Something's wrong, shut the light
Heavy thoughts tonight
And they aren't of Witches White
Dreams of war, dreams of liars
Dreams of dragon's fire
And of things that will bite
(Yeah!)
-- Enter Sandman
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I wonder how long Torch will last in retirement. Jack wonders, scratching his stubbled chin. He chuckles, thinking of Mengkare. Just imagine how the self-righteous gold dragon will fly into a rage, when he realizes that the notorious trouble-making venture-captain has taken up residence on his Orwellian island 'utopia.'
"That'll be a titanic test of wills," the bard mutters to himself. "Can't wait to see the fireworks."
He checks his gear, a task that takes far longer than it once did. A seasoned Pathfinder sure accumulates a lot of crap.
He dons his new-and-improved mithral chain shirt and buckler and flips his enhanced cloak over his shoulders. The rucksack Torch gave him doesn't look any more remarkable than his old one, but there are some inconspicous pockets, just waiting to be opened in a dire contingency.
Amulets, belt, bracers, circlet, gloves, headband, rings, robe, rods, vest, wands, and other miscellanies are next.
"I feel like a debutante about to be introduced into high society."
He sheathes his mithral rapier and slips on his shades with a flourish. He grins and winks at his reflection in the mirror. "Jack, old boy, let's get this party started."
"You guys ready?" He turns to his hand-picked support team for the mission: Rico, the angel-blooded aasimar paladin of Shelyn; Glen Fiddich, the half-elf inquisitor of Cayden Cailean; and Lazarus Logos, the samsaran mystic theurge and servant of Desna. "Follow me, lads. We're finally going to finish off Tar-Baphon, the Whispering Tyrant."
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As Jack and his team prepare to report for the mission briefing, there's a knock at the door. "Sorry, Laz, but you're going to sit this one out," says the half-elf who enters. "I got this."
"Howdy, Slim." Jack's face lights up. "Welcome."
Slimjim Sonhouse Shady is a half-elf bard and paladin of Shelyn. "No hard feelings, Laz."
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Marta enters the room with a practiced glide, her upper torso almost motionless as her feet move deliberately as if each step were preconsidered. As always, prior to a briefing (provided there is a briefing for this mission), she has cast heightened awareness on herself. Though she has a 10' spear strapped to her back she somehow manages to make her entrance without breaking, or even touching anything.
Marta's visage is somehow a combination of perfect and off. Her head is well proportioned but too large for her body. She is of medium build with straight white hair and a discernible metallic sheen to her skin. Marta is wearing red and gold clothing in honor of Ragathiel with his emblem on her black cloak (gold sword crossed with red wing), the one piece of equipment that looks 'nice'. As many pathfinders, she has an assortment of ioun stones in orbit above her head, tracing a trail by her halo that, in some odd way, resembles a solar system. At her side are a pair of shackles, on her hands a pair of gloves dripping acid. Conscious of the damage they might do, she deactivates them before entering the room. She wears no armor other than a scaly tunic.
Not much for words she says nothing as she enters and merely observes the others. At some point an aura surrounds her and changes nature as it shifts from shadowy tendrils, to white motes, then metallic stars, and finally coruscating worms. By the end of things, barring any magical misdirection, she will know the alignment of each member of the party - a task she always performs when she is teamed up with a new group.
A hawk follows and then speaks aloud in Taldane to Rokgurn.
"A little bird has told me that some of our companions from our last adventure will be joining us again. I will leave you guessing as to who they might be."
He turns towards the others.
"Apologies, I did not intend to be rude. I am Whisper."
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Omrax appears as a tall, fair haired knight of with obvious elven heritage. He removes his winged helm as he enters the room.
Under his red cloak, he wears a new suit of polished fullplate along with a shield bearing the crest of Iomedae on his arm.
His longsword is well kept and shows signs of recent battles.
Strapped to his back is a longbow and greatsword.
”Hail and well met. By my sword and oath to the Inheritor I am honored to serve with thee. “ he bows deeply.
”Lord Rokgurn it is good to travel with thee once more “
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Omrax bows to Marta.
