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When Hegh turns back from shouting, Sees is gone.
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Thunk roars Come get thump! What? Why you scare by Thunk!
Thunk slides his club off his shoulders as the ties on his wrist come off easily, as he shouts he swings the club which briefly trails the cloth like a flag with a glowing midnight blue club. He swings it back the other way and the cloth flutters off landing on top of a young child who is fleeing the roar. Thunk stands with club held in one claw and the other flexed showing a massive reptile bicep.
Krish will return to his cage, but will stand at the cage door pretending to look on in horror as "Armand kills Retzack". As soon as the woman enters and becomes focused on the diorama laid out for her, he will spring out of the cage and smash her with the iron bar.
Smoog hears the familiar war cries of Thunk and Hegh.
[b]"Oh crap, here we go! I think they are starting their distraction.
We need to find them now."[\b]
Smoog heads towards the yelling.
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AT THE AUCTION HOUSE:
What here is not as it appears to be?
It appears to be a house of uniform order, with guards bearing the fleur de lis at every entrance to the big area. However, you spot a contingent of armed and armored dwarves up on a dais, who are clearly not part of the city guard. They bear an emblem of a spiked fist, and you remember seeing the same spiked fist on the helmet of Krondor the barbarian. The memory is sharp and clear, you remember looking up at the barbarian king as he walked over you.
What here is useful or valuable to me?
You see that the interior of the auction house has a large chandelier, currently unlit, that hangs from the ceiling. The chain attached to the pulley is wrapped around a hook on the wall nearby. Apart from that, nothing of interest here but a bunch pf people selling people.
What is about to happen?
A dark elf woman is struggling mightily against her chains, her white hair disheveled in a mane framing her face as her red eyes scan the crowd for anyone foolish enough to try and claim her. Still, a tall, brutish-looking green-scaled Dragonborn - the first one you've seen since Immanuel Dragonshield - seems interested. He's holding aloft an auction paddle, placing a bid wordlessly as he smirks at the dark-skinned woman.
Suddenly, surprising everyone, Hegh bellows a challenge in Draconic! The language is not one that is spoken by the slaver races here, but a few scalykind slaves perk up, and the Dragonborn narrows his eyes and scans the crowd to try and find him.
It's not hard to do. After Hegh's proclamation, Thunk breaks the ties easily and swings his club around like a flag before the concealing fabric is tossed away. As he flexes and shouts his challenge, the tone of his words - if not the exact meaning - is made clear. Sounds of confusion begin trickling through the crowd, and those nearest to the two kobolds spread out away from him, leaving a 10 foot circle around Hegh, Thunk and Dufus. Though the crowd is slow to react, the guards absolutely are not. The ones near the imprisoned scalykind peoples quickly act to subdue them, and other guards begin shoving their way through the crowd to get at you! In particular, the green-scaled Dragonborn seems incensed, and he stomps toward Hegh and Thunk angrily. The crowd parts before him as he walks.
"These slaves are trying to incite a riot! Guards, take them down at once!" he calls out, in an authoritative voice. Before the guards can approach you, though, they have to make it through the crowd, and the crowd is fighting its own rising sense of panic. People are shoving each other down in their haste to get away, and some of them are shoved out of the mass of people and toward you. One of them, a young human woman in her early twenties, trips and falls at Dufus' feet. With a bloodlusted grin, Dufus brings his heavy handaxe down on the woman, killing her instantly. The orc tosses his head back and roars in amusement and pleasure at the free kill. "Come on!" he shouts at the crowd.
IN ARMAN'S TENT:
Oadir cuts the remainder of his collar off with a sharp bit of metal from the ground and re-binds his soul to the shadow elemental. He has 3 control over it, and turns his attention to crafting a shadow-spear. He smiles a dark smile as the magic rushes to obey his mental command once more.
