Trjega wonders how much longer her master will let her get poked with ouchy sticks.
Grevayne can't seem to hit these guys no matter what he does, but what else can he do but keep fighting? Pale blood is dripping into his eyes and obscuring his vision. The high he felt after feeding on that engineer is quickly fading as exhaustion and blood loss sets in.
Sarge has given up. This is pointless. He may as well just stand here and die. It's all over. His training, his determination, it's all gone.
Well, f&!& it then. If he's going to die, may as well take as many of these s@~~s with him as he can.
Freyja's second shot is the only one that gets past the shield wall, but a hob hand reaches out between the shields and drops the arrow on the ground, seemingly taunting the party.
Trjega and Grevayne continue being pincushions for the troop, but Sarge finds a weak point in one of the shields and hits it with such force that the shield breaks in two. His sword and shards of wood fly into the troop. The hole in the shield wall is immediately filled -- this troop is well-trained -- but the screams coming from within give Sarge the satisfaction that he has finally broken through.
More spears. More holes in Grevayne, Trjega, and Sarge . Sarge is tripped up again.
Freyja (97/105 hp)
Trjega (28/75 hp)
Grevayne (13/91 hp, shield, invisible, flying)
Troop (51 damage, defensive stance)
Sarge (87/123 hp, crushing despair, prone)
Bold may act.
Freyja calls out, "Grevayne, fall back!" Then she fires four more arrows, desperate to do enough damage to break the troop's morale.
Master has never let her get this hurt before. Is Master mad at her?
Grevayne, bloodied and broken, flies backward, keeping his guard up as he goes.
Bolstered slightly, Sarge continues his onslaught. He knows it's still pointless--the f*%#ers literally snatched one of Freyja's arrows out of the air like a circus act, for gods' sake--but he's delighting in causing some suffering in their ranks on his way out.
Freyja gets three arrows through the shield wall this time; again, the phalanx spits one back out, but that means two found stupid hobs to puncture. Trjega fights through her pain and manages to rip a hob face open with a claw. Grevayne stumbles away and Sarge lands another hit. The shield wall is losing its integrity but still holding.
Trjega and Sarge suffer some more , but this time Sarge stays on his feet. Can he punish the hobs for not knocking him over?
Freyja (97/105 hp)
Trjega (10/75 hp)
Grevayne (13/91 hp, shield, invisible, flying)
Troop (86 damage, defensive stance)
Sarge (80/123 hp, crushing despair, prone)
Bold may act.
Freyja screams "To me!" at Trjega, tears filling her eyes. She calls back to Grevayne, "Alchemist's fires, in my pack!"
Quick prayer to Gozreh, four more arrows.
Trjega retreats back behind Freyja and begins to lick her many, many wounds.
Grevayne floats down to Freyja and digs in her pack, pulling out a small greenish vial. He wipes too-pale blood out of his eyes and looks for an opening.
Sarge bleeds all over his opponents, alternating between cackling madly and screaming in existential anguish. He unstraps his shield from his arm, letting it fall to the ground, and grips Vergeltung two-handed, putting all his strength he can into his shaking hands to cleave through multiple soldiers.
Freyja does some more damage to the troop, which is really starting to look disorganized at this point. They keep their shields raised and begin slowly moving as a unit towards Freyja and Grevayne . Once in place, the shield wall solidifies again, and the spears do their thing on Sarge . They once again fail to trip him.
Freyja (97/105 hp)
Trjega (10/75 hp)
Grevayne (13/91 hp, shield, invisible, flying)
Troop (105 damage, defensive stance)
Sarge (71/123 hp, crushing despair, prone)
Bold may act.
Freyja falls back a step. "Run! Let them come after me! Trjega, defend!"
"Not yet," Grevayne growls, hucking the alchemist's fire into the midst of the phalanx's ranks.
Grevayne steps next to Freyja and digs out another alchemist's fire from her bags.
Sarge steps back from the throng of soldiers to get a better eye on multiple opponents, then unleashes Vergeltung again, hands still shaking violently.
