"See them coming, a few at a time? Maybe their hive is the same way were goin'! We could maybe rig a deadfall there, from that branch...smash one with a heavy rock. Might be they carry some of that expensive pollen...would be easier than fightin a swarm eh?"
Trevor tries to hurry putting his armour back on, but it is a miserable sight to behold, and he complains the whole time, clarifying that he usually does better, that it's different when he tries to hurry, that it's the first time this happens to him, etc.
Finally, he attaches the last strap, puts on his helmet, which obstinately falls on his eyes, then pushes the helm all the way back on the top of his head.
"Right. What are we waiting for!? Wait, let me get my shield; almost forgot it!"
He then tries to take the spot right behind Vrindel, keeping an eye on him to check for weird change of behaviour, such as attacking him...
"Hey, look at the tracks, there's less people. May be one, two less... They died here may be?"
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"They are called Effildawnan flowers," Aterro fills in as the knowledge comes back to him. "Do not look so strange--there was a lass I fancied, Liath she was called, and she had a penchant for herbalism. Some knowledge rubbed off while I chased her, methinks.
Their pollen is rich and highly prized. Let us make it a priority to come back her in the night, when the bees are asleep, and make us a rich harvest. The coin, as it filters back to us via the caravan, in time, will be welcome, to see to the ship, and the town."
Aterro tries to hold back a chuckle as Trevor tries to hurry, and ends up taking more time. "'Tis a poor musician 'what blames his instrument," he chortles good-naturedly and slaps him solidly on the back once he's mostly-armored.
As Scram...attempts...to hook up a rocky deadfall trap, Aterro just looks at him askance. "What are you doing....?" he attempts to ask.
"Are...are you going to try to murder a giant bee only for dust of pollen it might have clinging to its legs? When, in not twelve hours, we'll have the whole lot of flowers laying in our open arms??
Come now man, ask anyone here. If -I- am telling you to reign in your bloodlust, that must be words worth hearing."
At Trevor's analysis, he turns to him. "Eh? Fewer you say? I have seen no bodies so I can not say for certain...
...By Thor's hammer! We forgot to look at the metallic glint we saw in the meadow! Perhaps that will fill in the clues to these missing persons?"
"Thanks, Attero. I just said that. I'm glad they reminded you of a girl." The gnome compliments the Thorson for his knowledge of flora if not his timing.
"What metallic glint? Did we miss something?"
Vrindel-cat turns and looks at the others discussing what to do with bees and flowers.
What has happened to my pack. They want to play with pretty flowers and don bee costumes?
Vrindel-Cat growls softly and pads on towards his original destination before the deer baffled him.
And I didn't know Trevor could shape change as well. I'll have to talk to him.
Survival
Vrindel-cat watches as the bees seem to be going along their same path.
And I didn't know Trevor could shape change as well. I'll have to talk to him.
Scram had no idea what the man was talking about, but lied, sensing an opportunity "Ah yes, the glint..."
"...no better reason to eliminate them thrice-damned bees once and for all!" he slams his little fist in his open palm for emphasis. "But surely we dont wade back into the confusing pollens without masks at least...still sayin'...maybe we gets em one at a time like. You see them coming along the way here? ...this god of yours, he delivers the enemy to us."
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"Confusing pollen? What are you on about? I admit that some of you acted slightly outside your normal behavior, but I felt no effects.
If it makes you feel safer, I'll go into the thick of the flowers on my own, as either my deep faith, or my excursions as an acolyte, or both, have made me inured to more heady wine than some few daises can muster.
If I see anything that is not either bees or flowers, I'll draw my dagger and cut myself. Methinks that strong sensation should bring my head from the stupor.
And, aye, I would gather in all clues that we see before we trudge on, lest we leave something amiss that would save us much hardship later.
I will seek out the odd glint, you may follow or wait here, as you wish."
Aterro marches doggedly back to solve one mystery before opening a new one.
Thinking it was his clever lie that turned the tide, he grinned to himself ::Scram, you sly dog...you still got it!:: happily following the big distracting lightning bursting man to the meadow of wealth.
"If things turn prickly, listen for my stones...better I stick to the shadows." and nearing the clearing, he takes to some scrub, ready to spring an attack...a tight black cloth over his mouth and nostrils.