Just then, Retzack's gambit pays off. The fat woman barges into the tent flap heedlessly, still shouting at her husband - and Greas immediately strikes. Having fished his rapier out of the chest, he stows his knife (1 weight, precise, hand) and lunges at her. Stabbing her in the neck and legs, he brings her down to her knees; but the fat lady isn't singing yet. Growling in surprised anger, she lashes out in retaliation at Greas, smacking him in the face with a heavy iron soup ladle for 1d6 damage, ignores armor because of the location of the strike. Just then, Oadir directs his lance of shadow to puncture the woman's neck.
It enters her throat at her adam's apple and penetrates through her spinal column before erupting out of the back of her neck. The woman stops struggling and collapses. Krish, your hack and slash roll was un-needed, so we'll be ignoring it for now.
As you're looting the remainder of the tent, you can hear distant shouting in Draconic. Unintelligible, but definitely in your language. What do you do?
SCOUT GROUP:
Kibra leverages his entire body weight behind the spear-stab and punctures the sleeping man's skull clean through in a perfect coup de grace. Smoog hears the commotion coming from the center of the marketplace rather quickly. You could try to run there by following the walking paths that normal people use, or you could try to take the stealthier route. What's your choice, Kibra, Tessith and Smoog?
Thunk roars his challenge at the draonborn
defy danger dex he tries to leap up to the stage
Once there he starts clubbing guards
using my held aid from sees for
Hegh paces Thunk as barbarian moves, keeping an eye out for errant strikes against his friend.
You'd have to roll similarly to Thunk to Defy Danger your way up to the stage. The danger being: the interfering crowd, or not making the jump all the way.
Familiar wings sprout from Hegh's back and he propels himself above the crowd in pursuit of his friend.
Smoog knows how quickly his friends can get into deep trouble but also knows he can't help if he never makes it there, so...
-
"We should hurry. This commotion will draw everyone's attention so I say we dash headlong to the center. No one will expect three lowly Kobolds to be running TOWARD the fight."
Oadir picks up his gear and whatever food can be found in the tent and motions his readiness to move into the chaos. Draconic and calling others to arms, I can't imagine any of you not at least being intrigued, so let's go, I'll cover your backs. If I fail to do so just keep running, either I go boom or I'll find my own way out. Arman was all too lucky to place me out of reach of my shadow. Kreng, you follow and protect the Shaman as if he were your master. Who knows, he might like you better, treat you better too. Oh, and I'm Oadir. Pleasure to meet you all, even under such dire circumstances.
Oadir spits some of his blood on the wench before moving to the edge of the tent and checking out the ruckus.
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'Retzack ponders his situation, and wonders if he wasn't better off....before.
No, that's silly. Of course he made the right decision. An enormous warparty of humans was besieging that goblin horde. And Meatsnacks, that over-fat warthog was NOT the leader that they needed at that time. To stay and defend -his- honor would be a throwing one's life away for the sake of a rotten banana peel.
So he gathered together his minions and cast the spell of Far Travel. So tumultuous was the maelstrom of battle that he did not control to where, but nor would he have cared. Simply that it was far away. That was enough.
He came to this land, a land that knew not of goblins, but so too had they landed on in a mossy bog. Many days' travel in any direction was either muddy putrescence or hostile natives.
To the natives he created the fiction that they had magically appeared due to a merging of a gelly cube via arch-magics. That scarred them...and inspired him!
Using a variation of the infinite voidworms, he took the only harvested crop that grew in those blasted lands, the ubiquitous insects, and infused them with The Void.
The spell was an unmitigated success. Insects of every nature and aspects mutated into being with maximum speed. Insects to eat, insects to wear, insects to...milk. Over time Retzack came to doubt that there was anything they could not do. Indeed, when the Void allowed him to create the Dead Movers, he knew there was not.
In time he dedicated so much of his time to husbanding the mutant strains he had created, he lost the ability to connect with the Void. It bothered him not. He had about him a thriving crop of insect-farming goblins. They populated quickly, as was their habit. The natives around them came to them for medical attention and well-cooked insect haunches with a flavor of steak and the texture of potatoes. The surrounding cultures traded ideas and trinkets. And we was happy.
