With a bit of both shock and pride on his leshy face, Roots claps at his minions huzpah!
The Storm druid then Casts Guidance on both Marvin and Nidintu before Commanding Marvin to go to town!
When the thrall strikes a creature, that creature is exposed to yellow musk creeper pollen, as Spray Pollen (DC 14). The creature is fascinated by the yellow musk creeper that spawned the thrall, not by the thrall itself.
And, Marvin will smile.
Grasping tendrils extend out from the thrall. When the thrall ends its movement next to a creature, or a creature ends its turn next to the thrall, that creature must succeed at a DC 14 Reflex save or be grabbed by the tendrils.
The guardian doesn't even seem to notice Marvin's efforts to strike it, but the vines keep it firmly entangled still.
As he recovers from his first powerful swing, Nidintu thrusts the haft of his axe forward and into the guardian's face, then brings his axe around in another massive overhead sweep that lands firmly on the guardian's head. The bone-jarring power of his strike almost twists the weapon out of Nidintu's hand as it slams down on the bear's skull.
With a sharp 'CRACK', the bear's skull splits down the middle, the axe head now deeply buried into its skull. With an almost relieved sigh, it collapses at the same time as the corrupted vegetation growing from it begins to wither and fall away. The bear's body shrivels and shifts, turning into an incredibly old human ma with a look of peaceful resignation on his face before crumbling into a pile of dust.
The ominous pall hanging over the shrine lifts. The lush grass sprouts sudden wildflowers in vibrant blues, reds, yellows and purples. Where the clearing was silent before, first one, then two, then more birds begin to chirp and sing, timidly at first. The buzz of insects and the sawing of crickets returns, and the water in the pool becomes crystal clear and shimmers invitingly.
Tristian falls to his knees next to the pile of dust, bowing his head reverently. "Rest in peace, guardian. I will find out how this curse came to be in the first place, I owe you that much." Lifting his head, his shining eyes alight on the party. "Thank you so much for putting him to rest. And look there! The water in the pool bears the blessing of Erastil, if I'm not mistaken. For a short time, it has gained restorative powers that I am sure will be helpful."
As the bear's claws rake into Carageorn, the very same wounds appear on Eskra, wounds rent by phantasmal force. They stumble, clearly badly injured, but they hang on by a thread.
Tristian's healing patches up the worst of the damage, however.
They motion to Carageorn and then to the pool, and the fey warrior beelines over to it.
The blessed water takes care of the rest, and Eskra takes a deep breath, "Damn that was close. Big bastard nearly had us down. Good on you for showing him what's what Nidintu."
Xavin relaxes as the foe falls. A human trapped in there. Truly odd. And three new people as well. Tristian, Perlivash, and Tyg-Titter-Tut was it?
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Roots waves good-bye to Marvin, as the fungi melts back into the soil.
Marvin is really great at parties.
Roots walks over to the new people.
So, that was fun! Folks come here often? To a forgotten, hidden, guarded by a mad bear beast here I mean.
"It was pretty fun, wasn't it?" Perlivash alternates between swooping and hovering, restless like a dragonfly. The faerie dragon bobs in the air in front of Xavin. "Yes, I am Perlivash. This is my fr- where did she go now? You must excuse Tyg, she's not as social." Someone with keen eyes can spot the grig comfortably nestled on the shoulder of Roots-Sink-Deep.
Tristian bows to Xavin, his movements fluid and elegant. "I am Tristian, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If I may, what brings you this way? You seem like an organized group..." He glances at Nidintu's horns. "Are you perhaps associated with this local figure I keep hearing about, the Stag Lord?"
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We plan to be associated with said local figure soon enough, though it will probably not end well for either us or him. Xavin explains. We are tasked with calming the region and it seems like this Stag Lord is the main cause of a lot of instability and unnecessary cruelty here.
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With the guardian's fall, Nidintu relaxes as the forest shrine seems to revive, cleansing itself of the malign magic that had twisted its purpose, and after wiping down his axe blade and returning it to its sheath on his back, he bows his horned head and closes his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer as Tristian completes his own worship.
