“So their tracks end here and they are likely hiding in the carnival, but the carnival is connected to the shadow road ley line and will pull everyone along with it when it reverts,” summarizes Gunnar, ”So we’d better act fast.”
"We should, but even if we find ourselves on the other side, I can get us back here."
Scramsax's ritual has amused at first, but then comes the strangeness. When it is finished, she feels, confused mostly.
::This is strange. I do not know if I like it.::
"Shall we," Arianna asks, gesturing to the nearby fae festival.
::Heh. I'm just listenin'. Not gonna take nothin'.:: implying slyly he was going to take something.
Nodding at Arianna taking the lead "Yeah, they'll probably blow their stacks at the sight of a full-blooded elf. Not many o'those in the Shadow Realm...I'm going to stay outta sight." creeping off into the tall grasses.
"So I shouldn't smash anything yet right?"Ingryd asks as she blinks and scratches her head. She also looks at all her weapons and then the others.
::: Wait would my arsenal stick out like a sore thumb to these guys?::: She asks mentally with little hesitation. It was weird but she trusted the little halfling so it was okay.
Anette smiles at Luthael. She's about to say something when one of the prisoners who was badly wounded and sickly suddenly screams and starts to thrash about causing chaos in the back of the wagon as some of the folk scramble out of the way while others rush to try and hold the man down.
"Oh Gods!" One person shouts in obvious fear and surprise.
"What is that?!" Another.
"Khors Mercy. Everyone clear away." Yet another frightened voice.
Anette and Luthael turn from their position on the bench, to watch in horror as the writhing man is wracked with massive convulsions. The sound of bones snapping can be heard above the frightened shouts of the other prisoners. The victims breathing is rapid and hard, coming it great heaving gasps as his eyes roll into the back of his head. He screams...
Luthael hands the reins to Anette and calls to his flock, "stop the wagon. Everyone, get clear of the wagon." He stands up and faces the convulsing man.
"Khors have mercy." He says praying and displaying his holy symbol of the invincible sun.
Arianna leads the others to the bubble of fey festivities and looks for someone that may be able to help her rectify at least part of her current situation. Still, she is wary of not just the hiding gnomes, but the denizens of the Shadow Realms. Politesse and being wary are the order of the day here.
"Neem me niet kwalijk. Mijn metgezellen en ik waren op reis toen we de festiviteiten hier zagen plaatsvinden. Ik vrees dat door een reeks ongelukkige gebeurtenissen mijn huidige garderobe tekort schiet voor een evenement als dit. Is er misschien iemand die toevallig wat kleding heeft waar ik voor zou kunnen ruilen," she asks one of the elves when she approaches the edge of the bubble.
Excuse me. My companions and I were traveling along when we saw the festivities going on here. I fear that, due to a series of unfortunate events, I find my current wardrobe lacking for such an event as this. Might there be someone that happens to have some clothing that I might trade for?
Gunnar hops off the rug and follows along with Arianna, content to let the more charismatic types do the talking as he observes silently with his enhanced vision. As they approach the carnival, he says, ”Recall that these gnomes are slavers who sell sentient beings as food for ghouls…They are capable of much depravity…We should be careful.”
Out in the grass, the hidden Scram looked on patiently. Were they going to kill the naked elf instantly, serve them drinks, or both? His thoughts were interrupted by a need to smoke, cursing himself for not relaxing a pace after dismounting the Nasty Rug.
A tiny lace bug fluttered across his knuckle, raising its antennae left then right. The halfling responded raising his eyebrows right then left, before a gentle flick expunged the invader.
The urge to tap his foot to the beat of the weasel folks drum was strong, but had to settle for a toe-wiggle...best not disrupt his clandestine operation.
Arianna continued with the twisted elven dialect, saying god-knows-what. The language of the dark elves that had thrown halflings into servitude for centuries. Zove's language. The language of the court minister who had tormented him with moebius magic in the dungeons of Dalliance. ::Wait, what?:: Scram had the odd sensation of suddenly remembering a dream from long ago.
Shaking it off, he started eyeing the business from an entrepreneurial perspective. Particularly paying attention to the sippy paper cups used to dispense the presumed gnome juice. They were ok; it was a clever fold that gave it the concave shape...just a bit on the practical side. Scram knew however, if they really wanted to get customers excited, the goblin should really take it to the next level with some commemorative collectible crystal glasses. The halfling started working up a sales pitch...
Scramsax creeps about in the grass. Ingryd, Gunnar and Arianna walk into the clearing. No one pays much attention. The music keeps playing, the dancers continue dancing. Those already in conversation maintain their chatter. Just another thirsty trio of folk looking for a bit of refreshment while crossing the barren prairie.
From the ground things are much the same as you saw from the air. Except there are even more big red cone topped lemon barrels stored under a shade cloth and along the right wall of the stand hang numerous light weight t-shirts, heavier sweatshirts, scarves, hats, cushions, mug cozies, and a plethora of other odd collectibles and otherwise useless knickknacks. The pale lemon yellow highlighted with blacks and reds worn by the goblin at the counter and the elven staff is found on all the gear. The shirts are all embroidered with such phrases as The Perfect Pucker or Got Lemons? or Sippin's for Sissies, Swillin's fer Chillin or Don't be Gnome, Bring Lemonade Home. All contain somewhere the simple picture logo of a smiling witch complete with pointy black hat, long handled broom, and glimmering teeth of iron.
The pale skinned shadow elves, sitting out of the sun beneath one of the yellow and red striped umbrellas, glance up at Arianna and great her with a pleasant smile and nod.
"Oh! This isn't some stuffy old court ball." A young woman says her laugh echoing the smiles of her two companions. Up close you can see they are dressed in simple trousers and light comfortable blouses. Elves being elves, especially those who dwell in the shadow realms, they are armed. An elegant rapiers hangs from the woman's finely crafted belt while her companions bristle with bows, daggers, and their own well made rapiers. "This is a Grandmother's Lemonade Stand..." They all suddenly chime in when the girl continues. "...It's always casual here dearie."
