Luthael sends a ball of boiling sun flying into the fairy tangling with Ingryd. The searing holy fire blackens rolling flesh and leaves a wide area crispy and smoking. The big fae stumbles back a step giving Ingryd an opening to fall back up the steps.
Scramsax tries to knock some brains into one of the trio again but this time the halflings aim is off and the stone clangs off the nearby Sprinklemaker 2000. The hit rattles the entire contraption finally freeing the logjam of ruby red, emerald green, and bile yellow sprinkles to break free. This is an achievement that has befuddled the goblin workers for nearly three days. If any of them had survived the initial fiery conflagration they would be celebrating the release of the sprinkles and an end to their daily beatings for failure.
A cloud of sprinkles bursts forth with a coughing, phlegmy spew from the nozzle just at the first of the fire crew arrive. Their rubber suits pelted with sticky sprinkles causes a momentary panic as the pair turn on the machine and encase it in a thick spray of plain soy yogurt fire retardant. Within moments the sprinkles cease to flow and once again the Sprinklemaster 2000 sits silent and constipated and the yogurt and sprinkles combine into a near solid mass of adamantium once fully set.
With their foes retreating toward the chocolate whirlpool and sauna, the fairy sisters pick up their fallen third and point the way for the response team while chattering and nattering. One of the crew makes the mistake of noticing then gazing directly at the massive oversized breasts of the third fae dangling free of any confinement whatsoever. The great pendulous glands swing back as forth with every shift and move the fairy makes. The image burns into the hapless creature's mind, his eyes flicking back and forth as if tracking the movement of a fleshy clock weight. Within moments Accident Response Team member 34 collapses into a glassy eyed stupor falling face first into a thick layer of retardant. Eventually the poor fool's oxygen runs out leaving the sight of the fae's naked form the last thing he saw before his screaming soul shuffled off into the next stop along its journey.
Sugar Plump #1: 74/125
Sugar Plump #2: 51/125
Sugar Plump #3: 105/125
"Are we posting up to fight from the tunnel, or do you want me to close off the opening?" asks Gunnar, clearly inclined to the latter course of action.
"I'd say seal it off," Raseri says. A part of her would love to go back and deal with what's left of the goblins and troll-ops, but sometimes discretion really is the better part of valor, and they still have a hag to deal with. Besides, with the amount of damage they'd done to the production lines, she doubts they'll be back up and running soon, if ever.
"Please seal it." Luthael replies hoping that they haven't lost an element of surprise on the hag.
Gunnar nods and casts Wall of Stone, layering it 30 inches thick to block the opening. He uses his stonemasonry expertise to make it appear as much like the rest of the cavern wall as possible.
Scram stood down, saddened that the fart fudge factory would be allowed to exist forever. But, it was more urgent that nothing candy coated entered her mouth...thus she didn't remove the bindings to protest. Soon, her sling was tied back into the neat leather bracelet she always wore, and the icy finger remained concealed on her spine...the thief appeared completely unarmed.
After the tunnel is sealed off, Raseri starts casting to get everyone cleaned up. At Logi's urging, she saves the shield for last.
The flashing lights, raucous alarms, screams, explosions, smell of burnt flesh, batter, and other foul things along with the general chaotic cacophony are cut off in an instant as Gunnar seals the tunnel from the entrance and much of the way back to the still stinky chocolate spa. Although the tainted chocolate pool still simmers, the flow of additional chocolate has stopped, which is fortunate at the exit stream is now completely cut off as well leaving a small reservoir of hardening cocoa pooled at the end of Gunnar's blockade.
Falling back to the original junction and campsite, Raseri manages to clear any residue of the raid on Old Molly Holly's Factorium of Holiday Delights and Delicacies from her companions clothing. All the while Ingryd's shield complains bitterly and loudly about being last in line until eventually it's complaints give way to a sullen silence occasionally broken by sullen mutterings to quiet to really understand.
Darrell looks up from his spot next to the quietly burning fire. With a quick count of heads he nods to himself and returns to the mug of tea he'd been sipping. "So all went well then?"
"Every time I think I've witnessed the worst horrors Midgard has to offer, I find myself surprised," Raseri says as the adrenaline wears off and the gravity of what she's seen begins to set in. To cope, she falls back on an old Northlander tradition, the telling of tales. She relays what they witnessed and what happened to Darrell.
