| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Spiro wakes up eager to head towards their destination. He warmly greets all including their new additions.
"I feel good about today".
The stable-lad appears once again with your mule and horse.
"Both are fed and watered folks. Got some tangles out o' the mare's mane too..."
The lad offers up the reins for both with a quizzical expression;
"Mister Kennek said you lot are adventurers... Killed gobs and seen skelebones! When I grow up I'm goin' to own a horse like her and carry a big sword an' kill monsters too! "
He flashes a gap tooth grin of determination.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
Elyan leaves his room just before dawn and briefly breaks his fast alone under a nearby tree, returning as the others are gathering for their meal. He remains impassive as the Halfling approaches him.
"No need ser Halfling, I took no offense. I'd like to assure you the only thing further outside my experience than social cueing, is slavery. I hope... your piles are not grieving you as the half orc suggested." His face remains earnest as he relays his reply and his body language suggests he thinks the matter is concluded.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
Zeebo blinks as he tries to parse what he just heard.
"I--I beg your pardon, Master Elyan, Master Hunidark said what, exactly?"
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
In the evening, Ulfbrecht retires early, the weight of long, hard travel suddenly dawning upon him as he finds some brief respite from only thinking of his goals. He is slightly unsettled by Lafayer covering his expenses, but in truth does not protest as his purse is so light it no longer jingles, the single coin within the lone survivor from the trek to the surface and its events.
"A wilcuma cynd-ness, god-speaker," he tells the man. "Yet be it knowen that the gield will be efn made sum-day, be it by mynet - coin - or by deed. On āþ of mīn blōd."
"God-niht to ye," he offers to the others with whom he had spoken. "Mine thancs to ye as well, for the offrian..offer to guida this fremde to this Eorl of yours." Without much other fanfare, the dwarf retreats to his room. Though he is used to taking his sleep still clad in leathers and boots alike, he welcomes the comfort of lightening the burdens and feeling some of the weariness slough off of him. His mind is still at work, arranging the faces and names of these new folk, ordering the facts that will mortar the stepping stones of the future path. He sits upon the edge of the bed and undoes his pack, fishing from it a half-carved block of wood and a file, chisel, and small knife, letting his hands get to work as he thinks. The rhythmic scraping of the wood and metal brings him some peace and eventually he allows himself the comfort of sleep.
He descends to the common room on the morning, early as is his custom, feeling quite refreshed. Upon seeing the others gathered thus far, he plods over to them, standing perhaps a mite awkwardly off to the side, adjusting his jaw to speak as he gives the ælf a nod and clears his throat.
"God ge-mot, ælf," he says, keeping his tone as diplomatically neutral as possible. "Your nama missed mine ears last niht, but I am call-ed Ulfbrecht. Ech..." he trails off for a moment and scratches at his neck, before switching tongues to the Elven one.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Mos works his way down to the gathering hall and sees all his companions already up. He looks to see Zeebo and is glad that the 'old halfling' seems to be in somewhat better spirits this morning.
"'Morning all. Hope you all slept well?"
He makes his way to a table where he takes a bowl of potage and eats his fill.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Eireachdail put the good Friar's coin to good use, eating and drinking and singing until the wee hours.
Somehow , he ended up not in the purchased room, but up in the hayloft of the barn. Shaking straw out of his hair and clothes as he descended ,trying to remember anything in particular about the previous evening's events. Chuckling and wincing a bit in the bright morning night, he gave up, not really caring if he'd slept alone.
Emerging into the common room, spying his companions from the journey here ,and new companions from the night before. "Good day, All!" he called out cheerfully, "Ah, a fabulous morning for another journey!". He snatches a flagon from a nearby table, and with nary a cautious sniff, downs the contents....warm, very warm , stale beer.
With a smack of his lips and a shake of his head, he smiles, feeling better already!
Seeing his new friend Ulfbrecht chatting with the aelf, he approaches, "Morning! My apologies, I meant no disrespect in not providing you with a Dwarfish song, last night! I promise to make amends during out journey together!" he declares, then looking sideways at Elyan, "I'll trot out a few Elvish ditties I ken as well!"
