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Topic: Tuesday campaign IC (Read 48 times) |
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quirkster
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Carabell left the following parchment on the table in front of Jak just before she disappeared upstairs to her room in the tavern
Note in fine handwriting, with a direction to a publisher in the city, crossed out:
George, here is my latest broadsheet, ready for publication. I'm sure you will find the tune catchy and the story amusing. I find it even more amusing in that it was drawn from real life. This "adventuring" is turning out to be better inspiration than I had hoped.
Subsequent note, more hastily written
Jak, it was kind of you to try to talk to me. Instead of sending this to the city, I am leaving it in your hands to do with as you see fit.
The ballad is written from the point of view of an intelligent, wise-cracking woman.
The first verses of the broadsheet lampoon the standard adventure story, where a motley group of adventurers meet in a typical tavern, are given a task by someone they've never met, and for no obvious reason decide to form a group and go investigate the problem.
It becomes even more of a parody as the adventurers reach their destination, only to find opponents too strong for their fighting skills. They find themselves running around in circles trying to elude the monsters. They split up and nearly get hopelessly lost.
They finally regroup, panting from their exertions. After extended discussions, and against the strong urgings of the only woman in the group, they decide to risk their lives by entering a mysterious doorway, instead of returning to their employer with what information they've found. The female narrator comments on the brains vs. brawn quotient of the typical male adventurer.
At this point, the audience of the song likely find themselves identifying with the narrator, and laughing helplessly at the foibles of the group.
Inside, the party find the lair of the standard mysterious, powerful, but very dead wizard, with lots of hints of a great evil now awoken. The adventure comes to a head when they discover an impossibly powerful evil artifact. The male adventurers rush in, shouting "Kill the evil!" trying to use the only strategy they know. The only problem is that, being impossibly powerful and overwhelmingly evil, it emits a constant stream of powerful undead protectors, and damages its assailants every time it takes a hit.
The smart narrator finds herself running around in circles again, alternately trying to avoid the undead and trying to bandage the fighters. After ten minutes of this, she suggests they leave to regroup and discuss what strategies might work better. Strangely, the men ignore her good advice, and continue to fall over and over. The narrator sighs, and works for another half an hour trying to keep them alive.
Finally, she leaves the room, hoping that they will give up before they all lie dead on the floor. Eventually, they do. However, the only intelligent one of the men ridicules and refuses to even discuss her attempts at brainstorming another way of tackling the evil artifact. Instead, he suggests that they again assault the artifact, in spite of the clear futility of that course.
At this point, a mysterious but suspiciously helpful cleric turns up, trying to spur them to try different ways of attacking the problem. Strangely, the men listen to some of his ideas.
This time, the narrator stays outside, trying to think of all the other ways they might be able to attack the problem. Suddenly, the group's cleric appears to have an inspiration, casts a spell, and the evil ceases as suddenly as it began. On the way back to the tavern, all the men congratulate the cleric on his brilliance and themselves on their fighting prowess, in spite of the fact that it was inspired by the narrator's attempts to get the group to think.
The narrator concludes with the moral of the story: how women, especially intelligent women, are so often ignored by men. And all the ridiculous situations this gets the men into. It ends with a very catchy refrain sure to stick in the heads of all who hear it.
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Jonnytheshirt
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"...loss doesn't sleep in the night..."
Such were the words of Elenan, too old and too lost to find joy in her freedom - a shade family like a shadow now behind her.
Back at the inn however...
"By none I'm as free as the day is fine" says Fredercan as he slaps the young cleric's shoulder dislodging his helm over his eyes. The Cleric stumbles under Fredercan's ample wieght as he clasps him, beaming his wide apple cheeked grin.
"Eh ser yer as good as a nod to a blind man, but thank ye fer yer Gad's blessin destroyin that altar...and ye master gnome ya musta stole time.." he winks ".. fer ya took plenty ovvit. Where's that elf fella? Some soul bet'er tell him the fightin's dun n'all. Ah and that warrior lad, a man, a master of yer own design laying about orders like a pixie catchin' cows. Speakin o' the pixies where is she - I could hear her voice in me cell liftin me spirits of hope to come, or maybe she was in pain, is she alright?"
