Scared and Alone

 

In-Sects Appeal

 

Three Mantis and a Beetle

With their (surprisingly freshly cleaned and polished) clothes and armour donned, weapons ready and equipment accounted for, the three reluctant combatants enter the arena. The fair-haired, willowy Arowe and the darkly armoured Fortu on foot, while the smaller, glowering Liga Burr rides in atop his heavy hound. 

The circular combat area is approximately a hundred feet in diameter, with high stone walls all around guarded from above by multiple archers and spear-men. There are four large iron barred exits/entrances, equally spaced in the continuous, curved and smooth sandstone wall but one of the gates is far larger than the other three. Perhaps as much as twenty-feet tall!

Above the largest gate is the seating section for the richer, more powerful members of society and at its centre is a stone throne. The ostentatiously dressed, pot-bellied man, sitting there, adorned in gold and silk, radiates arrogance and power. Those in the seats surrounding him, seem lesser but similar and all of them obviously crave his attention and largesse. The multiple guards here, seem as much about protecting them from the crowd than the gladiators.

The Party's main priority though, are their three opponents, who already occupy the space about 80', directly opposite them. Three four-armed bipedal creatures, unarmoured in the normal sense, they're large, insect-like creatures with obvious, hard outer carapaces and bulging eyes. They're all standing in front of a massive armoured creature that resembles a gigantic, dun-brown Pill-bug. An armoured bug bigger than four horses combined!

Liga Burr realises that these creatures were the same kind that he'd spotted a day after leaving Zephyr's oasis. Desert creatures... Probably tough desert creatures. 

Each of the three, though obviously of the same green 'skinned' race, are markedly different in size. The tallest of them must stand at almost 7'. The next one, slightly over 6' and the smallest, barely 3'.

The smallest one, standing next to the giant, brown bug, quickly squats down, before springing onto the back of his medium sized teammate and launching itself upwards and back. The short, green, multilimbed creature then grabs onto the lowest of the many ironwork handholds bolted directly into the massive bug's armoured plates and scampers up to its flatter back. 

The remaining, ground-bound, taller two, start to flex and twist their multiple, elongated limbs in preparation for the coming bout. The medium sized one, tosses several of its green-glass throwing triangles high into the air, before deftly snatching each of them up again before they hit the sand. The tallest one though, uses all four arms to twirl its twin, double crescent bladed spears, faster and faster until they become a flashing blur of intermeshed steel.  

At the sight of this skillful display, the morning crowd starts to roar and jeer in anticipation...

"Twenty gold on the Thri-Kreen!"

Lets die another day

Taking in the arena and his opponents Fortu sees several potential outcomes. 

He sees the large ridden bug charging across the level sand and just like the desert ponies crashing into him and knocking him to the ground. The other two could then target the exposed Arowe. As the bug tramples the prone Fortu the others would make short work of the lithe but lesser armoured Arowe. It would then be 3 verses the courageous Liga Bur and Mir Hunder.

A better scenario would be if the nimble halfling and his mount draw the large riding bug aside. Liga Bur riding evasively would keep the bug occupied while Fortu would move to stand slightly in front of Arowe to screen him from the footbugs. Signalling, for Arowes eyes only, Fortu would lean slightly to offer the goldeneyed archer a view to kill. With Fortu fighting defensively Arowe would have a licence to kill from a slightly protected position.

The sand would run red or green or possibly yellow with the ichor of their opponents.

Live and not Die

 As Fortu faces off against the four chitinous creatures he almost buckles.

 The suns glinting off their crescent spears, the baying of the blood hungry crowd takes him back to his worst days of being a slave to the pits. Days that he thought long behind him of fighting for the pleasure of others, of living and dying at the whim of 'owners'. Tears fall from his squinting eyes and his sword starts to slip from sweating trembling fingers. As his head begins to bow he notices the other shadows beside his own, the shadows of his friends. He realises that he now has so much more to live and fight for.

Bending a knee he thrust his hand in the hot sand, to dry his clammy hand, then standing to his full height he roars his defiance to the crowd and his opponents "I am Fortu and I will not die today"

Of Orcs and Men

Barbella and Henshaw breathe a deep sigh of relief when they see their equipment neatly laid out on the long bench/table of the prep-room. Even more so, their gold, gems and especially their recently acquired magical items.

Not entirely sure what to expect, despite the Pit Overseer; Astley's brief explanation, they quickly help each other don their armour and re-arm themselves.

Doberman however, is still drooling at the myriad weapons hanging on the wall. Despite regaining his masterwork cold-iron longsword, he reaches up on tiptoe and grabs a two-handed Great axe. As he licks the blade longways to test its sharpness, his smile widens to the point that his rubbery lips seem at risk of splitting.

