Story- Friday Knights in Thunderspire Labyrinth (with Pics)

[Goonalan]

Fernando Del Amitri turns up.

[Goonalan]

Into the Bazaar of the Bizarre...

[Goonalan]

The Dog Brothers descend the stair, and quickly get chased back; meanwhile Arthuro the Fence meets Wolfie.

[Goonalan]

The Dog Brothers are caught in their lair, Irocar looks unwell.

[Goonalan]

Nice Chest.

[Goonalan]

More screenshots to come with future installments of the Story Hour, thanks again for this wonderful tool which brings my game to life, and with the help of Skype, spans the globe.

[Goonalan]

The Friday Knights in Sellswords of Fallcrest

Part 13: Dog Gone.

Irocar comes again, slashing hard with his bastard sword, catching Cathal momentarily off guard. The blade clangs against the warrior of Kord's armour, saws down leaving a split metal furrow, but doesn't break the skin beneath.

The two still standing Dog Brothers take the attack to Astaroth who flailing wildly and inaccurately is forced to retreat. He thumps into Ignaran who almost tumbles back down the stairs, it's close quarters in here.

The big man heaves himself forward again, goes to swing with his great axe but instead brings the haft of the weapon quick down into Growl's temple. The Dog Brother's head is broken- split open, blood fountains and boils from the wound- he sags and slumps to his knees, almost spent.

Ignaran, recovers quickly, points at the half-fallen Growl- a jagged arc of lightning spits out and wraps itself momentarily around the street thug's head, sparks and salvoes of ragged blue energy fly from his skull. He giggles and groans as he convulses, then flops forward onto the dirty wooden floor, charred and smoking- dead.

“Pretty blue light.” Astaroth smirks.

That just leaves Irocar and two - scratch that - one Dog Brother. Snarl, his mouth a ragged hole, still spews and staggers in the far corner.

Slaver, the third Dog Brother recalculates the odds- he whines a little, but puts up his blade ready to defend.

“Surrender and we'll spare your lives.” Cathal states.
“Rawf!” Irocar replies and launches another attack- blades meet, sing and spark, no hits- Cathal and Irocar step apart.

“We'll give you a biscuit?” Ignaran offers, “a nice biscuit?”
“Kord spare us.” Cathal mutters under his breath.

Irocar comes again, Slaver at his side- but Cathal and Astaroth are ready- weapons clash, a titanic struggle, but no victor emerges from the clinch. A second spark of lightning suddenly scatters the combatants, and leaves a smoking hole in the brick wall beyond.

The four fighters spend a moment, gulp down ragged gasps of air.

“Surrender?” Cathal tries again.
“RaWF!” This time it's for real.

Irocar's launches himself forward, his bastard sword cuts into Cathal's chest, through his armour. He extends his arc and drags his blade across, cuts into Astaroth's bicep leaving a ragged tear. The man-mountain's axe is too slow- Slaver steps aside his guard, at the last moment Astaroth wrenches round the haft of his great axe- blocks Slaver's thrusting blade.

Cathal's slices out with his longsword, but his blow is cut off in its prime as Irocar moves forward into a clinch. The two tussle and dance, their heavy armour clashing and crashing.

At the rear Ignaran looks for an opportunity, raw power fizzes around his blue-lightning fist.

Irocar and Cathal's dance goes on, love taps here and there- the butt of Cathal's longsword breaks a rib, the tip of Irocar's bastard sword scores a red-line along Cathal's thigh. The pair are locked in a deathly embrace- eventually Cathal struggles free, back-peddling furiously, again Ignaran has to take evasive action, his flailing fist shoots a bolt of lightning into the timbered floor leaving yet another smoking hole.

Irocar is fast, and strong still; the hilt of his blade spins in his hands, it's pointing down- his arms extend fully, full arc, clasped together around the hilt tight of his sword- high above his head. He slices down, with all his might.

The bastard sword digs deep, Cathal's thigh is a bloody mess. Six inches of the blade protrudes through the other side- a pool of thick red blood quickly forms, the gasping warrior of Kord his face set in rictus spasm- he wails.

“Koooooooooord!”