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Zeebo recoils as the smell of Eireachdail's breath reaches him. A night of drinking followed by a chaser of stale beer in the morning did no favors for the sweetness of one's breath.
"Perhaps mint tea would be a better drink to go with the breaking of your fast, Master Eireachdail. I do not know how you can be so cheery with what must be a monster of a bottle-ache," the old halfling mage observes.
At least the tea would spare us from your foul morning's breath if you're going to insist on being so damned cheerful all the time!
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Elyan's eyes slowly widen as the Halflings gobsmacked heavy blinks actually pierce the smoky veil of hermetic social awareness. "Ahem. Eerrr... He mentioned perhaps you... Uhhh... Well never mind, forgive an old hermit his clumsiness, probably best we both hit the trail rather than sit around here!" He once again sketches a somehow awkwardly graceful bow and backs away.
Ye gods how do these deciduous fleetlings find the energy for all this... Talking! I'll never find harmony like my woods amongst all this... Noise!
He nearly bumps into a nodding dwarf as he sidles towards the door, grateful at least for a chance at conversation in his own tongue and not within the confines of a nearly botched relationship.
To the Bard Elyan decides he'd best nod, smile, and offer a weak, "Aye," as what little social graces he'd begun the morning with were already feeling heavily taxed.
As you ready yourselves for the road, the gap toothed stablehand wanderings amongst you tugging at a cloak or two, then pointing toward the goblin arms and armour piled upon the horse and mule;
"They look all bashed. Are they from the gobs? Can I have a helm? Can I Pleeeeeze??? I can wear it when I practice my sword fightin'..."
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"Ah, I see. Say no more, good sir," Zeebo says after Elyan hastily exits the conversation.
Hunidark, I appreciate that you covered for me, but couldn't you have used some other explanation?
===
When the young stableboy starts pulling on cloaks, Zeebo shakes his head and looks to the armor and weapons they retrieved from the goblins.
"Come here, lad," Zeebo says, "If you're really sure that you want one, I don't see the harm, other than you might wind up smelling like one." the halfling lets out a chuckle that doesn't have much humor behind it. The memories of the fight against them are too fresh for that. "Listen, being an adventurer isn't all fame, gold, and glory. We fought and beat the goblins, yes, but things could have gone very, very badly for us. Fighting is dangerous and you have to be willing to kill your opponent, whether they be monster, man, elf, dwarf, or what have you. Practice is one thing, actually turning your blade against another living, thinking being is another altogether. Even if you have the grit for it, you can still get in over your head. You can do everything right and still wind up dead, or worse."
Zeebo's tone is grim. He couldn't say why he told the boy all of this, perhaps a misplaced sense of responsibility to get the lad to understand the bad as well as the good. Still, he has to say it, or rather Ping has to say it. Seeing death is one thing, being so close to violence was quiet the other. For all of Malver Ibbleting's dealings with seedy and violent criminals, it wasn't until yesterday that Ping had come face to face with the violence that marked so many tales of adventure and heroism.
"So, whenever you do go out to find your fame and fortune, make sure you have good people at your side, people you can trust and who know enough to make up for what you don't," Zeebo adds, his tone more normal as he offers up some advice that he hopes will keep the young boy alive.
Though why should I care? I don't know him. I'll likely never see him again, so why do I care enough to not want this boy to die?
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Eireachdail recoils in mock indignation, clasping his hands in front of this heart, his face a vision of outrage. Then, his easy smile return as he pats Zeebo quite gently on the shoulder, having learnt his lesson the night before!
"Fear not, my wizened friend! My breath will be as the morning dew once I've broken my fast!" he declares, looking about for the innkeeper or barmaid.
Spying either, the calls out, "Dearest! Did the good friar's coin extend to our morning repast?" he asks, his stomach grumbling it protest of being denied sustenance for the night.
The young lad listens intently, gap toothed mouth agape as old Zeebo extols the realities of adventuring.
