"To the companions of Mr. Yeardleigh Martell, Conjurer, of Hoss & Beck's Magical Equipment Acquisition and Resale Co.: our employee has selected you for the express purpose of acquiring magical equipment. If you are reading this, then that means you have found his offer appealing and would like to participate in his endeavors to acquire merchandise."
"First off: none of you (excepting Mr. Martell) are, technically, employees of Hoss & Beck and need not concern yourselves with how your actions or potential crimes may reflect on us. Mr. Martell will supply you with a small stipend to cover any extra expenses before you leave for the town of Creekside, not far north of our fair city on Valewatch."
"Contact the local authorities once you reach Creekside. They have been having goblin troubles, and our sources inform us that said goblins have a stash of potions. Mr. Martell has more details, if you need them. We will also provide travel papers to each of you."
You all received that letter through your elderly acquaintance, Mr. Martell, about a week ago - and, for one reason or another, found the proposition agreeable, either due to boredom, lack of money, or wanderlust.
Yesterday, you left Valewatch - mostly on foot - and are now roughly a day's journey from Creekside.
- Everyone add 10 GP and Travel Papers to your inventory.
- Yeardleigh, add an addition 10 GP.
- Officially, Yeardleigh is the party leader. He works for Hoss & Beck, a influential company dedicated to the magical item trade. All of you are working as part of a traveling company assigned to find magical equipment - though later, you can change jobs if you desire.
- You all live in the kingdom of Otto O'Hanse. Think medieval Europe geographically and climate-wise, with magitech. Politically, it is divided into kingdoms and city states.
IMPORTANT
Bookmark THIS link.
As the company trudges along, a grizzled, bearded man from among them turns to the others.
"Ahem, my name is Iosif."
He remains silent for a moment, then swallows and speaks again.
"I am from the far North, and know little of the Southlands. Where I come from, introductions should be made swiftly so as to... How you say?
'minimize discomfort'? If that is not the case correctly me quickly before I make a fool of myself."
He lapses into silence after that, looking expectantly at the others and toying nervously with his mustache.
A cloaked figure walking lazily at the back of the company starts at the sound of Iosif's voice, and then takes a few quick steps in order to catch up with the taller Iosif. Once alongside the grizzled Northerner, the figure pulls back the large hood of their delicately embroidered travelling cloak to reveal an effeminate elvish face graced with sparkling blue eyes and tresses of soft, strawberry blonde hair that dance about the elf's face as they saunter. The elf's eyes bear the hint of dark eye paint hurriedly removed that morning, and the elf's lips were still stained red from lip salve. Beneath the cloak, the gleam of polished leather was visible, although too much of the elf's ivory skin was visible for a normal suit of leather armor.
The elf's mouth splits into a lopsided grin, and they ask in a sultry voice,
"Well hello, Iosif. My name is Ingwë Elensar, and allow me to welcome you to the Southlands. If I may, are Northmen as... well-endowed as the stories go? I've heard they are comparable to ogres, but surely that would be impossible..."
Yeardleigh hears Ingwë speaking, and shouts somewhat suddenly from the front of the group atop his yak. His beard is long but well-kept, hanging down to his knees, though that is partially because of his crooked posture. His vibrant blue eyes narrow as he looks at Ingwë. He speaks somewhat slowly, and his voice is slightly deep, but airy.
"Please, keep such questions to your shelf, my good Elf. Mister Penguin, was it? Odd name, even for an elf. Mini ways, not all of us are as...interested to know these things as you are."
He clears his throat.
"Hello, Iosif, was it? I am glad to see a foreigner among us; diversity is the slice of life, after all! As you all likely know, I am Yeadleigh Martell. I will be directing this operation, and I would love for us to all get to know each other as much as possible."
He pauses, and glances at Ingwë meaningfully.
"Within reason and decency, of course."
A plump dwarf speaks up, spit spews from his mouth as he talks.
"Mhmmmm It appears I am to travel with no dwarfs on this venture. My name... Is Brandybuck!" He booms "Call me Buck!" He walks over to Iosif "Now you look like the man I would hang around with, all rough and tumble huh? He turns to Yeardleigh "And you! Quite a magnificent beard if I do say so myself! However, it is not as good as my mothers, or mine." He strokes his fluffy beard and turns toward the elf. His eyes widen "Uhhhhh, nice to meet you, i guess" Not another elf, the last one beat me in a drinking game. Im such a fool, bastard wasn't even drinking. I was just to drunk to notice. Lost all my gold in that damn bet
Iosif smiles broadly. "It is a good thing, making new friends. May the West Wind smile on you all and may the North Wind withhold its fury."