She tilts her head toward the stand and takes a big swig from a frosty mug. "They've got some stuff for sale."
On the other side of the dancers a child starts crying. A young boy maybe only four or five years old. His rather frazzled looking mother turns and looks with frustration as the boys big balloon floats up into the air having escaped the child's less than steady grasp. Upon closer inspection, the balloon is a rather macabre bit of carnival puffery. A vaguely gnomish figure, swollen into a lemon shape with stubby arms and legs. A swollen, long nose beneath bulbous wide eyes. The stereotypical pointy red cap and ridiculous stripped, curly shoes. It is a caricature that any gnome must truly hate. It drifts upward and upward tumbling cartwheels in the late evening breeze.
"Don't worry dear, we'll get another one from the nice man. Okay?" The mother offers the boy who still snuffling slowly nods his head.
Meanwhile the band plays on.
Luthael leaps into the back of the wagon as everyone else scrambles away. Quickly removing the man's shirt, the priest of Khors watches with horror and the former prisoners skin literally seems to crawl. Bulges and ripples and wriggling things scurry just beneath the fleshy surface as the man convulses and screams in pain. An odious black gas seeps from the screaming mouth and flaring nose. Oily black tears begin to run from the victims eyes.
The prophet momentarily recoils from the hellish emissions. Yet, they also trigger something in Luthael's mind. A vision, message or warning perhaps, sent long ago.
Luthael looks upon a small town. Nowhere familiar, it could be one of hundreds of small towns scattered across Midgard. He stand overlooking this place. His eyes focused on dozens of people strewn across a town square. Their flesh writhing as their agonized screams echoed across the wide plaza. Helpless priests try to comfort the sick, but there is little to be done. Smoke billowed from their mouths, black death oozed from their eyes and pours. One man's screams reach a terrible crescendo and then he bursts in a spray of blackened gore. Within the grotesque cloud emerge hundreds of tiny demonspawn. Slithering winged worms little more than teeth, muscle and malevolence. They take flight, eager to feed upon the rest of the city. Another victim bursts. Another demonic cloud. Another. Another.
The vision ended and left the prophet sweat soaked, shaking, and afraid. Now here before him, writhing and off gassing just like those poor folk in his dream, was a very real victim of that same demonspawn.
Ingryd goes to one of the lemonade sellers and smiles. It is an awkward smile as she looks down and speaks.
" So I wanna try this lemonade? Do you have any alcohol as well, maybe some food?" She asks a bit hungry after all the waiting. Besides she wasn't good with talking to people.
"Khors has shown me what happens! He's been infected by demonspawn and will infect us all if he explodes!" Luthael shouts trying to justify what he is about to do.
"May Khors take your soul, my friend." The prophet calls holy fire to cleanse the mortal coil and release the soul from Midgard.
"Hello. Hello, madame." The goblin says wide a wide and friendly grin. "First time to Grandmother's is it?" He pulls a small paper cup out and pours from the left hand keg.
"First cup is on the house for newcomers. Sounds like your interested in our hard lemonade, so here you go." He hands the small sample cup to Ingryd. It smells like summer in a cup. Tangy citrus, with just a bit of sweet and alcoholic fire. The shirts on the wall don't lie. When Ingryd tries the lemonade it does cause her lips to pucker with the initial sour hit, but then a warmth races along her throat and throughout her body. It is a fine, comfortable warmth. A sun's ray on summer day. A mother's comforting arm around your shoulders. Feet dipped in the pond while crickets chirp and the fish jump. It tastes of lemons, but with the perfect amount of honey along with subtle hints of raspberry and a little mint.
The goblin points to the menu glued to the countertop. "Slow roasted sausage in a bun, sweetbread, cheesy chips, and iced cream sandwiches and frozen fruit pops. Full cup of the hard lemonade is 3 gold. I'd recommend getting one of our 'Keep It Cold' mugs. They're only 10 gold and you'll never have to worry about your drink going all warm and flat again."
”Allow me,” says Gunnar as he points up at the escaping balloon and touches Arianna on the shoulder, casting a brief spell (Gunnar and Arianna can now fly for a while as long as Gunnar concentrates). The dwarf takes lightly to the air and tracks down the errant balloon. Grabbing its string he gives it a hard look, just in case it is a transformed gnome attempting to escape. If it is not, he returns it to the boy who lost it, then returns to Arianna’s side. If it is, well, other things will happen…
"Help me! Help me!"
Examining the balloon, you realize this might actually be your quarry, but whatever bizarre transformation occurred, it was not done willingly. Nor do you know how to reverse the rather potent, brutal, and effective curse.
::: Hey Scram I am gonna get some more booze and some food you want some?::: The Bear Maiden says. She looks at the menu and then at the mug.
"Does the mug have a lid? Cause if it does I would love to have it hang on my belt while I travel. Plus When I get my Mead Making up and going I will have something to keep my beverages cold and crisp!" She smiles again waiting for a reply.
The whole thing was seeming more like an echo of that inn in the woods...the one that hand-crafted Scram stew. 3rd degree burns on every inch of your flesh was a strong memory aid, even for someone as off-kilter and mentally scrambled as Scramsax. ::Eh, I dunno Ing. I'm gonna lay low just a bit longer...somethin' about 'fairy bubble' isn't clickin' my cogwheels. I wanna see 'em play their hand. That merchandise is outta this world though, get me one of them Perfect Puckers before they sell out?::
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Cracking a rare grin, Gunnar responds to the tiny voice as he hears it, saying, "Whomever cursed you to this form has exacted retribution upon you for your crimes far better than I ever could."
Still chuckling, he returns the balloon to the child and says, "Hold on tight this time, young one."
Going over to join Ingryd, Gunnar says, "I think I'm going to like it here! Self-cooling mugs? I'll take two--and another one of this funny gnome balloons if you have one," as he fishes some gold out of his purse.
Mentally transmitting an image of the gnome caricature balloon to the others, Gunnar shares his thoughts, "I don't think the gnome slavers are going to be a problem anymore. Who wants lemonade?"