"Its okay Mister Haefling... Reckon I'll leave the head bucket... I kinda like smellin' of hay an' horses rather than gobs. 'Sides got some stables to muck out..."
He smiles weakly, then trudges off back to the stables.
Jenneleth pats Zeebo's shoulder with a nod;
"Wise words Maester Zeebo. The lad is safer here than out on the road... Speaking of which, if we set off now we should be on the outskirts of Haranshire around noon. Are we all ready?
She points out on the map the route;
"We'll follow the Olde Trade Road, which skirts the Lyrchwood. From there its a simple journey into Milborne before we make for Thurmaster to deliver our goods."
The apprentice nods to herself;
"The Lyrchwood is heavily logged, with families of woodsfolk camping within. Some feral dogs hunt there, but little else of worry as Constable Garyld patrols there sometimes. He's a wise ranger who sends messages with his crows... A good man. Da said he used to adventure but not any more."
"Probably for the best. I hear horses hate goblins. Best not to rile up your charges," Zeebo says with a laugh.
Jenneleth's pat draws Zeebo's gaze and a shrug.
"Wisdom from experience, I suppose," he replies. "I am ready as I shall ever be, my lady. Let us hope that goblin highwaymen do not protend more ominous goings-on in hinterlands of your home."
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"Indeed. Let's be on our way".
Spiro leads the way setting an impressive pace... till he realizes that there are those among them with shorter strides.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
Mos smiles fondly as he watches Zeebo's interactions with the human boy. He heartily nods in agreement with her words and smiles again as the boy wisely decides against keeping the helm.
"Wise words gaffer. Now, back to the road and getting our charge to her destination!"
"Yes, yes. Onward and so forth."
Eireachdail, having snagged a stale roll from the barmaid, stomps out into the courtyard and takes a deep drink from the well.
He listens to Zeebo's lecture to the simple minded stableboy, and refrains from regaling the boy with a heroic tale of glory, blood and death, deeming it not entirely appropriate.
Hefting his travel bag, he concurs, "Indeed...onward! "
Fortified by his morning tea, Hûnidark loads and ties the crate onto the mule… receiving the expected mule-y protestations. He leads the creature toward the road.
Stun (1):
Fate (3):
Your party makes good progress upon the road and by late morn the Olde Trade Road winds its way through fen and woodland.
Jenneleth confirms the patchy woodland is the Lyrchwood, still lush in the most part, but bearing signs of logging and past camps in others. However of the foresters, nor wood's pack of feral dogs there is no sight or sound...
Indeed it is not until the skirt the Lyrchwood on the cusp of Haranshire itself that folk are sighted: Ahead upon the road stands a group of four men wearing the garb of farmerfolk or drovers and carrying cudgels and staves. Three stand near a fallen tree, partly blocking the road whilst the most burly of their group approaches you, hand outheld in greeting.
"Ho travellers! I am Carlanis... Welcome to Haranshire! These are dark days with darker folk abroad, so iffin' ye please state yer business to myself an' my companions 'fore we can allow ye to proceed into our fair Shire..."
"Ech, "fine Elvishh?" Not so, say I...as rust-clad as mine tunge of other Sky-Children. Learned have I a manageable some of many tunges in service to mine folc...that of Gnomes and half...ech, could have been speaking to the small folc in their own, and it's a mite better than some others.." He laughs at himself for a brief moment, shaking his head.
The Dwarf then turns to the bard and gives a respectful nod. "God morgen, song-merchant. A song for the roads..a wilcuma ġefēra would that be."
He then looks to the last of this morning gathering, to Zeebo, and offerings greetings to him, too.. "God morgen to ye as wel, long-whisker. Ah, mimorian have I this morgen that the tunge of ye folc...it cuman ēaþe ēaþe to mine than the mann tunge..." he finishes the thought in Halfling.
Ulfbrecht minds himself when this group approaches. He figures it best to let the other surface-walkers treat with them, particularly since they seemed to have a woman of some import with them, and were on about some official business with a local lord. He does eye this welcome party closely, however, as the blockade seemed suspect to the grizzled scout. Almost something goblinoids or orcs would pull...he quickly takes a scan around the area to see if there might be any more of these be-cudgeled folc around..