Then he heard things. Disturbing things. The other races were on the move. Some rumors swirled about with tales of dragons and dragon kin. He had to learn of these for himself. He had to see to it that the tribe he had founded here would not be threatened.
And so he left, believing that if he could improve the lives of all with the new breeds of bugs he had made, then surely conflict itself would end?
And was that not the master plan? To rule the world not through the iron fist, but through the velvet glove? Not to march at the head of armies and force people to respect him, but to hold out all they dreamed of, and have them come to him out of respect intrinsic?
Perhaps the old Retzeck would have solved these problems with fire creatures summoned from the aether, or soul-rending abominations created out of the nightmares of hell-spawn, but not now. The new Retzeck had powerful knowledge of how to re-use corpses to solve the problems of health and happiness.
There would be no need for bloodshed.'
Retzack chuckled. It was funny how a simple misunderstanding, a tiny cage, and little tongue-gouging can lead astray even the best of intentions.
He stared down at the corpse, and contemplated the last few seconds.
He, without taking any action, had laid a plan, and condemned a living thing to death. All the blood was on the hands of others, though his voice did but set events to motion.
And again death, not by him but certainly of him.
He smiles.
O by Propoket's Infinite Credit it was good to have minions again!
He takes one last dip into his past musings, wondering whatever happened to...to all of them. Especially that one...wasn't there a green bear at some point?
.
.
Retzack is smiling. "Now, my brothers. Let us recover that which was taken from us and be away. Someone peek out the door and contemplate our egress."
Retzack turns to the chest and recovers his simple belongings of a pack and a small knife. From the pack he retrieves a bottle and holds it aloft, uncorking it. A fine dust seems to settle upon the corpse where it is consumed in moments, and the dust flies of it's own volition back unto the bottle to be re-stoppered.
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As her allies push for the stage and the perimeter guards begin to break through to the irregular clearing, Sees reaches the chandelier rigging, keeping just outside the wave of terror-fueled knees. She watches the plumed guard hats wade through the mob, and waits for them to converge under the chandelier before heaving the chain over and under the rigging until it starts to pull itself free from weight alone. As it does so, she notices she may have just tied her arm to the end of the chain, and she frantically claws at the slipping chain to get free.
Kibra hears the call to action and is nervous and excited. Like a young Kobold before their first assignment.
Smoog, I agree with your plan. The most unexpected advance on the building would be the direct advance. We will likely encounter a few civilians and merchants fleeing from the damage our allies are laying down but they should be easily handled.
What we need to watch for are any other troops who will be traveling in the same direction as us.
Taking a second or two to ponder this threat, Kibra appears to have a light bulb go off.
Tessith and Smoog go ahead, I will hang back 10-20 paces, watching our rear and ready to engage anyone who attempts to tangle you up. If at all possible don't stop.
Kibra ducks to a crouched position and hugs the edge of the path. Staying close to tents and stalls as they make their way down the path. Leapfrogging to the next tent or stall. Every 3-5 seconds Kibra stalls to check the rear approach to the group.
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The blow from the ladle caught the thief as he retrieved the rapier from within the leg of the raging she-blob, directly striking a couple of his teeth and causing him to bleed at the gum. He was about to pay her back for that when he sees the shadowy hole appear in the wench's neck. His gaze then turned to Oadir as he sheathed his weapon.
Heh. The tiefling has his uses after all. In fact, he may prove especially useful right now.
He takes up the shock-stick once more, trying to recall what his captors did to activate it while he looks for anything else of value, when he hears the unmistakable sound of Draconic. It seemed his group weren't the only escapees. While this other runaway had no sense of subtlety, they would prove useful if he could gain their assistance.
With this noted, he begins to ensure everything is in place. His armour is donned, the rapier holstered, the steak knife carefully slotted in with the throwing knives that were left in their bandoleer. With practised care and swiftness, he removes one such throwing knife and applies a dose of Bloodweed to it using a piece of fabric torn from the dress of Arman's wife, wrapping it in the scrap once it is spread and placing it back in its slot. The shock-stick is given to whoever is willing to take it and believes they can operate it.