As soon as they're all ready, a guard, from the safety of being on the other side of the iron gate, instructs them to advance into the main arena itself. Once there, the trio of soldiers feel the three suns beat down on their three heads and hear the roar of the morning crowd.

Opposite, on the far side of the circular combat field, they spot their opponents. Three goggle wearing Orcs. Youngish but full grown... 

Barbella mouths to Henshaw,

"Three verses three... So, it's to be a fair fight?"

The straw-haired Henshaw looks over to Barbella and nods before placing a restraining hand on the already growling Doberman's shoulder...

"Stay." 

An abrupt chorus of bronze horns signals 'Ready?' and the leather clad Orcs make a series of threatening gestures with their axes. The gathering, morning crowd roar their approval.

Multiple shouts rise from the audience.

"Fifteen gold on the Orcs!"

"Ten gold against!"

Henshaw, sensing that winning the audiences' support is important, raises his shield and adopts a defensive pose, while signalling his cohorts to do the same. Barbella, crouching low, thrusts and twists his magical cold-iron short-sword, while Doberman grins stupidly, blood from his cut tongue staining his teeth red, as he chops at the sand with his oversized axe. 

Suddenly, the bronze chorus sounds for a second time and Henshaw releases his grip on Doberman's shoulder. Doberman instantly sprints forward, his speed incredible, considering his squat build, clumsy running style and burdensome chainmail armour.

The opposing Orcs also charge without regard to their own safety. One almost immediately clashes with Doberman, each slashing wildly at the other, their axes clashing loudly. The other two charge headlong towards the ready and waiting Barbella and Henshaw.

Henshaw in his newly acquired magical Breastplate, steps in front of Barbella and raises his large, magical, steel shield, making himself an obvious a target as possible.

It works, with both remaining Orcs attacking him on their charge.

Henshaw's defence though, is solid and holds against both attacks but his counter is weak. Almost half-arsed, with no real threat behind it. Barbella's however is vicious! Sneaking around to the side, he drives his magical, cold-iron short-sword deep into the exposed back of the distracted Orc warrior, who squeals, pig-like as he crumples to the ground, his blood already staining the sand beneath him.

The entire fight's over in less than a minute, with the dissatisfied crowd booing at the end. 

Doberman's opponent lies brutally dismembered; unnecessarily chopped into pieces, while the other two Orcs lie bleeding out on the sand in front of Henshaw and the rat-faced Barbella. 

Looking up, Henshaw nods at the nobleman's signal from high up on the carved, stone throne and lowers his sword in response. The battle is over and there's no benefit in killing their fallen opponents. Why not let these two Orcs live to die another day?

Finally, a third, sustained, horn chorus sounds and, even as stretcher-bearers run in to tend to the wounded Orcs, the iron gate the three Humans entered through, reopens and they're ushered back inside.

Charge of the Knight Brigade!

 

The Results of Whackeem's 'Generosity'

After everyone had bargained and dealt with the the exuberant 'Vendor of magical delights', the seven members of the Party sat down and assessed their profits and losses.

Fortu:

As his already damaged Bastard sword was shattered by the Orc guards, Whackeem gave Fortu a slight discount on a superior +1 Magical Bastard sword (No glow). 

Liga Bur: 

Negotiated for (But was still surprised to get) a Small +1 Composite Longbow for Strength: 10

Arowe:

Received the magical item he didn't know he wanted: A fully loaded Quiver of Ehlonnar

(It currently contains (Free Gratis): 60 x Arrows / 18 x Javelins / 1 x Composite Longbow Strength: 14 / 5 x Spears)

Henshaw:

Seizing the rare opportunity, the Human guard successfully swaps his recently acquired +1 Cold-Iron Short-sword for a set of +1 Magical Breast-plate armour.

He's shocked though that the armour came with change. A lot of change! 

Asking Whakeem if it's enough for a heavy steel magical shield, he's disappointed to discover he's 250gp shy. Fortunately Fortu loans him the gold and Henshaw gets a +1 Wankel style Large heavy steel shield as well.

Rifkin:

The Bard asks for nothing but takes the opportunity to sell the nine Scrolls that neither he or Liga Burr could decipher. He negotiates for well over a thousand gold (a surprisingly good deal) and divides it fairly into everybody's agreed share.

Current Gold amounts: 

(I can't be bothered to work out what it is in gems, silver and copper.)

Fortu:

Despite loaning Henshaw the 250gp without much concern, he's still surprised when the straw-haired soldier immediately hands over the entire100gp he just got from Rifkin.

Gold: 700gp (Still owed 150gp by Henshaw.)

