Happy Halloween!

 

Practical Diplomacy

Double checking his restocked potion bandeliers and hitching his refilled quiver and longbow up across his wiry shoulders, Magritte risks posing the question he'd been delaying asking...

"After everything you said, everyone you killed; why did you allow those three Human soldiers to live?”

The ram-horned Satyr looks genuinely baffled, but the achingly beautiful Estrid calms him instantly with a gentle touch of her pale hand on his darkly tanned arm.

“I understand your confusion Magritte and, truth be told, I’m not all that certain if it was a wise decision or not, but we had to convince the Human Fortu that we are on the side of the angels. The barely-elf Rifkin did his best to persuade his companions, but that gesture of 'mercy' could only have helped our case."

Magritte gnaws at his bottom lip for a moment…

"You’re the goddess and I bow to your judgement, but I’ve got a really baaaaad feeling about this."

The Loyalty of Men

Awake, alive and completely healed from their extensive wounds, the three surviving Scarborough soldiers' glance around themselves. All their compatriots lie dead and their leaders have either abandoned them or been butchered themselves.

Even if they hadn't been deprived of their weapons, there's little chance of escape. 

Whispering, the swarthy Barbella hisses into blond Henshaw's slightly jug ear.

"What do they want wiv us? Are they gunna eat us?!"

Henshaw answers in a low but nasal voice.

"I don't know... I fink they're planning on handing us over to that big bloke in the blackish armour... If they do, play along and follow my lead... And Doberman... Don't say nothing stupid... In fact, don't say nothing at all!"

The short, wide and trollish looking Doberman looks up blankly.

"Wha?"

Bad to the Bone?

 

A Sacrifice I'm Willing to Make

The flamboyantly dressed Egrow knocks at the sturdy wooden door, doffs his floppy purple hat and adjusts the crotch of his bright yellow tights while he awaits his master's positive response before entering.

"The blacksmith; Smelder has finished your 'special weapons' order. It was monstrously expensive but you were right to recruit a Dwarf. Very few Human craftsmen would have been capable of this quality of work. The men are also drilled and ready Sir. Captain Hall can hardly wait for the upcoming battle!"

Sir Briefadel glances up from his desk.

"Captain Hall has indeed proven himself to be a useful idiot. His ambition, general ignorance and rampant hatred of all races outside his own is why I hired him in the first place. I'm not sure about his Sergeant though. That man seems a little too clever for my liking."

Egrow shrugs.

"Don't worry about Sergeant Philco. He won't have time to wriggle out of trouble before he finds himself transported to the pool."

Giving Egrow his full attention now, Sir Briefadel's hooded eyes stare directly into the cod-wizard's face.

"These men really are the scum of the Fissa but as long as their unwitting sacrifice grants us enough of a distraction to gain access to the magical pool unaccosted, it'll be worth all the trouble."

Egrow shrugs again.

"Cut-throats and thugs, they really are the dregs of society alright but that's what mercenaries generally are. These men though, are only here because they enjoy killing a little too much and, considering their past crimes, most regular armies and even militias wouldn't take them."

Sir Briefadel yawns as his attention falls back to the weird map he's examining.

"This far out from civilisation, I suppose we should really consider ourselves lucky to even have men as lowly as these."

My Trilemma

After the last session, I've been worrying about three ongoing problems we've been having.

One per character and all concerning equipment.

Assif's is the most obvious one: How to keep Arowe stocked up with arrows?

In the last session of the 'Wolf Pact' adventure, the Party came to an agreement with the Fey, with the Dryads crafting 40 Masterwork arrows for him. Unfortunately, as Arowe is capable of firing one arrow every two seconds (effectively firing thirty arrows a minute) this is still problematic.

Scott's character's size is an issue because Liga Burr's equipment often has to also be small to match him physically. Not a problem with rings or cloaks but finding weapons, ammunition and armour certainly is. In the adventure so far, the only small characters encountered were the halfling acrobat troop found in the 'Rat King' town encounter and the borderline small/medium Three-Quarterling.

David's character's problem should be the simplest, but I've failed miserably so far. Fortu's only problem was in choosing an unusual mundane weapon to specialise in. Who uses a Bastard sword? It's actually a great, versatile sword... but only if you expend several feats. None of the people encountered so far could or would use such a weapon.