Freyja wants to scream in frustration as the troop vomits out another of her arrows; she was sure that she had found a vital spot with that one. She needn't rage for long, however, as Sarge destroys another two shields and sends the remaining hobs scattering in all directions.
The fallen hobs' gear is mundane and probably not worth lugging back to town.
Freyja doesn't waste any time. Even as the hobs are scattering around her, she drops her bow, pulls out her wand, and goes to work healing Trjega's numerous wounds.
She throws the spent wand away and grabs the full one, then starts on Sarge.
As she works, she looks up at Grevayne. "We can't heal you. We will lose you if we run into any more trouble. We have to go back to Longshadow and bring Aubrin back with us tomorrow before they have a chance to reinforce."
Grevayne stares morosely at Freyja, wanting to argue, but she's right. He's dizzy, bleeding from all over his body, and barely standing. He closes his eyes and gathers his strength, fighting through the fog of pain and exhaustion, but he knows it's not enough.
He turns around and says bitterly, "Fine. Tomorrow." He flies at a leisurely pace out of the town's walls, angrily punching the gate on his way out (forgetting that it was that kind of outburst that led to his crippled hand), and heads toward town.
Sarge stares at the carnage in front of him, then shakes his head. He understands the frustration of a retreat, but he's also not entirely sure why they're bothering. Tomorrow will kill them just as easily as today, surely. Cleric or no, this is a fight they'll never win.
But whatever. He supposes it doesn't matter if he lives one more day. He plucks up his dropped shield and follows the others back to Longshadow.
The party leaves Ecru, disappointed to be retreating, but more or less in one piece and confident that the decision was the right one. It's highly unlikely the Legion will be able to reinforce Ecru in a little more than half a day; the party isn't even sure that they didn't clear it out already. Some preparations at Longshadow will have to take a backseat, which is unfortunate, but depriving the Legion of their explosives seems like a worthwhile goal.
Ecru was well-lit, but the way back to Longshadow is not. Freyja has to take it very slow in the rocky terrain to avoid leading the horses into treacherous footing. You arrive back at the Marideth an hour or two after midnight; Freyja swims across to fetch a ferry, but with everyone asleep at the late hour, it's another hour before you are finally safely back at The Canary. Freyja awakens Aubrin to inform her of the situation and to give Grevayne any healing that she has prepared.
Aubrin taps him a few times with the wand to top him off, then heads back to bed.
Grevayne is anxious to get back to Ecru and clear it out. "Let us get a few hours' rest and head back as soon as possible. I still want to get back here in time to get some work done, if we can. We can catch up on sleep tomorrow night."
He gives a polite nod to Gestelle, smiling to hide his tumultuous mood, and hurries upstairs to take a few hours' rest before heading right back out into the thick of it.
He lies awake for a few minutes, claw-hand resting against his chest as he stares at the ceiling in the dark. He nearly fell today, and no one was there to heal him. He is constantly reminded of how much of a burden his condition is--not just to himself, but to those around him as well.
He closes his eyes and waits for unpleasant dreams to come.
Sarge nods, shoves some food into his mouth, and heads upstairs. Whatever bleak magic that barghest hit him with is gone, but not all the doubts are. Much of that malaise was simply bringing to light thoughts he'd already been having. No need for his new companions to see that, however. An old man shaking in his boots won't do anyone any good.
He takes his time unstrapping his armor, then gives it a quick wipe-down before bed. No time to clean it properly; that will have to wait until tomorrow night. For now, he settles for scraping the hob guts off it.
Once finished, he strips down and collapses into his bed, exhausted.
5 days until the invasion
6am arrives way too soon, but there is work to be done. Aubrin goes on a secret little mission before waking everyone up. It takes about half an hour, but she thinks it is going to be worth it.
Upon waking up Grevayne, she says, "I took the liberty of taking a thousand of the party gold to buy these. Drink up. It will perk you right up." She shoots him a grin and hands him a potion of lesser restoration.
She hands the rest of the potions to Grevayne. "Get them up and get them ready. I need an hour to chat with Cayden Cailean." With that, she heads back to her room.
Grevayne nods grimly and sets about the morning's business. He feels the fatigue vanish upon drinking the potion, but it doesn't make him any more of a morning person.