"No that candy was deplorable. Do not recommend" Ingryd says as she looks at Raseri and smiles.
" Thanks that would have taken weeks to get all that out of the deep fur. Though keeping the blood and gore can help in intimidating the enemy" She says with a wink.
Luthael appreciates the cleaning from Raseri but is obviously sullen with engaging the candy factory. His consolation is that the candy deliveries will have a supply chain disruption for awhile.
"Let's take a rest and recover. Then, we've got to find those dragon eggs, right?"
"We do," Raseri says, feeling a little ashamed of herself. Luthael had made it clear that he didn't want to cause a ruckus, and she was willing to do it anyway.
"I guess we should press on quickly then," she mutters before doing what she can to recover from the raid on the candyshop of horrors.
Gunnar also takes a breather, using his Arcane Recovery to get that 5th level spell slot back. He also binds some wounds and rests after taking the requisite concentration time to ensure the wall remains permanent.
"yeah the dragon needs her children"Ingryd says then growls.
"Taking children, if she has eaten any....SHE WILL PAY"Ingryd says as she chokes up on Ennui ready to smash the wort covered face of the wrinkly old hag. Probably repeatedly until all that remained was a puddle of pink chunks and blood.
”We saw no evidence of a dragon egg hatchery that way,” adds Gunnar. After catching his breath and finishing a quick study, he says, ”Shall we continue?”
Raseri looks to Luthael, still feeling guilty about what happened, before answering.
"I think I shall," she answers as she stands and then helps the Prophet of Khors to his feet.
The thief shook her head no. Those plumpers would be yet another dagger in the back, Scramsax' assumed threat lurking in the shadows...like that Ice Hyena similarly left behind in its lair years ago. Before taking a sip of cocoa from henceforth, the nagging, perennial, paranoid question would always arise 'Did somebody fart in it?'
Scrunching in the cozy sand, the tiny feet scouted forth...
...before she could take a step, she glanced down to notice a tiny gumdrop stuck to her chest. A gumdrop with the stolen life essence of a young bean-cursed maid within causing it to pulse with spiritual flatulence. Luckily, with a bit of quick thinking Scram gave it a single finger *flick* sending its ass back to hell where it belonged.
While the rest of the group catch their breath, clean up, and share a bit of the experience with Darrell, Scramsax sets out once again to scout the passages ahead. This time the halfling slips down the main, northeasterly tracking branch with the old smugglers mark.
The roughly ten foot by ten foot chamber is empty except for a few bits of ancient rotting wood. You'd guess the remains of a small pallet or maybe a couple of barrels half buried in a partial cave in along the western wall. Also partially blocked by fallen rubble is another narrow passage leading west. Two other corridors lead north and east.
Now that he knows what to look for, Coin easily spots the smuggler's mark on the northern passage. What the owl also spots is that the opening to the west appears to be newer than the rest of the tunnel network. Taking a closer look, it appears the tunnel is less the creation of natural cracks and movement of the mountain but of something eating away at the rock. The opening and the following passage each show signs of corrosion from acid. Curiously, further up the tunnel, the floor in covered by several patches of small white, yellow, and brown mushrooms.
As coin sits there and scans the area, one of the patches of mushrooms suddenly starts to move. The small thumb-sized fungi scurry and scuttle about ten feet deeper down the town before settling to a stop once again.
The thief returned quickly, finally taking her gag off a moment to report every detail before adding to Ingryd "...yeah, you heard me, barrels. I think this is it! But I didn't get too close...wasn't sure about all that mold and fungus. Can never remember which one likes fire and which likes cold. Let's go."
" So try sometjing like sound or lighting" She says as she then laughs.
" Or get them drunk"
During the short rest, the prophet takes out his new sword and practices the routines that Raseri showed him until his arm shook in fatigue.
After Scramsax briefs them on the way forward, Luthael offers, "maybe it's just a fungi farm. Didn't we face mushroom soldiers, once?"
"I think I should have prepared the blessing Locate Creature, so we could have a direction toward the dragon eggs."
"While being a Prophet makes me see the future, it doesn't help me well prepare for it." With his new sword safely sheathed, he follows his companions.