"I have to agree. As tactless as they are, it appears we have new friends to meet with. I'll take point. My fellow and...you-" Greas points to Retzack as before. "- should assign yourselves as you feel is appropriate."
"As for you...Oadir, was it? A pleasure. You can call me Greas." He fixes a harsh gaze on the tiefling, wearing a sadistic grin all too familiar to its recipient. "I need you to stay in the back. You're badly injured, and you wouldn't survive in the midst of the local struggle. Use that invisible projectile attack of yours to provide fire support from an out of the way location. Stay out of combat."
The vitriol fades from his face as quick as it was called. "When we finish here and set out, we burn the tent. The fire will at least attract attention, regardless of whether or not it spreads. Any objections to the plan so far?"
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Oadir had always been a playful one. In his youth he heard stories of the Channelers, awesome heroes and abhorrent villains who could wield lightning like a sword or shoot fire from their forehead.
Oadir would often play pretend with his friends, they would hit each other with sticks as though they were crafted from the earth itself, glare and make explosion sounds with their mouth. The young mix of aspiring Channelers would play like this every day of the week.
One day the small town of Fealmarsh had a visitor, a powerful Channeler had been informed of this avid group and was coming to see if she could recruit any. She came into town on the hottest day of summer when she would be at her strongest to show off the real deal. When Oadir first lay eyes on Shewa he bore his blinding crush. She was of short stature and colourful she was not. Her entire body appeared to be permanently covered in soot, making her blacker than any creature he had ever seen. Her scales were rugged looking and some patches were missing scales, but the area would be scorched, probably closing up the wound. This woman had obviously seen all his imaginations come true.
Oadir hung on her lips as she told all the kids about her many adventures. What particularly piqued his interest though was her talk of the different elements. How there are thousands but they generally come down to a distinction of Primal, Organic and Metaphysical. That last one was a word Oadir had never heard before, so he spoke up, asking the meaning.
The Primal elements were most popular as Fire, Earth, Lightning etc.
The Organic elements were not usually attributed to Channelers like Acid.
The Metaphysical elements though range from the Arcane void to life and death or magnetic fields. Most interesting for Oadir was the Light manipulation, though with his black scales he felt closer to Shadow Manipulation.
After the lecture all the kids were playing and Oadir went up to Shewa and acted like he was molding a throwing spear and got ready to throw it at the loudest kid in the group. Shewa was distracted by the apparent naivety of this young Tiefling before she saw a streak in his shadow. She managed to pull the target out of the way just in time but sustained the effects herself as her shoulder was pierced by the invisible rod.
Shewa had found her recruit, but it had come at a cost to both him and her, as Oadir was forced along with her in chains and told never to return.
As Oadir snaps out of his reminiscences he recalls his health potions. He offers one to Greas and gulps another down himself, healing 10 hp.
Greas accepts the potion wordlessly, and stores it on his person. A means of recovery would not be unappreciated currently.
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Krish beckons the others around, "Before we leave, devil-Oadir-thing, come closer. I will release spirit of Earth Dragon, Skreex-Sha, and she will littl-make-better your hurts." When Oadir is close, Krish raises a beautifully carved bone totem from his belt. He begins a soft chanting in the language he uses to speak to spirits, but the meaning of his words is somehow made clear to Oadir
Krish wiped a tear as the elder finished the tale. She rose to leave, but tripped and stumbled, breaking a leg in the fall. Krish tried to help her and lamented that Skreex-Sha was not there to heal her.
The name Skreex-Sha, uttered from Krish's lips, echoed around the chamber, the earth rumbled, and the elder's leg was made whole. Krish No-Magic died in that moment and Krish Spirit-Voice was born.
As he finishes the chant, Krish raises the totem and hisses the name in a sibilant whisper, Skreex-Sha! The totem glows and a Presence is felt in the tent. Oadir feels some of the pain leave his body as he is healed by the power of the Earth Dragon Spirit. The glowing totem dims and grows quiet once more.
Krish pats Oadir on the leg and hefts his spear with a grin, "There! Spirit make-better Oadir. Now we go."