As Tristian and Xavin exchange pleasantries, Nidintu wanders the ruined temple, nodding approvingly as he examines its workmanship. At the young cleric's words, however, he makes his way over to the impromptu group. "Stag Lord, no - Stag God, yes. Little Roots here and I are both servants of Erastil - thought we'd stop by, do obeisance and all that." He extends his callused hand hand in greeting, giving one of his uncannily wide grins. "Name's Nidintu-Bel - blacksmith, coppersmith, tinsmith, bladesmith, farrier, stonemason, cook, and all-around craftsman, at your service. Used to be a bandit, too, but working with my hands is more fun." At the sight of Tristian's holy symbol, his eyebrows raise. "Haven't seen a Sarenite priest around these parts in decades! You know, my wife Vaniya worshiped the Dawnflower - she's a good goddess, she is."
Roots seems especially proud to have Tyg nesting on him. The small Root leshy positively beams. The Storm druid can be overheard teaching the tiny grig how best not be comfortable around centipedes....
Eskra smirks, "Yeah, we plan on associating our blades with his neck."
Carageorn reaches down to give Eskra a quick high give before they continue, "Name's Eskra. Big horned fellow beside me is Carageorn. As far as profession goes, hell, I've never really had one. Didn't really need one, long as there were rubes out there willing to part with coin."
The mention of Nidintu-Bel having been a bandit in his past does not seem to elicit any judgment from Tristian - which is not surprising, considering the focus that Sarenrae places on redemption. The young priest nods and smiles, clasping hands as they are offered. "That is joyful to hear, my friends, and yours is a worthy endeavour. I hope that I am not being too forward, but would you perhaps allow me to accompany you? There are fearsome warriors in your ranks and your diminutive friends seem handy with spell, but I feel that my divine magic could be very helpful to you. Besides, there is safety in numbers, and traveling with you will help me reach more of the people of this region and help them." His luminous eyes rest on each face, seeking their reactions.
I have no objection to this. What says everyone else?
Roots turns a vine thumbs up at Tristan still seriously discussing proper distance whenever confronted by a gang of centipedes.
Nidintu's grin widens. "Of course - I'd certainly be happy to have another friendly face with us against the Stag Lord." His aureate gaze is drawn by Roots lecturing Tyg-Titter-Tut on the dangers of centipedes, and he leans in to whisper to Tristian. "Word of advice? I think Carageorn's lost it, and I don't think Roots ever had it - whatever you do, just don't get him started on caterpillars."
Eskra shrugs, "Sure, just don't go trying to preach to me. I'm quite happy with my lack of gods or masters."
Tristian smiles in relief. "Wonderful, thank you. And no preaching, I promise." He turns to regard the ruined temple pensively. "I would like to study the nature of the curse that befell the guardian, but that can wait. I am ready to travel when you are."
The two diminutive fey wave at the Wildwood Band. "We'll return to our nest now, it was fun meeting you! Don't be strangers, come by any time you like!" Perlivash does an aerial loop and a barrel roll to punctuate the invitation.
Xavin waves at the two fae and then turns to the rest. Well do we explore further, or perhaps, Tristian you might have some insight on some peoples in the region we could make contact with? We have established friendly relations with a number of locals thus far and I feel like we should continue to do so.
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Roots sadly waves good-bye to both Perlivash and his new protege Tyg-Titter-Tut.
Remember, remember the 5th of November. The caterpillars descended. Fear was their member.
The small Root leshy gathers his things, smiles at his friends and presents forward....
Tristian looks pensive at Xavin's question. "I heard of a hamlet deep in the forest. I don't know the name, the people there seem to be quite reclusive. Perhaps we will come across it if we venture farther into the woods."
After making their farewells, the group continues their travels, heading southeastwards towards the Stag Lord's fort. That evening, they make camp in a small glade, the stars glittering overhead through gaps in the dense canopy.