Fredercan graciously slaps everyone he can catch (without too much effort) and bids the heroes fair journeys - he's got his own quest now, restoring the kegs to his tankard.
And so the few move on, leave these people. Still wondering how they got into it, and sometimes - out of it alive.
The road leads on, to the mountain pass..
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brotherfinn
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Cold mud squelches through the holes of Findlewick's worn boots. Ahead as far as the gnome can see, the puddled road stretches onward, slowly rising to meet the mountains towering over the horizon. With every step, Findlewick's legs ache and his temper grows more foul.
“You would think they could have spared us a few horses!” he says for the thousandth time. “I mean, we saved their village from an army of undead after all. And what do we get? A few thank yous, not nearly enough gold and an invitation to never return again.”
Findlewick plods on, hoping that one of his companions will finally share in his disgust. But before any one can respond, the gnome continues to rant.
“It's a good thing we're shod of that place, I tell you. They know nothing of heroes, brave deeds or decent rewards. Now, with dwarves it's a different tale. They're awash with gold, silver and gems. A dwarf in need is an invitation to riches. You'll all be glad you took my advice to answer this call for help. We'll be rewarded well, my friends. Mark my words!”
Another step and more muddy water leaks into gnome's already soggy feet. Only a few more leagues to travel. Soon, they'd be warming themselves by a roaring fire, sipping delicious Dwarven Ale and counting their riches. With that thought, Findlewick feels the rush of delight that always runs through his bones when he thinks of gold.
The mountains are already looking much closer. And what's that on the horizon? Blue sky? Yes indeed, things can only get better from here . . .
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Tony Walsh [Gloomveil]
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Eune suffers Findlewick's incessant twittering in silence, having long tired of the gnome's repeated pining for horses and speculation about the fabulous riches that doubtless were waiting at the end of their journey. He trods delicately across the sodden earth, lifting his robes from time to time in order to avoid further mudying the fine fabric in ankle-deep puddles.
The sorceror has been rather unsociable since the group's misadventures in Longshadow, preferring to spend his time practicing magic and quietly consorting with his demonic-looking Seer. While polite enough when his attention is required by the others, Eune's mood seems to have taken a downward turn during the journey. Foot travel doesn't seem to suit the elf.
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Mackas
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As it starts to rain for the third time since morning Jak pulls his cloak tight again, covering up the dark armour beneath. Brushing his wet and unkempt hair from his face reveals the ugly scar running down his left cheek and through the edge of his mouth to his chin. Hearing Findlewick's litany of gripes begin again a wry smile flits briefly across his features relieving his grim disposition for an instant.
In general he seems more tolerant of Finn's chatter than some of the others, breaking the monotony of the journey as it does. Some of Finn's more direct questions appear to make him uncomfortable though he has long since realised that as long as he says nothing the gnome will quickly fill the gap himself, answering his own question, commenting on his own reply and racing off in another direction all at once.
Although not speaking often he does join in some of the others' conversation from time to time, sometimes with a caustic, albeit apparently humourously intended, comment, at other times with a more animated intervention when someone touches on a subject he appears to enjoy.
Late at night he is more morose, often sitting staring into the dying embers of the camp fire long after everyone else has drifted off. What little sleep he gets is unsettled before he rises early and works his way through various sword play exercises to relieve cramped and stiff muscles.
"Horses would be nice" he mutters to himself, echoing Finn's disgruntlement unconsciously, "and a bigger sword", as he marches on.
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quirkster
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When the group awoke before setting out from the inn, Carabell was nowhere to be found. The only sign of her presence was the broadsheet she had left behind for Jak.
Zanven Marril lay under his tarpaulin, watching the rain gather at the edge into large drops, then fall, bending small fern leaves as they splashed. He had long ago put out his small cooking fire, preferring not to draw attention to himself or his position.
This journey was nearly over; he would probably reach Torgan's Delve in early to mid-afternoon tomorrow. He wondered how many other travelers would also have arrived, hoping to gain fame or fortune by helping the dwarves. He himself sought neither of those. Rather, if he succeeded here, he would have proven himself, and completed the last step toward full membership in the Greatrand Herons. He could think of no worthier goal than to be part of that seasoned company.