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
For a moment, Ping feels as if she were about to have a repeat of yesterday when Ulfbrecht switches to the Halfling tongue. She recognizes it, but has no idea what the dwarf is saying. For a brief, terrible moment, she thinks that even more people will learn her secret.
More likely to get caught or not, I cannot keep posing as a halfling if everyone's going to try talking to me using their tongue!
Zeebo, however, smiles warmly at Ulfbrecht and pats the dwarven priest's arm. Ping does not know what Ulfbrecht said. She can hazard a guess, but if she's wrong, then it would only rouse suspicions. Hopefully not replying directly would avoid that. Instead of replying in the halfling tongue, Zeebo speaks fluently in the dwarven tongue.
Especially when I don't know any of the halfling tongue!
The thought and the turmoil Ping feels never crosses Zeebo's expression as he keeps smiling at the dwarf.
===
Zeebo looks to Mos for a moment before stepping up and putting on his best, grandfatherly expression.
"Greetings Master Carlanis," the elderly halfling says. "Zeebo Softfeather, at your service. I and my companions are currently escorting the good Lady Jenneleth to her home here in Haranshire. Unfortunately we have already encountered some of your dark folk just yesterday, a band of goblins that had assaulted several travelers on the road, including a courier bound for Count Palfrey. I'm afraid that we must also seek an audience with the Count to discuss more grim tidings and to complete the task the courier is no longer able to see done himself. As for what our business is after, I suppose it will depend on how our audience with Count Palfrey goes."
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Mos gets ready to step in with the interaction between the dwarf and Ping, but says nothing as she starts to speak dwarven. A small smile crosses his face at the smooth way she dodges the language issue.
Eireachdail fights the urge to palm his face in resignation as the old Halfling gives up their important mission details to a bunch of strangers on the road.
Turning his back to Carlanis and his mates, he stage whispers to Jenneleth, "Do you know this man and his companions?"
Carlanis tips his forelock to the party, then answers;
"That may be as it may be Master Softfeather... but as I say, foul folk 'ave been seen lurkin'... Whispers o' banditry an' worse... dalliers in necromancy and the like! How do we know none o' ye pray to dark gods or trade in fell magicks?"
His companions hold at his shoulder, nodding in agreement and making signs of protection at mention of the dark arts. Their burly leader for his part merely rubs his chin as he takes in your company with a critical eye...
At Eireachdail's whisper Jenneleth squints at the lump of a man facing them before shaking her head;
"Not the big one, but the others I may have seen on the roads... but I cannot be sure Master Skald..."
As the parley continues Ulfbrecht's canny eyes scan the treelines and thickets lining the road;
Your keen gaze spots a trio of humanoid shapes lurking in either side of the position of the "blockade". From their silhouettes you'd stake your beard they are archers...
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Eireachdail nods to Jenneleth, muttering "whatever happens stay by the donkey..."
He strides a few paces forward, declaring, "Ah, indeed we almost fell prey ourselves to the foul purveyors of the necromantic arts! Felled the foul necromancer and his skeletal minions, didn't we lads? " he asks his friends loudly, hoping this claim ( true as it was ) may make the possible bandits hesitate before taking them on.
Hûnidark strides forward then stops. He points to the holy symbol of Kordd that hangs about his neck and wipes road dust off the Knot of Kordd symbol that is the ‘buckle’ of his belt. ”I am Hûnidark, a brother in service to Kordd. Are you saying Kordd is a dark god?” His question carries weight to it.
Stun (1):
Fate (3):
Carlanis raises a meaty hand toward the hulking half-orc;
"Nay... Any priest of the Mighty one is no daemon worshiper... but what of the others? The girl... the aelf... We do not know ye. Perhaps some foul influence o' this necromancer you defeated still lingers..."
Behind him the armed peasants shift uneasily, clutching stave and cudgel.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
Mos moves forward with 'Zeebo' to pass the guard.