The next day, they continue through the forest, coming across an area littered with small bones in the late afternoon. It does not take long for those skilled in tracking to identify that a particularly large boar has made its lair in the area. Oleg mentioned a creature nicknamed Tuskgutter by the locals, a grizzled monster that has vexed and avoided hunters for years. Wild tales are told of this ill-tempered beast, and a few would likely be willing to pay for its head as a trophy.
Roots-Sink-Deep seems determined to get Kressel's attention by bringing the former bandit gifts of rarely found flowers.
Influence: 1/8
Discovery: Perception, Bandit Lore, Society
Influence skills: Bandit Lore, Craft, Deception (to spin a tall tale), Diplomacy, Intimidation, Performance (to tell a story), Survival
Weakness: Kressle loves a good story. Anyone succeeding at a DC 15 Performance or Deception check to spin a tale has a +2 bonus on subsequent attempts to influence her.
Resistance: Kressle can't stand moralizing goody two-shoes. Lawful Good PCs or those who judge her for her past have a -4 penalty at attempts to influence her.
The druid smiles.
The next morning there seems to be dozens of bouquets of wild flowers surrounding the camp!
Seen yawning while sipping on his 4th cup of coffee, Roots just offers everyone a simple cheers of his cup as they question him.
While meandering about the forest and coming across an area littered with small bones in the late afternoon, the small Root leshy frowns.
Big boisterous boar betcha.
The druid begins to attempt to Track it.
We could use a mascot.
As Roots forages for flowers to get Kressle's notice, Nidintu speaks to the group's newest member. "So tell me, Tristian, where are you from? I thought the Dawnflower's worship was mostly centered in Qadira, but you don't seem like most Qadirans I've met. We get all sorts here in the River Kingdoms, you know - plenty of folk from Iobaria, Cheliax, the Padishah Empire to the east, all over Avistan, and even beyond."
Nidintu grins as Roots identifies the tracks of the massive boar. "Didn't Oleg mention something about a boar in these parts? Tuskgutter or something? It'll be a worthy foe, for certain." Hefting his axe, he follows Roots, on the lookout for the massive boar.
"We could use a mascot."
Nidintu raises his eyebrows. "Could use a good dinner, too. Any of you lot plant-eaters? If so, I'll bet you a silver piece that I can change your minds, soon as I get my hands on that pig's trotters. I've got a few spices with me - could probably whip up some fire jokbal."
Kressle very possibly has never, ever received flowers in her life, so the sudden abundance of floral arrangements has the hard-boiled former bandit laugh in delight. "Ye're such a scamp! Does this mean ye're courtin' me now? I'll have ye know I'm what they call 'high maint'nance'."
Tristian inclines his head at Nidintu's question. "I am from Qadira, in fact. I was raised in an orphanage run by Sarenites. And yes, I am aware that I do not look like a typical Qadiran, it is a topic of some consternation to myself."
With some tracking and attentive observation, Roots-Sink-Deep and Nidintu-Bel track Tuskgutter to his lair, a hollow beneath a large fallen pine tree whose branches create a natural shelter. The boar seems to be at home by the faint snores emanating from within.
How does a Qadiran Sarenite end up investigating a degraded temple of Erastil in the middle of the Stolen Lands? Truly there is a story here. Xavin says to Tristian. These lands are truly a magnet for those with stories, but also those who do not want to relay them so if you do not want to dwell on the past then that is all well and good.
Roots just stares up, up, up, up at Nidintu.
Plant eater? Gross! I find my nutrients in the soil! So, we going hunting!
Roots runs into the cave with his shield raised!
At Tristian's words, Nidintu raises his eyebrows. "Don't look like a Qadiran? Young man, I'm not aware of a single person in these parts who gives a f*** about looks." He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "...That may or may not have something to do with the fact that they said it to the seven-foot pitborn who could break them in half. Actually, though, what I meant is that you don't carry yourself like one - at least, not the ones I've met. Only Qadirans I've met in these parts are slaves, seeking a better life in these lands where slavery is gone, and slavers, seeking to subvert our way of life. You don't seem like either - you're not distrustful, but you're not cruel, either. Did you really come all this way just to spread the word of your goddess?" He shrugs, turning back to his meal. "Must be some goddess, I'll say that."