Oadir heals for and nods in gratitude to Krish. He then takes a whiff of his Smelling salts to wake him up from his daydreaming.
Good point that I actually overlooked with all the excitement of the killing and the rabblerousing and the heyyyven.
Roll 2d6+1 for looting your former slavemaster's chest o' booty if you're one of the new guys.
Krish walks close by the undead dwarf, reaching up and plucking the sparkling green earring off the side of its head before looking about the tent for anything else of value.
As they rummage through the Dwarf's chest, Krish watches what the others are also finding, helping to turn up anything overlooked,
[dice=Dead Man's Chest]2d6+1
Greas points out articles that may be of use to the tiefling. He could only hope Oadir would pay more attention once they left the tent.
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Before exiting, Greas produces some matches (an invention that he found himself very grateful for) and a few of bottles of Dwarven whiskey from his assorted equipment. Given the constitution of the species, dwarven alcohol came in high quantities and even higher proofs, making it just as useful for starting fires as it was for getting drunk. He opened two bottles and sprayed their contents across the walls of the tent, and soon the intoxicating scent of his chosen pyrestarter was permeating the air, almost enough to get you drunk on its own. As he set up, he started remembering...
It wasn't so long after he left Moontower when he acquired these, was it? That disgraceful flight may have kept him alive, but it has earned him no favour with his departed god. He should hope this shall help appease him.
He got them...two days. Yes, two days since. A lone merchant caravan was transporting them in significant amounts, the owner too inexperienced to know their true value. Probably the son of a merchant out on his first job. The excitement on his face was only matched by the arrogance in knowing that Gorlaug was gone, and that he had a few mercenaries to protect his cargo. Heh. Those cack-handed morons were almost as dumb as their employer. All of them, boasting about how secure they were against tithe due to a kill they never made and some dull blades in case of bandits.
It wasn't hard to follow them till night fell unseen. They set up camp, and set their watch order. The one who took first watch was a short, blond wench leaning on a large, clumsy axe, confident in seeing anyone approaching without the aid of firelight. It was only natural that he killed her first, tossing a knife in her back from under the caravan as her companions slept. She fell to the ground like a sack of self-righteous bricks, but her companions had drunk themselves to sleep with the cargo beyond any ability to be woken.
All that was left was to deal with the rest. As they slept, he tied and gagged the merchant boy using rope and cloth from the packs of his guard. It was a beautiful look of terror as he woke, but he couldn't make enough sound to wake his remaining protectors from their drunken slumber. So it was all the better as he watched him climb into the caravan, open each of his crates, and douse him and the others in his precious cargo. He had made sure to take a pack, some equipment, and some bottles over his own before the dousing was complete, before removing the poor boy's gag and introducing the fire needed to start the inferno with a simple toss of a match, one just like the ones he held now.
Greas could only regret that there would not be so much screaming this time, but that was not important. This place was to be another offering in fire to the god he had deserted, another gift to appease the powerful spirit that would await him.
So as he left, tossing the match once more to create that wonderful pyre, he smiled to himself. Using his distraction, he moved to the sounds of other slaves now freed, the sound of his home tongue.
The sounds of the people that would help him get his revenge and atone for his crime. Whether they intended to or not.
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Smoog’s hands gripped the hafts of his mining picks with the intimate familiarity of a lover.
All week he had been cutting a path thru the rock intending to connect the main supply tunnel to an air vent and tertiary maintenance tubes.
He worked quickly and accurately; more so than any others on his tunnel team and Smoog suspected that was why Brogg the foreman allowed him to work alone.
As he worked he hummed a little song he favored that kept his mind occupied during long digging shifts…
The song goes....
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There was no warning when the ‘Miner’s Death’ struck and the mountain started shaking.
Smoog tried to scramble to an arched doorway for cover but the quake split the floor under him and he fell.
When the mountain finally stopped rumbling, and the dust settled, Smoog found himself in an altogether unfamiliar area.