"Me Ol'Gaffer and I are no more evil than your group here. We are trying to do a good deed by completing a courier's mission in bringing a message to your liege-lord. Follow us if you must, or send men to keep an eye on us, but please do not stop us from completing this quest."
The halfling puts on his 'little kid' act to try and sway the humans into letting them go on.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Even Elyan has picked up on some disturbing undertones to this group. He elects to stay quiet for now as he is self aware enough to know he offers little in the way of de-escalation techniques. Besides, it is tougher to observe if you're flustered and in the thick of things.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Zeebo bristles at the implication that Lady Jenneleth dabbles in the dark arts.
"I understand your caution, but there's a fine line between due diligence and paranoia," he says. The irony isn't lost on Ping as the old halfling mage continues. "I can assure you that the good lady here is no necromancer. As I said, we have been tasked with delivering her to Haranshire and we also must speak with the Count." He turns to the others and asks, "Did we not bring a letter of introduction or some other official document? Perhaps that will convince these men to let us pass and finish our business."
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
”Perhaps some foul influence o' this necromancer you defeated still lingers..."
The half-orc appears to weigh the man’s words and regards both Jenneleth and Elyan as if trying to look into their souls. After a moment, he says, ”The Miss has been under my eyes for days now… and neither of them was anywhere near the necromancer.” That wasn’t a lie, just leaving out a bit from the plain truth. ”Had either one shown any signs of dark influence, they’d be gagged and strapped across that horse, not walking next to it. You got my word on that.”
"Did we not bring a letter of introduction or some other official document?”
Huni makes a cutting gesture. ”We have a letter from the messenger, but that’s for Lord Parlfrey’s eyes alone.” He turns back to the guards, ”Gentlemen,” he’d always heard that was a good way to start a sentence, ”that horse belongs to a dispatch rider of yours named Larkinth. He was riding here hard when he was set to and kilt by the goblins and necromancer that we put in the ground. We need to deliver his parcel to Lord Parlfrey quickly and make sure the Miss and her affects makes it safely to her employer. We’re a strange looking crew, I grant you. But, by Kordd, I swear we’re enemies of the dark, not godly folk. May we pass?”
Stun (1):
Fate (3):
The weight of the arguments seems to give Carlanis pause;
"Don't know no Larkinth... Ain't a Count's man meself. Ain't lettered either."
The burly man shrugs as he wipes his flattened nose upon grubby sleeve;
"See rumours are that its them folks who dabble in magicks that's at risk. Ye say none o' yer number 'ave shown signs an' I'll take ye as an honest lot, even fir such a mixed company that includes a haelf-orc, dwarv an' aelf... but ye understand the question needs askin' all the same..."
The trio behind him nod and murmur in agreement.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Ulfbrecht detaches from the exchange for a moment, narrowing his eyes to take stock of their surroundings. His brow furrows as he spots what he had expected, but otherwise does not largely react to the development. He glances to Elyan and whispers,
"Ambush..archers hidden there aside their tree-wall.."
Looking ahead at Hûƞidark and Zeebo having closed distance with these men, his eyes fix on the Halfling's back. Figuring there was perhaps less of a chance of these men knowing Dwarven-tunge than Halfling, he makes a stride forward, muttering low as he is within earshot of the Monk.
He then clears his throat and switches to Common as he stands next to Hûƞidark and Zeebo.
"Ech, ahem...forġiefan I ..If ye folc have word of such dark ones, lend them to mine ears. Trailed them have I from the under-lands, and a hamor have I for ǣlċ of their knees." He points at a hammer looped in his belt. "Mine hunt to deal with such folc, and fǣr not, found will they be.. none of wall, flōd-slit, berg, or beast will stopp a Dwarv on a blod-oath."
Map is updated with [?] denoting where our doughty dwarv believes archers lurk.
Carlanis again shrugs;
"Just what ye hear whilst suppin' ale Master Dwarv... Bandits, gobs, hobbes an' orcs... Forbodin' o worse... Necromancers like ye came 'cross, worshipers o' dark gods. Incomers to the Haranshire bringin' with 'em dark arts an' darker deeds... "
Again the trio flanking the beefy man make signs of protection and exchange glances.
