Trevor kicks at the big pot, but the thing refuses to budge: "Scramsax! Wake up damn it! You're boiling in a pot, not having a freakin' bath!"
He plants his foot back on the floor and pivot to swing his axe at the Goblin.
Getting desperate now at the growing number of wounds, Vrindel decides to switch targets and start thinning out the goblins. If he can back into a corner, so all can't get around him for flanking purposes (or Advantage) he will do so.
Magic Stick
Magic Thwack.
Bonus Action: Healing word at Level 2
|
"OOOf," Aterro grunts as another rock-hard fist crunches his nose in a spray of blood.
His head swims in a red haze and he can hear the Valkyries circling up on high, waiting for him to enter Valhalla.
Of course he could throw away his life on a whim. Indeed, at this moment he might prefer it. Did he but stand still in a moment's time all the pain would be lifted and he would be imbibing the ever-flowing mead of the Great Feast in the time it took him to hit the ground.
But he thought of the others. Of the rash druid now saving Trevor, who needed saving. Of the halfling who could no longer be heard. OF the gnome behind him who had not yet tasted combat.
The gnome.
"Congratulations, big one.....you have...passed...strategy....now...logistics."
Wheezing, limping, Aterro back-peddles in a fighting withdrawal until his stumbling steps take him behind Ibrox.
"Hail to you, Ibrox. Thy moment to play the shield wall is at hand."
He stops to catch his breath, and draw upon the last reserves of Thor's grace while the Hammer tirelessly keeps up its heavy work.
Trevor forces his way past the two goblins. Quickly setting his boot to the side of the hot iron pot he gives it a mighty shove. Ever so slowly the cauldron sloshes and begins to tilt. Hope gleams in the knights eyes only to have it drown in a cauldron of fouled halfling stew as the iron pot slips from his foot and slams back down, sloshing some of the watery yellow-green stew all over his boot and pants. In a fit of frustrated fury the teenager kicks out at the cauldron thinking one swift shot will do the trick. Only he misjudges badly and instead catches the iron side with the tip of his big toe. There's a brief snap as toe meets iron. This is shortly followed by pain shooting up Trevor's leg from the already swelling, broken toe.
Thwarted by the witches cauldron, Trevor takes out some of his anger and fear for the state of his halfling companion on the nearest goblin. Shining with the brilliance of Khors, the blade swings down and lops off the goblins left arm causing it to roll around on the floor squealing in pain and agony as its blood flows freely from the fearsome wound.
His eyes focused on the squealing goblin, Trevor forgets about the second and his big iron ladle. That is until in lands with a loud thump across his right knee, popping it out of joint, adding to the pain already coming from his foot.
Inside the pot Scramsax still retains enough consciousness to feel the pot move and himself sloshed around within. His head bangs once against the iron side, but he feels little more beyond the searing pain and his flesh starts to peel and slough away in the most exposed places.
Vrindel steps around and blocks the doorway to the kitchen. Making it impossible for the goblins to swarm him too quickly. He then raises his staff and calls upon his power over all things plant like and suddenly great strands of fungus and the hairy growths of mold and mildew that cover the bar, floor, and walls of the hideous inn burst to life and attempt to grab, trip, or otherwise hinder anyone caught among the sticky, slimy entangling mass.
Three of the goblins cry out in surprise as the usually sedate and non intrusive fungi come alive and wrap them up in its slithery grip. The fourth one manages to duck away and behind the moldering bar with Vrindel. Although the creature takes a wild swing at the trollkin, he misses causing the druid no harm.
"My knee!" screams Trevor in pain. He fights the urge to reciprocate just yet, as the cauldron requires more than just a good kick it seems.
Ignoring the Goblin threat for the moment, Trevor braces his shield against the pot and pushes it off the stove. "Scramsaaaax!"
Yet again the deep tolling of a death bell rings across the courtyard. This time Mog actually stumbles a bit, shaking his head in confusion as his nearing death rings through the night.
Taking advantage of the beasts momentary confusion, Aterro retreats a few paces past Ibrox, readying the Thorspear for Mog inevitable pursuit. As the cleric retreats, his spiritual hammer continues to harass and pummel Mog. This time Thor guides the hammer true and it hits with a solid thwack that leaves the creatures ear bleeding and a growing lump on one side of its head.
Roaring in confusion at the magical onslaught, the frustrated Mog steps forward seeing the little gnome working his magics.
"Mog no like your sparkly whodoo!" He growls. "Whodoo is no fair in Mog's game. Also...me like hat, gimme."
Mog's two big meaty fists come crashing together with a resounding SMACK!. Unfortunately for Ibrox, his head caught right in between the two massive hands. His ears ring and begin to bleed and at least three teeth are jarred loose by the pummeling blow.