Arowe: 

Gold: 1300gp

Liga Bur: 

Gold: 725gp

Rifkin: 

Gold: 1231gp

Henshaw:

Gold: 0gp (Still owes Fortu 150gp)

Barbella:

Gold: 204gp 

Doberman:

Gold: 202gp (Already accidentally lost several coins.)

Update your character sheets and include the gold in your encumbrance stats.

Don't Drink, Don't Smoke; What do you do?

After failing to seduce the heavily scarred but strapping pit-fighter, the raven haired Tanita settles for comforting the young man instead. The rejection was a surprise and, considering his broad shoulders and six-pack abs, a little disappointing. 

Flicking back her hair, she casually admires herself in the burnished mirror of Fortu's cell. The reflection in the warm candlelight is flattering but not deceptively so.

"Still beautiful", she smiles to herself.

They sleep spooned together in the comfortable single-and-a-half bed until they're awoken in the morning with a sharing tray of warm sultana porridge, fruit juice, flatbread and bacon. It's an ideal breakfast. Not so much as to slow down his metabolism but enough to maximise his energy for what is sure to be a brutal encounter.

As Fortu is called to the 'Prep' area, Tanita wipes the last crumbs off her stoic warriors stubbled chin and smiles up at him warmly...

"See you later, Gladiator!"

When the Tough get Going

Despite wearing the little silver centaur charm around his neck constantly for this very event, the rugged Tsigane is still startled when it suddenly starts to glow and hum.

"The call!"

It was fortunate he was at the start of a hunt, with his heavy bow in hand, a quiver full of his thick arrows and a small holdall containing a water-skin and food supplies. With a  momentary glance around at the cool green woodland he may never see again, Tsigane snaps the leather cord, grasps the charm in his meaty hand and wills it to answer the summons.

After a disconcerting moment, where reality seems to shift and melt under his four hooves, Tsigane feels a prickly heat burn into his naked shoulders and he's forced to shield his eyes from the sudden yellow brightness.

Squinting through the haze, he finds himself in the centre of a frenetic battle with men and horses on all sides. He's arrived just in time to see the armoured Human; Fortu collapse, as if chopped down by an unseen axe. The only people he recognises still on their feet are the two Elves; Arowe and the nearby Rifkin.

Arowe is almost immediately barged and buried under a quartet of those beautiful horses but the bloodied Rifkin stretches up his hand.

"Quick! Get us out of here!"

Yanking the lightweight Rifkin onto his back, Tsigane gallops off, away from the melee as fast as he's able on the shifting sand. Sweat's already pouring off his muscled human torso and a white salty lather covers his chestnut coat. He's not built for this environment, he's too heavy and while carrying Rifkn, he won't be able to maintain this pace for long...

Luckily for them, they're not pursued and, when a safe distance is put between them, the puffing Tsigane slows to a trot before stopping and helping Rifkin down.

"Where are we, who were they, what do you want to do and how can I help?"

Knights in White Satin

Still breathing deeply after the exertion of the battle, Khalil; leader of the eight desert horsemen, leans across on his finely decorated, traditional, tribal saddle and gently admonishes the adjacent Wizard Moody.

"You said that they didn't have any Magicians but the one that got away was clearly a Bard."

Moody sneers.

"Bards don't count."

Nostrils' flaring slightly, Khalil risks annoying his employer.

"He summoned a Centaur!"

The seasoned Khalil had cautioned Moody against this attack. He'd considered the Party of adventurers too big. Nine men against seven wasn't good enough odds, even with their well trained horses and home/desert advantage. The flint-eyed Enchanter had insisted though. He'd been furious about the death of his falcon and was going to take his revenge on the Elf regardless.

Fortune though, had smiled upon them. Only three of their opponents had attacked at range and all of them had targeted the magically protected Moody, rather than his riders. All but the Bard and the Halfling had arranged themselves in a single spread out line and, with the exception of the Halfling Dog-rider, they'd just waited to be attacked. They didn't organise themselves into human barriers to prevent horse barges or jumps. They even failed to exploit the three large, dozing camels to break up direct charges.

Only one of the group surprised them. The Halfling, riding the big dog, broke to the side and rushed up their flank, avoiding his men and horses and taking the fight direct to the Wizard. It was fortunate for Moody that he came alone and chose arrows rather than sword.

Ultimately though, their well practiced tactics had been successful, with Moody's charms sending all but the Elves to sleep. The Bard conjured a very powerful looking Centaur and managed to escape over the dunes but the Archer was snared in a net, dragged across the sand and hoof-stomped to unconsciousness.

Khalil had considered giving chase to the Bard but ironically, for their intended entertainment, his type weren't much in demand.

Looking down at the beaten and bloody Elf who'd killed his falcon, Moody considers taking his revenge there and then, but after a brief moment, shakes his head.