Indeed. By your raiment our common goals will be aligned as was the service of the Hand of the Inheritor to both our patrons.
He closes his eyes in meditation while waiting for the remaining of the party to join.
Finally, an ally with honor and justice I can understand.
Mighty Iomedae, forgive my alliance with that band of pirates and hooligans.
• I will guard the honor of my fellows, both in thought
and deed, and I will have faith in them.
• I will be temperate in my actions and moderate in my
behavior. I will strive to emulate Iomedae's perfection.
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"... and then the whole bloody place went up like someone'd left a goblin in the powder room!" A rough boisterous voice exclaims from somewhere just outside the door. "If'n the lads hadn't had the Gull docked nearby, I'd a met me end 'neath a half ton of fresh caught haddock! Har!"
You hear the sounds loud laughter in response, as the door opens and a tall scrawny man, with a scraggly black beard, marches confidently into the room.
He is wearing what can only be described as a full-on stereotypical pirate ensemble, like he'd just stepped off a stage in the House of the Immortal Son opera house. Long velvety coat, with numerous brass buttons, frilly shirt sleeves and lapels visible beneath, a sheathed cutlass thrust jauntily through a silken red sash on one hip, and what looks like the hilt of a pistol jutting out on the other. And atop his head, a full on tricorne hat, complete with long ornate feather. Unfortunately, it all seems just a little too large for him... or perhaps he seems just a little to small for the clothes. It's hard to tell, and even that impression doesn't last long, as despite his stature appearing slight, he seems to fill up the space through sheer personality alone.
He glances into the room, as if not sure he's even in the right place. "Sounded like some sorta fancy shindig..." he bellows, with a hearty chuckle. "And it ain't no proper shindig without a mug full o' rum, and Captain Hamish Carmody O'Toole!"
"I'm the latter... so where's the former?!" He looks around cheerfully at the crowds of assembled Pathfinders, trying to see if there's a refreshment table somewhere.
He notices Omrax, trying to center himself off to one side, and completely ignores the paladin's peaceful demeanor to intrude.
"They dragged your shiny metal ass out here too? You'd think havin' an in with the high end muckity mucks'd buy you a little slack... but noooo. I had some prig nobleman's mistress enticed to join me for the weekend... and was one or two drinks, and a tale, from convincin' his wife to join us..."
"Then all this mess." He waves one hand expansively at the assembled crowds, completely oblivious to Omrax' attempts to mediate. "Bah. An ol' salt like me should be gettin' bereavement pay for that."
"You didn't see Yuri here did you? That dwarf was always good for a bottle or two, to be sure!"
He starts glancing around some more, hoping to see the dwarf in question.
Instead he spots Rokgurn, but instead of addressing the druid, turns to talk to the hawk instead.
"Ahoy, Feathers, you know if yer perch brought anything to soothe the dry throat of a grieving sailor?"
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"Sounded like some sorta fancy shindig..." he bellows, with a hearty chuckle. "And it ain't no proper shindig without a mug full o' rum, and Captain Hamish Carmody O'Toole! I'm the latter... so where's the former?!"
"Why, Captain, that would be you as well!" An equally-rapscallious figure throws back his cloak and bows with a dramatic flair to each the assembled Pathfinders. "And a good day to you too, Captain. And you, Captain. You as well, Captain. Fine weather we're having, isn't it, Captain? I must say, Captain, that's quite the dashing look you're sporting today." He finishes his bow to the hawk and sighs loudly, his melodious voice carrying effortlessly over the murmur of the crowd. "And, if you must, you may address me as Captain. At your service."
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"Ho ho! Clearly this place is goin' under fast, if'n they're callin' on two o' us scurvy sea dogs to bail 'em out a their troubles." Hamish replies with a hearty laugh, to Arnaut's greeting.
"What ship do you catch yer wind with Captain?" He asks. "Myself, I been helming the Seaward Gull for nigh on a decade now."
"The finest ship in the Andoran fleet." He adds, proudly.
"Yer welcome to come check her lines. Grab a pint." He offers. "She be docked not far from here."