He scratches his chin as he faces Ingwe, a puzzled look on his face. "I must confess I have never seen an ogre's nether regions and so can make no comparison. For what reason would you ask this?"
He turns to the others. "I am most pleased to see my estimable contractor and returning battle-brother, Master Yeardleigh."
He inclines his head. "'Rough and tumble' I am, Sir Buck, and am overjoyed to encounter a southern dwarf so soon after my arrival from the mead hall of the True-Tusk people. My folk owe a great debt to your northern kin."
He addresses them all. "Fate has conspired to bring us together, so let no other force tear us apart!"
After a brief pause for lunch and a few final hours of journeying, you arrive at Creekside just a little past evening. The very creek the town is named for bubbles peacefully under a small bridge you cross over as you enter the town.
The creek forms a stark juxtaposition with the evidence of past goblin raids: you can see the ruins of burned-down barn, and signs of small fires that had been started all over the town.
Yeardleigh knows that the town is only big enough to have one inn called the Flagon Hoard, a longstanding and respectable establishment built almost 100 years ago by its dwarf proprietor. It stands out because it is one of three entirely stone buildings in the town - the others being the house of the mayor and the small jail.
Since night is falling, you can see many people heading home - or in the direction of the Flagon Hoard.
Ingwë gives the small rustic town of Creekside a disapproving look.
Damn. Only one tavern, and probably full of ugly country bumpkins. Still, a girl can't argue with a good time or free drinks...
He turns and eyes his companions before he speaks. The old man was clearly beneath Ingwë's notice, rode a horrid, smelly yak, and even had the gall to insult him. If he weren't the mission's organizer, Ingwë would've left the old man unconscious and naked in the wilderness and been done with the whole affair. Only greed and the fear of the Northerner held him in check. Iosif was certainly impressive, in a wild way, and even Ingwë had little desire to provoke him. As for the dwarf... a drunken slob, no doubt, useful only in ruining carefully laid plans and maybe combat. He would need watching, that one.
His opinions of his companions defined, Ingwë notes lightly, "Well, we're finally here! Thank goodness. I am off to that inn there, where I'll likely be for the night. How's about meeting up at the creek tomorrow morning?"
Yeardleigh comes forward on his Yak and pats Ingwe heartily on the back.
"An excellent idea, my sly elf friend. Do try to keep yourself out of trouble; or keep trouble out of you, as the case may be. Come, Iosif, Brandybuck: drinks are in me."
He chuckles lightly to himself, and heads inside.
"What an odd way of phrasing it... That said, elves are very strange, and I suppose Yeardleigh must know more of them than I."
Iosif rouses himself and smiles broadly to his friend, clapping him soundly on the back.
"TOGOLOM GEGGURU, dear wizard! May the winds favor your hospitality! "
Turning to Brandybuck, he announces in dwarvish, "Repay hospitality with gratitude and everything with good ale! Is that not how the saying goes?"
Finally facing Ingwe, he narrows his eyes, and they dart quickly to Ingwe's hands, then back to his face. "I am unaccustomed to both elves and women as travelling companions, but I shall do what I can not insult you. I am aware that customs are different in the South in this respect."
Buck nods, looking at Iosif "Ah yes, that is how it goes" He looks nervously at the ground "I think."
He looks up at Yeardleigh and Iosif and grins "I think this is the start of a great friendship, shall we?" He says, ignoring Ingwe. He heads inside.
You rest for the night.
After awakening, you eat a hearty breakfast in the main room of the inn. You are joined by the local sheriff, one Ron Hornsby, a plain-looking man in his late forties.
"Let's get down to business - you probably want to get started early in the day, as you most certainly don't want to tustle with the goblins after dark."
At this, Hornsby spreads a map of the local area out on the table.
"We are here. Up north," he says as he traces his finger along an offshoot of the creek for about two miles, "Lies the goblin encampment. It's in the middle of fairly large clearing, about a hundred feet or so across."
