Anzath stands over the fallen cleric, letting the Sword of Saracek linger and sake its thirst. At no point does she consider Are we the baddies???
Relishing in being the baddies, the wildly laughing (some may say crazy) dwarf does what anyone in his shoes would do...
Bedlam moves another 20' toward the ship, tossing a Bomb inside the Hold!
Lolygert grunts as Lingright falls to pieces, then spies the nearby rangers. With a quick jump he's airborne again, dropping to his feet right in front of the nearest ranger.
With a roar, Lolygert raises his furious blade, crackles of electricity snapping out at the air along it's cutting edge!
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At no point does she consider Are we the baddies???
Noticing that the obvious alpha of their flight is under attack, Marahute wheels to attack the griffon with the rider harrying Aragnak.
(reg AC)
And the little lights assist.
(touch AC)
Terapin, meanwhile, is going to plant Bedlam's explosives at the hinges of the gate, scurry back to what he assumes is about two safe distances, and detonate them.
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Marahute has to get through the rider's lance, first:
Marahute takes a wound before giving one. Then, Flyby takes her out of the Griffon's range for another AOO:
Marahute is stabbed and chomped, but still flying.
The archons buzz up to within 30 feet of the rider and begin peppering him with rays of light.
Between them, Terapin's minions do 19 damage to the rider.
Lolly cuts down one of the blinded Greycloak rangers.
Bedlam continues bombing the hold of the ship. If there's anything in there, it's awfully sticky by now. He's also standing right on the edge of the water.
Aragnak launches himself after the griffon rider, reaching over his reach with his snaky neck:
Another would-be dragonslayer bites the dust.
The unpanicked knight wheels and charges
Lolly:
Lolly takes a well-aimed couched lance to the chest, but despite a wound that would kill a lesser man outright, he keeps his feet.
The final Greycloak casts down her bow and asks for quarter: "I can't see who you are, but my life is yours. Spare me, and I will do anything you want!"
The enslaved reload and fire their ballista at the griffon:
They hit the beast and cheer as it goes down in a heap of blood and feathers! Three commoners have finished off a griffon. Truly, stuff of legend (they did have help... but these grampas and grandmas are gonna have some snappy one-liners for their grandkids someday).
Bedlam looks at his reflection in the nearby water.
The dwarf seems please!
Anzath winces as Lolly takes a nasty hit. She'll leave the ranger begging for mercy. That whole "I'll do anything you want" level of desperation is tempting. Looking around, it seems the enemy wizard is the closest viable threat.
Sparky is nowhere to be seen.
Tragershen drops his dagger and extracts a scroll from his haversack, which is conveniently right at the top of the pile of gear. He unfurls the scroll and reads it off, but there is no obvious effect from it.
Can he now see where Sparky is at?
Tragershen sees Sparky climbing the fort wall. And yes, Anz can finish the knight with a charge--or she can wait for whatever Trag is surely about to yell about Sparks.
With enhanced celerity, Anzath tries to cut horse out from under rider.
[/ooc]
[/ooc]
The horse is nearly killed by Anzath's slash... but it's clinging to life yet.
Aurora looks down her nose at the surrendered heap of panicked knight on the ground, icy blue eyes narrowed and one hand tightly gripping the mace.
Still, it could be said that the cleric is not entirely without mercy, for she stows her weapon and in its place retrieves a length of rope with which the knight can be tied up. ... Then again, considering the group, it is possible that continued existence may prove to be a fate worse than a swift death.
"Do not do anything more unwise than you already have, slaver — such is my advice to you."
The knight sobs, nods, and holds up his hands for easier tying.
Tragershen calls out "Aragnak! One escapes!" And he points towards the wall where he last saw Sparky.
Bedlam turns to look at Tragershen when the wizard yells something about one escaping!
Where!
The dwarf runs in that direction!
Lolygert spins with the lance's impact, his furious sword held high, aiming to dispatch the remaning greycloaked ranger. But, the ranger's heartfelt plea penetrated the red haze of his rage.
The fatigue hit him, as it always does, like a hammer. But he still held the sword high, as he contemplated the woman and her request. A quick glance showed him that the knight was no longer a threat.
He brought the sword down slowly, and pressed it up against her neck under the chin, "The battle is won. Your lordling dead...under this blade. You offer your life...but it was already mine for the taking. ": he says, but then continues solemnly, "But I accept your offer, you will swear your skills and life to me until I free you from your oath. "
The ranger kneels and raises her bow horizontally in tribute towards Lolly. If her hands aren't quite facing Lolly, he'll forgive her--she's still blind. And sparkly. "Thank you, merciful lord!"
