Bastard vs Wankel

During the first four days of the long camel trek back through the desert and despite the Hag’s unscheduled and unwelcome visits, everyone tries to make good use of the blisteringly hot but idle ‘daytime’ rest periods. Rifkin continues, somewhat pointlessly now, to study Grimcrack Thin-Needle’s diary, while Liga Bur, Fortu and Arowe are mostly occupied with their own thoughts and concerns.

Thanks to the recent-ish execution of their prisoner; the Wizard Moody though and the mid-journey discovery of the rocky oasis, the Party now have more than enough water to spare for brief outdoor exertions beneath the hot suns and Henshaw and (the recently cured) Doberman use some of their free time to spar, using their newly acquired Bastard sword and Wankel shield.

Blond Henshaw, considering his profession, is an oddly cautious man by nature, but reckless Doberman’s enthusiasm for violence necessitates Barbella’s presence as referee/murder preventer. This time though, Liga Bur sits beside the bearded stabber-for-hire, just to make his own personal assessment of how much recent experiences have sharpened their combat skills. He’s been suspicious of them ever since Rifkin (out of concern for Fortu) pleaded with Estrid for their lives. They have appeared loyal since then, but the Halfling’s very aware, that if they ever did decide to cross them, it’d be three verses three, as he’s yet to see the Bard even draw a weapon. Although confident in Arowe and Fortu’s combat prowess, Liga Bur has lamented his own limitations of late. Next to the Elf’s remarkable bowmanship and the Human’s phenomenal one-handed skill with, what should definitely be a two-handed sword, he finds himself noticeably overshadowed.

Henshaw and Doberman have practiced this duel many times now with both combatants using their blades wrapped to prevent serious injury but Doberman has a lifetime habit of getting carried away and forgetting that one condition. This particular clash follows their now established pattern, with the bulky Doberman using Fortu’s generously donated hand-and-a-half bastard sword, two-handedly, as if it were a lumberjack’s axe, to rain down shuddering blows onto Henshaw’s magical wankel shield.

Although only minor magical items in the grand scheme of things, both of the men are amazed at their power and resilience. Despite being battered by Doberman’s near monstrous blows, Henshaw’s large, heavy shield remains without a ding. As is Doberman’s sword. Though not forged of the same indestructible metal of Fortu’s new flamberge, it’s enchantment still protects and maintains the blade’s sharp edge.

This time though, while still holding his awkward looking, crablike defensive stance, Henshaw manages to jab his Masterwork cold-iron longsword into Doberman’s large and exposed belly. There’s no force behind the thrust and Doberman’s chainmail armour protects him from any potential harm, but the laughing Barbella calls the fight in Henshaw’s favour.

The lanky, straw mopped Henshaw, although surprised, grins in response and caws.

"Hah; that'll teach you Doberman! Nobody beats a Henshaw seventeen times in a row!"

Dance of the Mace-Handmaidens

 

Summoning Satyrs

After disconcertingly discovering the first ugly-horse-camel creature brutally slaughtered and half devoured, Liga Bur leaves the others behind to track down the remaining seven. They'll need them if they're going to make it back to Valdez or the oasis. In the meantime, the rest of the Party unpack the stowed equipment and set up the large tent, before simply waiting in its shade for the Tundra hardened Halfling to return with their rides. Despite travelling with the adventurers for over a month now, Henshaw is still amazed by Liga Bur’s formidable survival skills and he knows, without question, that they’d all be dead by now, from either thirst or heat exposure, without him.

Henshaw’s faith in the little tracker is soon proved justified, when Liga Bur comes riding back atop his loyal hound; Mir Hundur, leading all seven of the surviving camels. The Party though, is still not ready to leave. Although struggling to keep his ire-filled voice below a shout, the Elven Arowe is still the first to consider how they can help Rifkin and Doberman.

“Could our Bard’s charm bracelet help here? Perhaps the tiny Pixie has some magic that could cure Rifkin's deafness and Doberman's disease?”

Rifkin smiles crookedly in hopeful understanding and, because of that very deafness, answers a little too loudly.

“PERHAPS NOT THE SHINY PIXIE. BUT WHAT ABOUT THE POTION-BANDOLIER WEARING SATYR; MAGRITTE?”

Everyone nods in agreement and Rifkin, with dramatic but unnecessary flair, twists off the satyr shaped token from Estrid's bracelet and feels it hum and warm up in his soft hand. After less than a minute, the half goat, half man; Margritte appears, Barely dressed beyond his rapier, longbow, quiver and twin potion-caddy bandoliers.

Initially Crouched with his sword in hand, the bearded Margritte quickly assesses the situation, straightens up and sheaths his weapon.

"How may I be of service?"

After a speedy explanation, the friendly Satyr sets to work examining all three of the afflicted. He treats Rifkin first with a carefully selected vial and, much to the Bard's joy, it proves successful. Doberman takes a moment longer but he too is cured of the Hag's disease. When he comes to Arowe though, Margritte just shakes his goat-horned head.

"I'm sorry my Elven friend. Your ongoing affliction is magical in nature, not physical, but worry not; even an ‘uncivilised’ Fey creature, such as myself has heard of the elite Elven Oath-bows. Your hyper-focused rage will not last forever. You'll have to endure this rage for a week, just seven days and then you'll be free of it. Until, that is, you call upon it again."

Afterwards, Fortu and the others share with Margritte what has happened since they last saw each-other and what they plan to do now. The handsome and tanned Satyr listens attentively and, at the completion of the tale, agrees that returning home seems to be the only sane course of action.