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“Pathfinders! The unthinkable has happened. The Whispering Tyrant’s prison, Gallowspire, has exploded from below. The most infamous lich in history has escaped, and he now roams free. Worse, he has set in motion a vile ritual in his former prison. We must intervene before the ritual ends. Quickly find your assigned group, aid in our preparations for the expedition to Gallowspire, and listen for instructions.”
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Marta feels a pulsing in her forehead as a headache begins to form. And not just from the bad news that just arrived.
"So. We go to face a lich. And not just any lich, THE lich."
Marta nods.
I wonder if I was born for just this event. When I started this journey all I wanted to do was free some slaves. Odd how things turn out... Maybe these fools will see the seriousness of all this and sober up.
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And just as fast as Arnat and especially Hamish enter, Omrax's mediatation ends and he almost sighs in submission before the unspeakable news breaks all to chaos.
Oh Inheritor, I spoke too soon. Give me the prudence and willpower to deal with these two.
He half-bows to the familiar pirate captain and recent acquaintance, hiding as best he can his embarrassment of the comments and intrusion in his prayers.
Greetings and well met, Captain. Yes, I was called upon as well as thee to serve with honor on this campaign against the vile evil.
I still plan to speak to thee of some of the questionable morals exhibited during our last mission. But that will have to wait it appears.
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"What ship do you catch yer wind with Captain?"
"Why, I am merely a passenger aboard the ship that is the Society," the bard replies smoothly. "Albeit one with a few more responsibilities and paperwork to fill out than most. I did spend some time on the high seas in search of the Fearsome Tide, but the saltwater was wrecking havoc on my hair - not to mention my voice - and I was forced into early retirement from a sailor's life. Be sure to keep up the good work for me, Captain!"
“Pathfinders! The unthinkable has happened. The Whispering Tyrant’s prison, Gallowspire, has exploded from below. The most infamous lich in history has escaped, and he now roams free. Worse, he has set in motion a vile ritual in his former prison. We must intervene before the ritual ends. Quickly find your assigned group, aid in our preparations for the expedition to Gallowspire, and listen for instructions.”
Arnaut whistles softly as the Master of Swords's voice fades. "Tar-Baphon himself." He glances over at Marta and winks. "At least this time we know what we're working with going into the mission, rather than that unpleasant surprise halfway through the last one, eh? And look! We even have another brave knight for you to play with! Do you think this one has a horse too? Can't smell it on him, but you never know what these noble types might be concealing." He bows broadly to Omrax and smiles easily. "Not to worry - I'm certain we're in good hands even without the horse."
The doors of Skyreach, the central fortress of the Grand Lodge in Absalom, stand open, and Pathfinders of all descriptions mill about at the base of the stairs, expressions of excitement, fear, and determination on their faces.
“If you will excuse me, Captain.”
An auburn-haired Calistrian cleric, wearing a lavendar sari and matching hijab pushes politely past Arnaut, on the arm of a tall, dark Varisian forester bearing a weathered longbow.
“I never wanted to be a Venture-Captain anyway, Roland. Pathfinder Agents are so weird. Let me tell you about an elderly arcanist who thinks she’s everyone’s grandmother …”
A noisy dwarven bard with the shiny metallic double barrels of an exotic firearm poking up over one shoulder, demonstrates dwarven drumming rhythms to a fascinated female leshy whose face is encircled by daisies, and a somewhat less-fascinated blond female sailor sporting chest-high waders, a bemused expression and ... earplugs.
An Iroran paladin-monk, her dark hair braided into a tight bun at the back of her neck and wearing a formal white linen kendogi over a long, royal blue hakama hails an azure-haired tinker-gnome riding a large green cat.
“Brother Wembly! Allow me to shout you and Whiskers a round of milk at the Frothing Alembic when this is over.”
Behind her back, the Mwangi paladin’s gestures are mocked by a short woman with lustrous coal black hair and a pale complexion. She is accompanied by a mongoose wearing a green cat-mask, and being ‘ridden’ by a ragdoll gnome.
Atop the staircase leading into the tower, Master of Swords Marcos Farabellus gestures for silence.
