"Tempting? I want to find the key to those daemons collars. PErhaps it's still around here. After that we need a pair of pink tutus' and some suits for the mudmen servants. Come Gurthock we have pretty little dancers to dress."
Gurthock, eager to enact petty petty revenge is going to start a thorough search of all the major rooms starting with the oens we found the daemons.
Gurthock will take 10 if at all possible on all checks for a total of 24.
Cruxcarr mulls the rituals with interest;
"What Master Shawn is hinting at, is that any minions or servitors will be of great use to us in the tasks to come. Particularly those of great power and utilisation yesss?"
The corpulent wizard smiles sagely at the potential the rituals could present:
"Using the daemon's as terpsichoreans will be an interesting spectacle indeed... though I trust it shall be a danse macabre they shall conduct? Never-the-less Hellhounds offer the potential of guard canines of a highly effective calibre... The Mudmen useful deterrents and sentries for bothersome guests whilst my own pet project of the golem will provide me... (ahem) us with an assassin borne of mechemical magicks!"
Cruxcarr is reasonably certain that the beast that would rise from the mud is an elemental of sorts. Of middling strength, but dangerous enough in numbers.
Mi'Dre seems to show rather more interest in front of the nightmare ritual--which is to say any at all--than any of the other pieces. He mutters to himself in abyssal as he stares at it before wandering to the nearest exit to peer down at Farholde from the lofty perch of the horn, leaving the others to their inane discussions.
The poisonous fish are death-angel cave tetras and could be harvested for a poison that has similar properties to drow poison, but is more physically debilitating.
Cruxcarr turns his attention back to the bloody corpse of the fallen elemental...
Rummaging through his equipment the corpulent wizard produces an iron pot and a number of iron vials... He then sets about enthusiastically wringing elemental viscera into the receptacles;
Based on his knowledge of the Elemental Golem's workings the hemothurge calculates if more harvesting would be required;
:
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Cruxcarr manages to salvage a gallon of acrid and chill blood from the fallen elemental, a quantity he wagers is sufficient for his purpose.
"Well then. It looks like we have some shopping, and minion acquisition, to do. Personally, I think the 'preservation room' would be an excellent area to set myself up in; specimens would definitely stay fresh in there..."
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Two iron plates both carved in abyssal that read “Aticus” and “Andian” Magic radiance
Picking the plates up from the horde Shendalyn laughs loudly and deeply as he holds them up triumphant. "GURTHOCK! GURTHOCK! FETCH ME THE FRILLY DRESSES!"
It takes the group a full cycle of both the sun and the moon across the sky before confidence is gained that you have plumbed all that can be plumbed within the Horn complex. As you convene in the upper complex to review and plan... an echoing call comes from below - unmistakeably boggard of origin "Pink masters! Blood! Death! Crrroooaak!"
From the way that the voice echoes through the walls you wager the speaker is lurking at the stairway entrance to the first floor of worked stone halls.
Jethryk gives a sigh of annoyance.
"We should probably see what they want... minions they may be, but I would prefer to keep the cannon-fodder alive, for the moment at least."
Mi'Dre starts up from his 'relaxed' position at the call, sighing at the croak. "We can always hope the shaman's offed himself." Mi'Dre observes, looking at the others before leading the way.
Moving through the complex to where the stairs from the caverns below join the worked stone above, you find one of the hunters from within the boggard group waiting. He croaks excitedly "Pink masters... Drriknik did not come back from hunting to the East, so we went to find him... Drriknik dead, covered in blood but only his blood... nothing else there. Came to see Pink Masters... protect us they will..."
Mi'Dre sighs, eying the others as the boggard relates his tale. So one of the minions had gotten himself killed, boo hoo. They'd probably have to check it out anyway just the keep the fools quiet. "Did you find any tracks? Any sign of what got him?" he asks, clearly bored already.
The boggard shakes it's head "No tracks... but little holes in Drriknik's body that bled. Pink Masters come, Hogbart will show."
"Littlel holes?"MI'Dre repeats, glancing at the other knot members with a frown. Presumably there were no arrows or bolts to go with those holes or he'd have mentioned it, they weren't that dumb surely.
"Alright, lead the way..."
"Feh, let's see to it then. Ever since Albina was called away I've been bored and looking at certain other holes too long."
The boggard takes you through the caverns and then to the East of the Horn, to a clearing where a very dead boggard lies still and silent. Much to Hogbart's credit, the dead one is covered in it's own blood and does indeed have 'little holes' on it's torso... which on closer inspection prove to be arrow wounds that have had the shafts and heads retrieved from them.
A rudimentary scan of the surrounds doesn't betray any clear tracks nor direction of assault... but there is a substantial amount of cover from the surrounding trees.
Know. Planes. Anything?
Know. Nature. Fey maybe?
Mi'Dre gestures the others to stay back as he fits his new monocle in place and flies slowly over the area, looking for anything the boggard might have missed. He gestures the others to come in as he spirals outward, still looking for tracks or signs of whatever might have killed the bogard.