Nidintu grins as he hears the sounds of snores emanating from within the tree's tangle of roots. "Right, when I give the signal - that'll be me smashing its skull in - we..." Just then, Roots charges past him and into the cave, and the massive warrior's face falls as he rushes in after his foolhardy friend. "Roots, you fool!"
Xavin and Nidintu's questions elicits a faint smile from Tristian. "I am a little far from home, it is true. I have what you might call a personal interest in magical afflictions, and the study and cure of such has lead me to many distant places."
The Qadiran inclines his head to Nidintu. "I am not here to proselytize. People will find their way to the Dawnflower in their own time, if it is the right path for them. But while I am here, I will do everything in my power to protect and aid those in need."
Despite the leshy's eagerness, Nidintu manages to surprise the hoary creature in its lair. The boar fights fiercely, but he is no match for the pitborn's axe and Xavin's arrows, with the others distracting it and harassing it.
After taking the massive, tusked head as a trophy, the choicest bits of meat become dinner - much to Kressle's delight.
Cutting southeastwards through the areas where they had previously encountered the fangberry thickets, the Wildwood Band makes their way to the shores of Tuskwater lake. By all accounts, the ruined fort where the Stag Lord has made his lair is in this area.
"Alright boss, what's the plan?" Kressle looks to Nidintu-Bel expectantly. "Bargin' in with weapons drawn is just askin' to meet Pharasma sooner rather than later."
The stories she has heard revolve around a figure of that has quickly grown in power among the bandits in the area and now claims to have founded his own nation, levying "taxes" on the trappers, hunters and woodcutters in the area in the form of monthly extortions enforced by his goons. That is the less interesting part, however. What really piqued Sarea's interest are the stories surrounding this bandit leader - inhuman strength, ferocious temper, and - most intriguingly - an antlered helm that hides his face, which by all accounts he never takes off.
Sarea has spent a few days trying to figure out how to get close to this so-called Stag Lord and his potentially magical helm, so her current predicament could be a blessing in disguise - seeing as she has just been captured by a group of three bandits who are bringing the Stag lord the monthly tribute.
Convincing his underlings to desert him would be my preferred approach... it is obvious that he inspires loyalty only through fear and even that isn't overwhelming.
At the words Boss, Roots-Sink-Deep turns to look at Kressel.
We should probably scout out their defenses, numbers, positioning, habits, if they have any live stock, horses, trapping equipment, giants, ogres, owlbears or caterpillars.
The small Root leshy shakes his vines.
Deals off if he ganged up with caterpillars.
At Kressle's question, Nidintu opens his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Roots. The towering warrior glares down at the little leshy. "She said Boss, Roots - she didn't mean you, she meant..." He trails off, glancing around the motley crew of the Wildwood Band as he mutters to himself. "Carageorn is nutty, Roots is nuttier, Xavin is... well, Xavin..." Clearing his throat, he seems to make up his mind. "Hey Eskra, how'd you like to be mayor of this town we'll be making?"
Satisfied that the question of who the "boss" is has been satisfied, he answers Kressle's question. "Well, we know the passwords to get into the walls, and you and I can pass for bandits no problem. Anyone else here good at lying? We'll say we're Thorn River folks, there to tell the Stag Lord about the band of troublemaking heroes roughing up his people, then we see which ones we can turn - Cragger and Dovan, you said, Kressle? - and defeat him." He glances at Tristian. "...You, though, might take a little explaining. You certainly don't look like a bandit, that's for sure." The massive warrior's mouth tightens as he thinks. "Tell you what, how about you be our captive? Some rich noble from the Padishah Empire? Don't worry, even if these bandits are the cruel sort, if we promise them a big enough ransom, they shouldn't torture you. You'd be able to talk with the bandits' other prisoners, see what you can do to help them."