"Sorry," Arianna apologizes to the shadow fey. "It is not often you see Shadow Fey outside of their realms. I tend to speak formally when not using my native tongue."
A chill touch runs up her spine as she looks around and hears the "it's always casual here, dearie." Something was off here. The grinning witch, the synchronized jingle, the suspiciously gnome shaped balloon, all of it was setting alarm bells off in her mind. Had she not been chased by a hag not all that long ago? Who is to say that the hag was not still looking.
"I will keep that in mind," she says as Gunnar gets her attention. She follows the dwarf up into the sky, hoping to help him get the balloon and let her suspicions be known.
::Be wary. There is something rotten about this place,:: she thinks through her connection to the others.
Hearing a balloon ask for help does have a way of scrambling one's line of thought, however. She shakes her head, and recognizes the gnome and the fey curse he was likely under.
"I fear that my help comes with a price, redcap," she says, her soft voice doing nothing to hide the steel of her sharp tongue. "You can begin to pay it by telling me where your friend got off to."
" So I know I want my flask filled with some of that Lemonade, I know a couple of the fruit pops, at least four sausage rolls, couple sweet buns. I just don't know how many mugs to get. Can I see one? Like to see if its worth getting them for my party! Ooo if they are great can I get the Narg Nasty Nine on them?" Ingryd says looking at Gunnar.
"Oh and a running total of how much that would be?"
As the sun starts to set behind the western mountains, the man's writhing and screams reach a fevered crescendo. Fearing for the worst and sensing the decisive moment is upon him Luthael clears the frightened and worried prisoners away from the man. Calling upon the searing, cleansing fire of Khors, the god's own prophet directs the holy fire onto the dying victim.
It is none too soon, for even as the last rays of sunlight wink out of the evening sky, a gore covered, squirming demonic head squiggles its ugly head from the burning flesh. Its brief existence is capsulated in a single high-pitched squeal that is abruptly cut short as its entire being is quickly turned into a fine gray ash. By the time Luthael completely incinerates the victim's body witnesses could count a minimum of eight of the demonic parasites ready to break free of their host.
With the heat of the flames slowly diminishing, the screams of the dying demons and their host echoing across the rolling plain, and the first stars twinkling brightly in the east, the remaining prisoners each look at one another worriedly. Who else could be the victim of such a horrifying demonic curse?
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"Why certainly miss. I've a sample mug right here." The goblin says setting a pint sized, heavy metal mug onto the counter. Bright yellow with grandmothers smilin' logo painted on two sides, bands of red at top and bottom. Chillin' an' Grillin' Written in big block letters above the witch pic. The goblin sets a screw on top down next to the mug with a convenient slide opening. "Helps to prevent spills for the traveler on the go." The goblin adds.
"Unfortunately, we can't do custom mugs at this time, but I'll mention it back at headquarters. We always appreciate customer feedback and interest." He says, although you have the sense that last line is something he says more out of obligation verses true belief in the sentiment.
While Ingryd studies the mug and waits for the goblin to gather the rest of her sizable order, Gunnar receives a welcome sigh of relief from the harried mother. Another shadow elf, the dwarf realizes as he hands her the balloon.
"Oh, my thanks for you help good sir." She says, brushing a stray band of dark hair from her pale face. "We've been traveling for days now, and little Kelemvor was so pleased with his balloon." Tying the string of the wayward gnomish flotation device securely to her boy's wrist she gives the lad a fake stern look. "Now keep hold of it this time else you'll not be able to get another one. And what do you say to the nice dwarf."
The boy looks up giving Gunnar a bright smile. "Daddy says all dwaves are..."
"Kelemvor! Nevermind what your father says." The mother admonishes, her pale features suddenly turning a pale shade of pink. "What do you say to someone who'se done something nice for you."
The boy ponders this for a moment and then grins. "Thank you for bringing back my b'loon." He says before running off to start dancing near the stage, followed closely by his mother who offers an frazzled smile and shrug in departure.
"Oh...well...Grandmother's is one of the exceptions for sure." The shadow fey says to Arianna. "You just never know where they're going to pop up, so you take advantage when you can. Shadow realms or mortal, doesn't matter cause it's always a party at Grandmothers. " The last is echoed in unison by her friends and they all start laughing and giggling. The laughter stops abruptly when a burly, dark haired, dark skinned, comes striding across the clearing toward the stage. He carries a set of oversized pipes and wears several gold chains around his neck.
"Oh...he's here. He's here." The fey girls exclaim, their gazes all immediately dismissing Arianna to fixate on the handsome fey. "Quick let's get another round and get our seats."
Back at the balloon stand Gunnar notices several different shapes to choose from. Mysterious shadow fae magician. Stoic trollkin. Another gnome similar to the one held by the young elf. A knight riding a great stallion. And of course, several iron-toothed depictions of ole Grandmother herself.
Looking back, you really didn't have much choice. As soon as you'd discovered that the infernal gnomes of Neimheim were working some deal with the blasted ghoul Imperium, you knew you had to head south. Fast. Zove was the only one who could get you there. And she'd managed to decipher the Imperial code well enough to get a lead on one of the conduits. A group working the open lands of the northern Rothenian Plain where Courlandia, Neimheim, and the Cloudwalls all intersect.
Using the info and the salvaged arm of that darakghul captain, she managed to get a trace on a suspicious trio of wagons skulking their way out of the Wormwood and heading west. Not something the witch-fearing gnomes do on a regular basis.
Your old pal Ibrox not withstanding. He was one of them the gnomish exceptions that proved the rule. A dark horse from a dark and devil infused culture that made him into an adventurer on the side of good. As for the rest of the forest dwelling, devil cavorting buggers, if they really were trading in Krakovan refugees to the ghouls, they'd need to answer for it. Far as you could tell, Thor agreed. Enthusiastically.
So you said yes. For the most part the trip along the Shadow Road went well. A bit of trouble here and there, but nothing you couldn't handle. Then everything went completely sideways. The wagons simply blinked out of Zove's divinations. Apparently the devil magic she'd been tracking was wiped out. "Just like that." She said snapping her fingers. Either they zinged to my spell or someone brought the hammer down on them. Without the trace, it was a mighty big stretch of land to cover.