Trevor sighs, but otherwise follows Aterro.
"So these flowers... They can be like a crop for the town, right? A special crop, I mean. This place is far though, but not too far. Perhaps it's the witch's garden?"
Having learned his lesson, the veteran gnome stays put watching his companions and his surroundings. He still expects an ambush from the halfling's friends.
One of the giant bees comes buzzing through the wood on its way back from the meadow. It slowly bumbles and buzzes its way through the open woods ducking and diving carefree through the trees. It reaches the trap set by Scramsax and stumbles right into it. The branch releases with a snap. The hapless bee tries to duck out of the way at the last moment, but alas it is unsuccessful. There is a sickening crunch and one last pitiful buzz and the stone completely crushes the bee. Pulverizing it into a gooey mass, its exoskeleton crushed beyond any real use.
But having mostly abandoned the trap, the only one left to witness the event is Ibrox who decides not to return to the lovely meadow. Vrindel-cat continues to scout the trail ahead, leaving Aterro, Scramsax, and a reluctant Trevor to circle back to the meadow in search of the mystery near its center.
As the three companions near the meadow, each can once again smell the sweet scent of the spring flowers in all their many varieties. But most prominent of all is the syrupy sweet smell of the purple Effildawnan flowers that are so popular among the harvesting bees. Trevor's vision is still jumpy and his head continues to throb in the warm evening sun. (Although there is still some doubt whether the headache is from the hallucinations or the supposed cure.)
Scramsax stops at the edge of the clearing and wraps his makeshift mask around his head, covering nose and mouth. In the meantime, Aterro strides unconcerned out into the meadow toward the top of the small rise with its mysterious metallic reflection and dense concentration of flowers. As he and Trevor get further and further into the meadow and the Effildawnan grow thicker and thicker, the air becomes heavy, the sweet scent almost unbearably thick and cloying. As if the very air has become a sticky sugary syrup that clings and grabs at your skin and lungs. The bees buzz, gather, float, and flit all about the two warriors, but appear unconcerned and not hostile to their presence.
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Vrindel-Cat sneezes occasionally still trying to clear the cloying scent of the flowers from his sensitive nose. He keeps his head down, concentrating on the trail, and cringes at how noisy the others are in their travels.
He finally turns to look and only sees Ibrox following him. He looks questioningly at the gnome, then stops dead and stares back down the trail.
Ibrox tries to examine the resources that he has around him to create a filter or mask the effects of the Effildawnan. The harvesters must have some trick.
The gnome follows the two fighters at a distance stopping when he is unsure if he would be affected by the purple blooms.
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As Attero doggedly marches along, he maintains a mental chant of hymns to Thor, as well as mental exercises, drilled in by hundreds of hours of painstakingly rot as an acolyte, of various dirges and rhymes of lore.
Songs too occupy his mind as proof against the heady blossoms. Although those are a bit more entertaining.
Dreamily taking in the scene it takes a few minutes for you to realize there are several voices calling to you.
"Hey! Hey you! Heeeeyyy! Move you big footed ape!" Cries a tinny, small voice.
"Oh my....I can't watch. It's too horrible. Why don't they ever watch where they're going." Cries another small voice, this one slightly more feminine.
"By the Holy Oak! He's going to get Agatha's next. Watch out!" Shouts another tiny voice. This one with a stronger sense of authority, but still barely audible.
Looking down around your feet, you see that you've wandered into a ring of mushrooms. But these fungi, happen to be the most peculiar colors ranging from bright pink and orange striped to a deep indigo with sunlight apple polka dots.
Leaning down for a closer look, you happen to step back a pace. You feel a something soft smush beneath your boot and suddenly the air erupts with numerous screams of horror that seemingly come from the very mushrooms themselves.
In fact you double over, wracked as you try to clear your lungs and chest. Finally, one last cough has you choking up a vile lump of green and yellow goop and you can breathe once again. But then you seen the goop move...at first just a twitch that you chalk up to imagination or the light. But then it moves again and begins to grow. You watch with horror as it begins to slowly take on the shape and form of the hydra. The small multi-headed beast lets out a tiny roar as its glowing red eyes peer up at you. It instantly launches itself at your boots. Teeth gnashing at the tough leather. You're about to try and simply stomp on the thing when you are wracked by another round of vicious coughing...