The gnome's knees weaken. He unsuccessfully tries to focus on the pretty lights as the forest starts spinning. He spits blood from a grin and says, "Yes. I'll protect you Aterro."
He points his finger at the big goblin saying again, "Ibrox" in a stern voice causing a deep tolling of a bell ringing BONG throughout the courtyard.
Vrindel takes a vicious swing at the untangled Goblin, and turns to address what's happening in here. The sickening smell of burning flesh, brings out his worst fears.
Magically Embellished Stick
Magically Embellished Impact
Critical Damage 15 Points total
And his first swing sends the attacking Goblin back to join the others struggling in the Inns fungus, and moss.
In a truly heroic and sacrificing act, Trevor drops his shield and turns his back on the goblins. Gritting his teeth against the heat of the iron, his grabs and in one mighty heave tips the cauldron over spilling the contents across the dirt covered floor.
A variety of bones and boiled meat, chopped up roots, large insect carapaces, and one mostly boiled halfling come sloshing from the pot in a great steaming, smelly flood.
The goblins curse the knight and the loss of their dinner. The one with the big ladle, seeks a bit of revenge, swinging at Trevors exposed back. The ladle seems to have been blessed by the old witch herself as the goblin manages a blow right to the knights side where he armor happened to be a little weak. Having delivered his message, the small creature then ducks away and runs out the back door.
The second, wounded goblin seeing his ally run and the fierce trollkin stepping into the kitchen after completely caving in another goblin's head with his mighty staff, decides enough is enough. He slinks around the spilled soup and ducks out the back door.
"HEEEEEEEELP!" bellows Trevor as he tries to keep Scramsax from dying any further.
Vrindel steps forward, wiping Goblin brain from his staff. "There now little one. Let me help you". Vrindel looks for a spot on the halfling that is not too burned, and send forth some healing energy.
Cure Wounds.
"I'll do more after we're out of this dilema. Knowing Aterro, and Ibrox they'll need some healing as well. Trevor, do you think you two can take care of the tangled up goblins in the next room? Perhaps with ranged weapons, so you don't get all caught up in the tangle"?
He then heads towards the back door as well. "I'd better see what's going on outside".
Vrindel takes a move to leave the room, then converts into Vrindel-Cat and springs towards the action outside.
A bright pink Scramsax comes to and immediately purges. He wanted to wash the taste of dwarf knuckle marrow out his mouth but found only an empty waterskin at his side. "*cough gasp* That certainly soured the afternoon!"
Once back to his senses, he plots with Trevor against the goblins...arguing to first take a short look. He grabs a shiny spoon and scoots near the door, clandestinely scanning back over the fungus entangled goblins...and for any other hidden threats there...
Trevor goes "Ok, you're back. Stay here!" and he follows Vrindel outside.
Trevor's urgent cries for help can be heard from inside as Ibrox, Aterro and Mog continue their struggle in the courtyard. Yet another deep resonating bell rings the air, adding a theatrical bit of punctuation to Trevor's shouts from inside.
Wrinkles spiderweb across Mog's face and his clawed hands swell a bit in the knuckles. The big beast even stoops a little more as it moves. But despite the outward aging the creature still moves quick and punches as hard as ever. Ibrox again discovers this fact when a meaty fist slams like a sledgehammer into his face. With a crack, his nose breaks and blood gushes from the bent and broken olfactory organ.
The beast tries to follow up the first brick-like punch, but slips on the remains of one of the smaller goblins. This causes his blow to miss wildly and creates an immediate opening that Aterro willingly takes.
Using his spear and hammer, the war cleric nearly brings Mog to his knees. A burst of lightning arcs through the oversized goblin as the Thorspear stabs deep into Mog's shoulder. As Mog gets spun around by the spear, Aterro's hammer comes swooping in and this time pounds the goblin right in the face and does what would be expected when a heavy hammer meets softer flesh.
This time it is Mog's nose that cracks and snaps, causing his eyes to water as he rocks unsteadily back and forth on increasingly unsteady legs.
Trevor, findings a big fat target in front of him, doesn't miss a beat and pulls a javelin and throws it in one movement as he closes the distance.
It took Scram a moment to realize Trevor had abandoned him, his attention on the spoon carrying the goblins reflection. He wanted to rush out and join them, but his conscious kept him put. The halfling was nothing except loyal, and Vrindel had given him a duty to complete.
The gnome sees even more stars as his head rocks back from Mog's hit. Blood courses from his nose into and past his mouth. He spits more blood again from a pained expression; the grin is gone.
He points his finger at the big goblin saying again, "Ibrox" in a nasally voice causing a deep tolling of a bell ringing BONG throughout the courtyard.