Here the stonework was straight and smooth, unlike the rounded, sweeping curves kobolds usually leave behind;
geometric patterns and ancient lettering covered the middle third of each wall.
-
Smoog’s claws traced and followed the newly uncovered stonework as he headed up, (or what he perceived to be up), towards the surface.
He could now hear a low humming, like the thrum of cave crickets only lower.
As he headed toward the sound, Smoog noticed that all other sounds of the Mountain were gone; no drip of condensed water, no whisper of drafty air; no creak of support timbers holding up new construction.
-
Then suddenly the tunnel opened up into a cluttered room.
Not large but big enough to hold quite a bit of workroom apparatus.
All around were benches piled high with gears, springs, cranks and assorted gadgets.
He saw rows of tubes, spiralling wires and bric-a-brac of every kind.
His eyes ended their wandering in the center of the room on what appeared to be a storage rack full of finished gear.
This is where he found Steamer 1.0 (rebuilt after the Necromancer battle into Steamer 2.0), the pink-lensed goggles and the magnetic ray device.
That fortuitous discovery coupled with the catastrophic events atop Moontower Mountain had forced Smoog onto a path he would never have dreamed taking.
Now if he could only find his way out (but that is another story…)
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I was just thinking about how some of these PbPs would make a great novel. I thought about how The Martian was written.
AT THE CENTRAL PAVILION:
Dufus gets swarmed by guards quickly and roars in joy as he engages in single combat with them. His axe swings rapidly and keeps the guards at bay for the moment. Meanwhile, Thunk the barbarian is making the noise. He leaps up onto the stage of the structure, in the middle, scaring off the auctioneer and making the human fall backward off the stage in fright. His club is glowing brightly in the presence of so many humans, the All-Eater's hated foes. The glowing bone swings in an underhanded arc, colliding with the chin of one of the trio of guards advancing on him. Shattering the man's jaw with the force of his swing, Thunk can only laugh as the guard stumbles backward and falls into the pen of slaves, who immediately attack him. Having put himself in the center of the action has its disadvantages, though. Thunk looks up, his danger instinct warning him, as he barely catches the sound of a heavy crossbow being wound up in the rafters above him. There's a human there, a woman, bracing the heavy piece of machinery against the rafter as she aims it squarely at your head. It launches its bolt at you a second later, what do you do?
Nearby, Sees-Death sees her own death as the chain of the chandelier nearly drags her off her feet. Though she manages to yank her claws clear in time, she only does so when she's already about 10 feet off the ground. Falling into the crowd, she lands on a screaming human woman's shoulders. The woman stops screaming a moment, glancing up at Sees. Sees looks back down at the woman, and their eyes meet. A tense moment of silence passes. Then the woman starts screaming again! "AAAAAAGGGGHGHGHH!" she cries out in terror.
Hegh flies up to the stage easily, avoiding the crowd. However, his magnificent wings attract a LOT of attention. You start to hear excited cries mixed in with the fearful ones, along with snippets of sentences like... "Cor, look at 'im!" "Wings the size of a condor's!" "He'll make me rich!" "Back off, I saw him first!"
A voice cuts through the din and confusion. Everyone, the guards, the civilians, everyone stops what they're doing a second to look at the speaker. It's the Dragonborn that was considering purchasing the elf slave when you came in. His scales are the color of bleached acid. He levels a weapon at you that you don't recognize, and the crowd scatters, fleeing the pavilion and giving more room for the guards to maneuver. The imperious Dragonborn speaks once more.
"Defend yourself." the words are spoken with an evil smile as he activates the device in his hands. Suddenly, from the weird metal plate he's holding erupts a grappling hook! The hook is modified and flies through the air rapidly, right at your face, Hegh! Roll Defy Danger to avoid it!
INSIDE ARMAN THE KIND'S TENT:
Loot results:
Oadir, your failed DR roll just means you don't get to ask me those questions, and you mark an XP.