But then she came up with an idea. Said she'd heard through the pickleberry vines that some big fey flute player was doing a charity gig not too far from where she last spotted the wagons. She'd set you up there to stake the place out.
If there are gnomes in the area, they'll end up here. I'm positive.
Her words. Course she left out the fact it was some sort of bizarre fae entertainment stand in the middle of nowhere, barely attached to the mortal world by nothing but an odd anomaly of magic. And more importantly, that she was going to disguise you as a danged balloon available for purchase by any fae child or drunken bloke that wanted to suddenly relive his childhood. No she didn't mention that at all. Then she said she had to go. Something to do with that book of hers. Wizards...
But you agreed and so here you've been. Fluttering in the breeze for the past twenty four hours, listening to the damned fae warm up bands and smelling honey sweetened lemonade. Still all wasn't completely for naught. Not too long ago, another couple of fae brought in a pair of struggling gnomes. Their looks matched up with the fuzzy images you saw in Zove's scrying crystal. But before you had a chance to make a move on them, some dreaded old woman appeared, cackled as she loomed over them grinning with an iron toothed smile. She danced and waved her bony arms about screeching curses and rants. Then she poked them both with a single arthritic digit and they both shrunk and swelled up until they were in a similar position as yourself. Only you figured they couldn't end the transformation as easily as you.
As soon as she'd transformed the gnomes, the old witch took a few minutes to check the goblin's books and then whisked away in some chicken legged, oddball cottage.
You'd planned on snatching the balloons as soon as everyone was distracted during the show, but then who should come strolling into the clearing but a dwarf, a bearkin, and an elf. Two you recognized immediately, and where those two were, there was usually a crafty, troublesome halfling nearby. The elf you didn't know. But things either got way more complicated when Gunnar comes up and starts reaching for the remaining gnome-balloon.
Luthael calms everyone down. He prepares what's left of the body and leads his flock into celebrating the life of the poor soul. He praises Khors for saving the rest of them and assures them that Khors will confirm if they are all safe from the infection of the demonspawn.
The next dawn, the prophet prays to Khors for the blessing to detect disease. When they break their fast, he performs the ritual and reviews everyone's health.
|
'Confound that Zove is an odd one. That her first idea of infiltration is to turn me into a balloon not even the greatest of her oddities. She kept going on as if we had met before. She kept talking about her roll in the Battle at the Docks. Braggart! I was alone at that battle, I clearly remember it. I'm pretty sure that if I had known her before our first meeting I would have recalled it! Ah, well.'
Being a balloon gives one a lot of time to think. He had thought the experience might be a bit scary (not fearful, of course. Never that.) or even a bit anxious. On the contrary, he felt it quite liberating. With the constant impulses of the body now regulated to floating, only floating, one could really get in touch with themselves.
Of course, he had no great need for that. He had already done that. After the Battle of the Shrine, after he had stood tall and still could not see over the great mounds of enemy dead, after he had found the long-dormant Shrine of Thor, after he had cleared it and dedicated it and spent a Great Vigil by it...after he had communed with The Thunderer himself and, at last!, been elevated as a chosen warrior, after such things, he felt no need to delve any deeper. He had seen the core of his character. He knew now what he carried.
And carry it he did. He who he was was now hardened down and what had passed through the fire sat, heavy and dark, in idleness, sleeping until called upon.
O and what relief it was! To follow Odin himself and make a sacrifice of one's self to one's self! And then to be lightened of such a burden! One can only wonder at what other miracles lay as yet unseen.
But that did not matter now. What mattered is that his mission was half-done and he need only reach out and gather that which Thor hath lain before him.
Gunnar might be a bit shocked, but, ah well, nothing for it.
Aterro thought of sucking his thumb and blowing into it, the counter-sign for the phantasm spell. He thought the whole thing a bit impish, but one did not try to school Zove in the ways of the arcane. That was to be avoided as much as asking a question. Because she might answer it!
The initial feeling was not so much as a return of weight, but more of standing on one's head, and as feeling and blood returned to his body, the world gradually righted itself. He gave it the time it demanded because one did not rush such things.
Having regained his corporeal form he slapped the shoulder of his Thunder-Brother.
"I did not know you played with toys, Gunnar!"
Then he did something the dwarven wizard had never seen him do. He laughed.
Big and loud and raucous, the kind of sound a thundercloud would make if you tickled its belly.
To his friend's eyes Aterro seemed little changed corporeally. The armor was the same as when he was last seen, but instead of being covered in gore and hoarfrost it was now clean. Nay it was scrubbed. Nay it shown! First sand then wool then oil had been taken to the metal suit with skill and care and it sparkled with light and pride.
DeathMetal hung at Aterro's waist too, and it had also seen the business of cleaning. But as always it hugged a skin of shadows about it, as if the light was not yet quite welcome to hug it fully. Just there, did the shadows dip a bit in greeting, as if a polite and pointy-teethed gentleman might wink after being invited in?
A shield was belted to his left arm, but gone was the ugly lump of wergild looted from a battlefield. Here was a piece of flawless metal, bright and shiny and capable. Upon its fore the symbol of Thor blossomed lustfully, daring any to attempt to its slightest blemish.
The greatest change is Aterro's face. Where once it preferred the confines of the helm, ever covered in scowls and pessimism, now is a visage well-groomed and beaming. Upon his face rides a GLORIOUS mustache, and none could find fault in his toilette.
Aterro stops laughing long enough to smile and embrace his dwarven friend in a great bearhug. Releasing him he says. "I see you are still kicking around with this bear-maiden, eh?" he says, nodding in recognition at Ingryd. "Does that mean Scramsnacks is still skulking about somewhere, eh? And what of the bard, eh, what's-er-name? The one who stole my Thorspear?
But soft! Before we can start swapping potent drink and large lies I must needs take care of one minor task."