Kressle knows everyone in there. Any lie we tell has to involve her more. Xavin points out ignoring what they heard Niditu said about them... they have very sharp hearing. She found us being freelance bandit abducting Trsitan's group of travelers, our band fought hers and we did so well that she decided to introduce us as new recruits....
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Sarea finds herself captive.
Well, my investigation is proceeding, at least. Nice guys, these bandits, taking me in without undue violence. Much better than those pirates that one time. Maybe things aren't so bad out here. I'll hold off on roasting them to see how this plays out... and I'm not sure I could take all three at once anyway. And I want to see that magic helmet.
She hears a doubly familiar CA-CAW above her and feels reassured knowing that Cawsper is keeping watch above.
Poor bird is probably half out of his mind with worry. Too smart for his own good. I'm just lucky he's not already down here trying to insult the bandits into setting me free...
She hears a rustle of wings and an annoyed voice calling "Cawptured again... Cawn't believe you."
She hisses at the sky: "SSHHHH," potentially drawing the attention of the bandits. Trying to dodge gracefully, "Shhhssso, we're going to see the Stag Lord. I've heard he's a big deal, but I've never met him. Is he a good boss? I used to work with some pirates, and let me tell ya, they are a mixed bag when it comes to leadership."
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Eskra grins and shakes their head, ”Nah, won’t be me. It’ll be Carageorn, sure as sunrise. Terms of our agreement, bound in soul. I’m to return him his royal destiny, to do all in my power to make him a king. That just means he’ll be the mayor, ruler, whatnot on paper. He doesn’t wanr to rule, just wants the title.”
They take a moment to inspect their nails, acting nonchalant as possible, ”I, however, want the opposite. Damn the titles, I want the power, not a whit of the pomp. Carageorn will be the Lord-Mayor, what have you, and I will be his humble Seneschal, ruling from the shadows as an indispensable attendant to Carageorn’s magnanimous leadership.”
The three bandits shift uneasily at the question. "He's the strongest warrior I've ever seen, and he won't stand for you to be runnin' your mouth, so quiet now," one of them finally grumbles while the other two look away. And this tells Sarea all she needs to know.
"That Akiros ain't so bad. Didja see how mad Dovan was when the Stag Lord made him his second instead of Dovan? Heh." The three continue gossiping about their camp life as they herd Bithisarea along towards the ruined structure crowning a low hill.
"Aye, good plan, Your Elfship. I recruited ya after ya killed most of me men. Oh! Don't forget the booze! You show that to the Stag Lord, he'll be so happy he'll forget to look twice at ya." Kressle gives Roots-Sink-Deep a doubtful look. "Not sure about the kid though. Maybe we'll say he's a pet or sumthin'."
Tristian seems to take the idea of him playing a hostage in stride. "I've always been curious about the stage, to be truthful, but the senior priests did not think it was an appropriate interest to pursue." He thrusts his wrists forward, held together as if by invisible bindings. "Release me, villains! I am a very important noble back in... no, I am a prince! My mother the Queen will send her armies to raze your pitiful existence from the face of the earth!"
His dramatics and the thick Qadiran accent he puts on sends Kressle into a fit of laughter and Tristian lets his hands drop as his face turns red in embarassment.
Roots just grins up at Kressel.
I think I'll have something to say to Aikros. I sure hope he's disgruntled.
As the group (I won't call it a party) approaches the ruins on the hill, Sarea keeps her eyes and ears open. And, for now, her mouth shut.
You can build your skills on the stage afterwards perhaps. Xavin suggests. And we have a plan to wander freely around the camp. Can any of us drug these spirits before we hand them over?
"Can any of us drug these spirits before we hand them over?"
Nidintu takes the bottles, examining them as he adjusts his spectacles - after a moment, the massive warrior shakes his head. "I might be able to make a batch of concentrated arsenic - if I had a day or so to prepare and some alchemical tools from Restov, that is. Seeing how we don't have that, I don't think we can drug this here rotgut." He shrugs. "Still, I don't think it should matter that much - when the Stag Lord's good and sauced, I doubt he'll be in any position to put up much of a fight."
