Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday dear Darvyl/Pat
Happy Birthday tooooo yooouuuuuu"
The satyr takes a swig from his bottle.
"Before tha passes out from booze, best be telling us what tha was planning."
Healaugh gets back to business with rare halfling persistence.
"Haec!"
The goat fey hiccups.
"Sure, I was plannin' on holdin' ye up for a wee while, but yer fast buggers." he slurs. "Ohhh, I'm fer hopin' ye don't meet Mistress Inge, she'll be powerful angry if yer here to cause mischief. Master Sven, well, he's not fer messin' with."
"Don't know about mischief. Setting wrongs to rights, mebbe. Best you be telling us more about this Mistress Inge and Master Sven."
The satyr stands up blearily looks at Healaugh and belches, "Whaddya take me fer? Ye kill me dogs and then I go betrayin' sweet Inge..." he starts blubbering again, big blobby tears.
"Mite take ye forr sourrce o' haggis.."
The fey doesn't seem to hear Nechtan.
Healaugh
Initiative. (Tentatively using IC again) (1d20+2=13)
"What, what, what?"
Initiative
Darvyl
Ynyr
Ddraig
Satyr
Nechtan
Healaugh
The satyr makes a break for it before the friends can stop him!
Darvyl lets out a whoop and charges down the beach at the satyr, shortsword to the fore.
Darvyl chases after the fleeying fey and slashes him. It doesn't fell the satyr, who seems to have recovered somewhat from the previous battle.
The satyr seems even more flustered now that the comrades are after him with a vengeance.
He continues to run away, but a swift strike from Darvyl floors him.
The satyr falls to the ground, still alive but knocked out.
"Reet. This time we're tying daft bugger up."
Healaugh suits the action to the words. He also takes the opportunity to swipe the satyr's pipes.
Healaugh ties the fey up; it would seem his pipes are quite ordinary. It must be his innate magical nature that enables him to create such beautiful, bewitching music.
Healaugh stows the pipes in his backpack anyway. It would take a lot to make him give up his hurdy-gurdy, but waste not want not.
He catches his breath , and waits for the satyr to wake up, humming a snatch of sea shanty.
"Hope tha's feeling more like talking now. Seeing as we mean business. M'patient mesen, but others here might not be. Can't hold them off forever."
The satyr comes round groggily, and murmurs, "Ship, Inge, so beautiful... shlaves, *hic* village... Corriban. Turned back..."
"Rright. Best muve, and catch yon Ingerr nasty."
Healaugh glares down at the satyr as he searches his memory. "Best be telling truth. Won't be answerable if our Nechtan turns nasty."
Healaugh recognises the name, as it harks back to the Korrin Archipelago, the homeland of some of the group. Corriban Island was reputedly haunted and the inhabitants were never heard of again. It was reputedly quite rich in natural wealth, such as lumber and minerals.
"Now, didn't I hear him mention someone else he named? Some lady or something was it. Since he is so talkative, shall we ask him to tell us more about this person so that we know more about her, you know?"
"Mistress Inge and Master Sven, eh? Don't sound to me like folk a fey boozer would be hanging around. What drove them off from haunted island? Can't believe it were fear, so must be summat else."
"This is all jolly interesting but shouldn't we see where that other pesky hound went? Surely he's bound to have warned someone or other?" Greylan asks, hefting his bag of potions.
"Aye. Good point our Greylan. Reckon we'll not be getting much more from this un. Nechtan, Darvyl, canst track hound?"
He brushes himself down and looks at the captive satyr.
"Shameful waste o' talent to my mind."
Greylan looks out across the dunes towards the sea, "No real need to track it, old fellow. It ran that way." he says pointing to the shoreline and the direction of the camp you spotted from the cliffs.
"Bit of a problem being short sometimes." Healaugh shrugs and sets off doggedly towards the camp.
"Must move, aforre things get worrse!"