But it's not over yet. Irocar draws the sword out, as slowly as he can- given the circumstances- accompanied by blood wet ragged gasps from Cathal, the saw edge blade widens the wound ripping through the flesh.

A moment.

A gaping hole in Cathal's thigh- he's done for, the blood pool on the dirty floor expands.

“Rawf” Irocar declares, grins and pants a little, motions with his head to the growing lake of blood and makes lip-smacking lapping sounds.

THUMP

Cathal falls hard to his knees, head bowed, as if in prayer.

Suddenly the room seems a lot less packed, there's space for...

WHUMP

Astaroth's greataxe describes a terrifyingly broad arc, mere inches from both walls- full extension- full force- it bites into Irocar's side- smashes ribs- sends splinters of bone like shrapnel into odd-shaped organs, the pack leader is sent spinning back.

THUMP

Into the ladder to the loft, all the air gone from him, mostly escaping though flapping cords of tendon, sinew and muscle exposed by Astaroth's axe- one lung deflates.

Irocar wheezes bloody gulps- the end of his tongue flops onto the floor- where he's bitten through it.

“Whof!” He feebly half-barks.

THUMP

Then collapses.

Cathal teeters on the brink of black, Ignaran is quickly to him, bandages and salves ripped from his pack. The last of the Dog Brothers, Slaver, momentarily ignored in the sudden flurry of activity.

Astaroth turns his attention to Slaver, I said momentarily.

“WOOF!” The man-mountain adds.

Thump.

Slaver spins his blade out of his hands, like it's suddenly much too hot for him to handle.

“Call it a draw?” Slaver offers and then, off Astaroth's stare, whines a little.

[Goonalan]

The Friday Knights in Sellswords of Fallcrest

Part 14: Dog Daze.

Irocar is dragged roughly down the stairs, his wounds having been half-heartedly bound by Ignaran. Stripped of his armour and dog-pelt cape, he looks…. smaller, certainly less ferocious. Right now Astaroth's meaty paw clutches a thick wedge of his hair. Behind come Ignaran and Cathal, much better now, although he still winces at times- dragging the two other Dog Brothers left alive.

Behind the counter, back in the Bazaar of the Bizarre, the Friday Knights reconvene for a chat- Irocar is pushed into the midst of the Knights, who take it in turns to yap at his heels.

“Who are you then?” Cathal starts.
“We're the Dog Brothers.” Irocar mumbles, trailing off into silence, eyes on the floor, he whimpers a little - he can't help himself.
“Nice doggie.” Astaroth admires the houndskin cape, then gets a whiff of it and slings it onto the floor, stamps on the thing a couple of times for good measure.

“What are you doing here?” Cathal continues his quest for answers.
“Nuffink.” Irocar tries, while trying to summon enough saliva to whistle - his throat is desert-dry.
“Now come on... Play the game.” Cathal chides with a grin.
Irocar looks up, grins back a little, thinks he's found a friend - his head suddenly, and violently rocks back, his legs go from under him, he collapses. Maybe something to do with Astaroth's straight jab, the big man picks one of Irocar's teeth from his knuckle – it’s a canine.

“Pick him up.” Cathal states.
Behind the warrior Kullervo looks suddenly very sick- he turns quickly and mooches off back to the chest he found earlier, doesn't want to see any more.

Astaroth drags Irocar to his feet, he's woozy.

“What are you doing here?” Cathal repeats.
“Hired by the Beggar King, said he expected company... You lot.” Irocar whistles through the gap in his teeth.
“Friday Knights.” Cathal states.
“What?” Irocar staggers a little.
“We're the Friday Knights- tell your friends.”
“Yeah... Right.” Irocar manages.

“Who else did the Beggar King hire?” Cathal enquires.
“No-one, that is... No one I know of.”
Cathal takes a good hard stare at Irocar, eventually smirks.
“Wrong answer.” He nudges Astaroth, who's looking away at the moment, a fly having just buzzed him.
“Wot? Oh.” The straight right comes again, Irocar goes down again - mouth bloody, nose broken - concussed by the looks of things, maybe even a fractured skull.
Astaroth goes back to looking for the annoying fly, his tongue lolls out- clearly he's concentrating hard.