He knocks on Freyja's door and, once she opens, wordlessly hands her a potion before heading to Sergeant Vargus's room. He knocks once, and the door opens before his knuckles rap a second time. He gives the ex-paladin the potion, secretly pleased at the fact that the old man looks as miserable as he feels, then sets about helping Sarge into his plate mail. He's never been a squire before, and he's not really a fan, but it is what it is.
Once finished, he slouches downstairs and pours himself into a seat, waiting for the others to come down. He wonders if Gestelle is awake yet and decides probably not. Nobody in their right mind would be up right now. So far as he's concerned, 6am is for going to bed, not getting up.
He decides to make some use of the time left until Aubrin is ready by pulling out the cloak they found in the tower and, once again, trying to figure out its properties.
Grevayne shoves the cloak irritably back into his pack and rests his head in his hands. He's about ready to use this damn cloak as fuel for a campfire.
Sarge clunks his way downstairs and sits across from the dhampir.
He chews mechanically on his food, studying the dhampir curiously. He realizes he knows almost nothing about his new allies, aside from one is a terse woman possessing frightening precision with a bow, and the other is a... well, not undead, precisely. Half-something. He thought he'd read that dhampirs were half-vampire, but while he has the fangs to match the stories, whatever Grevayne's non-human half is, it's like nothing Sarge has ever seen before.
He glances down at the bent, claw-like hand curled against Grevayne's chest and waves at it with a fork.
"What happened?"
Grevayne feels slight heat touch his cheeks and moves his crippled hand down to his lap, out of sight.
"I... lost control. It had consequences."
Now please shut up, he silently begs the soldier. He has no interest in speaking about it. He hopes Gestelle can't hear.
That's stupid. Why do you care if some tavernkeep can hear? The question only makes him more uncomfortable. Enough that he starts to squirm in his seat.
Sarge cocks his head. He's very good at reading people, and clearly the conversation is making the magus uncomfortable. Of course, he's never had a problem with making people uncomfortable.
"That is a bit vague. How did you lose control? Was it anything like what happened last night?"
Grevayne works very hard to unclench his jaw. "No. It was..." He wipes his face and stares at the floor. "My... thirst... is very particular. I only crave goblinoid blood. Any goblinoid will do--goblins, bugbears--but hobgoblins are preferred. They have taken the most from me, so I take from them."
He closes his eyes. "We recently recaptured Fort Trevalay from Ibzairiak, a black dragon. His second-in-command was a hobgoblin. I lost control, overwhelmed by my thirst. I tried to wrestle her down so I could feed off her. I failed. My anger overtook me and I..."
He stops, staring down at his disfigured right hand, remembering the distant sensation of cracking bones and tearing tendons as he punched through the hob's head, pounding on gore-soaked cobblestone for what felt like an eternity. He'd hardly even felt the pain at first. It had taken a couple minutes of slamming his hand into stone for the pain to overwhelm him, and now his hand is ruined because of it.
"I... overextended myself, I suppose you could say. It has been--gods, almost three weeks now? Three weeks, and it is still like this." He waves the offending hand in front of him, his face a mixture of frustration and disgust. "All my training is based around two functioning hands. I... do not know if I will recover from this. I do not know if I deserve to."
He doesn't vocalize the fact that his inability to recover is making him more and more of a liability to the party. His stupid hand is dragging them down with him.
Sarge watches the dhampir's face curiously. He's never spoken to a creature like him before. He's hunted a few undead in his time, of course--one even chatted with his commanding officer once, right before the Knights of Ozem rushed the fiend. It had been a zombie of some kind, but not the mindless things that shuffled around awaiting orders from the nearest necromancer. It had been clever, intelligent. A spellcaster, even, much like Grevayne. But that thing had been distinctly not alive anymore. Grevayne has much more of the spark of life in him. It's an odd blend.
He ruminates on the dhampir's words for a bit, then shrugs. "You seemed competent enough yesterday. Not many who can stand toe-to-toe with a Molthuni phalanx and survive. Perhaps you are being harder on yourself than you need to be. Adaptation takes time. You have lost proper use of your hand only a few weeks ago. It will take time to adjust. You are a clever man, I am sure you will figure something out eventually."