Aterro marches into the heart of the meadow. For a few moments he feels a bit dizzy and lightheaded as the overwhelming sweet smells of the flowers and warmth of the day threaten to overcome the cleric's senses. But with the strength of his convictions and personal stamina he's able to throw off the feeling for now. As Trevor stops momentarily wracked with coughing from a bug or something up his nose, Aterro, reaches the purple flowered rise and the glint of reflected metal.
Here he finds the body of a slightly larger than normal human, dressed as a common sailor. The man, sits in the grass, his clothing torn and stained and looking like he had sustained several cuts or bruises before reaching this spot here in the center of the meadow. The metal is a simple silver symbol of Sif dangling from a leather cord hung around his neck. It bobs back and forth in the breeze, as it dangles from the dead mans neck. His bearded face, sunburned is frozen in death with an odd smile and a gaze that looks off into the sky.
Vrindel-cat catches a glimpse of Ibrox as the gnome turns and moves back the direction they just traveled.
Trevor coughs, then screams, looking at his hand, then screams some more as he flings towards the forest around them, but with an empty hand. then, as suddenly, he starts to skip, perhaps he is dancing? As he so skips, he shouts: "*Cough!* Not the boots! No! Not the boots! *Cough cough!*"
He gets his axe and looks about to swing at his feet.
For Scram, the squish was in truth the sound of a thousand gold coins..."...truffles!" the humidity of the forest was too much, his face sweat profusely as he tore the mask away for a full breath. His eyes went crazy with forest madness, nearly turning completely into dollar signs.
"AhaHahA, excuse me good madams and esquires...let me help you and yours to a safer land! Mr and Mrs Puffball are already waiting for you there...Oh yes...a land of where all your rainbow dreams can come true...all you have to do is..." he lunged for one, which just narrowly escaped "...get in my sack!"
"Aieeee!" they cried in the microscopic voices, but it was for not. Few could escape the halfling's greed...he would pluck every last one...and the innkeeps would come running to stock their supplies. It would be the fortune of the season "Fortune of the season!" he screamed, hacking wildly at the earth.
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"Sif, eh?" Aterro mutters and he leans down and searches the body for anything else, hoping for something more, something identifying who he was, as he unloops the holy symbol and tucks it into his beltpouch.
"At least it looks like you went down fighting. Good job to die with honor."
Aterro closes the man's eyes and prays that he is drinking well in Valhalla.
"Well, there was little enough here to make it worth the walk," he starts before looking at the others.
"What have they gotten in to now...." he muses, as yet not willing to intervene, wondering if they'll come out of it on their own.
Also he's morbidly curious what will happen next.
As you stumble upon a particularly valuable patch of red and white striped specimens, you hear a single tiny voice speaking a desperate chant of some sort.
"Hear my call O mighty Gefeldischnitz. Aid your fungi in this time of need. Bring forth your mighty spores of wrath so that you may grow strong upon its fallen corpse. Hear my call O mmighty Gefeldischnitz..." The voice repeats the chant, over and over.
Chuckling at such nonsense as a God of Mushrooms you continue to scoop up various colorful caps and stuff them into every available pocket, pouch, and sack. Until you notice, from the middle of the meadow, a tall, massive fungal monstrosity. It watches you from its slightly elevated vantage point among the Eefildawnan flowers. A second giant fungus grunts and coughs not far from what you can only assume to be Gefeldischnitz. It's not clear what the second massive creature is doing. You watch as a great glob of spores erupt from beneath its sickly green cap, so perhaps it is some ritual of seeding itself.
The first continues to stare at you with three pairs of blinking, unholy black, green, and yellow eyes likely weighing whether it will answer the prayers of its followers or not. Showing the typical capriciousness of most gods.
"Boots, boots. We'll eat your boots. To find the meat, find the meat, fresh beneath the sweet sweet boots." They begin to sing in a slow, devilish chant.
A massive sneeze nearly knocks you over and you look down and two more of the grotesque things are on the ground beginning to take shape and join in the chanting as they slide toward your boots.