On the floor Irocar swims in a sea of haze.
“I want me mum.” He gurgles.

Cathal grins, then grabs the nearest Dog Brother- Slaver, as it happens.
“Who else got hired?” He simply states.
“Mother Zeb.”
“Who?”
“Fat Tiefling Witch - two guards, big fat nudie fellers.”
“Nudie?” Ignaran asks.
“They wear nappies.”
“He's making it up!” Ignaran sneers.
Astaroth turns back around, draws back his arm.
“No, he's telling the truth.” Cathal clamps his hand on Astaroth's forearm, disarms him.

“Yew-nooks” Slaver declare, “two of 'em, right big fatties.” He nods.
Cathal nods back.

“Okay, you can clear off now.” Cathal declares.
Slaver nods some more, goes to leave sharpish.
“Don't forget him.” Cathal toes the fallen Irocar, who momentarily surfaces.

“I want me Mum!” [1] he states, and giggles a little, pleased with himself.

Moments later the spent Dog Brothers depart, having first surrendered their choice belongings, which turn out to be quite choice, particularly for Cathal, a few coins- some gold, and a Bastard Sword that is clearly of superior quality - marked and notched maybe, but of fine make, beneath the filth and tarnish.

That done, the Knights head in to see the chest that Kullervo has been twittering on about - the one he can't open.

Cathal sighs, “do I have to do everything myself?” he asks - the empty room.


[1] Irocar's Mum, Gwladys Potterton is a cleaner at the Temple of Pelor, a slight woman with a marked limp - all that bending. She won’t be pleased when he gets home, she'd spent hours on his dog cape stitching it all together. Of course she didn't approve of the Dog Brothers Gang, but it seemed to give Irocar, her only son, a purpose in life; and with his father gone. Her only interest, other than her son, is collecting plaster-cast and/or sculpted stone dogs; all shapes and sizes, some even painted - she loves dogs.

[Goonalan]

The Friday Knights in Sellswords of Fallcrest

Part 15: Intricate and Complex

It certainly is a big chest - intricate, complex; Kullervo finishes his intro -

“It's... Intricate... Complex...” He shrugs.
“You can't open it, can you?” Cathal stares hard at Kullervo, and then down to the Fence on the floor, a little tied up at the moment. He shakes his head- vehemently; his gag prevents him from replying.

Cathal shakes his head back, nods at Astaroth, who grins and then reaches down.

A moment later Arthuro the Fence is being buffeted as if he were in a hurricane - Astaroth shakes him, hard.

“He doesn't know anything.” Kullervo tries, but it's too late.

Muffled screams for a while and then he's set down again, dizzy Arthuro collapses, his head just missing the frame of the bed.

“I'll try again. Just leave him.” Kullervo makes a stand and stalks back over to the great, and intricate, and complex, chest.

A crowd gathers - watches him, and he's back at the gate with their eyes burning holes in him.

The locking mechanism on the first drawer is delicate, and quite definitely trapped, if only he could... He piggles and proddles with his tools, jiggles and pokes and... Nothing.

“It's trapped,” he spins around and declares. Astaroth and Ignaran take a step to the side, out of harms way, Cathal stands still- confident. That is until Kullervo turns back to his task, at which point he swiftly wrenches Arthuro up from the floor and positions the Fence in front of him - a meat shield.

Time passes.

Inexorably.

Kullervo sweats, frets and generally fails to make headway.

“Complex.” He murmurs.

More time passes.

Ditto, inexorably.

Sweat drips down his forehead, follows the arch of his arm, into the barrel of the lock. Kullervo grits his teeth and finally...

SPUNG.

His lock pick flies from his hand, lies there on the floor, forlorn - the end bent.

“It can't be... Aghhhhh!”

SMASH

Lots of things happen at once, and so, in order.

Kullervo turns to face his audience, begins his resignation speech.

Astaroth swings his greataxe up high, and over his head.

Kullervo spots this, screams, and dives aside.

Astaroth's greataxe connects with the chest cum cabinet.