"You're worth nothing to me dead and I doubt you'll survive three bouts in the arena."

Moody's Blues

The azure clad Wizard's scream is a cry of rage rather than pain. Moody's falcon spirit familiar has been brought down while spying upon her potential targets.

"By the gods of all three suns, I swear to you Tan-hew-mon, we shall have our revenge!"

Having initially been summoned by the indigenous desert nomads, their magical red mist flare, streaming back to the Slaver's guild in Valdez, they'd encountered a lone camel rider in the desert, who pointed him in the right direction. A strange, armoured man who possessed a hawk similar to his own.

Finally, after four days hunting, Tan-hew-mon found them enjoying the hospitality of a travelling merchant in an oasis a mere two days from the city. No need to risk an unnecessary confrontation with the vendor and his guards though.

Unfortunately, early next morning, the Elven archer in the group, spotted the predatory bird circling high above them. High but not high enough. Moody, while gazing through the eyes of his falcon, saw the arrow fly straight towards him/Tan-hew-mon. He felt his familiar bank to the left in panic but it was too late!

Pierced through its heart, the dead raptor spiralled down and, even as their spirit connection was severed, Moody felt a pang in the centre of his very being. Much worse than mere grief, a sliver of his soul was lost. But that pain quickly transformed into anger.

Leaving the caged wagon and its riders behind, the dark eyed Wizard leads his eight horsemen on an intercept course with the accursed group. They travel at speed now atop their beautiful desert horses, making no attempt at stealth, with the hot sand kicked up high in the arid air behind them.

As soon as they're within sight however, Moody signals the leader of his riders to slow down.

"Khalil, you know the drill. I'll prepare our defences and when you're ready, take out the elven archer and the armoured man first... Prioritise the peacock Elf!"

At about a hundred feet distant, standing on opposing rising dunes, the two groups stop and a whisper floats over into Fortu's ear.

"Greetings stranger. Are there any Wizards in your group? Any Priests? Any Elves?"

Initially confused by the subtle murmur, the tall Human looks around to see where the voice is coming from but on realising that he's alone in hearing it, tentatively responds.

"No, no and yes. What's it got to do with you though?"

Moody doesn't bother responding. He already knew the answers, he was just wasting time while he prepares his second spell and Khalil marshals his highly trained horsemen.

Conjuring up a powerful wind to whip up the sand in front of them, Moody's unsurprised when the Elf fires an arrow directly at him. It's a perfect shot but rather than flinch, the Wizard smiles bitterly. Every Wizard knows that a clever archer will always target them and therefore every Wizard quickly learns to defend against them. His 'Wall of wind' is a simple but effective defence from this vantage point.

Moody smiles again as he watches his eight mounted guards race down the gentle slope before charging up the sandy incline. Their exquisite, small horses bred for this very purpose, split up and race in two perfectly spaced lines, thundering toward their designated targets...

A Night in Cells

 

July Dates

I enjoyed that last session, despite that frustrating desert battle. 

I thought using Liga Burr's dog-riding tactics against you all would've been fun but having multiple horse-riders able to avoid your blows while unavoidably raining hooves down on you was a little more frustrating than funny.

Scott's very good at maximising his character's potential.

Also, adding 'Net' combat and an angry 'Sleep' spell casting Wizard to the mix was probably a little too much. 

Moody: "You killed my Hawk! Now you'll pay for it in blood!"

In fairness though, I didn't expect everyone, apart from the immune Arowe, to utterly fail their very first saving rolls! 

Fortu calling upon the Centaur; Tsigan was surprising but clever, and although too little to alter the course of the encounter, it did enable Rifkin's escape. A fact that 'may' crop up later.

The distances too were a little confusing. The 100' distance between your groups sounds like a lot, especially considering the sand AND the dip between dunes, but the small, splayed hooved horses were designed for that and their base speed easily able to cope. 

Ultimately though, I saw the frowns on some of your faces and I'm sorry if it was too... spoilery a combat.

On the other hand, I really enjoyed Whackheem's robe emporium! It was a joy giving you all a magical item that you actually wanted.

Still, everyone survived and hopefully you're all up for another session?

If so, I've got almost all the weekends' of July free:

Saturday the 1st - or Sunday the 2nd

Saturday the 8th - or Sunday the  9th

Saturday the22nd - or Sunday the  23rd

Saturday the 29th - or Sunday the  30th.

Not sure of the time differences in July but I'm still assuming +9 hours?

(That'd keep it to mornings for the UKers and Evening for Scott.)

Are any of these dates good for everyone?

Aaaaaand in the Red Corner!

 

As if by Magic, the Shopkeeper Appeared