Searching the body a little further, Aterro manages to find a hidden pocket sewn into the mans trousers. Tucked inside are five gold coins and a small locket with a broken chain. Inside the locket is a drawing of a handsome woman probably a few years younger than the man. Opposite the drawing, is a short etching. To Elwin, My Love Always, Your Mia.
The cleric's search also causes him to catch a glimpse of another body laying face down in the flowers not far away. This appears to be a some type of goblin. Covered in haphazard bits of clothing and furs, its greenish tinted skin is dry and cracked from the sunlight. A thick mask covers part of its nose and mouth, but is torn and partially askew. A nasty little short sword is rammed into the creatures thigh, having clearly cut straight through the main artery judging by all of the dried blood under the body. Oddly, it looks like the wound may have been self inflicted.
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Vrindel-cat continues to backtrack, hoping the others just stopped for a quick snack, but knowing deep inside they're probably in some kind of self-inflicted trouble.
Trevors sneezes so strongly that he falls backwards on his butt. Frantically, clumsily, he chops at the soil around his feet, crawling backwards and shouting, then pleading: "No! No! Please no! Not the feet! They're dirty! Full of crap! You'll catch diseases, or worse. Don't eat my feet, please! I'll give you anything you want..."
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"Hah...metaphysics. Oldest trick in the book." he snickers uncontrollably for longer than seems healthy before intoning "You've made one fatal mistake...I am not alone!" he equips a tricorn hat from his pocket "Behold, the 7th Armada of Barsella! Ahoy! Man the battle stations! You may strike me down, but the fleet will prevail!" a formation of 130 huge battleships, gilded with silver along the gunwales and flying the bright banners of Barsella suddenly crash through the forest as if it were the ocean at the edge of the world.
The mushrooms shriek, caught wholly offguard by the naval expertise of their would-be kidnapper. As if to finalize the matter, one of the seamen roll a loaded cannon up alongside Scram, its heavy wick sticking straight up ready for a brand.
"Heh. Heh. Heh. Now tell me, President Whitecap..." he lights a cigarette, taking a long drag "Is today a good day to die?" the madness in his eyes full of vengeful bloodlust.
But rather than be intimidated, Whitecap simply grinned knowingly "Well played Admiral. They said you were felled at the Battle of Biscay."
"A convenient illusion." the confident halfling slyly replied with a hint of condescending.
"Then you would well recall..." the mushroom paced slowly in a line with its hands behind its back "...how the SS Humberstone met its fate that day."
Scram's cigarette fell from his fingers harmlessly to the forest floor. "No...son of a b%~%+..."
A cacophonous rustle high up in the branches rose to a crescendo before out charged 200 mounted Pegasi...their wings pearlescent in the sun...tiny mushrooms asaddle wielding deadly arcane magic of fire and lightning!
An epic battle ensued that tested the Admiral's tactical lexicon, creativity, and perseverance. Many died that day, good men Scramsax had called a friend from as far back as the Academy. As the thunderstorm gathered on the horizon hours later, it was yet too early for either side to truly claim themselves the victor...
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Briefly you glance to the side and happen to see a large black beetle wearing a top hat crawl by. Noticing your stare, it tips its hat and waves a beetle leg pleasantly to you before moving along deeper into the jungle like growth of the meadow floor.
For some reason, this sends your head to spinning once again and causes your stomach to whirl with its own set of somersaults. Khors only knows what will happen if your breakfast comes back up on you right now. How many more of the nasty little creatures will come up?!
Vrindel and Ibrox cautiously make their way back to the edge of the meadow. Still a few hundred paces away both gnome and cat hear a variety of shouts and noises. The nearest being the halfling who sounds like he's fighting a desperate battle against a variety of foes. Oddly it also seems he's encountered allies as well.
Farther off, you hear what sounds like Trevor's customary frightened screams, although knowing the boys tendencies to overreact or be frightened of the oddest things, this could be a little less alarming. They drift away soon enough which allows the two of you to focus your attention on a growing, buzzing hum that also seems to approach from the direction of the meadow.