Smashes through the solid wooden frame, and rips on down, shattering the myriad compartments, dislodging locking mechanisms, scattering the drawers and contents and at the same time triggering every trap.

Thum...Pah.

A needle shoots out and embeds itself in Arthuro's forehead, the Fence suddenly adopts a vacant expression, staggers forward- out of Cathal's grip.

SNIK

A razor sharp scythe blade slashes out in a half-circle, severs the bonds that bind Arthuro's wrists, and leaves bloody cuts in its wake, nevertheless the Fence grins, his eyes dart and dodge- spot the door, the exit - freedom.

Arthuro makes his break.

THUP-WAKKA.

And is just in time to intercept the five foot spear that shoots out from the centre of the now decimated chest.

The spear smashes through Arthuro's thin leather armour and burrows its way into his chest, deflected only slightly by his sternum.

The spear is travelling at quite a speed.

It doesn't stop there.

Nor does the Fence.

Arthuro is flung backwards, off his feet and into the air.

THUNK

He thumps into the far wall.

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”

And tumbles face first onto his bed, the one he hasn't slept on for over a year...

CRUNCH-RIP.

The spear is broken and ripped from his chest as he lands, which by the look on Arthuro's face, hurts a little.

All is silent.

Arthuro lies there, his whole body screaming in agony, although the poison in his brow, and now brain - numbing the experience.

More silence.

Eventually the Fence looks up, to the staring Friday Knights.

He's grinning, scratch that laughing- odd.

“It didn't...”

KERCHUNG!

Half-a-dozen short spears skewer Arthuro, making short work of the thin, now blood-soaked, mattress en route.

Arthuro gargles.

“... work.” He whispers, and then expires.

“I said it was trapped.” Kullervo confirms in a daze.

“Right then. What do we have here?” Cathal wades into the broken treasure chest, Astaroth follows suit - which just leaves Ignaran and Kullervo still staring.

“Pelor's light.” Kullervo whispers and crosses himself.
“Exactly.” Ignaran confirms.

Arthuro's body twitches, and spurts a little- before finally coming to rest.

“I'm not going near any more traps - ever.” Kullervo declares, definite.
“Then you'd better go home now- farmer's boy.” Cathal states, and adopts a half-grin half-frown.

Ignaran puts his arm around Kullervo, who continues to stare at Arthuro's broken corpse.

[trevor]

Cool pics, sounds like your campaign is going great !

[Goonalan]

Cool pics, sounds like your campaign is going great !

Going very well, although there have been some changes since we started (this scenario)- all down to Maptools and the old adage, "where there's a will, there's a way."

More of the same-

The Friday Knights in Sellswords of Fallcrest

Part 16: Rats!

The chest is thoroughly ransacked, it offers up all manner of goodies- Cathal sports a new cloak- some sort of protective device Ignaran confirms. The Drow-made spider pendant which previously secured it is quickly discarded [1].

There are poison vials, marked with skull & crossbones, and full of darkly oozing gunk- Kullervo nervously looks over them; working up the courage to open one. [2]

Also a well-made dagger, which Ignaran confirms is magical also - and plenty of other spoils, money and things to sell.

Fully rested the Friday Knights stalk up the stairs to the Dog Brothers' ex-lair. Further searching there reveals a smattering of coin- not nearly as much as they had expected to find, less than five gold in total.

Cathal looks put out- little reward for his just efforts. “Search the place, thoroughly,” he spits.
“Sarge” Astaroth nods, betraying a sliver of his past.

The Knights do as they're told, filthy bedrolls are toed-over, Irocar's cot is smashed and heaved aside, the unlit brazier is tipped over- nothing, it gets frustrating rather quickly, until...

“Here it is.” Kullervo declares. Upstairs in Irocar's loft area is a sliding panel, and what do you know...

“Hang on, it's trapped.” Kullervo states, which is enough to send all of the Knights scampering back down the ladder and out of the loft.

Alone, Kullervo flexes his fingers, hands and wrists; draws out his tools and sets to work, and this time, for no special reason, it's easy. It takes him perhaps thirty seconds to find the two well concealed holes in the hidden door. Another thirty to discern the two short spears that are designed to fire out from the door- this place is a nightmare he thinks, and then chuckles a little to himself.

