willing denizen of the way to enlighten us," he said to his friend. "What say. Chert?'
The barbarian eyed the sinking sun and nodded. "I agree, and we'd better do so within the hour. I like not the prospect of another night here with a v vengeful vampire seeking usl"
Back in Faire Market, the two strode amidst the riot of vendors shouting the virtues of their wares until they saw a maroon-and-citrine-draped booth that offered vintages of unusual sort. A banner above the booth read "Rare Wine at Bargain Prices." And judging from the throng of customers surrounding the booth, this claim was justified.
A few copper commons bought each of the adventurers a sample, and as they drank the ruby-hued stuff — port, so it was called — they casually surveyed their fellow patrons. Chert spied a gaudily attired Suloise in a double-peaked hat of fuchsia.
"Isn't that the sort of foppish headgear currently vogue in Rel Mord?" he asked, nudging Gord and nodding toward the dandy.
"So I hear. Let's see if we can strike up a conversation."
The fellow was making strange faces as they moved nearer, and he spat a mouthful of wine upon the ground just as they sidled near.
"Well, sir?" asked the purple-fingered merchant.
"Grids! That is a fine vintage! Yes, it opens suddenly, a saucy wine with full body and a blush of arrogance. Is that quolberries I detect a hint of?"
"Possible, although some experts have suggested essence of flowering ogshayallsbay. . . ."
The fellow took another sip, made a moue with his lips, and nodded. "Perhaps, perhaps. No matter, I should like a cart with two tuns of this ready to go within the hour. It suits my needs perfectly!" He paid over a number of coins to the vintner, and the bargain was struck.
Suppressing a desire to relieve the fop of his dangling purse, the young thief spoke. "Your pardon, sir. but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation just now. I am struck by your seemingly astute knowledge of fine wine!" Gord said with a deferential air. "You are from fair Nyrond, are you not?"
"Yes, Rel Mord, more exactly," the man said, looking down his nose as Gord spoke. "And you are a citizen of Greyhawk, unless I miss my mark." His tone of voice left no doubt that Greyhawk was a less than desirable place to be a native of, and that he could not conceive
"But what if they merely use the tokens as we did?" Chert asked.
"Then we find the gate that leads to Greyhawk and acquire an 'exit' token in much the same manner as we got our hands on the magical disc that got us in here in the first place." -
"Yuuch! Don't you remember what else we got our hands on when we 'acquired' the key to unlocking that enchanted gate?" Chert asked, screwing up his face so badly his friend had to laugh.
"If you walk around looking like that we may not need to leave. Chert. Why, you fit right in with all the rest of the strange folks here!" Chert changed his expression to a menacing one, and Gord continued to chuckle off and on again as the two searched the business district of Weird Way for a travel agency that could provide them passage to Greyhawk.
The Pagoda of Pools was the department for extraplanar travel, as well as the means to access the upper, lower, and similarly removed planes. Eventually the pair discovered that the Explorer's inn also provided a service that allowed its customers to chronogate time and the more unusual probability lines as well. All the other establishments along Weird Way were as they seemed, more or less. Chert looked grim, but Gord was still jaunty.
"Loath as I am to reveal our inexperience and ignorance, I believe it is time to find a knowledgeable and willing denizen of the way to enlighten us," he said to his friend. "What say. Chert?'
The barbarian eyed the sinking sun and nodded. "I agree, and we'd better do so within the hour. I like not the prospect of another night here with a v vengeful vampire seeking usl"
Back in Faire Market, the two strode amidst the riot of vendors shouting the virtues of their wares until they saw a maroon-and-citrine-draped booth that offered vintages of unusual sort. A banner above the booth read "Rare Wine at Bargain Prices." And judging from the throng of customers surrounding the booth, this claim was justified.
A few copper commons bought each of the adventurers a sample, and as they drank the ruby-hued stuff — port, so it was called — they casually surveyed their fellow patrons. Chert spied a gaudily attired Suloise in a double-peaked hat of fuchsia.
"Isn't that the sort of foppish headgear currently vogue in Rel Mord?" he asked, nudging Gord and nodding toward the dandy.
"So I hear. Let's see if we can strike up a conversation."
The fellow was making strange faces as they moved nearer, and he spat a mouthful of wine upon the ground just as they sidled near.
"Well, sir?" asked the purple-fingered merchant.
"Grids! That is a fine vintage! Yes, it opens suddenly, a saucy wine with full body and a blush of arrogance. Is that quolberries I detect a hint of?"
"Possible, although some experts have suggested essence of flowering ogshayallsbay. . . ."
The fellow took another sip, made a moue with his lips, and nodded. "Perhaps, perhaps. No matter, I should like a cart with two tuns of this ready to go within the hour. It suits my needs perfectly!" He paid over a number of coins to the vintner, and the bargain was struck.
Suppressing a desire to relieve the fop of his dangling purse, the young thief spoke. "Your pardon, sir. but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation just now. I am struck by your seemingly astute knowledge of fine wine!" Gord said with a deferential air. "You are from fair Nyrond, are you not?"
"Yes, Rel Mord, more exactly," the man said, looking down his nose as Gord spoke. "And you are a citizen of Greyhawk, unless I miss my mark." His tone of voice left no doubt that Greyhawk was a less than desirable place to be a native of, and that he could not conceive
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