Aragnak snaps his vision directly onto the invisible wizard. He flutters over and:
...Sparky screams, but not for long.
The final knight wheels and faces Lolly once again: "Sparing that coward is a mistake you'll regret!"
She spurs her dying horse backwards five feet and pokes her lance at Anzath's face:
The dragon's Hasty magic gives Anzath just enough speed to twist away from the lance.
Lolly's new henchwoman, though blind, whips out arrows and sends them after the sound of the knight's insult:
"Die, noble scum!"
The heroic knight--a mere glorified fighter who managed to keep her head while all around were losing theirs and to lance-charge both a dragon and a hero is shot in the back by her blind erstwhile comrade. She slides off her horse to writhe alone in the dust. Truly, there is nothing noble in war.
The dragon, tattered red robes dangling from his maw, roars laughter at the attempts of the remaining humans to flee into the woods. Seeing that the resistance of the Riddlefort has been utterly crushed, he circles the clearing around the fort, herding the survivors (soldiers and slaves) away from the woods until their terror subsides.
The transport ship, having been damaged heavily by Bedlam, explodes.
As the slaves and soldiers regain their senses, the former masters are quickly placed in the chains that they once fastened on the former captives. The enslaved want blood, beating and kicking the Riddleportian trops. The ranger, blinking glitter out of her eyes, hides behind Lolly's protective bulk. The knight stands bewildered in his dented plate armor, surrounded by (well-earned) hatred... he stays as close to Aurora as possible.
Sylvia the woodswoman rushes from her station on the ballista to embrace Anzath in a massive hug.
Aragnak returns to the fort, landing in the square among the charred carnage of the battle.
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Schlrk
Anzath sticks the Sword of Saracek into the body of the fallen knight and leaves it there to quench its thirst. She lets the horse to run off and bleed out.
Her own blood running hot, she follows Sylvia's embrace with a passionate kiss, biting the woodswoman's lip.
Without wiping the drop of blood from her own mouth she lets out a victorious trilling scream.
When the liberated and defeated are gathered around, she addresses them, "Ve are de army of Aragnak de Red! De nationz of mortalz vill bow before Hiz might! De armiez of undead vill be krushed benead our feet! Kneel before your savior! Diz iz your home now!"
Tragershen slips to the side, taking advantage of his relative unobtrusiveness of his small size. He starts casting and scanning the area, while in the back of his mind considering the implications of Anzath's declaration.
Tragershen gets the attention of a couple of the freed men. He points to a large piece of fabric (Sail? Canvas? Flag? Banner? Something like that0. "Lay it out in sight of Aragnak the Red, and weigh the corners down. Start gathering items of value for the mighty wyrm to claim or reject as he sees fit." He gives them an encouraging nod, as if to say they are safe now. Diplomacy
Bedlam suddenly stops running! The dwarf looks on as the Red dragon takes the red wizard out for lunch!
Wats da f@&*! Dat be me red wizard!
The angry dwarf begins kicking grass.
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The calm after the battle is suddenly pierced with an ear-splitting blast as the edges of the main gate on the far side of the fort burst inwards in showers of splinters and burning sawdust, and the heavy wooden door crashes to the ground in an immense explosion of dirt and road-dust. There, in the smoking doorway, flanked by two shining lantern archons and twiddling the light of a new spell threateningly in his hands, stands Terapin, drawn up to his full and imposing 36 inches of height.
"SURPRISE MOTHERF-!"
Terapin glances around at the kneeling and chained troops, the triumphant slaves, and the recumbent dragon, coughs uncertainly, and goes invisible again.
Lolygert blinks as Anzath goes full on Dragon-cultist-warmonger, then looks back at the ranger, "Don't mind her, she's just putting a show on for the grumpy dragon...else he'd eat all of us, I think."
He pulls the ranger around to stand beside her, "Here, lass...let's have yer name then."
Aragnak rears back onto his hind legs, the dragon rampant towering over the humble hovels of the Riddlefort. He roars in pleasure at Anzath’s speech, adding “YOU HAVE BEEN CAPTURED BY ANZATH, THE DARK CRYSTAL, FIRST AMONG MY SUBJECTS. Your bodies and souls now belong to her, slaves-of-a-slave! Fear her, for her will is mine! Obey her, for there are no torments worse than those of drake-fire!”
Sylvia the woodswoman wipes her face and calls out “Don’t worry, everyone! They came to liberate us… Anzath is a hero!”
Aragnak laughs. “If I hadn’t just given you away, I would kill you. Of course, everything that belongs to her belongs to me, but I don’t like to rescind a gift so quickly.”