Marcos is known for his good cheer. Today, however, his expression is grim. He clears his throat before speaking, his voice a low rumble. “Yes, you heard me correctly. Gallowspire is gone, and the Whispering Tyrant has escaped. The Whispering Tyrant, who slew a goddess and conquered nations with armies of undead, has returned.”
He pauses and sighs. “And he’s been busy.”
Marcos gestures to the man standing next to him and nods. “This is Siege Lord Wynsal Starborn, and he has more information on recent events.”
The other man steps forward, his breastplate gleaming. “We know that a massive explosion enveloped Gallowspire, and we know that undead hordes have swept throughout Lastwall. I have already sent scouts to investigate Gallowspire. They found a mysterious jungle surrounding the tower, or at least, where the tower should have been. The tower was gone, and there was a massive crater where it once stood.”
“At considerable personal risk, the scouts who were most skilled at evading detection went inside the ruin itself. Fortunately, they survived, and they had the following to report.”
“First, the ruins beneath still contain access points to the chambers below.”
“Second, the Whispering Tyrant took the time to set up wards to block access to the deepest levels.”
“Third, and most disturbingly, there are necromantic energies beyond these wards, energies so powerful that they are leaking into the surrounding area. The scouts surmise that a ritual of incredible intensity is taking place somewhere deep beneath the crater. It is building toward something, and with every passing day, it grows stronger.”
Venture-Captain Farabellus addresses the crowd again, but his voice holds a hint of fear rarely heard in his speech. “Pathfinders, we must stop this ritual!”
“The Whispering Tyrant has had thousands of years to plan what he would do if he ever escaped. I shudder to think of the terrors he plans to unleash. This is not just a problem for Lastwall -- it’s a problem for the ENTIRE WORLD.”
His voice quietens, “I have no idea what else you’ll find on the deepest levels, what guardians and treasures the Whispering Tyrant has locked away. Be prepared for anything.”
“This is going to be a significant undertaking, and you’ll have about a day to prepare while we get everyone else up to speed and set the logistics.”
“Once you arrive, meet with Venture-Captain Shevar Besnik and Silver Crusade leader Ollysta Zadrian. Be sure to prepare for a dangerous journey both above and below ground. I wish you the best of luck, for all our sakes.”
“Wynsal and I will now take questions from anyone except *shiver* Lord Touchy.”
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"What sorts of creatures have the scouts reported within the mysterious jungle and in the crater?" Jack asks.
One of the Society's vendors is wandering around the crowd of assembled Pathfinders. "Peanuts! Popcorn!"
Jack catches her eye and summons her over. "I'd like some diamond dust, please. About 1000gp worth."
"Wait," he says, drawing his hand back from her tray of goodies. "Can any of you guys cast restoration, if we need it?"
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Seeing the woman with earplugs reminds Marta that she, too, has a pair. She makes a note to self to use said items with prejudice if, now when, the irreverent and noisy teammates get out of hand.
With a voice that would put most normal bards to shame (which would not include present company of course who are, of course, abnormal bards) Marta pitches her voice to carry. "How about teleportation. Will the area interfere with more expedient ways of approaching. And will we be digging into the societies reserves to provide member protection against negative energies or will that be the member's responsibilities?"
"What sorts of creatures have the scouts reported within the mysterious jungle and in the crater?"
"Horrible amalgamations of fungus and animal as well as vicious plants."
VC Farabellos discerns Jack’s dulcet tones over the riot of Pathfinder voices. "One team reported hybrids of leshies and frogs."
“They dubbed them ‘freshies.’”
🐸
“As for what lies in the smoking crater that was once Gallowspire ...”
The Master of Swords taps the side of his nose. “Like me, you’ve gotta be thinking undead, Jack.”
"How about teleportation. Will the area interfere with more expedient ways of approaching.”
“The Master of Spells is preparing Mass Teleportation Circles to transport our assault teams en masse to the frontline –– to deliver some ol' fashioned shock and awe, while maximizing the chances that at least some of you survive.”
Siegelord Wynsal *shrugs* “However, we have no intelligence on the effectiveness of teleportation effects inside the Whispering Tyrant’s holdings themselves.”
"I guess you'll be finding that out for yourselves."
