Seeing his village threatened by the yoke of technology and the tyranny of sorcery, Obadiah sees red;
Shouting proud and clear to his folk, the preacher selflessly rushes the drow mage;
Elk Pater! Defend thy folk... guide my arm and strike down t' enemies o' 'adenviegh! O' the Hearth! and O'FREEDOM!"
Cold Iron Sickle Attack aka Forlorn Hope!:1d20 + 3 ⇒ (20) + 3 = 23
Damage: 1d6 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3
Critical Threat: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (14) + 3 = 17
Damage: 1d6 + 2 ⇒ (6) + 2 = 8
'Vrintie' answers Damrang first
"I know. We're free down here as well. We might not be able to leave, but we don't have to worry about starving or freezing or hiding from raiders and monsters. We've got more time for leisure than ninety nine percent of people in Glorion"
The gnome chuckles at Vhailor's comment.
"Vrint, by the way. Certainly not Vrintie. And thanks, but no thanks. She's a patronizing slapper but she's a only singer we've got."
A loud, exceedingly strange sound issues from the box. It starts like a hammer blow and fades like a wasp swarm humming in tune.
"Not everyone in Delve is allowed to fire off muskets, but we've got something better."
He jumps off his stool and strides towards the stage.
The 'half' Orc replies, enunciating surprisingly clearly through his tusks:
"We want you to kill Wreckers"
The dwarf elaborates
"I understand you met a member of the Wreckers when you first entered Delve? That movement is becoming an increasing problem in Delve. As new arrivals still making up your mind about our city, you WILL be approached by one of them in the next few days."
"We're here - entirely unofficially, I might add, for they have spies in key places - to convince you to act as double agents. Have you an oppinion on the Wreckers?"
Obadiah, your enemy's armour is unnaturally thick but your blade finds a way round it. Though it misses his throat by an inch it slams into the Drow's sholder and draws blood.
He doesn't reel or panic as you half-hoped he would. He takes the blow in his stride and lashes our with his gauntleted fists:
Left gauntlet: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (7) + 8 = 15
Right gauntlet: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (8) + 8 = 16
Damage: 1d4 + 3 + 1d6 ⇒ (4) + 3 + (3) = 10
Left gauntlet iterative: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (16) + 3 = 19
Damage: 1d4 + 3 + 1d6 ⇒ (2) + 3 + (5) = 10
Right gauntlet iterative 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (8) + 3 = 11
The first swing is at your head and you duck under it, but the caster's other fist slams into your gut. As the wind is knocked out of you pain lances through every nerve in your body and you hear the crackle of electricity. The smell it leaves in the air is one of hot copper, not that of Erastil's honest storms.
You refuse to fall. The blow comes again but you knock it aside and bring your sickle back for another blow.
Alas, the drow is too quick. As the sickle starts to swing his fist slams forward into your face. There's a flash of white pain, then nothing.
Then, the pain starts again
You cough as you taste the bitter tang of a healing potion. Every muscle aches as nerves are unburned. Your eyes open to the tip of a crossbow bolt.
You can hear the silence that falls after a battle broken only by the distant rumble of a machine - and Olivia's voice:
"It's like a fraking mirror. We come west with me held prisioner, now we're going east with you in ropes"
Your hands are indeed tied in front of you.
"We met a Dwarf who was helping a bunch of people escape Delve; at the time, it seemed relatively noble, if a little misguided - 'forced drudgery in an impossible situation; the only avenue of escape' - but since up on the surface we had never heard of anyone from Delve before, we assumed that any such 'escape parties' we either captured, slaughtered, and turned into zombies, or joined forces with the Twists."
He then sighs.
"I can understand that some people could be experiencing cabin fever, and might feel the rabid desire to escape - but doing it in such a way that weakens the defenses of the city, and potentially even bolsters the forces of the enemy, is counter-productive."
Gregory shrugs again.
"I guess what I am trying to say, is that I have no particular fondness for the Wreckers, but neither do I have a hardened hatred of them."
While the irony of Olivia's words sting, the preacher does not show it.
Elk Pater... You tell us that 'ardship is part of every season... I will bear this burden like t' lean time for t' 'unter, t' draught for t' farmer and this blight that 'adenveigh bears...
Stoicly Obadiah trudges onward, briefly looking around himself to garner what knowledge he can;
Perception: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (6) + 8 = 14