Pulling out a folded sheet of paper, he continues. "A sneaky sort we had imprisoned managed to retrieve the information in this report for his community service hours."
He unfolds it, clears his throat, and reads aloud: "At the time of the reconnaissance, there were roughly eight goblins in the camp in total. Four of them were asleep under a small pavilion they had set up. One was cooking a soup of some sort. Two were standing guard, but seemed to focus on the perimeter of the clearing - not any deeper into the forest. There was a small wooden lean-to containing alchemical gear off two one side. One goblin - most likely the leader, judging by his equipment and bearing - was brewing something at the alchemical station."
He folds the paper back up and passes it to Yeardleigh. "That was discovered roughly two weeks ago. We have no reason to believe that the number of goblins has changed since then. They do have an alchemist among them, who we have observed hurling bombs."
Ingwë gave Ron Hornby a dissatisfied look, and delicately licked his fingers clean from the breakfast. So far, Creekside had offered Ingwë no entertainment whatsoever, and he was rapidly becoming bored with the entire affair. Even so, he had made an agreement, and the promise of money continued to play at the edge of his thoughts.
At the mention of goblins, Ingwë made a face. Disgusting, lopsided creatures lacking any kind of beauty and grace. It was his sacred duty, he supposed, to contribute in the purging of ugliness from the world. However, Ingwë was keenly aware that all this helping others meant less time for him. It had been far too long since he'd been bedded, and the men of Creekside had proven so plain that not even Ingwë could bring himself to approach them.
Ingwë examined Hornby's map and giggled aloud, "Eight goblins agsinst the four of us? This will be a trifle! I propose we set out immediately, and be done with it."
Yeardleigh looks over the map thoughtfully, and puts the folded paper in one of his pockets. "I dislike being overconfident, but I believe Miss Ingwë is correct on this matter. We should prepare, and make haste. The spooner we get there, the better." He looks around the room at the others. "That is, of course, unless anyone has any objections. Mother-wise, we can decide the specifics of our plan along the weight."
Prepared Spells:
0th - Daze, Acid Splash, Ghost Sound
1st - Snowball, Color Spray, Grease, Mage Armor
Iosif scratches his beard, chuckling. "Heh. Then let us be on our way! No time to waste in ridding the world of filth... Elf, can you silence their alchemist?"
You leave for the goblin encampment, following the stream as instructed. After a around an hour of walking through the woods - skillfully guided by Iosif - you are close enough to see where the forest stops for the clearing. At this distance, you cannot tell what is happening inside the clearing due to the trees and undergrowth blocking your view.
Alright, so I want to post, but don't know what to do about dice and such. If Ingwë wants to stealth over to the goblin camp and try to spot the alchemist, how do I factor in the dice rolls?
Ingwë stifles a yawn as he stretches, the cloak draped over his shoulders parting to reveal the singular most unusual set of leather armor Iosif, Brandybuck, or Yeardleigh had ever seen. The elf's shapely legs were securely buckled into heeled leather boots whose flared tops reached halfway up his thighs. A band of Ivory flesh seperated the boots from the ridiculously scanty leather shorts the elf wore about his slender waist. His delicately muscled midriff was also exposed, although a cropped short leather jerkin covered his upper torso. All of the leather was dyed a milky black, and stretched tightly over the elf's form. Fingerless gloves covered his hands, and any who looked upon him couldn't deny his overt sensuality and flamboyant nature.
Ingwë casually drew his shortbow, and set one of his arrows, which ended in rounded wooden bulbs instead of traditional metal points.
[b]"So, I'll sneak around to the side, and draw a bead on the Goblin Alchemist. Bucky baby, be ready to charge, okay? Senior, you focus on keeping the goblins disoriented and protecting Bucky baby. Iosif... You should, um... Well, you can do as you like, I suppose. I'd have you watch and either support Bucky baby or Senior, whoever needs the most help. Besides, I never have problems with a big, strong man watching my back..."[b/]
Ingwë winked flirtatiously to the party, and then lowered himself carefully into the underbrush.
He advanced fifty feet closer to the clearing with a dramatic slowness, a playful energy dancing within his eyes. He drew to a stop, squatting in the underbrush with the arrow still readied. He peered through the trees at the Goblin camp, looking for the alchemist or his station.