Shendalyn finds plumbing for the depths of knowledge in arrow wounds somewhat fruitless and frustrating.
Mi'Dre can find no tracks nearby but upon the ground mixed in with the boggard's shed blood is a congealed trimmed feather that may have been recently attached to what caused the 'little holes'. Far from a personal expert on the matter, regardless consultation with his companions makes you suspect that the fletching is elvish in origin.
Cruxcarr examines the dead boggard, fat fingers gently probing the arrow holes as he extols his frustration;
"Tsk-tsk-tsk! A perfectly good skin spoiled by these punctures... Indications are indeed of Elvish origin... Now they will have complexions to die for..."
The rotund mage rises, tittering at his own joke in a voice too high for such a large man. He then beckons Hogbart over with a smile;
"Be a dear and lick my fingers clean Hogbart... Tell me what you taste...mmmmm"
"Elves... The point eared nature lovers right?" he glances at Cruxxcarr as he complains over the boggard skin going to waste. "They're tough and slimy, I doubt it would have been much good. Now quit playing with the lesser beings, we need to find the airy fairies before they deplete the underlings any more." He stares around suspiciousy, trying to figure out how to track down the perpetrator.
"Shendalyn. You got anything that can sniff them out?"
Jethryk shakes his head.
"You are thinking too small, Mi'Dre. It is not simply getting them to stop depleting the minion pool; we will be using their corpses to augment it..."
"Not unless Cruxx stops playing with the help and figures out that spell now Albina's gone." he mutters sourly.
Hogbart does not seem overkeen to move forward and taste whatever Cruxcarr had sunk his fingers into that day and stays back... looking towards Jethryk to see if he intends to force compliance.
BRiefly concentrating hell hound erupts from the ground.
Survival
As the hell hounds bound off Shendalyn turns to Hogbart. "Drag this fellow back to the horn. No need ot let him go to waste."
Mi'Dre shadows the hound from above, peering around for any sign of the elf's progress, descending to check out anything that looks promising.
Hogbart narrows eyes slightly concerned with what was meant by his former tribe-mate not going to waste, but complies with the request.
For the short span of time that Shendalyn's summoned beast exists upon this plane, it finds but shade and fragment of trail. A whiff of scent here, augmented by Mi'Dre spotting an occasional isolated track. Whatever it is that is nearby is clearly skilled at covering it's tracks and moving with stealth.
You begin to get frustrated by the fruitless action when dumb luck proves your benefactor. In a slight hollow of ground Mi'Dre picks up a light imprint of a serpentine tail, and the hellhound's nose is fouled with the stench of a good outsider. There is more than mere elves within the woods...
Know. Planes.
"...Let's get back to the horn."
Mi'Dre sneers at Shendalyn. "and leave it roaming around out here? No chance." The devil seems... excited.
"Suit yourself" Shendalyn says dismissively as he turns back. "We've no reliable tracking and are undermanned for an endeavor with an elven war party and their divine protector."
"However, at least we now *know* what is lurking in the forest..."
"So what's your plan then? Leave it here to pick us off? Get the boggards to hunt it down?" his derisive snort speaks volumes about that idea. His tone doesn't much change for the next. "Or did you want to ask the other knot for help?"
"We've seen sign of a single elf and the outsider, not a war band, not even elves are that good. Fine, crawl back to the horn if you want, but I am going to find this thing." he states. Even for the normally prickly devil he is being particularly obstinate. He waits long enough to see if anyone else will stay to help him, before winging off to search the forest.
What little could be gleaned from the track was not definitive of any particular foe from the Good aligned planes.
Getting back to the horn, letting Mi'Dre get himself killed and discussing how we'll face this threat on our own terms.
The corpulent wizard eyes the brazen Ga'av with curious eyes;
"Elves are notorious hunters also Mi'Dre... should they discover you, they will track or hunt you... but the intelligence you could gather would be considerable..."
Cruxcarr licks his fingers of the boggard blood;
"However it is your own skin you risk somewhat selflessly... would be a pity to lose it and you to a sub-species such as elves"
As the rest of you retire to the horn to think, plot, plan and rub lotion upon your corpulent form - the night passes without incident.
As dawn comes, Mi'Dre returns - tired but still able...
You find no fresh signs, and no scent to entice your hunger. The only confusing tableau is that the site where the treant fell. The prostrate form of the tree-being has been covered with a thin layer of soil... almost as though someone had paid some respects to the corpse.
Mi'Dre returns, grumbling to himself at the day's futile effort. He gathers some supplies for the day to come, including a few pints of oil to deal with the treant properly--he isn't going to let that bastard rest peacefully--and then heads down to the mud pits to catch a couple hours rest before heading back out.
As the rest of you retire to the horn to think, plot, plan and rub lotion upon your corpulent form - the night passes without incident.
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