He was asleep within a minute of laying his head down, as he had learned during the last few years. After all, battle could come at any moment, and sleep needed to be snatched whenever the chance arose.
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| « Last Edit: on: Apr 25, 2006, 3:59PM » |
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quirkster
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Marril begins preparing himself for battle before the group musters to enter the cave.
He reties his hair at his neck, gathering together the strands that had fallen into his face, expertly tightening the leather band. He checks his belt for bandages, making sure they are easily accessible, untangled. He stretches a little, turning his head slowly from side to side, pulling his arms first out front, then up behind his shoulder blades.
During all this preparation, his face shows no expression, he does not look at his companions. His eyes seem to be focused inward, thinking, planning.
* * *
Marril begins mentally reviewing what he had learned of the strengths and weaknesses of the giants, trying to determine their best approach. There were also the frost spitters and other creatures to consider. Certainly, divide and conquer was one of the most successful strategies they had used so far.
He then turns to meditation on the skills and habits of the group. Would it be best to send Bandraggle in first, to scout? Or to go in himself? What was the best way to deploy the healer? And the other fighters: which were most comfortable with unplanned frontal attacks, and which preferred to surround and confuse an enemy? And how to turn that difference into an advantage?
All in all, this was turning out to be an stimulating challenge in leadership: trying to mold a coherent fighting unit out a group of individuals that he did not know, with a wide range of training and experience, and little obvious reason to stick together. Certainly different from training a group of first-year recruits, whose aptitudes and training history had already been carefully selected for.
* * *
A slight smile appears on Marril's face.
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| « Last Edit: on: May 1, 2006, 6:57PM » |
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brotherfinn
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Findlewick shivers in the frigid winds swirling around the mouth of the mountain cave.
"Why am I here again?" the gnome mutters under his breath. Using Jak's large bulk as a windshield provides little protection against the cold. In a few minutes the oaf will realize what Findlewick is up to and then there'll be nothing to protect him from the wintery air. "Cold." The gnome turns the word over in his mouth, hoping it will provide some answer. And it does.
"Cold, cold. Gold!" Findlewick nearly shouts out the last word, but he stops himself for fear of receiving another icy look from Eune. That's why he's here. That's why he agreed to be bait for the ice breathing demons. That's why he's putting up with Jak's disgusting smell. Gold.
With the thought of riches dancing through his mind, Findlewick tightens his cloak and checks his spell ingredients one last time.
"Right," he says to the rest of the rabble he's calling an adventuring party. "We're only a few fights away from my riches, so thaw out your wits, sharpen your swords and let's get moving!"
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Jonnytheshirt
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Sculpted and smoothed for centuries, the arches over your head lay like a golden sigh. Rivulets of fortune cascade the walls, the gleaming bloodline beneath the still mountain giant. Master worked floors run level beneath your boots, to the gold rimmed door of the apex to Torgan's Delve.
Korrus wobbles his commodious eyebrows, hands behind his back as he leans to rocking on his feet, his ample Delvian garments shift but a bit. The guards, at rear to the door make no move yet eyes neath helm and visors can be seen darting to and fro between the companions.
The dwarf closes his eyes, issues an audible indraw of air, and booms his deep decree, echoing off the apex walls -
"Four generations since Thane Torgan did drive the hordes from neath these hallowed halls, and for four generations by the Old Thane's law has this Delve welcome visitors into its corridors. Respect is due upon the Old Law and you may retain all you have, but raise none against this Delve, for those who have, leave by the way of the Old Law as they entered."
The old dwarf rocks forward finishing a familiar task. Opening the wrinkled slots neath the bushes, he fixes you with clear eyes. "The Thane here now, he lay in repose. I would bid you seek audience with Prince Dalgan or Master Koll". Clasping his velvet gloved hands before him he also speaks with less office - "And I beg of thee speak with Iskar, represent of Morandin".
He bows his head but a slight as he steps back and to the side - "Any answers you wish, seek before you enter. Be welcome within.."