“And will we be digging into the societies reserves to provide member protection against negative energies or will that be the member's responsibilities?”
“Needs are many and resources are limited, like on every Pathfinder mission. Marta, you're a professional. Any gear you bring is wholly at your discretion and your responsibility.”
Marcos Farabellus smiles grimly."However, there is some good news."
"With such a large number of powerful, experienced Pathfinders traveling to Gallowspire, including numerous administrative staff members, you'll have access to spellcasting services as if you were in a large city."
"Furthermore, given the dire circumstances, Siegelord Wynsal has provided the Pathfinder Society with a large supply of diamond dust to help offset the cost of the most expensive of spells."
"The first time during the mission that a field agent uses one of the following spellcasting services, it costs only half as much as usual: greater restoration, raise dead, resurrection, and true resurrection. This discount applies regardless of whether you pay the cost with gold, prestige from your faction, or both."
"Unfortunately, each of you can benefit from this discount but once."
Have there been any reports of the negative energies releasing quantities of undead or other evil spirits into the surrounding area?
Wynsal shakes his head. “Not that anyone’s told me, Bold One. But when it comes to Tar-Baphon, I can’t honestly rule anything out.”
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Jack smiles when he hears about the decision to discount vital spellcasting services. Looks like my joining senior leadership has already had a positive effect on logistical support to field agents.
"Guess I'll take a look at your rings." He grabs a handful of enchanted baubles and spreads them out on the black velvet tray. Finding what he was looking for, he holds the ring up to the sun, admiring the way it seems to absorb rather than reflect the light. "Here we are."
Jack hands the pretty vendor 1250gp.
"Mortal blacksmiths residing in the Gebbite city of Graydirge created the first dark life rings. Too often had these living unfortunates suffered collateral damage from the negative energy effects used daily in the streets of the undead-ruled city, so they forged these rings in hopes of mitigating at least some of the harm their unliving rulers carelessly inflicted upon them. Before the Blood Lords at Mechitar could punish the insolent smiths of Graydirge, the dark life rings and their imitators made their way into the wider world."
He slips it on his finger. "Maybe I'll hook up with a vampire hottie."
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Marcos Farabellus stands atop the steps of Skyreach and waves his hands. “Pathfinders! It is nearly time to depart. We’ve sent scouts ahead to prepare an anchor for teleportation. Finish your preparations and make your way through the teleportation circle inside Skyreach.” The Master of Swords sets his jaw. “Brace yourselves. Our arrival point is not pleasant.”
One after another, Pathfinders step onto an immense glyph on the floor, the center of the teleportation circle. As they do, they each vanish into thin air, only to reappear in a distant location. The beautifully carved and painted stone walls of Skyreach fade into a moss-covered expanse of ancient ruins. On the other side of the circle, the air is warm, humid, and filled with the cloying stench of rotten meat.
Standing atop one of the ruins, a figure in gleaming full plate beckons the first arrivals to her. She waits silently, her face grim, until the remainder of the expeditionary force arrives. She then addresses the assembled group. “Welcome to Ustalav, Pathfinders. I am Ollysta Zadrian, leader of the Silver Crusade. Thank you for coming so quickly. Let me get straight to the point. The nearest undead horde is likely to sweep through this area in the next hour or so, and we must not remain overlong. Please, follow me.”
After a tense but brief journey, the expedition arrives at the edge of a dark jungle. The vegetation is thick, but the plants are twisted and gnarled. A group of Pathfinders dressed to blend in with the surrounding terrain step forward and greet the expedition. Their leader, a thin human man with long hair, smiles when he sees Zadrian. “Ollysta, you old war dog. It looks like you found yourself a small army. I hope it’s enough.”
The paladin’s expression remains focused and stern. “Yes, I hope so too. You should tell them what we know.” The man smiles charmingly. “Greetings, Pathfinders. I’m Shevar Besnik, up until recently the venture-captain of Vigil. I technically still am, I suppose,” he says, his smile turning sour. “These few individuals with me are all of the surviving Pathfinders from Vigil’s destruction. So they were the only Pathfinders left around here to teach the Tyrant a lesson. Until you got here, that is!”