Thirty more seconds and the trap mechanism is located, a minute more, and... well- he checks again, “it's safe,” Kullervo calls out.

Back on the lower level Cathal stares at Ignaran, who stares back; eventually the pair shrug at each other. Astaroth meanwhile slowly, and with a grin, counts his fingers- he's got the same number twice in a row now, he chuckles a little at the thought of a third success.

Cathal starts up the ladder, stops a while, starts again- decides.

“Are you sure?”

The sound of footsteps, Kullervo heads over, till he's stood above the ladder, looking down on Cathal.

“Yes, I'm sure.” The young Rogue smiles and waves the warrior of Kord on.

Up top, the once-hidden door opens into a dark storeroom, Cathal draws his sword and heads on in. Ignaran chuckles and gently punches Kullervo on the arm and follows on. Astaroth is examining the back of his right hand with great care and attention- it seems he's a finger light- he mooches forward, concerned.

The chamber is a mess, Cathal stands on a narrow rickety balcony, about five feet from the actual floor, a short flight of decayed wooden steps lead down. The floor of the chamber is taken up by sacks, barrels, crates and the like... oh and rats, lots of rats.

The rats take note of the new arrivals, run hither and thither, every now and then stop to wobble up on to their hind legs to chitter and stare at Cathal and the other Knights with their flashing eyes.

“Rats.” Astaroth stops and points, like he's just found the Philosopher's Stone.

There's a door on the far side of the chamber, Cathal leads them over, or at least to the bottom of the stairs, the warrior of Kord hesitates.

In his mind he remembers seeing them, the rats... next to the bodies- he's lying to himself; Cathal shakes his head, tries to clear the thought.

On the bodies, they were on the bodies- eating...

Cathal leans hard against the ancient wooden railings; his knuckles pale as he grips tight.

The rats were on the bodies, eating them- his mother, his brother; the rats were... He remembers getting closer, edging forward, past his father- gripped tight in a ball on the road, clenched inside- outside, the sound of his screams. Creeping closer, closer- his feet on the cobbles, a fragment of her shirt, her hair- tears now, a tuft of her hair- MOTHER. He wants to scream, but he doesn't, only edges closer, closer...

He can touch her, reach down and... but for the rats- eating her.

Suddenly she turns to face him- her eyes are gone, gone, black holes; her face is... there's no word, no phrase- her face... eaten; and then she speaks, says his name.

“... Cathal?” Ignaran's voice comes again.
“What?” Cathal snaps back.
“Nothing I...”
“Well come on then.” Cathal snaps again and sets off for the door.

That's when the rats attack, but he knew that was going to happen- they come for the dead.

It's a slaughter.

Cathal attacks with a fury, Ignaran conjures fire and lightning, Kullervo settles for a ring side seat and hurling his dagger, which as soon as it strikes disappears and swiftly reappears in his hand. Astaroth is the least adept, his greataxe a poor choice of weapon for this close work.

The rats flee, or what few are left.

Twenty seconds, that's all it takes. The fracas leaves Cathal fuming.

“That was easy.” Ignaran half-grunts half-smirks.
Kullervo sidles over with a lopsided grin- an easy victory for once, the Knights are getting into the swing of things.
“This adventuring lark... Not so dif...” Kullervo starts, all smiles.
“Shut up. Come on.” Cathal bites off, as if it were a curse, and wrenches the door ahead open. A long thin, equally decrepit candlelit chamber lies beyond- the warrior of Kord, bathed for a moment in a sickening yellow glow, seethes slightly- bites at his beard and marches in.

Astaroth follows on, ducking beneath the low lintel.

A moment or two.

“Did you see him?” Kullervo whispers.
Ignaran has yet to look away.
“Yes.”
“There's something not... right.” Kullervo adds, and frets a little.
“Yes.” Ignaran fires back.

“What...” Kullervo eventually breaks the silence, the two have still not moved.
“He's suffering.” Ignaran offers.

The two look on until Astaroth appears again in the doorway, looks hard at the pair for a good while, and then with one huge black hand- indicates that they should definitely come in now.