"Hmm, I could look for the eggs instead of the hatchlings-to-be," Raseri muses.
After a moment, Raseri falls into a trance as she brings to mind the few times she has seen a dragon's egg. Focusing on the shell, she mutters a prayer asking for the path to be laid bare before her. After a moment, her eyes and the twig forked twig in her hand glow with stormlight.
At first, disappointment strikes. Nothing resonates with the proper inherent properties. You try to push the threads just a little further. Sweat starts to bead upon your brow. Your heart pounds in your chest painfully. Upon the brink of collapse you receive a small resonant *ping*.
The location is beyond the reach of the spell, but you get a direction. North and east and up. Farther than one thousand feet, but closer than two thousand feet for you couldn't push your power any further.
As Raseri comes out of the trance, she staggers a bit.
"Looks like our quarry is in the tower," the priestess tells the others. "I'll have to try again when we're closer."
"Which way?" Ingryd says eager to smash through and free the young form such an evil creature.
"The way Scramsax just scouted out, the smuggler's tunnel."
Luthael smiles at Raseri and offers, "Glad it worked. Good job. Let's go."
Gunnar follows along on the path with the others. ”Sounds like we can investigate less now that we know the eggs aren’t down here. Excellent,” says the Dwarven wizard with an unintentional pun.
Staying upon the smuggler's path, the party skirts by the mushroom herd and moves along the northern tunnel. The rough path kinks and curls its way deeper into the mountain. After about fifty feet, the path begins to take on a gentle uphill grade. Another thirty paces and it opens in a small thirty by forty foot chamber. This was once a tiled floor complete with a drain near the center leading down into who-knows-where. Now the tiles are broken and mostly covered by fallen rock and dirt. A dual set of ancient wooden shelves lean against the western wall. Covered in dust and the wood rotted by age and insects, there is little left to examine. Yet upon the bottom self lies a pair of old clay jugs marked on the outside with a trio of black lighting bolts. Remnants of other jugs lie scattered in the area, victims of earth tremors, fallen shelves, or other hazards of time and neglect.
To the east is another exit.
Coming back to the barrels, Scram again loosened her gag to excitedly whisper "What do you think, Darrel? Is it your papees whiskey after all?! Griz, give me a hand here...lets tap this sucka..." pulling out a very worn crowbar with a pink star painted on one end.
Scram struggled uselessly eager for a taste. But the tight fitting cap wasn't the sign of a master cooper, rather the humidity with time had caused the wooden fibers to expand...creating a bottle cap only the thirstiest, grizzly honey mama could breach.
" There is a tap pop it swish then spit it may be bad Ingryd says to Scram about the whiskey
Scramsax jams the crowbar into the first barrel expecting something solid. Instead she finds the wood to be more like an old sponge. The wood is completely rotted and riddled by insects. The iron bar breaks through creating a small cloud of dust and a hole the size of Ingryd's fist. Peering into the barrel reveals nothing but dashed hope and broken dreams. Nothing but a layer of dust and ancient insect carcasses fill the bottom of the barrel, the prior contents long since emptied into the soil below.
The second barrel is the same as the first.
Luthael watches his companions attempting to find and enjoy some good loot.
Scram watched the wood crumble just like her dreams of fortune. But then she noticed the mysterious lightning bolt jugs that no one was talking about and resolved to investigate. "Ho, what's this?! Black lightning? That's a kooky twist on a normally vibrant phenomenon. Maybe there's something special in here that breaks all the rules of economics..." before replacing her gag.
Finding the barrels a complete bust, Scramsax cautiously investigates the two surviving jugs found in the following chamber. Her eyes quickly brighten as she lifts the first clay jug finding it heavy and sloshing with the gentle sound of liquid still contained inside. With practiced caution and careful concentration she cuts the wax seal and pries the cork free.
Quickly jerking back in anticipation of noxious gas, a burst of fire to the face, cackling demon smoke, or some other odious incident, the halfling finds herself surprised when nothing emerges except the pure, blessed scent of long aged whiskey. Moving in for a closer sniff, her initial observation is confirmed in triplicate. The scent wafting from the jug would cause a thousand dockside drunks to suddenly stop and savor the wonder. Dreams of peat bogs and oak savanna fill the halfling's mind along with hints of apple. A small sip of the golden nectar passes her lips. Smooth as a glass bottomed boat, the liquid slides along her tongue with a tingling warmth that strikes to the very heart and depth of her soul. All the way down is whispers dreams of peace, ease, and sweet oblivion to any and all hurts or ailments that could trouble a wounded or anxious spirit.