Oadir got a 7 after Greas aided his roll: When Greas hands over the shock baton to you, Oadir, he points out a hidden compartment on the base of the weapon's hilt. The compartment contains 3 charge packs that are labeled. The label of the charge pack becomes a tag for the weapon when slotted in. There are two open slots for charger packs in the stun baton. The three charge packs are labeled: Lethal, Close range, and Far range. The first pack makes the nonlethal damage from the stun baton lethal, the second one makes it have a decent to medium attack range, and the third basically makes it into a sniper wand.
Krish got a 10: You find a strange and disturbing-looking mask. You also have the dwarf's earring.
Retzack got a 12: You find 1d6+4 (you roll it) grenades on a bandolier, with a label attached that reads "Sticky".
Greas got an 8: You find a pen-like implement, no cap. It's glowing faintly but you aren't sure what it does. When you pick it up, the pen changes color to match your hand-scales.
When you all finish your looting and have re-equipped yourselves with your gear that you were wearing prior to your capture, you cautiously leave the tent to see what all the shouting is about. Arman is a well-respected trader of flesh, so he's close to the central hub of trade. You aren't far from the wooden pavilion at all; close enough to see that battle has been joined within. Across the way, you catch a glimpse of Smoog, Kibra, and Tessith as they sprint madly toward the wooden building - Smoog and Tessith in front, with a small green kobold taking up the rear.
There's no tents immediately nearby to Arman's, but you see a cage just around the corner to your tent. You can't see inside, but you can hear breathing coming from it. What do you do?
Smoog, Kibra, Tessith: you arrive at the main hall to find it in chaos. People are running and screaming, trampling each other in their haste to avoid danger. Luckily the chaos has absorbed the attention of the guards nearby, so you can enter the auction house quite easily.
Thunk lines up his club as the bolt flies, he swings, angling upward just a bit, in hopes of sending the bolt flying back at the shooter.
Hegh grins at the pretender, opening his mouth wide. A burst of ice spurts forth to meet the grappling hook.
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Retzack examines the strange belt-thing and the odd spheres held therein. He has some limited knowledge of them---but fortunately that limited knowledge is enough to know that limited knowledge is enough. Pull pin, throw ball. Make dead.
He grins. He's not going to be afraid anymore. Ever.
"Come, lads. We have work to do."
Retzack scans the crowd, the sneer of derision planted on his face. Having already slain two soft, squishy humans, he wanted something special. Something out of the ordinary. Something he could -really- turn into a Reborn that would be worthy of his eminent skills.
He turns his head as he hears the loud cry of "KOBOLD" come from the crowd, and the creature thus revealed as the sheep flee and scatter in the presence of a true warrior.
Dragonborn. Now THAT would be something. Now THAT is special!
With the merest flick of his wrist, the dwarf-zombie sprints headlong at the dragonborn with the odd grappling hook. The colony animating the corpse has fed well on glial cells and they propel the dwarf forward viciously. The zombie holds out it's steel-hard hands and the humanoid-appearing insect colony rams into the dragonborn with great speed and murderous intent, throwing fists and gouging with iron-straight fingers. Tearing flesh, biting skin, seeking joints to grip and tear and rend and break.
= damage
Clamboring back toward the safety of the floor, kicking and clawing fitfully at the screaming woman, Sees draws Gorlaug's Wrath and searches the structure for an advantageous target-
-and sounds the cacophonous horn.
The voice of a dragon bellows out from the far side of the structure, shaking the ground and blowing dust and small items into the closed air of the building.
When Greas acquires the pen-like device, he notes its curious reaction to being picked up, and sets to trying to figure out just what this device does, thinking back to magical items taken from past adventurers.
As it turns out, adventurers do not often carry anything resembling a pen. In the spirit of discovery, he runs the device in a very short line across the palm of the opposite hand.
Greas: You would probably recognize Smoog, Tessith AND Kibra, depending on how social you were back at Moontower Mountain. Up to you if you know them, basically.
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The mayhem of melee momentarily mesmerize the Mechano-Wizard but after a few seconds of regaining his bearings, Smoog spies a close knot of soldiers edging towards the stage area.