Later, when Ignaran thinks back to this moment, he will finally work out the emotion that lingered on Astaroth's face- it was fear. Fear of Cathal.


[1] The Drow manufactured Spider pendant is a product of Phaervorul, a splendid Drow enclave of advanced and enlightened (for Drow) thinking. It's a shame no one bothered to pick it up... more of this later; much, much later.

[2] The Poison in the vials is Stormclaw Scorpion Venom, a favourite of the 'The Slayers' a perhaps mythical - at the very least greatly exaggerated - organisation. The Slayers motto is unknown, their lair likewise, their members... well, the same. They are the best kept secret in the Nentir Vale, and if you tell anyone that- they'll kill you.

[Goonalan]

The Friday Knights in Sellswords of Fallcrest

Part 17: Madame Zeb.

The chamber ahead is deserted, or so it seems... there are a staggering number of bedrolls here, all... what's the phrase, shitty- certainly not the kind of place the discerning adventurers would lay their head to rest. A dozen or more half-burnt candles are wedged here and there, offering up globes of weak sickly yellow light. The air is thick with the stink of sweat, filth, death, and worst of all desperation.

A noise...

“Shhh!” Kullervo whispers harshly, which brings the ragged trail of adventurers to a halt.
“What is...” Cathal, first in-line whispers back, but is signalled into silence. The warrior of Kord chews at his beard, swallows bile, and tries to order his emotions.

Kullervo creeps forward, every now and then the floorboards protest his passing, but the sound, while cacophonous to his ears, carries but a few feet; and besides no-one is listening.

The young Rogue creeps on- at the far side of the chamber, to the left, a set of stairs lead down and into darkness, to the right an archway- light, and the odd noise that earlier arrested their motion.

Kullervo gestures, one hand up for the others to wait, and presses on and into the brief shadow of the arch- he looks through and into Madame Zeb'oltha's lair- the chamber ahead is littered with remnants of eldritch wizardry. Shattered vials, broken canoptic jars, shards of bone and glowing glass globes half full of slowly bubbling demon-slime [1].

The walls of the chamber are covered in all manner of manic scrawls, mixed in with which are bizarre diagrams fashioned from chalk, and more often- blood. One of the diagrams purports to show the correct formula for the completion of the fabled Gnome Rubix Cube [2].

The chamber isn't empty, the noises are the ticks, whirrs and general babblings of an enormously thick-set female Tiefling, the aforementioned, Madame Zeb. The Tiefling wears some circus tent size robe-come-smock, adorned with all manner of bloody splatters and chemical burns. Her hat, pointed like a wizard's, is held in place by a thick rubber cord. She clatters about the laboratory in a pair of ill-fitting clogs, seemingly made from the shaped thigh bones of some recently oppressed, and perhaps even extinct, species.

At the belt at her side is a gleaming, razor-sharp, sickle; and clutched in her fat sweaty hand is a short black rod, topped with a small white skull.

“I hate almonds!” Madame Zeb croaks suddenly, then in a whispered hiss, “Blessings be to my Demon Lord- there shall be no almonds!” The second half of the sentence is delivered with gusto, her face upturned- towards the heavens - actually the blood-splattered ceiling. She cackles a while and gets back to her cake mix.

Creeeak

A floorboard, Kullervo swiftly rocks back further, onto the balls of his feet- ready to race, he's spotted something else, or rather something... else's. Two of them, big fat something else's.

Either side of the shadowed arch in which he stands are mountains of men, scratch that- hillocks of men; great bald headed corpulent barrels of flesh, their shivering and yet sweating folds are etched and scarred. The formulations of Madame Zeb are cut into their skin. A riot of bloody tattoos that in a myriad languages, mostly dark and garbled, proclaim all manner of foul and arcane pledges, oaths and curses [3]. The fearsome pair are, Kullervo notes, wearing nappies.

The young Rogue gulps and tip-toes back to his companions to tell all.