Shevar continues, “Our first job is to make our way through this jungle. I know some of you probably have the means to bypass the jungle entirely and get to the crater, but that would mean certain death for those who can’t. Let’s stick together and make sure we all make it to the other side.” Ollysta raises her shield, which is emblazoned with a golden holy symbol of Sarenrae, “No matter what we face, Pathfinders, remember: the dawn brings new light. May Sarenrae’s grace guide our blades.” Shevar adds, “And with that, let’s meet whatever this twice-damned forest can throw at us head on!”
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Marta looks at the ring Jack selects with distaste. Unfortunately there is no time for a lecture. She can feel the evil radiating from the profane thing. But her previous check already confirmed that he was not evil nor good. Just a little bit foolish and without self control. His behavior is to be expected and managed.
As usual, Marta spends some time casting enchantment after enchantment.
One of which should interest all. She has the group gather round her and casts Hunter's Blessing targetting undead and underground using her metamagic rod of extend.
Greater Magic Weapon on handwraps (when she wakes up, 24 hours)
Greater Magic Weapon on spear UC (when she wakes up, 24 hours)
Hunter's Blessing on party (when teleporting to site, undead and underground, 26 hours)
Mage Armor (when when teleporting to site, ? hours)
Halo (reactivated every 10 minutes)
Heroism (when teleporting to site, 260 minutes)
Keen Edge on UC (when when teleporting to site, 260 minutes)
Freedom of Movement (when when teleporting to site, 260 minutes)
See Invisibility (when when teleporting to site, 260 minutes)
Tongues (when when teleporting to site, 260 minutes)
Heightened Awareness (when teleporting to site, 130 minutes)
Corruption Resistance: evil (when teleporting to site, 130 minutes)
Barkskin ?
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Omrax follows closely behind Marta, staying close to the Aasimar, bowing in appreciation of the Hunters Blessing.
Agreed, Sir Besnik. We shall meet them and vanquish them!
He bows in short meditation as the group prepares to depart through the jungle. He casts EagleSoul on himself for the day.
• I will not be taken prisoner by my free will. I will not
surrender those under my command.
• I will never abandon a companion, though I will honor
sacrifice freely given.
How far is thy estimate from here to our destination? Would ye surmise hours or days?
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Rokgurn floats in with Whisper ready to do battle. He has prepared the day before but not as much as he would have liked.
Before departing he will cast Deadeye Lore and Barkskin(Extended) on himself. He hands his wand over to Hamish to tap himself with Mage Armor and attempts to use his Wand of False Life on himself.
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Arnaut waves a hand in front of his face as he exits the teleportation circle. "My goodness Jack, at least have the decency to tell us when you're going to rip one loose like that!" he quips as he pulls a steel rod from his pack. "You could have killed us all with that stench before we even got started," he continues, a quiet hum of magic surrounding him. "Or at least knocked several of us unconscious."
“Bold One!”
Ollysta Zadrian draws her scimitar vertically to salute Omrax. “Why am I not surprised to see you have volunteered.”
She smiles from beneath her Silver Dragon helm. "Try not to get turned into a frog, OK?"
How far is thy estimate from here to our destination? Would ye surmise hours or days?
“Hours –– perhaps many of them! I would be surprised if this ran into days ...”
VC Besnik interrupts the Sarenran paladin with a *wink* “That’s what I like about you Ollysta. Ever the optimist.”
With supernatural speed, bruise-colored clouds gather in the sky above the jungle, bringing with them a stinging rain that reeks of embalming fluid. Just above the tree line, horizontal bolts of purple lightning leap between the clouds. Thunder rumbles unceasingly across the landscape.
The strange vegetation covering the ground bears odd marks and patterns reminiscent of skulls, eyes, and spattered blood. The air is humid, heavy, and oily; it smells like the wet ashes of a funeral pyre. Out of the corner of their eyes, the Pathfinders notice the vegetation around them shifting slightly to cover the tracks of a recently-departed squad of agents. A nearby thunderclap announces the arrival of rain that falls heavily on the trees above, but what little trickles through stings as it lands on skin and leaves small pit marks and blemishes on equipment.