To any onlookers that might have seen his premature transformation, he laughs and shouts, "Ta-da!" He prestidigitates a great *poof* of sparkling pink smoke and laughs out, "It's ALWAYS a party at Grandmothers!" before turning back to his task at hand.
Aterro reaches over and snatches the two bobbing gnome-balloons.
Holding them and grinning like a boy at Summerfest he declares, "There. Now. How have you been? Have you been staying out of trouble? Or starting it?"
::Ing, the shirt...c'mon I'll pay you back. Hurry there's only one left...::
The beaver dam of bone dry tinder within Scramsax's mouth collapsed, surging the imperfect puckerer with gallons of greedy saliva as the man's gold chains dongled this way and that. The thief just had to wait for an adequate distraction, or if all else failed create one himself...
But the canny rogue had a bit of beeswax ready to plug his ears when the music started, lest the transdimensional bard ensnared him in some siren's song.
Seeing Gunnar hand off the gnome balloon to the child, Arianna shrugs and turns back to the stands. She is still wary of the place, but as long as she keeps her wits about her, she decides that she should be safe enough. She borrows a few gold to buy an outfit that didn't leave her legs covered in goosebumps. She would have to do something about the logo, she reasons, then her attention turns to the leyline beneath her feet.
Now there was an idea.
Focusing on the magic coursing through her veins, she uses it as an extension of herself. She reaches out and taps into the leyline and borrows a little of the reality warping power.
With a flick of her wrists light flashes and the wind gusts around her. After the brief show, she stands wearing something much closer to her taste in clothing. Three pins glitter in the sun as she catches them and hands them over to the vendor.
"I think you will find more of a use for these than I will," she tells them. The pins are brass with enamel coloring, each in the appearance of the logo that was on the articles of clothing.
As she walks away, she snaps her fingers and the rags the gnomes had dressed her in went up like Mharoti spark rope. She sent the whisp of flame up into the sky and let it burst into a shower of harmless sparks.
Gunnar appears to have found something interesting, and she was eager to see what became of the other gnome, and to see if he knows what became of her belongings.
:::Fine you owe me:::Ingryd says as she adds.
"The SHirt too, how much for the lot! And do you have a bag?"Ingryd says
Seeing Aterro she smiles and says."You should try the Lemonade its great!"
After buying a set of the Everchill mugs and going over to the balloons, Gunnar opens his mouth to ask to buy the goblin balloon when the knight transforms into Aterro!
Yes, flabbergasted is the word. Overjoyed and stunned as well. ”Whaaaaaaaat? Aterro, is that you’?!!!”
Arianna blinks as a strange man bedecked in the heraldry of Thor and carrying a wicked mace appears where once there was a balloon. Fey magics are always strange and somewhat unpredictable, but it is still not a thing you see everyday, a balloon becoming a man.
"Ah, I see you know Gunnar here. I am Arianna and currently in search of some things that were stolen from me. If you'll excuse me," she says before plucking the gnome-loon and paying for it with some of the coin she had left over from fixing her wardrobe.
The grin she gave it would have sent chills down the spines of shadow fey.
"My, my. It seems that you are in quite the predicament. I don't suppose that you would be willing to tell me what became of my belongings after you put me in a cage, would you? If not, I am sure I could satisfy my curiosity in other ways. I wonder, can you squeeze lemonade from a lemon-shaped gnome?"
|
|
"Good to know you, Arianna the Searcher! But no, there is no excuse! There is something you must know about me."
Without warning he darts across and envelopes the elven bard in a mighty and enveloping bearhug!
Setting her down he laughs, "I'm a hugger now!" He grins and leaves her to her quest of acquisition before returning his attention to this Thunder-brother.
"Aye, tis me, and glad the world is that there is only this one! You doubt it to be true? Need I bring up a certain incident where a certain dwarven wizard was possessed by an evil sword and tried to kill me in glorious single combat? Ha! You tried to cover your deception by placing a stick in the quiver that had been the sword's sheath. Brilliant! It must have been Thor's own will to let me see through your cunning ruse.
But soft. I am here on a mission mostly done. We have been tracking the slaver-gnomes through Zove's magic, and beseems they have befallen a fate worse than any I might conjure. Do they also take your interest? I should like to put them to The Question to learn of their plans, but if you have similar need, then let our steps rejoin once again, and let the forces of Evil shake in FEAR!"
Arianna lets out an undignified squeak as she finds herself lifted off her feet in a bearhug. She gives Aterro a confused look before returning her attention to acquiring a gnomish slave turned balloon.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Luthael does his best to keep the ragged band of refugees from panicking. A darkness settles in he sets everyone tasks for setting camp, cooking a meal, and preparing a memorial for the man who succumbed to the predations of the demonic parasites. Anette is an invaluable source of help to the prophet, maintaining her composure, even though it is obvious she is just as frightened as the others, and displaying a gift for managing groups to actually get things done.
By the time Luthael has completed his initial ritual casting, a large fire is burning from sage and other prairie brush scattered about the area. What rations can be spared on cooking in a large pot and the man's remains have been gathered and wrapped in a makeshift shroud using one of the prophet's spare cloaks.
Prayer's are said. Tears are shed. Luthael preaches the love, compassion, and power of Khors. Preaches of hope and salvation from the denizens of Chaos and Darkness. Calling forth an orb of holy light, Luthael surrounds the frightened people with warmth and comfort. The light also serves another purpose. With all gathered in a circle about the fire, Luthael slowly traverses the group. Speaking with each person. Learning their name, former home, their trade if they had one, loved ones they wished to remember.
There is one eyed Gregor, a candlemaker from Wallenberg. He fled east after loosing an eye in the defense of the city.
There is frail Magda whose husband, brothers and two sons were taken by the ghouls. For a few years she fought in the resistance, but then her band was ambushed and nearly wiped out. Tired, starving, and half mad she went east and thought she had finally found peace with the others and the centaurs in their small settlement.
He faces the dark, horror struck gaze of young Yaro, a boy of maybe twelve. He only knows his name. All else is forgotten or buried too deep for the prophet to reach.