Scramsax pulverizes the only unwounded goblin caught up within the grasping fungal growths. The death of their comrade seems to inspire the others two to great feats of strength as one bursts out of the entanglement followed quickly by it fellow. The first barrels toward the front door, the other heads straight for Scramsax standing in the kitchen doorway.
Scram sighed, why did he leave the apple wagon? His trusty old hammock and the lazy Courlandian roads were calling his name about now. He blew a fast burst of air from his lips across the lead bullet, still hot from the stew...from a distance it might have looked like a prayer for luck...
...but Scram only knew one god, and she had left the world.
Vrindel cat looks over his shoulder, as he hears Trevor following him out of the door. He growls deep in his throat, then quickly as only a big cat can reverses field, and heads back into the kitchen... hoping that Scramsax doesn't mistake him for a threat.
Finding discretion to be the better part of valor, Scramsax turns and dashes out of the kitchen before he can be overrun by the fleeing goblin. Passing within a few feet of the returning Vrindel-cat, the halfling flashes out the door like a scalded rabbit. His soaked boots and clothing squishing, sloshing and leaving a trail of witches stew bits all along the way.
Not far behind is one of the last remaining goblins. He stops at the door for a moment to sniff the air and check for any nearby danger, but the overwhelming smell of the stew and Scramsax's fleeing form keep him from noticing the big black hunting cat stalking along the wall between inn and stable.
Aterro, Ibrox, and Trevor all converge on the hapless Mog as javelin, spear, and deadly necrotic magic pierce, electrocute, and drain the last vestiges of life from the big goblinoid. For a moment he just stands in place rocking back and forth on those thick legs.
"Mog no like this game anymore...." He says, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head as his body comes crashing to a ground.
A few moments later, the door to the inn swings open and out runs a single wounded goblin. Seeing the three heroes standing over the dead Mog, it yips in fright tosses its hatchet at Trevor and then runs off into the nearby woods. Fortunately, the hatchet just bounces off of Trevor's armor causing no further harm.
Trevor falls on his ass, panting and bleeding. He turns to see Scramsax on his tow feet: "By His mercy! I thought you were done. Well done in fact! What devilry was this? There are stuffed Dwarves inside, Gnomes..." he looks at Ibrox uneasily. "A trap. A perfect trap... And the Witch escaped. Vanished into thick air..." and tears flow down his cheeks.
"Witches. I hate witches." The gnome declares in a nasally tone. Drying blood coats his chinstrap beard and the gap between his mouth and nose.
"Gnomes? Trevor, you saw gnomes?" A cloud of concern descends on his face as he wobbles into the house of horrors clearly still unstable on his feet. He enters the inn and looks around.
Vrindel-Cat sees the goblin sneak out of the back door, and simply steps up behind him and lets out the most vicious roar he can conjure forth.
He then runs out into the yard, looking at the others and heads towards the tree he and Aterro had been investigating when all hell broke loose.
"No wait..." Trevor says to Ibrox and gets up reluctantly to follow him. He stays on the porch if he can, but insists on keeping the Gnome in sight. This place had almost cost him his life, in just a matter of minutes. He still felt cold and frightened, just approaching the place, thinking of Scramsax stewing in his big pot, and the nasties he ingested.
"We should probably burn this place down, then hunt that witch!"
|
|
Aterro sees the hammer's work done and then sinks to his knees, exhausted. Spent.
Never before had he come so close to dying, to failing. To die when victory was assured was true glory. But to fall knowing one's action were not enough? How could one know rest?
"We should search it. No doubt there will be heirlooms of her victims that should be seen to. Or at least given proper burial so their souls may know rest."
By Thor he was tired...and thirsty.
"Do you think the ale is un-poisoned?"
| 4 people marked this as a favorite. |
The last echo of the last goblin's shout fades into the distance as you all gather in the courtyard. Battered, breathless, burnt and bruised, yet alive and triumphant over the witches brood. All pretense and illusions are shattered. The broken, burnt, rotted remains of some long forgotten inn surround you. The hopes and dreams of its builders long since crushed beneath the churning millstone of time.
As you catch your breath and the conversation turns to what comes next, a breeze picks up. A cold unusual winter wind rustles the tall thistles, grasses, and willow leaves. It's icy touch sends shivers down your sweat covered limbs as all eyes search the surrounding darkness. Light of axe, hammer, or lantern suddenly seem small and trivial compared to the shadows and dark corners in this grim, foul place.
"Aiyeeeehehehehe!" A mighty cackle erupts from atop the stable, nay across near the well. No it surely comes from the door of the inn. Another great, wicked laugh fills the air, as you spin and whirl trying to find its source, hair rising on the back of even the bravest neck.