"Take a moment to collect yourselves, agents, and then you're off," Shevar announces to the group with a cheeky salute before moving to the next squad.
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Jack whips out his rod, and begins casting. "I like to start the day fresh, dabbing a little extended buffage like heightened awareness and heroism." He pats his cheekbones and taps his armpits.
"But nothing too gaudy." He gives Marta wink. "Don't want folks thinking I'm just some tart."
He wipes the sweat from his brow and dries his hands on his pants. "Sultry climate, but not too bad."
Curious, he looks around at the mysterious jungle's vegetation.
"None of the plants here are natural - they seem to be amalgamations of plant, fungal, and frog matter. No normal animals or plants anywhere."
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Beyond the Eaglesoul, Omrax does not consider any of his other buffs will last through the jungle trek.
Thanks Sir Jack. The clouds portend more than just rain in our futures. Weal more than woe to the strange plants I would guess.
He taps his winged helmet and a large spectral wolf appears having a black head and body, gray mane and tail, and smoke-colored, insubstantial paws that make no sound. It has what seems to be a saddle, bit, and bridle.
Jungle treks and full plate make for a slow pace unfortunately. Borealis will help me keep pace.
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"Impressive, Omrax the Bold." He considers offering the shadowy wolf a pat on its head, but he thinks better of it. "I've seen rabbits pulled out of a hat, and a head pulled out of a man's own arse... "
He purses his lips in a low whistle.
" ...But I've never seen a wolf pulled out of a helmet before."
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"That's because you have no imagination, Jack," Arnaut comments sourly as he picks his way through the muck, doing his best to avoid touching anything. "Jungles. Why did it have to be a jungle. Why must I suffer like this!?" He shakes a fist at the heavens, but the uncaring universe doesn't even cooperate with a dramatic clap of thunder.
As you head deeper into the jungle you see a slowly moving stream to the east. It gives off a pungent odor. A yellowish mist clings to its surface. The path ahead opens a bit into a clearing. The few trees and ancient buildings here are coated with a heavy layer of sickly, green fungus that oozes a sweet-smelling, purple fluid when disturbed.
Each of you spots, lurking in the trees ahead of you, two creatures. The first is a massive goat shaped monstrosity made of tightly packed together branches and brambles.
The second, smaller, appears to be a beautiful woman reclining on a flower throne which moves on four spiky, thorned legs.
“Oh my, new playthings!”
Jack and Arnaut are the first to react. However, both bards smell something quite entrancing on the wind. They're not quite sure what to make of it ...
For every 5 by which you beat the DC you may ask one question from >>this list<<
For every 5 by which you beat the DC you may ask one question from >>this list<<
Jack
Arnaut
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Big Red Goat
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Hamish
Rokgurn
Marta
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Blue Lady
--
Omrax
go first!
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"The vege-lady is an alraune, and the leafy Capricorn is a barometz," Jack informs the team. "The goat's special attacks include _________."
He bows to the 'lady,' "Say, gorgeous, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" He points his chin toward the goat. "Who's your friend?"
"Love your fragrance." Jack inhales deeply. "Eau de Gallowspire?"
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Feeling much calmer than any man really has the right to when faced with a giant ram made out of poisonous jungle, Arnaut wisely decides to fade into the background for the time being. "Perhaps the lovely lady should be the first to receive our attentions?" he suggests invisibly as he moves away from the group, leaving only a haunting hummed melody floating in the air like a dream.
I'd hate to think that that ram would run us all over like that centipede did...
Jack ✨casts good hope and sings out, “Big Red Goat’s special attacks include a powerful charge and trample! Oi!”
To date, only Arnaut’s has suffered the soothing effects of the Alraune’s perfume.
The bard named “Arnaut, just Arnaut” recalls pulling a prank on the mean girl’s clique at the Conservatorium of Music, which involved the Prima Donna soprano (named Jackelin), a tube of sovereign glue and a LARGE billy goat … and then being left alone by the bullies for the rest of the term.