He turns to Anzath and says, “This one you’ve already bitten, so I’m not sure what to recommend. If you’re fond of the little thing, you may spare her. That goes for the rest of them.” His eyes wander over the assembled humans, seemingly not distinguishing between the defeated soldiery and the freed captives. “Kill them, keep them, make them dance. They are yours. Shall we leave them here? Start them marching towards the island? I still don’t see how humans and hobgoblins in one host makes sense, but I long to return to my lair with you... I owe you and your favorite minions many boons, and a dragon does not like to be indebted for long.”
Lolly’s own new subject tells him, “I need to start a new life now… give me a new name, please, sir.”
Tragershen’s treasure hunting turns up a few good-looking pieces. Aragnak approves of Trag’s quick and greedy action before scooping up the blades, rings, and gold into his dragbag. He is starting to make particular note of Tragershen’s effectiveness.
The words slaves-of-a-slave seem to ring and echo in Anzath’s mind. The skin under her bracelet begins to itch, and she presses a bloodied palm to her forehead, wincing from the sudden headache. She did come here as a liberator, but along the way gave in to the lure of power.
She turns to Sylvia, and her komrades, and consults, "Vhat iz best? Leave dem at fort to rebuild and make deir own? Or send dem to Zelkor’z Ferry?" She looks around at the fort, or what’s left of it, and adds, "Diz kan be our new base."
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Aurora pans a slow look over the conquered Riddlefort. Nicothoe is chirping and hooting with excitement, tapping a little dance on Aurora's shoulder as the cleric grabs her own knightly prisoner by the arm to bring him towards the others being ravaged by the vengeful freed — pausing about thirty feet away from wherever the largest cluster of the violence is.
She has no qualms against brandishing the mace if the prisoner needs some encouragement to move.
"Tell me, knight, do you find the keeping of slaves a noble pursuit? Clamping another being in shackles and lashing it when it disobeys? — Do you think they deserve it, or is your interest primarily in the money and prestige you receive for your role in things?" Her head cocks to the side. "Or... will you try to convince me you're not culpable in any of this?"
Aragnak's booming voice draws Aurora's attention for a moment, and another slow look over the carnage in the fort. Her hand slowly detaches from the tied up knight's arm but she remains at the prisoner's side, not yet surrendering him to the mercy of whoever comes next.
Nicothoe hops off and catches herself on her little wings to flutter over and watch the piling up of loot, attempting to alight on Tragershen as her next perch. An expression of equal parts awe and envy falls upon the dragon as he collects it all.
When Anzath comes to her allies for advice, Aurora's is simple: "The Fort, Anzath, must burn. Leave no evidence of what happened here but for the flames. The future of its people... I leave such to the others."
Slowly, and oddly out of breath for entering at such a leisurely pace, Terapin comes floating in on the back of his turtle through the sea-side gate, opposite the exploded one that someone else he doesn't really know took the entire battle trying to open. He guides the turtle over to the nearest cluster of freed (or are they?) slaves.
"So, ah... where you guys from?"
The dwarf is seen stumping about the grounds, gathering weapons, taking armor and complaining that the dragon is a kill stealer!
The dragon grins at the party members who look longingly at the disappearing treasure pile. "You are greedy. You do not trust me. Greed and mistrust--I expect and understand both. But have you forgotten my promise of a great boon? A dragon pays his debts."
The dragon sees you squirreling away the dead ranger's longbow. He laughs and says, "Dark Crystal, take it if you want it. But if it's a bow you want, my hoard holds an ancient arc that is almost worthy of one such as you. We will discuss this in my castle, but I rather hope you choose another, greater boon. Greater than mere toys like this bauble." He lifts the Sword of Saracek and drops it neatly into his clearly extradimensional dragbag.
Terapin's question attracts the attention of the liberated(?). He sees a sampling of human phenotypes far beyond those most common in Riddleport, plus a handful of non-humans and fractionals. A tall man with a dark brown complexion and dwarven shoulders steps forward and says, in accented (by Rivenrake standards) Common, "Those of us they bought on the mainland were selected first for our skills, second for our foreignness. They thought it would be easier to keep us divided if we looked different. They were mostly wrong: we survivors worked together. Some of us are from very far away. Others... he gestures towards Sylvia among those captured on the island itself "...they found here."
The knight's shoulders slump as he says, "I swore an oath to do my lord's bidding. All knights swear fealty. It is not for me to question my lord. Neither do I expect mercy from you because of this: I was his strong right arm, and the arm pays for the head's mistakes without complaining. My lord is dead now, and I am a proven coward in the face of the dragon, unlike my gallant sister-knight. In my fear, I've felt part of the pain I've caused. Killing me would be a mercy."