Looking gape-mouthed between Ingryd and Darrel "Could it be?!" offering it to both for their own confirmation, though it wasn't needed. "It is, isn't it! Fuzzy Fingers McGlintlock's final stash!" Quickly assembling a small carrying tote to transport the fragile fortune.
"Scramsax, it might be better to leave that here and pick it up after we finish with the hag," Raseri suggests. Part of it is she doesn't want the extra weight slowing them down once things get heated, but another part is that she doesn't want Scram to be upset if the hag manages to do something to the liquor. Truth be told, though, the largest part of it is that she doesn't want Scramsax, the sneakiest among them, drunk while scouting out what lays ahead.
Ingryd takes a sniff and then takes a sip. She thoroughly lets it rest over her tongue and teeth before she drinks it down.
Ingryd takes a swig and lets it sits, swishing it around to make her pallet take in each and every possible flavor and texture. Hoping the bouquet raises too the forefront so she can possibly repeat the recipe.
It is like no other whiskey you've ever tasted before. Oh certainly, you quickly recognize it is a traditional barley mash, not corn, rye, or wheat. Nor a blend. The yeast, much more difficult to identify with taste, but you would guess not an exotic strain. The oak and apple likely from charred barrels made of such wood, it wouldn't be the first you've heard of a distiller blending during the aging.
The aging. And there's the real secret. How long has the jug been sitting here slowly maturing like a mighty oak itself. Growing in stature and flavor and mellowness over the long, long forgotten years sitting upon a smuggler's buried shelf. A hard ingredient to replicate, age. Many have tried, none have succeeded.
But there is something more. A lingering warmth and sensation as the liquor wafts its way into your welcoming mind and body. The scent of springs first warm day, a summer rain quenching a thirsty forest, the crisp cool of an autumn evening, apples ripening on the branch, even the peace and quiet beneath winter's snowy blanket. You find yourself sipping the nectar of the Margreve itself. Spring waters born of wood, drenched in its magic and power.
A magic and power that for the first time since that dark, dark day so long ago when your happy life was forever transformed into a simple struggle to survive and keep going in the face of rage and despair, for the first time the rage, despair and pain dissipate. It is not the usual cloaking of those so familiar feelings as occurs with the usual quantities of ale, meade, wines, and liquors that you so often imbibe. No, this is an actual removal of that pain and loss. With its exit, your body truly relaxes. Your mind finds itself free to ponder nothing or everything. Peace reigns supreme within you.
Your eyes alight upon the jug. For after a short time you can already feel that peace drifting away. The images, the loss, the anger and despair all creeping back like hungry wolves ready to gnaw upon your soul as they have for so very long.
All it would take is another drink to keep the hounds of darkness and doom at bay.
Ingryd drinks down another glass.
"Needing a bit more for research"
"We can learn more later. We should not be deep in our cups when we face the hag." Raseri takes the jug and replaces the stopper before Ingryd decides she needs a third mug.
Ingryd takes her always cold mug and dips it in and takes a nice swig of another cup.
"Deep! No never, I can hold my liquor"Ingryd says as she hangs the hammer on her belt and smiles.
"You should try some"
”Kill hag first, rescue dragon eggs second, drink whisky third. Agreed?” prompts Gunnar, himself struggling to resist the lure of the amazing brew.
“And we must save some so as to analyze its composition to reverse engineer its creation. If you recall, we may have need of the means to make amends to some rather persistent Dwarven brewers suffering from another of your bean episodes, Scramsax,” he adds.
The entrepreneur shrugged innocently waiting to hear Darrel's assessment.
Raseri looks confused at Gunnar's mention of dwarven brewers.
"There is a tale to be told there. What happened?"
The prophet does not know what's going on. He asks, "Let's go. We've a direction to the dragon eggs."
"Ingryd, put the barrel in your pack. Let's party after the hag is dealt with. C'mon. let's go."