"I'll inform the goddess of the pool of your estimated arrival in about eight days and I'll be sure to have the Nixies take turns watching out for you at the bottom of the hundred feet underwater shaft. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, but please accept my remaining potions. You may have need of them before we meet again."

With that, Margritte empties his bandoliers, carefully explaining what each potion does as he passes them over. After that, the charming Satyr chats with the adventurers until his hour is up.

"Safe journey my friends. I hope to see you all again soon."

Treasure:

Potions:

1) Potion of Cure Light Wounds x 2

2) Potion of Cure Moderate Wounds x 2

3) Potion of Cure Serious Wounds x 2

4) Potion of Delay Poison x 1

5) Potion of Magic Fang +1 x 1

6) Potion of Bark-skin +2 AC x 1

7) Potion of Bear's Endurance +4 Con x 1

8) Potion of Cat's Grace +4 Dex x 1

9) Potion of Bull's Strength +4 Str x 1

10) Potion of Lesser Restoration x 2

(Assif, I think I got this right but if not, (to avoid any unnecessary confusion) scrunch up your list and throw it in the bin.)

Dulcetta’s First Challenge

 

The Cost of Confrontation

The long anticipated battle at the top of Dulcetta's slowly rotating tower had been shockingly and frustratingly brief, with Sir Briefadel literally choosing flight over fight. Doberman had barrelled in before Sir Briefadel had the opportunity to properly speak and, in the cramped observation deck, Fortu and Arowe were unable to properly utilise their magical weapons.

After just a few scrambled and confusing moments, Sir Briefadel and his Mother, realising that the adventurers weren't going to be persuaded to change sides, chose to step back off the ledge and escape into the darkness far below. Fortu, almost immediately dived after them, followed by the now oath-enraged Arowe and then by the more restrained Liga Bur and his big dog, but to no avail. The third, hidden enemy made itself known and carried the others away to safety. A huge, bat-winged, black horse, seen only by Liga Bur before, and even then, only in his nightmares.

It’s only after the Party members had all clambered out of the swirling darkness below, and everyone is reunited, do they realise the full cost of that brief encounter. They’re all injured to one degree or another. Cuts and scrapes mostly; easily fixed with a few days rest and some magical healing. Some of the others though, are carrying far more serious afflictions.

The musician; Rifkin seems, much to his horror, to have been permanently deafened by the armoured Sir Briefadel’s somehow silent and motionless spell.

Arowe’s recent ‘vacuumed’ blood loss is still apparent and the activation of his Oath-bow, but failure to actually kill Sir Briefadel, seems to have enraged him to a state of barely contained frenzy.

And poor, stupid Doberman; the surprise hag-bite on his blubbery neck that he sustained from Hetzabah, has resisted all of Rifkin’s attempts to treat it. The two opposing, semi-circular teeth marks are already inflamed and festering with some sort of foul rotting disease. A disease so vile and virulent that, even with Doberman’s ridiculous constitution, he might not survive the arduous desert trek to Zephir’s oasis portal, let alone the dimensional trip back to Fissa.

All this from less than a few dozen seconds of combat and then, after all that, Sir Briefadel actually succeeded in rescuing his Mother and escaping. Despite his (very) near death to Arowe’s newly activated Oath-bow, the annoying aristocrat actually won!

Dejected but determined to get home, the band of Adventurers gather up their belongings and head back out into the multi-sunned Calcientan heat, with the irreplaceable Liga Bur sent off ahead to recover their ugly camel creatures.

Once the last of the adventurers makes it out through its veil of illusion, the 'Lost Tower of Stowen' is finally hidden again from prying eyes. Indifferent to the escape of its prisoners, the damage to its mechanical guards and its loss of purpose, it continues to turn, and having completed its full rotation, merely turns on. 

Sand Trap!

 

Tales from the Ledge: A Last Look Down

“They made it out! Those buggers actually made it out of the black mist!”

It’s the grinning and slightly amazed, gold-toothed Barbella who spots their employers escape the black chasm below them.

Henshaw wanders over.

“What, even Fortu? In all that heavy armour?! I’d’ve bet good money against that happening… If’n I actually had any money that is.”

Barbella rolls his eyes while waving at the faraway Arowe, Liga Bur and Fortu until he manages to attract their attention.

“LEAVE... THE... ROPE... DOWN... THERE!”

He shouts, but the rushing wind steals his words, so he and Henshaw are forced to exaggeratedly mime what they need and what they’re going to do.

Fetching the woozy Doberman and the deafened Rifkin, they all prepare themselves to jump from Dulcetta’s mouth. Rifkin though, despite his sudden disability, manages to cast ‘light’ spells on all four of them, to enable them to find each other in the swirling darkness below.

Rifkin jumps first, and his lithe half-of-a-half-elf, frame floats gently downward, supported by the tower's magically generated winds. The smallish Barbella jumps second to similar results. Then, the almost round and green around the gills Doberman totters of the ledge…

And plummets!

Well, relatively to Rifkin and Barbella. He actually passes them before they enter the dark mist beneath them. 

Finally, with one last look at the door at the back of Dulcetta’s stone throat, Henshaw jumps last. He falls faster than Barbella but slower than Doberman, as the updraft dramatically slows his descent.

The straw-thatched mercenary can’t help but marvel at what he’s doing, what he’s seen and what he's been through these last few months. His four elder brothers wouldn’t believe what he’s experienced. Frankly, he can barely believe it himself!