"No need to hunt me, my fine young rump of roast." Speaks an all too familiar voice. The ancient, rasping, hated filled voice echoes and bounces back and forth across the courtyard. Causing your skin to crawl with its shear wickedness and spite as it seemingly flits from place to place. "I am here. And here. Here. Oh and over here as well. Aiiiiyyyyhehehehe."
"But time for hunting is not to be, for my fun has just begun...." The words hang in the air for a few seconds further. The branches of the willow creek, keeping sorrow filled time as the bodies swing back and forth in the cold wind. The scent of death and rot assaults your senses and a foreboding crawls across each tired muscle. Your ears pop and the voice begins, its rhythmic pace and tone filled with ancient power tapped in the long ago when the world was young and the gods and giants warred across the land.
"Here my words Trollkin, halfling, gnome, and humans two,
On this moonless night do I curse you.
By knotted bramble, swamp muds smell
And darkest pits most foul and fell.
By fungal rot and mushroom spore
Tree of death and blood drenched shore.
Three challenges I serve to you
Heroes bold, brave and true
Body, Spirit, and Mind I’ll test
At a time I choose, wake or rest.
My fun you did foul and spoil,
My fine stew did not boil.
My work you have undone
My recompense you cannot shun.
Hear me,O Trollkin with your fancy bat,
Sisters cursed with your red, red hat.
Mark my words O knight of Khors
As should you blessed of Thor.
Most of all my former stew,
On this moonless night do I curse you.
The game begins with this first test of three
My revenge I gift to thee.
Free the golden honey queen
From beneath the hanging tree.
If it happens afore the next full moon,
Success brings a heartfelt boon.
Failure ends this nefarious plot,
Because it lands you in my pot.
The key to her growing doom
Is safe below in dark and gloom
Through Yggdrasil’s feet you must pass
Travel deep through the earth’s morass
Upon a guardian most would fear
Hangs the salvation you hold most dear.
Fail and all you love and cherish mine shall be.
To give me pleasure, while your souls cry and wail.
Hear me,O Trollkin of the Green,
Gnome of Neimheim with your secret fiend.
Listen true thief of jewels so proud and quick,
I think you’ll taste good with cinnamon stick.
Knight and cleric from the land of death,
I aim to steal your last breath.
The challenge is named, hours are few.
On this moonless night do....I....curse....you!"
The last foul words slam down upon your souls and minds like a thousand fists of Mog leaving you each breathless upon the ground. The witch lets loose one last cackling cry that echoes off into the night. With the witches departure, the cold wind disappears leaving behind nothing but silence on a summer's night. Silence except for the soft gentle creaking within the willow tree.
Trevor stands, but shakes like a leaf, as his eyes stare, wide open, into the night.
"Can- Can she do that? Did we just get cursed!? Are we doomed?" he asks no one and his axe falls to his side. His eyes look like they will never close shut ever again.
After vomiting compulsively one last time "*cough spit*...wait, 'thief of jewels'...? Who was she talking about? Sounds like somebody missed the mark on that one...heh..."
Nodding to Aterro and Ibrox, he enters the inn to collect his 10' pole and have a good search....
Following the witches departure, Vrindel finally returns to the old willow tree and its grisly contents. Little has changed under the willows rustling canopy. The bee woman still hangs attached to the trunk, lost in fiendish nightmares. Bodies wrapped in leaf and limb still dangle among the creaking limbs.
It takes a few moments to remember exactly which booted form the trollkin had cast the earlier healing upon, but he eventually does. As fortune would have it, the foot still moves when he taps it carefully with his staff. A muffled cry of fright slips from the cocoon above signalling the poor soul still lives, at least for the time being.
Trevor walks in a stupor-like state. His face is bloodied and he limps from the Goblin's blow to his knee. He manages to meander to the tree and takes in the sight. He looks to Vrindel: "What's this? Are they from the ship?" he manages, his voice muffled, as though he fears it carrying through the woods.
Vrindel-Cat uses his sharp claw to rip open the cocoon holding the still moving body, the reverts to his Trollkin form.
Hmmm. Sometimes I wonder which might be more frightful to the unexpecting.
|
|
As Vrindel and Trevor investigate the tree, he's happy to leave it to them. Even his engorged appetite for strife and struggle and the red, red glory of gore and battle now sat sated, and he had no more taste for wading into whatever horrors would be unearthed there.
Still, there was and end point of the mystery waiting for them, and he had come too far not to see it through.
He entered the building, anxious to see it full with truthful eyes, and to search for the remains of past victims, including the seafarers they had traced to this point.
And if there was some decent ale to be had, all the better.