Tears roll down his face.
"I never thought I was capable of being captured. There is some magic in that dragon, something bigger than I am. I fear him still, even if not in that strange blind panic. I have no lord now. Good woman, kill me before I understand our crimes. My crimes."
Your woodswoman seconds Aurora's proposal to burn the fort. "Let us go back to Zelkor's Ferry. The Ferry took me in when I was a refugee. They will take in these people, too. They are mostly skilled craftsfolk, they will work! And there are no children to be a burden. As for the soldiers, slit their throats. They've done worse to us."
"Decide what you will do with these minions--and then we will celebrate our victories in my castle!"
Anzath looks at the bow in her hands and drops it. Taking a glance at Sylvia, she asks the woods woman to help her line up the captured and surrendered soldiers of the Riddlefort. She draws her old friends, Kritfisher and Vael’s Blade, and, in front of everyone, executes the soldiers one by one.
Returning to her komrades, "Ve kan not deny Aragnak hiz viktory celebration. He promisez boonz, and I have promised him my body." She pauses for a brief moment, her eyes slightly lifting up to the far horizon, pupils dilating in terror, before reassociating back with the present. "But, ve kan not send people through voodz vithout protektion. You should go back to Ferry vid dem. I vill go vid Aragnak. I vill be only slave tonight, everyone else goez free."
Aurora's gaze once more fixes on the weeping knight as he speaks, a frown forming. It's always hard when they're crying. Though tempted to say more, she leaves her words to a crisp: "Make your peace with whatever it is that you worship, then."
The cleric delivers the knight to the group Anzath is having rounded up and raises no complaint against the execution of the soldiery.
Bedlam doesn't even attempt to talk to any of the Riddleportians. The gruff dwarf just busy himself with whatever is needed for the journey back.
Tragershen spends time looking for where the leaders of the fort were sleeping. He's hoping a nice tome might be lurking about there somewhere.
Terapin busies himself talking with the freed slaves and turning his back on the execution. He has a particular animus for slavers for reasons of his own, and has zero sympathy for them academically... but actually seeing sentient beings turned into so much inert material outside of the heat of battle is always a bit rough for the wee gnome.
He would, however, like to call dibs on any rings they may be wearing. Any that are plain enough to be beneath Aragnak's tastes, anyway.
He'd also like to assess the smithy (if there is a smithy) at the fort. If he has enough, he may want to use the broken chains as raw materials to make some sort of a Fall Of Riddlefort class ring for the rescuees, mostly just to feel useful.
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Lolygert ignores the histrionics of both Anzath and Aragnak, rolling hs eyes at his new Ranger and making the 'talk, talk, talk' gesture with his hand.
"A new name,eh? " he askes, pondering, "Never named a lady before....lemme think."
He motions her to follow him, and he clasps his hands behind his back and ponders while he walks. He somehow manages to look remarkably like his much more intelligent friend Tragershen as he pondered....and pondered.
Suddenly, when he and the ranger had walked along the shore a short while, he stopped and turned to the Rangers.
His face solemn, he spoke "Kneel.". When she did, he drew his sword and lightly touched her on each shoulder, "Rise, my new friend. I dub thee Tam Blindarrow! Tam was my mother' name, and you remind me of her somewhat. And you made that amazing shot to join our team! "
He then looked at her shyly, "Do you like it?"
Tam looks a bit confusedly at Lolly. She was expecting violence and mighty mastery, and instead she's finding something that partakes of compassion, silliness, and even... family? He named me after his... mother?!? I wonder what it's like to have one... to know your mother...
She rises stiffly and says, "I am now Tam Blindarrow, your servant, my good Sir... what is your name? When she hears Lolly's name, the incongruity almost makes her smile and almost makes her cry. She declares: "I renounce the Order of the Greycloaks! I now serve my lord, Sir Lolygert Endeferr!"
Bedlam begins counting the swelling numbers in their army.
Soon Riddleport! Then Varisia!
The dwarf stops. He spits out the ale that he found just sitting on someone's front porch.
Best be check'n dem fer drugs. Me being hearing tings.
The prisoners beg for mercy, thrash against their bindings, and weep as Anzath puts them down. Aragnak intervenes to spare the life of the youngest and most succulent trooper, saying only a mysterious word you’ve not heard before: “Pozole.”
He demands that the party join him in his castle for a feast of celebration and a boon-granting session.