[1] All products shown were previously available to purchase from “Incantata & Implementia”, proprietor Alan Shuttlecock, Gnome Magikinator; a mixture of the Basic Wizard-Kit (Magic Hat Not Included), the So-You-Want-To-Be-An-Alchemist Kit, and the Beginners Home Diabolist Pack (Family Edition). That is, before the fire. As an aside Demon-Slime, a much sought after commodity for the would-be diabolist, is actually made from rendered animal fat and Day-Glo Fungus, but it looks good.

[2] Rubix Cube, a fabled device- basically a manipulable cube of coloured squares- which, in order to unlock and lay bare the treasures held within, must be manoeuvred so that all sides show a single colour. The difficulty lies in the fact that the cube has six sides, of course, and yet there are seven colours. Archimedes Rubix, the Gnome inventor of the device, was famous for two things, the first- his cube, the second his absolute, total and all-encompassing madness.

[3] For instance, written in Deep Speech on Pinky's right arm, the Eunuch to the left of the shadowy archway, is written, “Orcus is Lord!”; while on Perky's left buttock, in Supernal, it states, “need fresh spleen”, which is crossed through and written beneath, “pay milkman- no yoghurt!”

[Goonalan]

The Friday Knights in Sellswords of Fallcrest

Part 18: This-armed

“A what?!” Cathal whispers, with as much vehemence as he can muster- which is a significant amount.
“I said a nappy...” Kullervo whispers back, repeating himself.
“A... Oh.” Cathal gets it, and scratches his chin.
“Well, he wasn't lying then.” Ignaran adds with a shrug.
“Plan, Sarge?” Astaroth mumbles, and looks hard at the Warrior of Kord.

The whispering continues for a while. A little later Cathal will begin gesturing, then pointing, more gesturing, and yet more whispering- three minutes pass.

“So we kill the witch?” Ignaran hisses and shakes his head, a lot of chatter for such a simple plan.
Cathal half-shrugs half-nods.
“I'm up for it”, the Druid agrees and nods.

Moments later.

“Let's see..”, Madame Zeb thumbs hard through a musty dusty tome [1], in the other hand is a... odd, it seems to be a miniature person, and very miniature- tiny, perhaps only six inches tall, and dressed in a neat little suit- autumnal colours. Stranger still the tiny humanoid sports a pair of delicate butterfly wings, alas from the way its limbs dance as Madame Zeb flounces and jiggles, the creature must be dead.

“Let's see, let's see... F... F... Ah-ha, got it- Fairy Cakes.” Madame Zeb mumbles her way through the recipe, following the words on the page with her calloused index finger.

SPLAT

The dead fairy is slapped onto the table before her- the witch fumbles with the sleeves of her robe, ostensibly rolling them up, reveals spindly, warty, stick-thin arms. She suddenly clutches the skull-topped rod in both hands, raises it high above her head.

Back in the shadows of the archway Kullervo comes to an immediate halt, the Friday Knights concertina. Signalled shushes silence the foursome- the young rogue waits to see what dark deed is about to unfold, momentarily mesmerised.

“Oh great Demon Lord.” Madame Zeb squawks, “empower my Rod so that it will crush all before it.” She cackles some more.

SLAM

Then sets to flattening the deceased fairy, using the skull topped rod as a rolling pin.

“I feel like chicken tonight... chicken tonight.” Zeb hollers and sings, while shuffling from foot to foot in time with the tune- she continues to roll out the fairy corpse.

“Ready?” Kullervo whispers, and is met by nods - it goes a little like this.

Ignaran is first into the room, his hands dance- but to a different tune, a second or so later a thick fug of flying creatures burst from the body of the battered fairy, buzz up and engulf the flailing arms and face of Madame Zeb, they're... gnats.

The buzzing fury get to work, Madame Zeb flounders, bumps forward into the table, swatting with the skull topped rod, trying to clear her vision.

A second later she suddenly keels forward, thunks her head hard into the table before her- perhaps something to do with the dagger that has leapt from Kullervo's outstretched hand and made its way, tout suite, into and through the intercostal muscles between her fifth and sixth rib.

Madame Zeb bobs back up again, the dagger disappears and reappears in Kullervo's hand. The young Rogue gulps hard and backs away a little, before him Madame Zeb rages amidst her gnatty crown.

