Dave as Mogmurch's page

Chief Mogmurch's jaw drops as he floats in stunned silence for a few awe-struck seconds. As the tremendous burst of light, sound, and stench passes, he realizes: that was EXACTLY the kind of diversion we needed!

Even if, you know, it wasn't what I planned to begin with. Ah well. Adaptation is key to exemplary strategy.

"The butt-flame ruse," Mogmurch intones as he alights on the ground, "was a distaction!"

He creeps north along the fence to hide until the beastly farmers lumber out to investigate.

Stealth: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (19) + 15 = 34

Chief Mogmurch grins from ear to ear as he hovers dramatically above his old foe. "We meets again, porkbeast. As survivor of Licktoads and chieftain of Birdcrunchers, Mogmurch's will be made mantifest..."

It occurs to me that Squealy Nord may, as before, be unable to understand my fluent goblin rhetoric, he considers.

"Poog!" Mogmurch hisses, "It Squealy Nord! Use Zarongel's tongue in your mouth! Convict him to help us, or face fiery flaming wrath!"

Chief Mogmurch scratches his chin craftily. "Fire pig probsly in groundboat," he quietly postulates. "Us can fire it firstly, also cause diversity to draw out Munchmeats. Put bottle of fire on groundboat, bomb it from distance, make big noise! Big creeps come out, diggity smack! Us have them surmounted and supplised!"

Chief Mogmurch begins phase one of his clever plan, sneaking over to the boat and using a potion of levitation to hover up and balance an alchemist's fire on top.

Stealth: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (19) + 15 = 34

Chief Mogmurch surveys the area with a keen tactical eye. "Us not crosses the fence yet," he says quietly. "First us gets the land of the lay. Sneaks around to the ex-boat and peek around."

By way of example (and because he's the chieftain and won't be told differently), he creeps along the fence towards the wrecked boat.

Stealth: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (15) + 15 = 30

"Everygob okey-dokey?" Chief Mogmurch asks. "Might be more of thems between here and Munchmeat Farm. Next time, yoink the fire gourds!"

Mogmurch growls and grumbles and downs another extract.

POWERTHIRST!: 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9

Feeling uncomfortably energetic, he moves back into flank.

The most important thing about being the chieftain, Mogmurch thinks to himself, is not letting anybody else know how muttsucking much that hurt.

He backs up a bit and quaffs a healing extract.

QUAFF!: 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4

Chief Mogmurch closes in on the pig, providing flanking if possible, and swings his club at it.

Clobberin' Time!: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 2 = 101d4 - 1 ⇒ (1) - 1 = 0

"Spread out! Surround him!" Chief Mogmurch commands. "Don't let him roast more than - " He does some rigorous mental math. "One? At a time?"

By way of demonstrating, Mogmurch darts into position behind and to the side of the beast and lobs another vial of acid.

SPLOOSH!: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (15) + 8 = 231d6 ⇒ 2

Fire-breathing pigs, eh? Mogmurch muses. Better hit them with something other than fire...

Mogmurch lobs a vial of acid at the pig.

Acid Attack!: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (8) + 8 = 161d6 ⇒ 4

"Chief Mogmurch accept Birdcrunch fealty! You!" Mogmurch points at a random goblin and hands her his skull mask. "Nail crown to skull so not fall off! You!" He points at another random goblin. "Bake a for real pie just for Mogmurch! You!" He gestures vaguely towards a cluster of other Birdcrunchers. "Make funny puppet show! You goblets!" He waves his hand indiscriminately at a large number of female goblins. "You harem! Congraturation! And you..." He gestures vaguely at the other Licktoads. "Chief declare you honorarary deputy subchieftainlets! Chief Mogmurch has spoken!"

Venkelvore's gut, I'm going to be so good at this, Mogmurch thinks.

The next morning, Chief Mogmurch staggers to the clan bonfire with a crown affixed to his mask, a delicious pie in his belly, a familiar ache in his thighs, and goofy puppets capering in his head. "Fetch the loot chest!" he commands. He smiles as it draws near, dramatic music welling up in his imagination. He eases the lid open...

No fireworks? Worst chest ever.

Disappointed Mogmurch is on the verge of ordering one or more goblins to jump in the bonfire when he notices a variety of other consumables and combustibles, which mollifies him considerably. He takes a moment to search through the chest before addressing his peers. "Licktoads! Chief Mogmurch offer gifts! For Poog: pointy wand. For Reta: sharp blade. For Chuffy: shady cloak. Also, everygob get healthy potion. Chief Mogmurch keep everything else until further novice. Chief Mogmurch has spoken!"

Mogmurch smartest gobbo alive! Mogmurch mentally shrieks with his mouth closed so as to avoid getting gross pie filling that he'd already peed in inside his mouth. Time for my triumphant escape!

Mogmurch bursts out of the crust and spikes the last of his bombs at an eagle and, consequently, pretty much everybody else in the pie.

PIESPLOSION!: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 252d6 + 2 ⇒ (2, 4) + 2 = 8

8 damage to random eagle. 4 damage to everybody else. Including Mogmurch.

"Bomb appetit," Mogmurch snarks as he strides out of the crater. If he had sunglasses, he would totally put them on right now.

Mogmurch growls in frustration. I've tried wriggling out, and I've tried pulling free. These things are impossible! A sly grin (that nobody can see under the ridiculous pie-related circumstances) creeps across his face. Let's see if I can eagle my way out!