The rest of the party finishes its scavenging mission. Bedlam’s attempt to gather weapons and armor is somewhat frustrated by the fact that fifty-five other people are currently engaged in the same activity. The armory is stripped, the weapons of the fallen (non-magical) are captured and donned, and the freedfolk have a ragtag army going. So ragtag, in fact, that Bedlam and the others decide to advise them to stay at the fort until the party can return to guide them back to Zelkor’s Ferry after the impending feast at Aragnak’s island castle. A bunch of experts and commoners finding their way through the Forest of Hope unescorted sounds like a bad idea. Sylvia remembers what happened last time. So the freedfolk agree to remain for now, to bury bodies (some with honors), to eat through the supplies, and repair the boat. The freed shipwrights agree with Terapin that it is salvageable—maybe they’ll be able to get everyone to the Ferry by river in a few days.
The dragon departs as night falls, promising to return with Captain Kolvio’s ship for a quick passage to the island in the morning. After a rousing mini-pre-feast, all sleep, some soundly, in the ruins of the fort. In the morning, the aptly named Red Dragon sits in the harbor after picking its way through the reefs and shoals all night—they’ve been guided by moonlight and dragonfire. Anzath wakes (if she sleeps at all) to find Aragnak’s huge bulk just outside of her room. The heat is not merely that of the last gasps of late summer.
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Exiting yet another empty supply shed, weapons rack, armory, the frustrated dwarf angrily stomps off to the next one.
Stupid humans don't even be hav'n un hammer ta hit meself in da head wit!
The party embarks with the two survivors of the assault on the fort, Tam Blindarrow and the teenage soldier. Tam sticks close to Lolly.
Captain Kolvio fills in the party on his busy night: Aragnak has had the Red Dragon ferry the hobgoblin army across to his island, ordering them to tidy up the place and prepare a mighty feast. Then followed a terrifying night of sailing among the famously deadly reefs off of Rivenrake, guided by gouts of draconic fire. He looks bone-weary, nervous, and none too happy about this turn of events…
As the captain tells his tale, the dragon circles overhead, again guiding him through the treacherous channels. Anzath likely perches on Aragnak's broad shoulders, unless she’d rather sail.
The party docks to a military greeting by the new Host of the Red—a row of hobgoblins wielding glaives chanting and marching in formation.
Aragnak lands in front of the ruined fortress that is now his castle. The mighty dragon beckons you to follow him through the bastion into the keep itself. Zorzunar bows down before his liege, and the hobgoblin army presents arms and cheers for Aragnak and Tiamat.
Aragnak advances into a great hall lit by sunlight pouring through a long-collapsed vaulted ceiling. He heads towards a throne that is far too small for him. Then, he reaches into his dragbag and pulls out a golden crown and a gauzy bit of fabric. The dragon places the crown on his own head and suddenly starts to shimmer and dilate, a magic haze shrouding his form from view for a moment. He shrinks and darkens, shaping himself into a cloudy human form. When the spell ends, he stands before you, stark other than a bandolier where his dragbag should be. His skin is an otherworldly, inky black, and his form is one that the greatest Heracles of this world would envy. His hair is crimson under the gold band of his crown. His chiseled features defy any analogy to the myriad phenotypes of even the Freedfolk of the Riddlefort, borrowing handsome details from every corner of the globe and even creating a few new ones. The dragon-man swiftly snaps out two lengths of the gauzy fabric, slipping them onto his arms. He’s suddenly wrapped in a lordly gambeson of red and gold. He reaches again into his dragbag, removing a suit of crimson plate armor of antediluvian manufacture in one pull, as if it weighed nothing: Zorzunar and two other hobgoblins, clearly prepared for this moment, rush towards him and swiftly tie the plate over his clothing. He then Mary-Poppinses a staff from the dragbag and settles into his throne with it in hand, its end planted firmly on the ground. His smile flashes forth long-toothed beneath blazing red irises and further ink-black where the whites of his eyes should be. A baritone voice booms from his broad chest, echoing in the nooks and crannies of the ruined fortress:
“Welcome to my lair, minions! Today and tonight, we celebrate! Zorzunar is now my majordomo. I’ve always liked that word. Majordomo! Bring out the hors d’oeuvres! Pour the ale! For dinner, we will drink some of my old wine and eat of the goats and fish of my island. After dinner, I will present each of you with a boon that befits your service and loyalty. And pozole! My first gift is a mere party favor, but please array yourselves in festal garb to suit your tastes. Anzath, my Dark Crystal! I want you in something as slinky and silky as a snake’s scales. Remember to wear your jewels.”
Hobgoblins approach each of you and give you a gauzy set of Sleeves of Many Garments.
Others emerge with plates of simple fare cobbled together from the ex-hobfort’s supplies and the natural produce of the island (stuff like gouda, crackers, and samphire greens).