“Evenin' slim.” Cathal steps into the chamber and faces off against a startled Pinky, his flashing blade bites deep and draws a slick of blood from the Eunuch's [2] copious folds; he sends the fat man skittering back, and then steps up to face his foe.

A second later Astaroth arrives before an equally flustered Perky, the remaining Eunuch, his axe dances and slashes hard down, a short stroke but packed with power.

CLUMP

Perky's right hand and forearm, severed just below the elbow, lands hard on the filthy floor- Astaroth and Perky take a moment to register this.

The great fat man uses his other hand to feel the spot- where his right arm should be, he looks... befuddled.

Astaroth grins, his brain has just had a...

“This-armed.” He states, shaping the word carefully.

THUNK

Astaroth swings again, his axe buries itself into the plaster of the wall, which spits and flies in an effort to accommodate it.

It passes through a good eight inches of fleshy folds en route alas. Alas for Perky that is- who clutches at the fat grey sausages that tumble from his gaping belly.

“Disarmed.” Perky squeaks, and I mean squeaks- castrato, correcting Astaroth, and slumps against the wall and then down to the floor, leaving a bloody smear in his wake. There he expires and soon after starts to expand as odd shaped still pulsing organs tumble out of the rent.

That's it.

That's really it.

I mean.

That...

Does it.

Madame Zeb goes nuclear, she chants words of dread power, a dark furze- like a black heat haze, signals her target. Astaroth turns to stare, something in his mind itches- itches bad.

He goes to scratch it, and as Mother Zeb watches, through the biting bugs, the huge fighter is engulfed in a towering inferno, a column of scorching, blistering flames.

Which causes the other pockets of action to take a moment.

The flames subside.

And from the furnace emerges Astaroth, smoking a little, but otherwise- seemingly none the worse for it, however a spot a few feet before him is scorched and cindered, ceiling and floor a black charred mess- some of the stone has melted a little.

“Missed.” Astaroth declares and grins.

Suddenly the gnats buzz off, disappear from sight.

“Sick 'em Wolfie.” Ignaran states.

Wolfie pops into existence and chomps down on a mouthful of Madame Zeb's robes- then pulls, and down she goes again- fortunately her route to the floor is impeded, the tables in the way, again.

CLUNK

Face first again into the solid oak, she bobs back up- somewhat dizzier, and blind in one eye.

Ten seconds of further punishment and humiliation later Madame Zeb flings her arms into the air, spills the skull topped rod and declares- “sur-wender, sur-wender... I can't see. I'm bwind.”

“You've got a fairy in your eye.” Ignaran helps.

And sure enough she has, Madame Zeb looks hard left, hard right, nods her head- all to no avail, the flattened remains of the dead fairy cover her left eye, cheek and chin. Gingerly she reaches up and peels off the pancake flat fey.

“Sur-wender.”

Followed by.

“Poor-wa Pwerky. Poor-wa Pwerky.” She mutters and cries.


[1] The tome in question “Caykes & Stuffe” by Jay-Me-Holiver, a Death Slaad of fearsome reputation who, having retired from planar hopping treks of death and destruction, has gone into the catering business. Jay-Me spends much of his time creating exquisite sweets and patisseries for his select clients- devils, demons, venerable liches, and ancient dragons (those still possessing serviceable palettes). Jay-Me's “Death by Chocolate”, according to those that have tasted it, is to die for.

[2] Eunuchs, as things go, qualify as luxury items in witch circles- high maintenance, at times incredibly annoying (the high pitch voice, like nails down a blackboard), and they make poor guards; and yet a Eunuch or two in your retinue is certain to elevate a witch's status. They are also incredibly moreish- 'once you have had a Eunuch you'll never go back', or so the saying goes, interestingly all Eunuchs, by rights, are buried... ahem, complete, their Eunuch-Horn re-attached for the occasion

[krellos]

Very nice read, Goonalan!

If a may ask, where did you aquire your city street map? From the screenshot, it looks like something i would like to use!

[Goonalan]

I took the maps included in the module and just went over them with my own terrain, effects et al, is there a way I can send them to you- they'll be a bit messy what with the scattering of tokens and notes et al, but I'm happy for you to have them.

Cheers Paul