Unable to see what it is through the trees, you continue forward a few more steps only to find yourselves confronted by a oddly shaped swarm of honey bees. They hang in the air buzzing and humming rhythmically. The mass moves and swirls for several seconds before finally taking what can only be described as the shape of a human maiden.
"Hhhuuuurrryyzzzz! Yourrr fffreinnnndzzzz arrrree innnn zzzz nnnneeed." A voice buzzes to you both with the humming tone of a thousand bees. The swarm then disperses and the bees spin and whirl of in every which direction.
"That's something you don't see every day," the gnome offers.
"Guess, we have to save the Thorson and troops. Maybe you can claim the Thorspear is payment." He concludes with Vrindel and a joke.
He wraps fabric to mask his nose and mouth and heads toward the humans.
Trevor continues to crawl bacward on his back, pushing with his legs and axing the ground. "Good day to you as well..." he manages and tips his helmet sideways at the beetle with a wince. "Wait! Help me! Don't just walk away from me! You have as many legs as those things have heads. It's a sign! You're the chosen one! Praise Khors for guiding your path to join mine. Mr. Beetle! Mr. Beeeeeeeeetle! Staaaaay! Stay and fight damn you!"
A great fog of sickly, sulfuric smoke hands over the field as the two sides seem to stop and gather themselves for the final push. Away in the distance you hear the screaming lamentation of the wounded. Some poor sod wailing for his mother and decrying the loss of his feet. Sucking air into your burning lungs, your battle weary gaze flips quickly back to where the mushroom god strode upon the heights overlooking the once beautiful landscape, but it has retreated a few steps and kneels down seemingly distracted by some other curiosity.
But the thought of victory is short lived as your hear the rallying cry of reinforcements approaching from northwest. Your keen eyes catch a glimpse of a red capped mushroom moving just beyond the nearest treeline. Bobbing along on short rubbery legs it wears a mask across its fungal face to hide its hideous visage from the rest of the world. Something just as deadly strides along in its wake, the creeping, lurking horror of a dracoshroom. Its deadly blast of spores and luring gaze of putrefaction can dissolve a warrior...or a ships wooden hull...in mere seconds. Things were looking bad for the admiral and his handful of remaining Barsellan ships.
From high on the crow's nest Scramsax surveyed the scene through the golden and bejewled spyglass, the storm presented everything in blurry smudges. Still, the devestation shook him to the core, not because of what had come to pass...but because he knew what must come next...
"First Mate Brown. If you get out of this alive...tell my wife, I love her...and...that I'm sorry."
He seemed hurt and confused at first, in disbelief. But finally nodded dutifully and executed a textbook naval salute.
"You're a helluva sailor, Brown. It's been an honor to have you aboard. One final push, eh? Once more into the mists of war... ::Gods forgive us...:: "Crewman...take the wheel. Hard to starboard."
"But sir, that will take us straight into the dracoshroom!"
Any rage the Admiral might have over the insubordinace was replaced with a wild battle fury, drawing an emerald saber tip to target "That's right, ye dog! Ramming speed!" a blast of lightning cracked right in their midst, Scramsax' muscular chest glistening in the light. He had narrowly avoided a fireball hours ago, and most of his clothes were tattered or missing.
The Footpad's Jinx was agile for a warship, especially in these ground conditions...but Scram knew the gamble at play. Any damage to the beast would be reflected tenfold to the planks of his ship. Scram saw lesser men dive overboard...but he wouldn't judge them.
The impact was sudden, and cataclysmic...the forecastle reduced to splinters in less than a second. The beast howled in agony...oh how sweet the sound! As the crows nest, rather the mast it topped, lost its support and moved from vertical to horizontal.
Yet he still gripped his saber, balanced atop the fallen mast here, face to face with the beast. It was a melee of claw versus blade, a thousand feints and wet parries in the torrent...each dodge a tragedy to the strength that fueled the creature.
With a final cut, victory seemed in hand for the lightfoot, but the wound seemed to dispel some magics fueling the dracoshroom...and it distorted in a burst of rainbows, polymorphing into...another halfling?
The newcomer held desperately by a single hand, looking at Scramsax with both awe and disgust, saying "You should know something before I die...my mother...was Sandy Fiddles of the eastern caravans..."
"What the hell....?! Son!"
