Balodek's Ironfang Invasion

Game Master Balodek

Knowledge Nature for specific info on this kind of swarm?: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (6) + 11 = 17

Krowe follows the merc’s lead and throws another alchemist into the swarm.

Alchemist fire: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (20) + 5 = 25
Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 1

Ok, I think I'm mentally recovered enough to continue. :D

Bazsil slashes the construct to the ground then backs up, just as three vials of alchemist fire arch from the other three. The wasps are immolated as the heavy straw burns merrily, sending the stink of burnt fur and flesh wafting through the room.

They appeared to be ordinary wasps, and are dead now. Casting Detect Magic on the remains shows a cracked magical pot of some kind, though it is useless now you suspect it summoned the swarm.

Bazsil watches the swarm crisp and die. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. It’s crazy to entrap a swarm inside a construct, let alone to think the wasps seemed to have no problem with it. He pokes at the body with his greatsword, a frown on his face.

”Well, okay...anyone injured?” Bazsil looks at Faolan. ”How are you doin’, Faoly?”

We have 4 pot CMW, 17 charges on the wand and whatever spells we want to use.

"That damned alchemist was off his rocker." Bor watches the wasp-filled straw burn as he steps on some of the still crawling wasps. His skin raises slightly from the areas where he was stung. The flames from the fire mesmerize him for a few moments, taking him back several years ago to his ordeal that cursed him.

"Hopefully there's not more of these around the Keep." Bor strides towards the door, his heavy boot stepping down on the straw head, crunching it down as the embers flicker across the dried strands.

Faolan still smarts from the critical blow, and will try a couple CMW potions to edge off the pain.

CMW: 4d8 + 6 ⇒ (5, 3, 1, 3) + 6 = 18

He'll search around for possible loot before being ready to move on.

Perception: 1d20 + 11 + 2 ⇒ (6) + 11 + 2 = 19 (heroism)

If there is no loot, Bazsil looks to continue on the path they were on.

”Wasps. Stitched inside a constructed being, darnest thing that.”

Up the stairs or into the kitchen?

"Let's check the kitchen quickly before heading to find the tough guys upstairs." Faolan suggests heading toward the kitchen if the group agrees.

Bor's stomache rumbles. "Maybe the Rangers left something decent before the fey invaded." He follows Faolan into the kitchen.

Krowe nods to the kitchen, but remains silent.

They think a fool that sticks wasps in an animated skinsuit is barmy? Wonder what they’d think of you berk if they really knew what you were capable of.

Gripping his crossbow tight, Krowe follows behind.

This functional kitchen has heavy, wooden shelves filled with utensils and basic supplies. A large stove occupies the southeastern corner of the room. Opposite it, a narrow set of stairs leads down.

The room is 30 feet long and 15 feet wide, the door is on the long west wall.

You see two men with curling goat horns on their head arguing. Their legs are furred and goat shaped, ending in hooves. One of them is waving a carving knife around. They are standing behind the kitchen island and have their backs to you, paying no attention to the door opening.

"No, you put the garlic in it'll be too spicy. None of these thin blooded fools can handle that kind of heat."

"I'm telling you Alesandro, if you don't put in garlic you might as well just give them a jug of goat milk and a cucumber."

Bor leans against the wall, listening to the conversation. He smiles. "Garlic will at least keep the vampires away. Might even try a bit of basil." He offers his own little ingredient. "What are you making?"

Bazsil stands with his arms crossed, waiting for the answer to Bor's question.

"Yeah. And who are you making it for? They might not be as alive as they were when you last saw them," Bazsil offers helpfully. "Do you take requests? I haven't had a real meal in a while as Krowe only knows one spice: salt. It's always salt."

1d20 + 14 ⇒ (1) + 14 = 15 Diplomacy

The satyrs turn in shock at your entrance. Their faces turn red and the one with the knife waves it at you now.

"Basil? Basil? What kind of worthless, you don't put basil in tzatziki! Basil is completely useless."

The other moves around the counter.

"We're not cooking for you, and what are you doing here anyway? Making threats are you?"