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| « Last Edit: on: May 5, 2006, 5:32PM » |
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Mackas
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As the dwarf drones on Jak shifts uncomfortably amidst the formality. He looks about him, taking in again the oppressive splendour of the place, and catches Findlewick’s eyes greedily drinking in every hint of wealth apparent in the flickering torchlight. At least it seems the promise of imminent riches has taken the hard edge from the gnome, at least for now. The mischievous side of him is resurfacing quickly and the spite receding.
It has been a long time since Jak has truly called anyone friend and it brings a wry smile to his lips to think that Findlewick is probably as close as he will have to that now – a gnome who sees little in him other than a windshield and an expendable bodyguard. Unlikely as it might seem Findlewick is the reason he is here. Well, that, and the fact that anywhere was better than where his thoughts might lead him otherwise.
The journey so far hasn’t been kind. Cold, close to death on more than one occasion and with morale wilting, it is ironic that the difficulties the companions have faced together are probably the thing that most binds them together.
Teristan stands quietly while Findlewick jabbers on and Eune interjects with the occasional pertinent question. Jak watches the elf closely, and thinks about the hungry look he saw on his face back on the mountainside looking at the altar they had had to destroy.
Marril stands still. A good fighter. He is calm, assured. Even in the harshest conditions his sleep is relaxed. Even in comfort Jak’s is broken and agitated. Haunted.
If anyone is watching closely they might note the almost imperceptible shake of Jak's head as he looks down, the sound of a shallow breath from his nose the only other indication of struggle. He forces himself to look up again and focus intently on the others as they speak, now absently fingering the scar on his face.
"... bear bummer and giant slayer ...". "Did I just hear that right?" wonders Jak. As always you can rely on Findlewick for distraction, for a while at least. And then it will be time for the killing again.
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Tony Walsh [Gloomveil]
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Aside from brief, pertinent questions, Eune keeps to himself. He surveys his surroundings with subdued respect, breathing in the history and affluence of Torgan's Delve. Strangely, of all places the group has visited, Eune of Elsewhere seems suited to this environment. Something about the elf's bearing and composure suggests he belongs among the well-to-do. Given this, why would he choose to join a group of adventure-skeekers in highly dangerous exploits?
Perhaps, in time, his motives will become clear. Until then, the elf seems content to smile wanly and bow slightly towards Korrus at appropriate moments, his demeanour pleasant but detached.
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Jonnytheshirt
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"Only way to deal with t'dreggin Illy's is to band yerself..." he drew one gnarled knuckle across his shaven brow, above one milky white eye. "Assers, never let it slip." The other eye, alert, roamed the dark bar room slowly looking at nothing, taking all in.
The underbar was crowded. A myriad of races and faces rarely seen together without violence. Bodyguard Umber's crowded strange gnomish mages. Arrogant and deadly dark elves barely tolerated strange and silent humans, planar travellers not of the realms, yet they emitted power - enough to stay any casual contact within Lanyard's Hall.
The Half-Dwarf shifted his bulk and spat into his blackiron tankard. "Never better, still tastes of grooch shell. Time we left Shrew". He nodded to the somber faced halfling at the other side of his table. "How's the goods?"
"Some won't survive the journey. As always the immersion from the light to the dark breaks mosts mind before the body. The shell follows thereafter and is useless." Shrew answered in a monotone voice, his small white, childlike, face hovering like a ghost above his black leathers.
Armour creaked under his bulk as the half-dwarf rose from the table. "Be sure they're feed well.." He leered "But spare the rod...lets pick the filth up and be on. Lanyard might stay the blade in here but its still the Dark outside and our prices shrink with every stinkin step." He chuckles to himself looking across at the hostile Dark elves and whispers into Shrew's ear..
"How many Dark elves does it take to shingle a roof?....Depends on how thin you slice 'em."
With Shrew following almost imperceptably behind, Kazig Gar strode out of Lanyard's hall with barely a glance behind.
*****************
A chance encounter? A casual meeting? In a blur of combat the Half-Dwarf and Halfling proved potent foes, Kazig laying Zan out whilst the halfling, Shrew, produced an unusual silver rod.
Touching Eune there was a blast of energy as the air around the Sorceror seemed to envelope in upon itself sucking the sound with it..then he was gone.
The foes disengaged themselves almost casually and took their leave, the chuckles of the half-dwarf fading into the underdark beyond the reach of Jak's calls.
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