The dangling boy didn't bother nodding to confirm, he didn't need to...saying only "I just ever wanted to make you...proud..."
Scramsax leaped to his rescue, but it was too late...the boy lost his grip on the mast, plummeting into the churning ebbies of shark infested waters below "Nooooooooo!"
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Aterro watched the dual stages of unreality play out with a fascination both captivated and transcendent. He had seem men in three-days fast ignore a hailing maelstrom for the sake of completing whatever divine message they were in the throes off. He had seen others, facing a dearth of healing grace, greet the bonesaw with an inestimable mix of dread and hangman's mirth.
But this was something both compelling and...dangerous.
He had seen enough.
With an air of nonchalance he walks behind the halfling and picks him up, walking as one might a particularly bizarre piece of luggage.
"Time to wake up, little one. The Dracoshroom is slain, and we must needs be about the rest of the day."
He can not bring himself to hit Trevor again. The man's actions, never close friend to sobriety at the best of times, were freakish, and now bordered on the thing that disgusted Aterro the most. Cowardice. He feared to touch to wretched a display might, on some level, infect him.
Mimicking the treatment so rendered earlier to Ibrox, with his other hand he takes his water skin and, ripping out the stopper with his teeth, pours the thing over him.
"Get up, man. You have stood alone before a great hydra, yet now you reason with ephemeral ghosts with begging and belittling your own body?
Are you still in the throes of the pollen...or do we now see the real you?"
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Vrindel and the masked Ibrox continuing backtracking and approaching the meadow. Nearing the still sunny field of bright flowers, the two spot Scramsax the Halfling. Or at least that's who they think is standing a short distance away. The rogue stands naked along the edge of the field, the ground around him is trampled and smashed with plants pulled up, stalks broken, shrubs shattered and crushed. Surrounding him and scattered across the wide area is most of his gear including the telltale glitter of a few coins that continue to be trampled into the soft ground as he stomps about.
Scrapes, welts, minor cuts and splinters cover his short wiry frame from head to toe. His bag is still slung across his chest but appears to now be filled with nothing but leaves, deer droppings, a few old nut shells and other forest debris. Instead of sword or sling, he wields what appears to be the soggy, rotted remnants of a fall squash wrapped to the end of a stick. The rotting bits occasionally fly off to smack the uncaring halfling in the face where they stick and add to his wild barbaric appearance.
Beyond the halfling, you see Aterro out in the center of the meadow, several hundred feet away, taking long strides through the tall flowers as he makes his way back toward Scramsax. The cleric stops looking down at something on the ground and speaks a few words, but he is too far away for you to hear what they are.
The cleric then continues to make his way toward Scramsax, who has suddenly turned and apparently noticed Vrindel and Ibrox walking up the trail. Before the two companions can say anything, a vicious snarl crosses the halflings face as he waves his rotted squash in the air and suddenly charges Vrindel, easily slipping free of Aterro's casual attempt to grapple the nimble, slippery rogue.
With a valiant cry he rushes right toward Vrindel-cat, covering the distance quicker than a rabbit chased by a fox. But he doesn't see the big log, lying across the path and trips, crashing across it in a tumbling whirl of limbs, rotted squash and forest debris which goes whirling out of his sack in every direction. Some of which end up splattering both Ibrox and Vrindel.
His stick broken by the fall, Scramsax gazes at it with a tremendous sense of loss behind his eyes and finally lets loose with a great shouted "Nooooo!" Moments later Aterro is finally able to wrangle the filthy, distraught halfling gripping him tightly under one beefy arm.
It mutters something unintelligible in its foul fungal patter and then speaks to it allies, the dracoshroom and the other redcapped shroom.
The battle seems to be over, the day lost as all that remains of the mighty fleet of Barsella floats broken and drifting upon the desolate sea. The few survivors cling desperately to whatever they can reach among the floating debris while you hear the muted laughter of avenged mushrooms coming from within your bag. A laughter that rings with the singular knowledge that you failed and that all of the loss, the destruction, the death of your son, all of it, caused by the simple greed for more gold...or....perhaps next time you've just got to remember to kill the priests first...