Ultimately, the problem I have is an ironic desire for realism in our shared fantasy setting.

Arrows, unlike swords, run out.

Small armour can only be found worn by small opponents.

Exotic weapons are called 'exotic' for a reason.

If I can justify someone the Party encounters using this sort of weapon; fantastic! If a small, magical shortbow could conceivably be lying undiscovered in some sort of loot pile; great!

Assif's quite right in his pointing out my love of 'Travel' adventures and the equipment restocking challenges associated with them. I just can't countenance the traditional 'Dungeon crawl'. Hundreds of random rooms arranged along a stone corridor, stocked with unassociated, random monsters waiting behind locked doors, all completely ignoring each-other but all still having access to unlimited water, food and supplies.

The one D&D trope that I really can't abide though, is the locked chest filled with gold, gems and magical items that should've/could've been used to protect themselves.

Finally, in my defence, in the two online adventures you've completed so far, you've skipped over several undiscovered 'loot piles' but rest assured, I promise there will be more to come...

Dream of an Endless Quiver

The horrific beasts with hooks for arms, monstrous talons for toes and wicked flesh rending beaks for mouths both lay dead.  He was sure Fortu had been done for, only the gods know how he survived that last vicious bite.  A crumb of comfort then maybe, as it was possible then that the gods hadn't totally forsaken this place as it appeared that the normality of up and down had!

 When they were all standing and healed and were ready to move on to whatever lay in front of them, Arowe almost made a motion to take off his quivers and check their contents. But he didn't have to.  He knew well enough that he had spent 14 of the beautiful fey arrows. Each of which had hit home and without which they would all be as much bird food.  

What if behind the next portal there were 10 more of these horrors, or worse? How much longer would he be able to sustain his remaining arrows before he had to resort to fighting toe-to-toe with Rapier and Dagger?  

No matter.  There was only one way forward and that was to pursue Sir Briefidel. Maybe he would save one last arrow to place between his treacherous eyes.

Death is certainly uncertain.

 Fortu stares at the slowly dwindling 'hook horror' as it continues to fall up. He doesn't fully understand the weird dynamics of this strange place they now find themselves in, after the last encounter he believes that not only is up and down messed up but also the laws of life and death.

He remembers vividly the feeling of pain and helplessness when the 'hook horror' pierced his sides. The larger beast easily pulling Fortu closer to the wicked beaked maw. He can remember the shock as the monster's beak closed around his throat and with a slight twist ripped through the flesh and cartilage. For an agonizing moment Fortu swayed, watching his own life's blood spill to the floor - as so often he'd watched his opponents.

The next he remembers is the beast falling back and up, Liga Bur's reassuring hand at his back and life once more within him rather than spilling to the floor. Removing his gauntlet, he feels around his neck and is not surprised to find the hard ridges of another scar.

 He remembers some former gladiators' stories of such happenings, of them thanking some god or another. Maybe it was time for Fortu to find someone to thank.

Next Game

Hi chaps,

Hoping we can squeeze something in early Nov.

How do the following work for you?

Saturday 5th Nov

Saturday 12th / Sunday 13th

The Loyalty of Dogs

Ears down, Mir Hundur lies silently as he watches his master and the group he leads prepare themselves to enter the water.

Swimming is fine; he's a good swimmer but they want to go deep down into the darkness below and at that realisation, Mir Hundur starts to tremble.

Sensing his dog's anxiety, Liga Burr catches the goddess' eye and they both walk over together. The Halfling's small, reassuring hand automatically grasps a handfull of scruff at the back of Mir Hundur's thick neck and Estrid gently strokes the big dog's maw.

In the language of the Fey, the statuesque water nymph whispers magical words as she simultaneously breaths softly into the dog's great face. It's only when it stops that Mir Hundur realises that he'd been shaking.

Then his master speaks in their secret shared language. He tells him what they need to do and how deep they'll have to swim. Mir Hundur has never swum that deep and doesn't know if he can hold his breath that long but listens until his master finishes his lengthy explanation.

Finally, after Liga Burr stops speaking, Mir Hundur responds...

"You want me to dive for you? Don't you know that I'd die for you?"