Ingwe sees a similar scene to the one the Sherriff described earlier - save on detail. The goblins are all awake - atypical for the usually nocturnal creatures - and seem to be preparing for a raid. A pungent odor comes from the lean-to as a goblin clad in mottled wooden armor puts the finishing touches on and bottles a strange concoction.
Ingwë's eyes scan the Goblin Camp, noting the unusual amount of activity. It displeased him greatly, but he knew he couldn't take an entire camp of Goblins alone. Ingwë lowered his bow and sunk back into the brush, moving carefully back to his companions.
"Okay, everyone, change of plans. the Goblins are active, and I think getting ready for a raid. Should we rush 'em, hit 'em hard from behind, and keep 'em down? Or should we still go for the stealthy entry?"
"I defer to our battle-chief, but my first thought is to run in there, smash the alchemist over the head, and then kill the others. I can twist the earth at their feet and then move closer and put a mist over part of the campground."
His eyes flash with an intense light, and he shifts his grip on his quarterstaff as he glances first to Brandybuck, then to Yeardleigh.
Yeardleigh strokes his beard for a moment before responding. "Well, I had hoped we could develop a more subtle reproach, but it seems that we may be short on time. Perhaps a mixed reproach would be best; some of us good attack the encampment directly, while the rest of us took advantage of the distraction to gain the upper sand in a secondary assault from another direction. Does that sound good to everybody?"
"A sound plan. I have no complaints."
Ingwë nodded, and lowered himself back into the brush. Before setting off, he murmured,
"Works for me. You boys had better be watching my tail, though. I don't want to get stuck halfway."
Shortbow in hand, Ingwë carefully made his way back to the goblin camp, this time circling around the clearing so he could see the Alchemist in his hut.
Once he found himself in a position where he could see his target, Ingwë set his heeled boots and fired a blunt arrow, quickly ducking back down afterwards.
The blunt-tipped arrow thuds harmlessly off the goblin's armor. He whirls around, and spots Ingwe ducking back into the brush.
He yells something out in goblin, which you can easily guess to be a warning to his compatriots.
Ingwë squeaked a curse in frustration, slamming his fist against the soft earth.
Iosif's grin broadens. There is no joy in his eyes as he cracks his knuckles menacingly.
He casts entangle on the area of the camp with the most goblins, or on an area centered on the Alchemist, if the goblins are spread out.
Max has said he'll post when he gets home today!!
Buck Bring raises his hammer"This is child's play. They will be crushed beneath my hammer."
He holds steady and waits for Iosif's command to charge forward.
Goblin
Goblin
Goblin
Alchemist
Goblin
Ingwe
Yeard
Buck
Goblin
Iosif
Goblin
Ingwe fires its arrow.
Again, Iosif uses his surprise round to cast entangle on the location with the highest concentration of goblins.
Brandy raises his hammer and rushes forward toward the goblin alchemist after the initial entanglement.
Yeadleigh casts Mage Armor on Ingwe, and remains hidden.
Goblin A avoids the entanglement, but Goblins B through D fall prey to the slithering, grasping turf and attempt to escape it.
Two do so successfully, but Goblin C remains stuck.
Goblin A, B, and D group up with the alchemist roughly 50 feet fromt he edge of the clearing.
The alchemist is entangled, but escapes and quaffs some sort of concoction.
Goblin E avoids entanglement, and also groups together with the alchemist.
Ingwë feels the magical plates cover him, caressing him gently like the arms of a brawny male, and is considerably reassured. He blows a kiss back to Yeardleigh, waits a moment to allow the goblins to be distracted by more physically impressive opponents, before moving closer to the goblin camp, to ensure his next arrow wouldn't go astray.
Yeardleigh prepares to cast Snowball at any goblin that enters into his range approaching Ingwe and himself.
Ingwë's shapely hindquarters rise and fall as he moves through the grass, stalking forward with his now in hand. He drew closer to the Goblin Camp and, determined not to miss again, sought out the Goblin Alchemist with his almond-shaped eyes. As soon as he caught a glimpse of a goblin quaffing a potion, he knew he'd found his mark, and he sent a blunt headed arrow spiraling towards it.
Type
Brandy continues forward and swings at the goblin alchemist
Goblin F is entangled, and successfully escapes. He groups up with the other goblins.