As you lay there the sun is suddenly blocked by a great shadow that suddenly resolves itself into the visage of the ghost knight. It's eerie undead grin leers at you speaking some vile evil spell over your cursed body, just like they did to Maria and the others back home when...when Krakova fell and you hid. Hid yourself and then ran. Ran from these very creatures that had taken your home, family, friends, everything you had ever known.
Now here it was gloating over you, cursing you further with these gnawing hydras and their cheerful little songs. With a last snarl of disgust, it shakes its head and turns away, not even willing to finish you off. Not even considering you a threat, just like before. You weren't a threat to the invaders of your land. A boy, nothing more. It was easy to hide and escape, because you were nothing to them then. And now, still nothing as the ghost knight walks away back toward the edge of the meadow where your friends still waited.
Vrindel-cat gives a big cat sigh, and reluctently morphs back into the louder, and more clumsy version of Vrindel.
"I'll try to do something with this one. See if you can find the other miscreant, Trevor". Vrindel speaks to Ibrox. Before entering the meadow he wraps a cloth about his face and nose. "This stuff would sell for a fortune in the east".
Vrindel motions, mumbles a few words in Sylvan, and reaches out to touch the wriggling grappled Scramsax.
Melee touch (To his with Shillelagh spell)
"Hold him still"! He murmurs to the hopefully unfazed cleric.
I hope he's not thinking he's holding a battering ram and getting ready to break down a door.
Trevor looks at the shadow above him and mutters with a strangled voice: "Necromancer..." He fumbles to shift his grip on hi axe to send it at the dark knight, but takes too long. As the figure walks away from him, he turns on his belly and starts to crawl awkwardly, his legs like lead weights behind him, his cheeks streaked with tears cutting through the caked mud: "Come back! Come baaaaaaaaaack! Krakova! Krakooooovaaaha!"
Vrindel uses the magic of nature to help fight a natural problem. With a delicate touch he manages to rap Scramsax on the head just enough to potentially jar him back into reality, but without causing any real harm. Not an easy feat considering the squirming, shouting halfling.
Meanwhile, a lonely, stricken cry of Krakova. Echoes out from somewhere in the vast stretch of meadow.
"Mmmmm....tasty boots aren't they?"
"Oh yes. Very tasty indeed. The tender meat inside is even better."
"Yes, yes. Too true. Toooooo true. It's actually quite good with a bit of the spicy mustard."
"Oh my yes, it....mmmfffph...mfffph...gulp! Yes it is, isn't it."
The hydra's chatter among themselves as they dine upon the lower half of your body. But the driving need to find the ghost knight, to find some small remnant of your own failing courage drives you to ignore the small gnawing creatures. After all, perhaps they are simply the price you must pay for failures that occurred long ago. You quickly loose track of the foul beast from Morgau but continue dragging yourself through the great tangle of grass, flowers, thorns, and nettles until you suddenly find yourself lying atop a vast open expanse.
The air is hot, dry, and filled with smoke and the stench of death. A single spear is planted in the ground, not far away. A listless banner, torn and bedraggled hangs loosely from the long weapons shaft. It's hard to tell the symbol on the banner in the hazy, red light of the smoldering sun, but your heart fears it knows the answer. Your strong arms drag your useless legs across a grinding, clattering and broken plain toward the banner. It's only after a few minutes of this exhausting crawl that you realize it isn't stone you call across, but the broken skeletons of hundreds...thousands...hundreds of thousands of dead people. Horror races through you like a blast of Aterro's lightning as you recognize a partial bracelet with the mermaid symbol here, a signet ring of the Order of the Storm there. A traditional Krakovan wedding band, a torn bit of cloth with the lantern of Khors. The dead of your home.
The spear and banner grow closer, and you recognize the broken crown of good King Eynryk sitting upon the head of the corpse that is pierced by the great spear which you can now see carries the torn banner of the Mermaid of Krakova. From the small rise, your gaze looks out upon the desolation, the dead, all that remains of your lost land.
*smack* "Jack Nova? The slimiest gumshoe of the east..."
*bash* "Quack diplomas? Trust a cleric, not some medicine man smokin' incense..."
*crack* "Black Clovas? Three leafed tasty, 5 leafs poison!"
*crash* "Unpack persona? Now's not the time for character analysis, sleepy..."