"Reckon you lot seem fair o'er foul, so can carry on. Just be wary o' bandits..."
With nod Carlanis and his men moves aside the road and beckons your party to proceed with a wave of his cudgel.
The half-orc casts an uncomprehending look to the dwarf at the first part of his statement. He explains for the guards’ benefit. ”Our friend, doesn’t speak the tongue of men too good. He loses me at times…”
He turns to the dwarf and switches to another tongue, one he hopes they share. ”Ne dedin?”
Stun (1):
Fate (3):
Eager to get on with their journey yet still trying to play the affable, if sometimes curmudgeonly, elder halfling, Zeebo gives the men a gracious bow.
"We take no offense. I assure you that we will heed your warning and see the fair Lady Jenneleth home and that Count Palfrey hears of your efforts to keep Haranshire safe," Zeebo says.
Once they are a little ways down the road and out of earshot of the checkpoint and its men at the very least, Zeebo's confidence vanishes into finger-twiddling nervousness.
"Oh, that does not sound good. That does not sound good at all. Every rumor has some kernel of truth to it and if such grim tidings have been spreading here, then something must be afoot. That we have seen such ourselves only gives their words more weight. I fear that the lords are gravely mistaken if they think the likes of us sufficient to stamp this out," he frets.
Forget more work. If even half of what they say is true, then I need to find a way out of here and someplace a lot safer. I can't just go myself, though. A lone member of the small folk, halfling or gnome, would be too tempting an opportunity to pass up, but the others would never leave Haranshire while it's like this. Not if I understand their character. Ulfbrecht, Eireachdail, and Spiro least of all. What's a poor gnome to do?
Eireachdail gives Carlanis a courtly bow, "Keep up the good work, goodman! Indeed, we shall share your efforts with the Count!"
As the continue by, Eireachdail forgets himself and claps poor Zeebo on the back, "Fear not, oldster! The seeds of greatness and glory start small. We are a sturdy lot...I foresee great things for us all!"
With that, he bursts into song:
The morning breaks, the world’s in bloom,
A brighter day dispels the gloom.
The stars once hidden now align,
A sign of greatness, pure, divine.
Raise your voice, let the music fly,
Hope and greatness fill the sky.
Hand in hand, we’ll seize the day,
Dreams igniting, lighting the way.
Through every trial, through every test,
A spark of courage burns in our chest.
The mountains echo our bold refrain,
Our hearts unyielding, breaking the chain.
Raise your voice, let the music fly,
Hope and greatness fill the sky.
Hand in hand, we’ll seize the day,
Dreams igniting, lighting the way.
The world’s a canvas, vast and wide,
With hope and greatness as our guide.
Together painting a masterpiece,
A song of love and boundless peace.
Raise your voice, let the music fly,
Hope and greatness fill the sky.
Hand in hand, we’ll seize the day,
Dreams igniting, lighting the way.
So sing with joy, let your spirit soar,
Hope and greatness forevermore.
With every step, we claim our fate,
A brighter future, bold and great.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Zeebo, not expecting Eireachdail's slap on the back nor the force with which it is delivered, stumbles a few steps as a rather feminine squeak of surprise escapes his lips then falls flat on his face. Surprisingly spritely for one so aged, the old halfling gets to his feet and dusts himself off.
"Careful, good sir. I think you know not your own strength!" While there is an edge of tartness to his tone, it seems that the halfling wizard is not cross at the gregarious warrior-poet.
At least everything's where it should be. That could have been a very awkward conversation.
No sooner has Carlanis waved your company past and Eireachdail bursts into song than a trio of arrows sail from the nearby woods o'er your collective heads and bury themselves in the turf some 20ft past the road and the party!