Grevayne snorts and glares at the wall. "Eventually. Sure. But not in time. This war with the Ironfang needs a warrior at his best, not a cripple. If I knew how to compensate for this" he lifts his clawed hand again "it might be a different story. But Longshadow needs someone at their best. I am not."
Sarge grunts noncommittally in response. He doesn't know exactly what to say to that--he's not really sure he disagrees. He finishes his breakfast in silence.
Gestelle is not awake but one of her girls -- you think her name is Rose, or Daisy, or something flower related (Pollen?) -- is happy to serve you (and stay blessedly out of earshot for the uncomfortable conversation).
Freyja enters the common area of The Canary and immediately senses the awkward silence between Grevayne and Sarge. Whatever was going on was none of her business so she smiles weakly and says, "Morning." She asks Chrysanthemum for a cup of coffee and a couple hard-boiled eggs, then sits as equidistant from Grevayne and Sarge as she can manage. "Thanks for the potion. I'm still f@~&ing exhausted but at least I can see straight now."
Trjega walks up to Grevayne, rubs her head on his injured hand, then curls up at his feet. She fell far short of her necessary 16 hours.
The party eats in tired silence for a while, waiting for Aubrin. Elise arrives around this time. After getting a recap of yesterday's events, she nods. "You did the right thing. We will lose many more people before this thing is over, so retreating to fight another day when you can is the optimal tactical move. What's the plan for today?"
Grevayne picks at a few slices of bacon and toast. "Go back, clear it, be back in time to help with the defenses." He shrugs. "Plan. Not necessarily reality." He nods at Rhododendron as she refills his mug of coffee, stirs in a spoonful of sugar, and drinks it as quickly as he dares.
"Mm," Sarge grunts as he finishes chewing a mouthful of eggs. "There is a common saying among officers. 'Plans are rubbish. Planning is essential.' It is as good a plan as any, and will likely collapse by midday. But it is a necessary step in the process."
Grevayne raises an eyebrow at Sarge's aphorism, but doesn't comment on it. He's never staged a siege defense before, what does he know? Maybe Sarge should be leading this s%&%show.
He keeps the thoughts to himself as he finishes his breakfast.
Stamen refills everyone's coffee, then offers Elise a cup. Elise politely refuses, then says, "Understood. A ferry and some horses are on standby at the docks whenever you are ready. Good luck."
As you'd hoped, the Legion doesn't appear to have had time to reinforce Ecru; the bodies of those you defeated yesterday still lie where they fell. Maybe you really did clear it out? Only one way to find out...
Grevayne waves Sarge forward and points at the northernmost building.
Sarge nods, fastens his shield to his arm, and approaches the double doors. He waits until everyone is close, then opens the doors.
Just before Sarge opens the doors, Grevayne casts mirror image on himself.
Freyja pops herself with gravity bow before Sarge opens the door.
Sarge opens the door.
A canvas tarp acts as the roof of this burned-out stone church. Bubbling beakers and stills crowd the tables, while large sacks of powders -- black, yellow, red, and white -- line one wall. The air is heavy with the smell of alcohol and rotten eggs.
Also in the large room are two hobs and two large mechanical-looking creatures. The hobs are busy at work packing crates with supplies; it seems like you may have caught them in the middle of cutting their losses and abandoning the camp. They turn when the door opens and snarl at the party.
These are alchemical golems. They have normal golem traits. Ask your question(s)!
Freyja (105/105 hp, gravity bow)
Trjega (75/75 hp)
Hob #1 (0 damage)
Hob #2 (0 damage)
Grevayne (91/91 hp, 4 images)
Aubrin (47/47 hp)
Creature #1 (0 damage)
Creature #2 (0 damage)
Sarge (123/123 hp)
Bold may act!
Freyja has no idea what those things in the alcoves are, but she knows hobs. "Sarge, duck!" She fires four arrows at #1.
Then she points at Grevayne and calls, "Trjega, defend!"