He looks upon stout Caius. A broad shouldered, square jawed man with a stutter who, although he is certainly not much beyond his mid twenties, has chalk white hair and walks with a heavy limp. He suffered greatly in the gnomes confinement and has a terrible fear of the dark after so many days in the cage.
As he observes, listens, looks for signs of similar infection or curse, Luthael's heart grows heavier and heavier. All seem to carry evidence of the hellish contagion. Blackened skin at the base of the fingernails, a purplish hue to the tongue. Sudden onsets of muscle convulsions or pains. Constant pangs of hunger.
The smallest blessing is that none seem to be in the same advanced state as poor Vladomir, a cartwright from a small village east of Krakova city. As far as Anette or the others could learn, he was the last of his village. With Vladomir gone, the hamlet's name will forever disappear.
There is also another discovery the prophet makes as he conducts the service and makes his rounds on that dark somber evening. The light of Khors is not completely ineffective and holding back the demonic worms. As the orb hangs over the camp, there is visible relaxation and easing of the twitching and convulsing limbs.
Beneath its comforting glow and under the watchful gaze of their shepherd, Luthael's small flock finds a moments peace and sleep.
Scram blinked, rubbing the citrus mist from his eyes ::Gunnar, are you sure thats really Crackles? Whats with that face, and the hugs? Seems some trickery afoot...::
|
|
"Ah, please do excuse me. I fear what would happen if we did not corral both of these wayward souls. I shudder to think what might happen to that young boy were his balloon to somehow manage an escape."
Aterro exchanges a few coins for two IceTankards(tm) and the balloon that looks like Ibrox.
He then makes a beeline toward the young boy that holds the second evil gnome-alloon and addresses his mother.
"Excuse, my good woman. I am Aterro, a stranger in these lands, but I feel welcome on this festive occasion. I am a Religious by trade, but sometimes I can find a few...surprises."
He pauses to smile at the boy and make a show of pulling a purple butterfly out of his ear. The butterfly flies up and explodes in purple fireworks.
"The tale of how I came to be here is long, but suffice that for many days I have tracked that exact balloon that your son holds. As strange as this is to hear, it is actually a tool of The Enemy and I would not wish it to foul you or your beautiful family.
In recompense please do accept this other balloon and this IceTankard so that we might exchange goods and part the best of friends!"
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The glitzy, glamorous faun strides up to the stage to a robust round of applause as the sun sets behind the western mountains. Somewhere, not so very far away, a man dies, a god weeps as his lonely prophet struggles to contain a hellish outbreak. But that is someplace else.
Hoots, whoops, and hollers fill the rather full clearing. It seems all kinds of folk have arrived to see the show. The line behind Ingryd grows restless and rowdy as the lonely goblin behind the counter continues to stack up shirts, mugs, sausages, sweet rolls, and the various many other items ordered by the bearkin.
"Hey leave a little for the rest of us." Calls a satyr.
"You getting ready to hibernate, love? Cause I'll keep you warm this winter." Mouths off a burly half-ogre wearing a XXXXL Zaanfear Master of the Pan Flute - Flyin' High Tour - Summer 1748. The remarks sets his trio of friends to laughing and giggling.
"Oh my gods! *snap* I don't see why they can't staff these places better." Complains a gum snapping shadow fae woman. A companion of the one who spoke with Arianna not so long ago. "I can't stand being in line during the show. It...totally...ruins the experience. *snap*"
Meanwhile the harried goblin finally gets everything set up on the counter, including a Grandmother's Lemonade specialty rucksack complete with special sewn in 'short' quiver pouch, long knife pocket, and complementary twin pack of dried lemonade powder. (Just add water and you're ready for fun in the sun.)
"That'll be 205 gold. I'll have someone bring your sausages to you in a few minutes. You're number 53." He says handing you a big lemonade glass shaped placard with 53 painted on it in bright glittering letters.
The weaselkin band leader adjusts the magical amplification of his voice.
The greeting echoes across the clearing. "Ahem! Hello, Everyone and welcome to another great night of entertainment brought to you by the old witch herself." He says to the whistles and cheers of the still growing crowd.
"We've got a great show for you tonight!"
The weasel goes on reciting a long list of Zaanfear's many awards and recent events across the shadow realms. Aterro, focused on the recovery and potential transfer of gnome balloon's walks up and begins speaking to the young boy's mother. For his part the little shadow fey is busy bouncing the balloon rapidly off the end of his fist over and over and over again. The wrist tied string acting as the perfect paddle balloon mechanism that never allows the boy to miss. His face lights up as he spots something or someone across the way.
"Well...I guess it would be alright." The mother hesitantly says to Aterro. "I'm not sure by all of this Enemy talk and what not, but if little Zigmund agrees, then sure why...ZIGMUND!"
The shout is more one of frustration and surprise than of real anger or fright. That because the little shadow fey suddenly steps into a shadow and disappears. A quick scan of the crowd reveals the floating object of Aterro's current desire hovering thirty feet away on the other side of a churning mass of eager concert goers. Judging from the zigzagging path of the balloon, the boy seems to be running after something although it is quite impossible to see at this point.
Mother takes her own step into the shadows and goes after the wayward boy leaving Aterro and Gunnar to contemplate their next move.
The weaselkin's voice booms across the clearing answered by rowdy applauseas the faun steps up and takes the stage. Not saying a word the musician brings the flute to his lips and begins to play.
Arianna begins to interrogate the gnomish balloon, but between the music and the crowd it is nearly impossible to hear what the gnome says. Trying to hear his tiny voice, airy voice is like trying to hear a mosquito in a hurricane.
One thing does happen to catch your eye as you observe the crowd with all its potential pockets and mugs of hard lemonade. Lost and Found. The sign hangs over a tiny corner near the back of the main stand. Tucked away where nobody goes, except to clear their stomach when they've crossed that point of no return.
Minding the small booth is a contented middle aged human, calmly reading a book. He licks the tip of his thumb each time before gently flipping to the next page. As you ponder the potential of pilfering the items that might be found in such a place, you can't help but notice a sack hanging on the back wall of the little nook. It matches the exact description the young elf woman gave of one that belonged to her before she was captured by the slaver gnomes.