As the arrows land Carlanis bellows
He beckons with his cudgel toward the party then to the fallen tree;
Carlanis holds position, while one of his men moves toward a lone tree and the two others shift toward the fallen trunk.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Hûnidark doesn’t consider the guardsman’s ‘suggestion’. He spins and charges into the woods after the nearest archer.
|
Stun (1):
Fate (3):
"Stay dūne, top-wealcere." He says, looking over his shoulder to glean the archers' next moves.
"Come my dear! Eireachdail says to Jenneleth, unperturbed that his performance was disturbed by such rudeness displayed by the bandits.
He takes her elbow and brings her to the relative safety of the fallen tree trunk. Crouching down , he says, "Stay here and stay down!"
He then peeks up to try to get a glimpse of the archers....and keep a suspicious eye on Carlanis
Some part of Ping had always known she was a coward. She never faced a problem head on if she could help it. She'd run away, nibble at it around the edges until she could get an advantage, just about anything that wouldn't put her at risk, her stunt against the goblins not withstanding. Against the goblins she'd at least had some control over her fate. There, it was deception and manipulation to get the goblins where they wanted them. She had chosen, however reluctantly, to walk into danger.
Here? That is hardly the case. She has no plan, no clever schemes, no place to run, and worst of all, no place to hide. Sure, she could act the part of a hero, running up to one of archers then take an arrow to the gut as she tried to cast the one spell she has that might work on him. As soon as the initial shock of the ambush is over, she turns and runs, expecting an arrow in her back the whole way before diving behind the log next to Jenneleth and cowering beside the woman while trying not to whimper in terror.
She doesn't succeed, and both Jenneleth and Eireachdail can hear her already begging for her life in a soft, frightened, gnomish woman's voice as she pulls the hat down low to block out her doom.
Moving towards the archer that Hûnidark has decided to charge, Mos fires around the monk in an attempt to take the archer out quickly.
Attack:
Damage:
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Spiro walking near the front of the party is content to let the others carry the conversation while he keeps a close eye on the guards to see if they are being completely upfront. (Or staying back with the animals depending on which direction we're travelling.)
CHA (With Empathy) Check to sense anything amiss in their behavior.
Once they make their way past he is as surprised by any when the arrows come flying out of the brush.
Even though he doesn't have a clear view of the archers he figures taking a show won't hurt anything and if anything might at least distract them a bit.
Shortbow
Arrow
Then moves to take partial cover behind the nearby boulder.
In the aftermath of the rain of arrows pandemonium erupts.
Hûnidark bulls his way toward one of the archers. The bandit barely registers the crashing sound of doom before the half-orc’s cestus remakes the man’s face as a ruin of red.
Both Mos and Spiro return fire… shots seemingly speculative, and yet fortune smiles as both bowmen find a target!
Haefling and aelven arrows find their mark, gravely wounding the two lurking snipers.
Both men notch an arrow and return fire at their respective tormentors:
However both men's aims are affected by their wounds and their shots fail to hit the mark.
Carlanis stands seemingly unperturbed by the threat of bandit arrows. As the some of the party take cover, the levels his club toward Jenneleth, Zeebo and Eireachdail;
The big man lumbers toward Mos with a sneer, swinging his cudgel with menace...
At his leader's orders Marko swings his quarterstaff at Ulfbrecht!
... but aims too high and hits only bark.
By the fallen trunk, both men suddenly set about the members of the party taking cover!
Franz cracks the apprentice with his cudgel and she staggers and falls! While a leering Culk narrowly misses the diminutive Zeebo...
As you scrabble to avoid being bludgeoned your eyes are drawn to a pile of metal pushed under the fallen trunk.. a pile of rusty shackles and fetters!
Round 2
Archer blood dripping from his cestus, the burly half-orc sprints across the clearing before plowing full speed into the heavier brush. He ignores the branches whipping his face and arms as he smashes through the stand of trees to reach the second archer. His cestus almost whistles as he attempts to deliver a killing punch to the man's sternum.
|
Stun (1):
Fate (3):
"Treachery! Treachery"!
Spiro tries to finish off his former... now bleeding target.
Bow
Arrow
And the arrow strikes true again though a low hanging branch sapped it of much of its momentum.