At Tristian's antics, Nidintu manages to keep a straight face, if only barely. "...Why don't you let Kressle here do the talking? You weren't a gambler or some such before entering the temple, I take it." He grins as he holds up his cooking kit. "I'll admit, I'm not the best liar, but I'll bet you a shiny silver piece that I can get their minds on my meals and off my words before too long... you know what they say about hearts and stomachs, yes?"
Eskra shrugs to Nidintu, "No, idea, what?"
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Carageorn raises an unsettlingly long finger and says to the two of them, his tone sounding like he's pointing out something insightful, "Ah, yes, of course! It is said that should thy flowery words fail you, stab the hearts and stomachs of thy foes first. Once your foe shuffles back from the dead, they shall be left with a heartache and a stomachache to remind them of thy stunning victory. All know this to be true."
With some sort of plan in place, the Wildwood Band makes their way towards the Stag Lord's stronghold. About two miles from the fort, they sight three figures walking alongside an ox-pulled cart, with a fourth driving. One of the three figures has their hands bound in front of them and a long rope ties them to the end of the cart.
Roots looks up, up, up at Carageorn and nods sagely in agreement!
This is known.
Smiling at the With some sort of plan in place commentary, the grinning Storm druid hums a merry tune....
Blue eyes landing lightning at the sight of three figures walking alongside an ox-pulled cart, with a fourth driving. One of the three figures has their hands bound in front of them and a long rope ties them to the end of the cart , Roots stops humming....
Nidintu blinks at his companions' response, shrugging in reply to Eskra. "...Well, it's something my father always said. 'The worm that hatches in the stomach eats its way towards the heart.' I think he was being metaphorical - you know, people trusting you more because you give them good food and all that - but he was never a very nice person, and the Aklo translates strangely, apparently."
As the group of bandits come into view with their prisoner, Nidintu waves to the brigands. "You there - you with the oxcart!" He urges his horse on, waiting until the plodding animal is up alongside the brigands. "You bunch headed for the fort at Tuskwater? Our groups should probably travel together - there's some warriors sent down from Restov, roughing up bandits in the area and all that."
The massive warrior glances nervously at the sinking sun. "Best if we reach the fort before dark - in my old band, it was after nights like these we found bits of people, heads without faces, real carnage." He nods towards Tristian and Bithisarea. "We might go faster if the prisoners ride in the back of the cart - we pretty well outnumber them anyway."
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A definitely random crow swoops low and...
...misses the "new bandit" Nidintu with a poorly released payload.
"Craawp crawwp crawwp."
Sarea glares daggers at the bird. Dumb bird's gonna get himself shot. Wow, I'm glad he missed--that one with the horns looks pretty fierce. Still, I can probably learn more by engaging with them than by standing here in silence. Bandits usually respect courage more than weakness... and if I have to take a punch, so be it. Won't be the first nor... I guess I hope nor the last (if they want to ransom me, I have to live, right?).
As the party hails the bandits, they see that the captive is an incongruous Varisian woman who has halted mid-stride in a defiant contrapposto despite her bonds. She calls out in the common tongue, slightly accented by half a continent's distance:
"Well, well, well. More scoundrels joining the ranks, I presume? Seeking fortune, fame, or merely a swift descent into infamy? Or are you lot just here for the free ale and poor life choices?"
From her accent and her garments, she's obviously a stranger in a strange land. A crimson scarf wraps her neck, and she wears a shot-cut blue robe cinched at the waist with a tooled leather belt over red hose. She's just a touch under average height, and her build is athletic and wiry. Her medium-short brown hair is neatly styled, framing her face and deep brown eyes. Elven blood pushes the tips of her ears through her hair, but only just. Her olive skin is adorned with subtle tattooing on all the skin you can see (not much: her face and hands, at the moment). She wears battered but sturdy leather ankle boots. Somehow, she looks clean, especially compared to her captors.
Despite her current predicament as a captive, she exudes an air of confidence and intelligence, and her sharp gaze perches above a slight smile, darting between her captors and the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and calculation.