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 11 + 2 ⇒ (14) + 11 + 2 = 27 (heroism)

Faolan steps forward, cold-iron shield ready but no weapon in his hand. He holds it up, palm out, "Look, we don't want to kill you, and you don't want to be dead, right? So just let's everyone chill out and let's talk about this a moment."

"What are you cooking? What's in the tzatziki?" he asks innocently.

1d20 + 14 ⇒ (2) + 14 = 16 Sense Motive

"Are we going to chili out, are we?" Bazsil tries to break the ice with a joke. "Like I said, we could use a good meal. And we're just trying to be friendly. Why don't you answer our questions? Might be we answer some of yours."

1d20 + 14 ⇒ (4) + 14 = 18 Diplomacy

Diplomacy Aid Another: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (10) - 1 = 9

"Calm your horned heads down already. We are all hungry and we don't need anyone f%$~ing up the tzatziki." Bor tries to help alleviate the situation.

The satyrs are confused by the messages they are receiving from the group. The one with the knife responds.

"Look, uh, why don't you back up over there, and we'll just leave and you guys can do what you want in here."

The other comments softly.

"Like they could do worse than you."

Bazsil shrugs, nonplussed by the offer, but willing to accept the retreat to avoid a fight.

"Might be best if you left the fort. Go someplace else...anything place...this place isn't safe right now, you know? Cooks who can offer food like you do need to be appreciated and celebrated," Bazsil offers in his deep voice.

"Take whatever tools of the trade you need," Bazsil insists. "Now is the time to set up your own little kitchen where you can serve artisan meals crafted to every palate."

1d20 + 14 ⇒ (4) + 14 = 18 Diplomacy

Faolan nods, No need to kill the kitchen help.

Smiling, he gets out of the way. Once they're gone, he keeps watch while the others search.

Perception: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (9) + 11 = 20

Bor's stomach grumbles. "If you could leave a few plates of your tzatziki as well." he smiles sheepishly and shrugs. "It smells good."

They look at each other and shrug, then carefully run past you and into the courtyard beyond. They leave behind the tzatziki, which does indeed need a touch more garlic.

There is nothing else of adventurely interest in the kitchen. You have two stairs up, one in this room and one back in the common room with the destroyed alchemical wasp beast.

Bazsil looks to the stairs above the kitchen, dipping his finger in to taste the tzatziki.

"We should go up, right? It might be the larder up there and there might be some pita bread or chips for dipping in this sauce," Bazsil prods, sticking his finger in for another dipping.

Krowe watches the satyrs run off, relieved that they didn't ruin the tzatziki by taking up Bor's offer to add Bazsil to it. He wasn't sure the merc was kidding, or provoking a fight on purpose.

"Sure, let's go up again."

Faolan laughs at Bazsil's search for crispy chips. But he agrees with the plan for his own purposes.

"Aye, let's go up here. Are we ready?"

Hoisting his shield, he ascends the stairs from the kitchen.

Bor watches in horror as Bazsil double dips the only tzatziki. "Come on now don't be a savage. Use a spoon!" Bor digs through the drawers looking for any sort of utensils before heading upstairs.

Checks notes. Checks map. Curses in GM. The stairs in the kitchen go down, there is a section of map in the map pdf that isn't labeled correctly, my apologies.

Bor finds a few spoons but Bazsil has already moved on towards the cellar steps. Mourning the ruined tzatziki, the group descends into the cellar.

This low-ceilinged cellar is crammed with bags, boxes, and barrels. Stairs ascend along the northern wall, and a stout door leads to the southwest. The short limbed, thin chested, barely bearded korred looks up as you descend.

"Whoooo're you?" His words slur but his movements remain sharp.

"Come fer me boooze, ssssso that's it?"

He cracks his neck belligerently.

Bazsil quickly adopts a friendly drunk personae.

"Booze? Yeah, we heard there was a party down here," Bazsil agrees, looking around. "We were hoping for some nymphs and booze, you know, to pass the time. What you got going on down here?" Bazsil smiles easily, trying to be friendly.