Luthael keeps his diagnosis and potential treatment to himself. He maintains the Light of Khors bathing Caius in hopefully divine healing magic as much time as possible checking on Caius among all the others, so as not to single him out.
For the others, he tries to connect them together. After he leaves them and continues his quest, they would need each other.
At each meal, he recasts his ritual of detecting disease to recheck Caius and everyone else. After he checks him next time, he showers him in Khors's Dawn of Radiance and then rechecks Caius to see if magical sunlight improves the disease more.
|
|
"Schisse!" Aterro exclaims as mother, son, and balloon all disappear in a rush of shadow-teleport.
Sprinting back to Gunnar he taps the valiant dwarf on the shoulder. "I got the mother's acceptance but the boy teleported away on some fool errand before I could recover the second balloon. I saw where he went but I'll need help recovering it.
If we are to learn of their nefarious plot I would have as many to put to The Question as can be had, but, I'll need help getting it back.
Has Ingryd eaten yet? Her help would also be appreciated. I must go before I lose them."
Having said all he dare take time to say, the paladin charges again into the crowd, following the darting and erratic movements of his quarry.
Gunner guides smoothly around the crowd, flying swiftly but at a low altitude to avoid the people but not distract from the show. He tracks down the retreating balloon as best he can…
Fly speed 60 feet plus dash, going after the balloon again…
::Arianna, that's your purse in the lost n' found I think.::
Ingryd puts down the cash and nods.
"Here is 5 more gold for you too, You are doing great" She says with a warm smile as she takes the number and stands to the side, eyeing the Satyr, before she looks at the Haf-Orge.
"Sorry, the big guy you don't have enough hair for this gal" She says with good humor knowing the jokes. Those weren't evil people. At least she knew and her anger was for those who did evil.
It would be a multi-phased approach, as the thief saw it.
Of course he couldn't sneak close enough to claim 'finders keepers' on the goods if the booth was so deserted. But he was great at hiding in crowds. All he needed was enough sick visitors, then he could rush among the running ill, masking every step with the squish of falling vomit. So he'd have to get them sick first...the biggest, tallest of them.
A quick inventory check for disgusting things no one would ever want to ingest? The fae juice he fingered from the nullbox entity...its odd scent and mucus-texture wouldn't go down easy. The devil's middle finger, quite rotten at this point and not to mention the bits of the Nasty Rug under the nail from when it last saved the rogue's life...no stomach said 'yes' to spiced urine. A magic bean. Yeah, what the hell? He hadn't boiled them after all and it was never safe to eat unboiled beans.
The poisoner crushed it all up together using his recently purchased Lil Black Scorpion's Stinger Mix Kit Deluxe from the Courlandian underworld...
==18 total
Next he would move among them, a pinch here a drop there...poisoning the drinks of the large and easy-to-hide-behind guests. Two or three should do, he estimated...
==31
==32
==31
Then all he had to do was sit back and enjoy the silence of his beeswax lodged ears, waiting for the illfolk to make use of the area near his treasure...
Arianna sighs as she realizes she's not going to get anything from the gnome in this increasingly noisy place. She has never understood the appeal of this new wave of minstrels that sing by themselves while their audience cheers themselves hoarse, but then again, she never really understood the shadow fey either.
"Well, I guess that will have to wait," she tells the gnome-loon just as Scramsax's mental voice tickles her brain.
::Thank you!:: The reply is sweet and clear, like a mountain brook burbling over its rocky bed. She hasn't really been worried about her coin purse, after all more coin could be gotten in any town with a tavern or village with a square, but having something of hers back would be nice. She weaves through the crowd as Scramsax starts putting his plan into motion. It's just as well that Arianna neither notices nor cares.
"Excuse me," she calls out to the bored attendant as she walks up to the counter. "I'm looking for some things of mine. One of them is a purse that looks like this," she traces the rough outline of her coin purse, weaving light and aether into a spectral likeness of the item in question. "The others are a pack, a stack of journals, and an amulet," she adds, each appearing as she traced them in thin air. "Would you happen to have any of those?"
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Luthael's pocket of light shines like a beacon across the lonely expanse of surrounding grassland. Tonight there are no storm clouds. The sky is a single infinite bowl of brilliant gems glittering far, far above. The Rook, The Northern Bear, The Giantslayer, The Queen in Flight sparkle in the deep dark above. A chill autumn breeze blows out of the east rattling the dry grass tops. A fox calls in the distance. A pack of coyotes laugh at it's consternation.
Within the orb of Khors light, desperation and fear war against faith, courage, and hope. A dozen free souls turned imprisoned slaves turned free souls once again sit huddled beneath the glorious white shroud. Their eyes peering into the darkness outside of that protective circle, their minds trying not to think and dream of a horrible death so recently witnessed.
Leading the war against the darkness, Luthael stands in the center of that ragtag circle. Sweat glistens on his brow, and his eyes begin to show the weariness of one forced to push himself further and further. Closer and closer to his limit.
The prophet has lost count of how many times he has conducted the necessary ritual for detecting disease and sickness within another. Can literally repeat the liturgy for calling forth Khors holy light in his sleep. In one night he has called upon his god more fervently and potently than he normally would in a year.
His efforts do yield results. The demonic parasites are forced to retreat. Are stunted in their growth. They no longer lurk near the fleshy surface of their hosts. No longer race through a body with little abandon or regard for the damage and pain they cause. He once again calls upon the radiant power of the Dawning Sun. Once again the clearing is bathed in holy light centered upon the person in front of him. Flesh ripples once, twice, then stills. But his god-enhanced eyes can still find traces of the parasites cowering in the deepest center depths of their hosts. His has driven them back, but not out. The prophet of Khors is buying time. Time to discover a cure. Time until the sun rises again, at event which the prophet assumes will naturally help fend off the final stage of the corruption. Time for his friends to return from whatever dark foes and perilous tribulations they must be facing.