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"Tackle the Dragonborn! Hold him down!", Smoog commands them thru a mind-spoken command.
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Kibra edges into the large building, taking a moment to gather his bearings on the situation.
Seeing Thunk bat at a large crossbow bolt, Kibra traces the shot back to see a sneaky pigskin in the rafters.
Target Acquired...
As Kibra draws his arrow back he sees a group of 3 guards running towards his allies. Thunk handles the first as the other two remain ready to pounce.
Better make this count!
Kibra launches 3 arrows back to back in a very rapid succession. His motion is smooth as he releases his grip on the string and reaches into his quiver knocking another arrow and adjusting his aim to the next target. Release, Knock, Release, Knock, Release, Knock,...It all happens in a matter of 1-2 seconds.
Arrows fly to the rafter archer and the 2 remaining from the trio of guards.
As the volley of arrows are launched Kibra has to move out from the edge of the room to get a solid shot on the 2 guards. Placing him in an exposed position.
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Why are those idiots running headlong towar- SMOOG? KIBRA? But-but-but that's impossible! It can't be...it can't be them! Everyone else died! They killed...they killed everyone! Gorlaug fell! The mountain exploded! How are they alive? How? How?! HOW?!
Greas's mind was a maelstrom. Relief. Guilt. Confusion. Disbelief. All of it tearing across his mental landscape, clashing with each other in a war for what would reign supreme in his mind. The very fact that the little blue midget that was bullied so often, whom he had left for dead those days ago, was now charging in as the seeming leader of his group only aggravated the vortex that was consuming all rational thought in his mind. There were two other kobolds with him - one he didn't recognise, and then in the back was Kibra, the trapper proving he had as sharp an eye as ever.
It...it was them. They were alive. It was the only thing he could discern clearly right now. And now, they were placing themselves in the maw of hazard that he thought had claimed them before.
Time to break its bloody jaw.
Greas looks to his party with vacant eyes. He points to Smoog's group with a twitching hand. "Everyone. Those kobolds are allies. And they are to be protected under any circumstance. Understood? Good."
With that, Greas hurls himself into the fray, holding his rapier and his new knife, lunging for whoever seems to be closest to harming the small, blue object of his focus with the vicious desperation and bloodlust of the mad. Nobody would harm them now that they were found. NOBODY.
As Greas dashes out of the tent leaving behind a starting fire, Oadir hears the breathing coming from the cage and pulls back Kreng to open the cage. Whatever it is inside there, this should be interesting.
Oadir gets ready for whatever might come bursting out of this cage as he beckons the Shadow Realm for a defensive Elemental (Barrier tag).
Oadir then turns his gaze to Greas to see what's going on there as the dwarven corpse rushes past him. Surprisingly fast for his figure, wouldn't you say, ehh, goblin? Oadir stumbles as he realizes he does not yet know the goblin's name, or the Shaman's name for that matter.
I didn't catch your name quite yet either, Shaman.
Kreng! Have you opened that cage yet?!
As Oadir turns around to see the results of his little walking bomb he observes a small, imp-like elemental standing next to an opened cage door going TADAA!
Okay then. Come out, come out, whatever you are...
Crap, forgot that Greas was keeping the shockstick. I'll write up loot for you Oadir.
Krish grins broadly at the sight of the mask; it is a thing of beauty. He studies it for a moment, trying to remember what such a mask might do.
Never having heard of a mask such as this one, he listens carefully to what the spirits may know of it.
The spirits are strangely silent on the topic, and Krish wonders if they are all busy watching the ruckus at the other tent, Or maybe it is just a pretty mask! As Greas lights the tent, Krish follows him out and places the mask over his own face with a slightly demented grin, With a skull face, I come for you soft-things!
He nods to Oadir as they jog behind Retzack and the sprinting dead-dwarf, How by Mighty Ones is it moving so fast?! He smiles happily at the Tiefling when Oadir introduces himself, "I am Krish. Happy to know your name, Oadir-devil-thing. Makes help-you get payback on soft-things more easy when you die. I make powerful totem for your spirit when your death-time comes."