1d20 + 14 + 2 ⇒ (13) + 14 + 2 = 29 Diplomacy

Faolan nods, showing his open palm by way of a peaceful gesture, though he doesn't lower his shield.

He waits to see what the drunkard has to say.

Heal: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (3) + 9 = 12

Bor leans in an whispers. "Bit of a functioning alcoholic." leaning back he smiles and points to the half eaten tzatziki. "How bout we all share a drink and some dip? Sound good?"

Diplomacy: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (2) - 1 = 1

Bor absolutely sucked at taking to people, even going as far as asking a drunk to share his stash of booze it seems. Even though the past few days proved to be quite calming for him. the visions had slowed, not driving him into a near panic at each turn.

"Ran out of nymfshs. Reckon you'll do."

He turns words into action, raising a gnarled club.

Turn Tracker Round 1
Linder
Krowe
Faolan
Bazsil
Bor

He swings at Bazsil.

"Come here nympfh."

Club@Bazsil: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (18) + 10 = 281d4 + 8 ⇒ (1) + 8 = 9

Round 1

Free:
Move: Rub the spot where he was hit.
Stnd: Swing cold iron greatsword.

”You want to be that way? Fine.”

Bazsil, takes a twack from the belligerent drunk and swings the cold iron greatsword back:
1d20 + 10 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 10 + 2 = 32 to hit; (heroism)
2d6 + 7 ⇒ (1, 2) + 7 = 10 cold iron slashing damage.

Pot crit:
1d20 + 10 + 2 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 10 + 2 + 2 = 17 to hit; (heroism)
2d6 + 7 ⇒ (6, 2) + 7 = 15 cold iron slashing damage.

Round: 1

Faolan closes into flank with Bazsil, and makes a swing of his own, hoping for the best.
Shield Bash (magic): 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (11) + 13 = 24 damage: 1d6 + 8 ⇒ (2) + 8 = 10

"Hey now, that was rude - we were talking!"

"Can't talk to them all I guess." Bor draws his shield and smashes it into one of their faces.

Heavy Shield Bash: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4
Damage: 1d4 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 2 = 5

They fey grans ahold of his shield, stopping it in place before jerking it to the side.

With the mercs giving the korred a beating, Krowe continues to conserve his magic for bigger threats. Aiming his crossbow, he takes a shot.

Heavy Crossbow - allies in melee: 1d20 + 5 - 4 ⇒ (18) + 5 - 4 = 19
Cold iron Damage: 1d10 ⇒ 2

Like every tavern drunk and underpaid baby-sitter, the korred takes his lumps and comes back swinging and cursing.

"Yeh hit like a nympfh!"

Club@Bazsil: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (11) + 10 = 211d4 + 8 ⇒ (3) + 8 = 11

Turn Tracker Round 2
Linder
Krowe
Faolan
Bazsil
Bor

The korred ducks below his shield once again as Bor swipes right. "Dammit!"

Heavy Shield Bash: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 2 = 10
Damage: 1d4 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4

Round: 2

”That looks like it hurt Bazsil. Try not to get hit, he’s got some drunken-power-clubbing thing going.”

Staying in flank, he tries to silence the drunkard.
Shield Bash (magic): 1d20 + 11 + 4 ⇒ (14) + 11 + 4 = 29 (heroism, flank) damage: 1d6 + 8 ⇒ (4) + 8 = 12
Shield Bash (magic): 1d20 + 11 + 4 ⇒ (6) + 11 + 4 = 21 (heroism, flank) damage: 1d6 + 8 ⇒ (4) + 8 = 12
Shield Bash (magic): 1d20 + 6 + 4 ⇒ (17) + 6 + 4 = 27 (heroism, flank) damage: 1d6 + 8 ⇒ (5) + 8 = 13

Round 2

Free:
Move: Rub the spot where he was hit.
Stnd: Swing cold iron greatsword.

”You’re a chatty drunk, aren’t you?” Bazsil takes a hit and returns the swing. He knows two ways to shut up a chatty drunk, and this particular one involves violence.