"I...can...help."
The words whisper in Luthael's mind. It is a whisper used to speaking of death and doom. A whisper of unrelenting, unbending, unwavering certitude. A whisper that demands all from any who would answer its beck and call. It is a whisper that should not be heard, and yet somehow it calls to Luthael in this desperate hour.
"Free...me...I...can...help."
Heart suddenly beating wild and hard. Luthael looks at his pack and the plain, ordinary looking rectangular box poking from the end of his pack. The box just big enough to fit a sword. A box carrying darkness and doom.
"I...can...help."
The pounding drumbeat thumps across the clearing rattling mugs on tables and causing seeds to drop from the swollen prairie grass tops. Zaanfear's flute surfs the scales riding the weaselkin's booming quarternote beats like a valkyrie charging upon the wind into battle. Shadow fae, satyrs, fauns, goblins, nymphs, gnolls and more swirl, bounce, and spin in wild abandon all around the stage in a great heaving mass of faedom. Near the edge of the impenetrable mass of living flesh the trio of shadow fae women spin and whirl, their long tresses flying like windmill blades caught in a hurricane.
Ingryd finishes her second sausage and her second mug of hard lemonade.
Dancing lights bounce and bubble, flash and gleam in the night, their illuminated frenzy matching that of their fae casters in the crowd. The flute jumps a couple of octaves, its pitch and speed reaching ever greater and fevered proportions. The crowd screams in wild appreciation.
Ingryd enjoys one of Scrams sausages and her third mug of hard lemonade.
Gunnar does his best to keep track of the elusive shadow fey child. But like a puppy fresh off the leash, the boy knows to zig, whenever the dwarf or his mother happens to zag. As soon as he or Aterro are ready to close in *poof* the boy giggles and shadow steps to another spot within the clearing. It is a grand game, eliciting laughter and squeals of wild abandon as well as numerous threats and haggard, unreal promises of doom from his mother as she *poofs* after him.
Having finished the sausages, Ingryd ponders the sweet rolls and her fourth mug of hard lemonade.
Unable to *poof* Aterro is forced the bounce and hop and whirl through the crowd. It is a surprisingly good workout for his lower body which is not necessarily a bad thing for one who lived off of copious amounts of honey for nearly a year. The holy warrior's height does allow him to spot both Gunnar and the occasional glimpse of the balloon.
Once he spots Scramsax careening through the crowd. The halfling moving with his usual stealth and grace, thumping into a big ogre who barely even notices the halfling's presence. Before the knight can see anything more, the crowd shifts, Scramsax disappears while the highly desired balloon reappears. The chase continues.
Ingryd taps her foot to the music as she crumples the wrapper of an hazelnut and chocolate coated ice cream sandwich. She washes it down with her fifth mug of hard lemonade. She blinks and wonders when four Aterro's had arrived on the scene and why they were chasing a quartet of gnome-loons all around the area.
In the relative seclusion of the Lost and Found booth, Arianna speaks to the old man. She immediately spots her purse hanging from the peg on the back wall. The man puts the book down and slowly begins to rummage about under the counter. As he does this, the elf can't help but notice the familiar spiraling pattern on the leather cover of the book the man was reading. Nor can she not recognize the dogeared pages bent by herself each time she went back to remember an important note or moment. It is clearly one of hers.
The old man brings out a trio of large wooden bins. Filled with a variety of items and paraphernalia. There are numerous pins, bracelets, earrings, charms, pendants, amulets, headbands, smoking pipes, small pocket sized knives, shirts, tunics, pants, more coin pouches and purses than one can imagine, hats, a couple of heavy weather cloaks. Most surprising and of happy note are several more of your journals, your pack and the amulet you'd thought gone for good.
"If'n any of this belongs to you young lady, you just point it out. Mind, it won't go with you if it isn't yours, so don't try anything sneaky." He says. A quill and pad of paper appear in his hand. "I'll just need to note the items and have you sign for our records and insurance purposes."
The beat of the music rumbles through Ingryd's chest as she finishes off the last of the sweet rolls and her sixth mug of hard lemonade.
Sweat glistening off his brow, Scramsax makes his way back out toward the edge of the clearing having successfully spread his potion of chaos throughout the crowd. Time was all he needed now. An opportunity to try one of the sausages or sweet rolls...
Colors, lights, swirling. Music coursing through her veins with lemonade infused potency. The joyful wildness of the crowd. It's scent tingles her now. Ingryd's limbs move of their own accord, the rickety chair creaking and groaning its own complimentary rhythm.
"You wanna dance?" The baritone voice rumbles just over her shoulder. The big ogre from the line. Through a lemonade lens, the big guy's battered nose and sturdy jaw are kinda handsome. A those biceps, well there was a bit of solid stuff a bearkin could enjoy.
Anger, joy, and a myriad of other emotions play out in Arianna's heart as she finds that her most cherished possessions the ones whose loss stung most dearly, are indeed found. Joy overcomes good sense and she instinctually taps into the magic surrounding this place and *poofs* into the booth with the man and wraps him up in a hug.
"Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!" The words come out in a nearly incomprehensible mess thanks to the speed in which they are delivered, but the sentiment is clear. A warm breeze from seemingly nowhere, smelling of fresh-bloomed flowers and baking bread, swirls around the Lost and Found as the young elf *poofs* back to the correct side of the counter.
"S-sorry about that. I did not know if I would ever much of this again," she says before going though the bins and picking out her things. She nearly weeps with joy as she finds the amulet depicting a winding road going through the archway of a crescent moon that is crowned by seven stars. Finding her pack, the gift from her parents before she left on her Wandering, does lead her to weep. The various aromas of the concert are drowned out by the smell of the air after a fresh spring rain for a moment. It takes her a moment to regain her composure and continue pulling her things out from the bins.
"Did you enjoy my writing," she asks as she counts up the journals, a total of thirteen volumes filled with sketches, stories of her travels and the people she'd met, legends and folklore she'd picked up, and more than a few recipes that she'd enjoyed around campfires adn in roadside inns.