As for azure females … after an evening of heavy drinking at a tavern called The Mineshaft in the Isgeri town of Dustpawn, Arnaut vaguely remembers a close encounter with a disguised, blue-skinned alien, who referred to herself as … Pandoran(?) or was it Andorian(?) or maybe Lashuntan???
The Sea Shanty Singer turns invisible and conveys this information to the others in the form of a rousing ballad!
👢
Big Red Goat charges a flatfooted Marta.
Jack
Arnaut
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Big Red Goat
--
Hamish
Rokgurn
Marta
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Blue Lady
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Omrax
whatcha got?
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As Olysta wandered off to greet the other groups of agents, Hamish looked around the jungle with a grin. "Feels like a proper treasure hunt now." He says. "But I be more the supervisory type, than to do the actual digging. Let me drag the crew out!"
He takes a minute, performing some sort of ritual, though it seems to involve drinking a few shots of cheap rum, and tossing out a handful of silver coins.
"That should do er." He mutters, then proceeds to cast a spell or two.
Even as he does so, you see what can only be described as a large, scale model ship, 'sails' out of the nearby foliage. At least 'sails' is the only word you can think of, considering it appears to be doing so across dry land.
About five feet long, from stem to stern, it appears nothing less than an animated object, or perhaps a construct of some sort... at least it does, until you notice it has a tiny crew! Dozens of small diminutive sailors hurry about the deck, lashing lines, furling sails, and you can only imagine, battening down hatches. Each only a five or six inches high, upon closer examination, you will realize none of them appear to have any actual features, beyond a few peg legs, and hook hands, and an eyepatch or two, covering eyes that aren't actually there.
You'll note that, even though they appear like separate entities, the sailors are actually all budding off the ship itself, connected by almost invisible sinuous tendrils.
It is then you realize that it is not a ship, or even a construct, but a living creature, apparently trying to pretend it is a ship or construct.
"Mr. Phips, report!" Hamish calls over one shoulder, not really looking towards the ship.
"Ship shape, Captain! We're ready to sail!" A reedy voice calls out, coming from deck of the ship. You notice one of the tiny crew does indeed appear different than the others... though just as featureless as the rest, this one wears a naval officer uniform of some sort.
"We be heading into hostile waters, men." Hamish says, turning to address the ship and its crew. "Foul curses and restless spirits await."
You notice the sailors have stopped their activity, and all appear to be listening, as most suddenly start making small warding gestures at the mention of evil spirits.
"But though their be dangers, there also be booty! Ours for the taking!" He adds, with a flourish... which elicits a cheer from the assembled crewmen, and you note a couple start hoisting a skull and crossbones flag up the main mast.
"Now to your stations, we sail momentarily!"
Hamish turns glance at the others, and smiles. "This be my ship." He explains. "The Seaward Gull. The finest vessel in the Andoran fleet! We be ready!"
He casts another spell, and you note the crew securing small metal plates to the sides of the ship.
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As they enter the clearing, and spot the giant plantlike creature and the beautiful maiden on the flower, a sailor, up in the crows nest on the main mast, peering through a small spyglass shouts, "Enemy sails off the starboard bow!"
Immediately, crewmen start racing about the deck, some to harpoon guns bolted to the foredeck, others disappearing below, the rest lining up along the gunwales, assorted weapons in hand. Unfortunately, only some of them seem to be paying attention, the rest seemingly fixated on the woman in the back.
Hamish seems to be having similar difficulties... never one to let a fair wench go by unappreciated. He quickly shakes his head though, and with a significant effort, comes back to his senses.
"Gah, sirens!" He shouts. "Beware, men! 'lest they lure us onto the shoals!"
He takes a step back, and you notice him start to lift off the ground as he does so.
But the Gull begins to increase in size with him, almost doubling in length, its masts and sails now reaching well overhead. The crew does not appear to change size... though you see more of them race up from down below.
"Circle around to her stern!" Hamish cries, "Fire harpoons!" He points dramatically towards the giant plant creature. He then notices he's holding a metal rod, and curses colorfully.
The Seaward Gull starts to sail around the far side, the men frantically adjusting sails, which seem to catch some sort of wind, despite any breeze coming from a different direction.
, for damage.