1d20 + 10 + 2 ⇒ (17) + 10 + 2 = 29 to hit; (heroism)
2d6 + 7 ⇒ (2, 3) + 7 = 12 cold iron slashing damage.

”You ok, Baz?” Krowe calls as he works to release his crossbow.

Full round reload.

The korred drops as Faolan and Baszil tag team him into oblivion.

A quick search of the room reveals a chest with cheap spirits, cooking sherry, watery ale, and six bottles of rare herbal liqueurs. You also find enough food and supplies to feed your settlement for several days.

100 Provision Points. Would be difficult to move but all of it would keep.

The door in the south wall has a small opening, 6 inches square, at a human’s eye level.

Faolan smiles as the drunkard lies down for his last sleep. He's pleased at the provisions, though he doesn't know how they'll move it all. They can take what will spoil quickly, and cache the rest perhaps.

Either way, he carefully approaches the door, wondering if it's a cell. He peers inside.

Perception: 1d20 + 11 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 11 + 2 = 14 (heroism)

"Hey, didn't one of the group mentions some sweet liquor down here?" Bazsil recalls somewhat after the double noggings he just took. "Anyone see the booze? We could have traded it for aid? Was that here?"

Bazsil takes his time to look around for the booze, while healing a bit.

1d8 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7 CLW
1d8 + 5 ⇒ (5) + 5 = 10 CLW

It's gotta be nearby if that one was close." Bor could smell the toxic aroma on the korred's breath.

Perception: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (8) + 12 = 20

He begins digging through each of the boxes. Seeing the small peephole Bor tries to pry to open from this end to peek through. "What do you think is inside?"

The six bottles of herbal liqueur would fulfill the leprechauns request.

Looking through the door you see a small room with another door that also has a peephole. Opening this door and entering the small room, then looking through that peephole, you see a larger room. This broad cell reeks of death and filth. Several sets of manacles are bolted to the walls and ceiling, apparently much newer than the stone of the cell. Nine of the restraints hold only corpses, but a tenth set contains a weakly breathing halfling.

Bazsil holds up a bottle. He looks at the label.

"Herbal liquor? What? Is that really a thing?" Bazsil looks to see if anyone else is surprised or shock by the find. "What the hell is herbal liquor? Does it have garlic and weeds in it?"

Bazsil gathers what he thinks might pay off the leps, letting others handle the peephole for the moment.

”My guess is that is an alchemical experiment gone wrong.” Krowe replies to Bazsil. ”Seriously, who would want liquors that taste of peppermint, anise, or cinnamon?” He makes a face like someone tasting whiskey for the first time.

Faolan says, "We've got a live one, bring up the wand."

He lifts the little guy up to take the pressure off his limbs (assuming he's hanging in some way). "We gotcha buddy, just hold on a little longer."

He calls out, "Anybody got any keys? Check the dead drunk guy!"

He waits, holding up the halfling, until help arrives.

Bor looks over the room, his eyes scanning over all of the bodies and manacles. "Looks like a bad night at a brothel...." That is until Faolan mentions there is miraculously a survivor. "Wha?" he rushes over, a small bit of magic seeps into the halfling.

CLW: 1d8 + 5 ⇒ (3) + 5 = 8

"Buddy, you alright?"

You find the keys to the manacles hanging by the door in the small entry room. Rushing in, you quickly unchain the halfling and heal him. He looks at you in fear, weakened and ready to die, until his eyes open with surprise at the magical healing.

"Thank you, thank you." He sobs, taking in great gasps of air. "I thought I would die here with the others."

The dead bodies consist of humans and half-elves, all of whom died from horrific wounds incurred several days ago. The halfling has lost his left leg at the thigh, is malnourished and exhausted from his ordeal.

"My name’s Cirieo. Cirieo Thessaddin, and I appear at the moment to be the commanding officer of Fort Ristin, on account of my being the only Chernasardo Ranger left alive here."

I love the question blocks Paizo makes, but often I find if the PC's don't think of everything information gets missed. I've posted the entire block here as spoilers, feel free to read any/all of them and then ask follow up questions.