Mogmurch stretches his bonds taut and slips them directly into a nearby eagle's grasp. To coerce the eagle to play along, he offers it a persuasive headbutt.

Not sure what to roll here. Playing it by ear.

Sleight of Hand, perhaps?: 1d20 + 8 - 2 ⇒ (12) + 8 - 2 = 18

Concussive Diplomacy: 1d20 + 1 - 6 ⇒ (18) + 1 - 6 = 131d2 ⇒ 2

Mogmurch furrows his brow. In the future, I will have to remember not to pee on an eagle, he thinks as he tries pulling and gnawing his bonds apart.

Strength: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (12) - 1 = 11

Nobody puts Mogmurch in a pie! Mogmurch mentally declares. Not even for a game!

He starts gnawing and twisting his bonds. He also deliberately voids his bladder into the pie. If they want Mogmurch flavor, let them have this!

Escape Artist: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (9) + 4 = 13

Mogmurch giggles to himself. Chuffy is a lot of fun to "accidentally" hit. He's the type to hold a grudge, though. When I'm chieftain, my first decree will be that Chuffy's not allowed within stabbing distance of me, ever.

He lobs another bomb, hopefully catching two stirges at once.

Combosplosion!: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (16) + 8 = 242d6 + 2 ⇒ (2, 5) + 2 = 9

Aiming at the H7 stirges.

WHAT? No. No no no no NO. Chuffy is NOT going to steal my kill.

Mogmurch lobs a bomb at Chuffy's target.

Spitesplosion!: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (3) + 8 = 112d6 + 2 ⇒ (4, 5) + 2 = 11

Mogmurch is pleased with the results of his application of explosives, but a little dismayed that he probably won't have an opportunity to blast Chuffy again in the name of healthy competition. Anyway: let's do that again!

Stirgesplosion!: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (12) + 8 = 202d6 + 2 ⇒ (2, 2) + 2 = 6

Targeting G5 for a combo!

Mogmurch is dismayed by how horrendously designed the longshank boot is. Footwear is solely for squishing things! Longshank cobblers must only encounter slugs and snails. They have no idea how much fun it is to stomp on frogs and rats and lizards, Mogmurch muses. And CRABS! O, Zarongel, how wonderful it is to crush a crab, hearing its shell splinter and feeling its soft innards spurt against the underside of one's foot! Truly a feast for the senses and one of the wonders of life.

But anyway, screw this dogflop. Bombs are way more efficient.

He keeps his boot on the stirge so as to claim it for later, and chucks a bomb at the one nearest Chuffy. If the bomb misses, maybe it'll knock Chuffy into the mire. This would not be a bad thing.

BOOM: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (18) + 8 = 26

Targeting the D4 stirge with a bomb.

Mogmurch attempts to pulp the stirge beneath his boot.

STOMP: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 2 = 21

Attacking D6. Apply necessary damage. I'm assuming that the stirge is actually tied down to the post, prone. If not, I will instead keep my distance and throw bombs at a +8 attack bonus.

Mogmurch plucks the cork from an extract of expeditious retreat and downs the sticky amber fluid. This should even the playing field in my favor! he thinks. Mogmurch has never been accused of having a firm grasp of fair play.

He darts for the plank in front of Reta, then carefully (yet still supernaturally quickly) moves to the first stirge post, ready to squash it under his preposterous footwear.

Acrobatics: 1d20 + 4 - 2 ⇒ (14) + 4 - 2 = 16

Mogmurch heads to D6 to sink a battlestirge.

Mogmurch calmly places the bow and the remaining black-fletched arrows in a pile on the ground, steps back, and explodes them.

Archery is for chumps.

Fire. Breathing. BOARS. Mogmurch imagines the sight in awe. I definitely need to make Poog train me one as a mount. This is everything an animal should be! I would be the most fearsome goblin in all of oral history!

He sits by the fireside, with his feet almost touching the cinders. "Chieftain Moot sound fun," he declares. "Mogmurch assume glittery prizes can be winned?"

Mogmurch glances at the lot appraisingly. Not a single pair of feminine eyes fixated hungrily on him. This might do, he thinks. I might finally get some respite from the unending ache in my thighs.

"Greets, crone!" he says. "Is you worthy to be meeting with mightly Licktoads?"

Mogmurch thinks a moment. "You know, those two things not necessarily mutually exclusive."

Mogmurch bites his lip in consternation, then winces. In the future, I need to NOT have Rempty and Gupy participate in face-munch contests.

"Firework cache plentiful, but Licktoads snatch all up," he says. "Maybe more firework below deck, but not explore there yet. Maybe even bigger supply! Other Licktoads with me?"

Mogmurch blinks in disbelief! Did Chief Gutwad really offer/mandate a marriage to his voluptuous and notoriously amorous daughter? This might be just the thing to spice up/supplant my marriage with Rempty!

"Poog!" Mogmurch calls, "Ready the wedding fire!"

Mogmurch joyously chimes in with his own verse:

"Licktoads find the sacred cache,
Hid in Vorka's secret stash!
Grab the lot!
Get them hot!
Burn our enemies to ash!"

He parades around the cabin with his arms full of the destructive bounty. Surely this merits at least another festival, if not a celebratory raid on the longshanks' town!

Mogmurch rushes at the chest, wiping ashes, dead wasps, and guano from it and giggling gleefully. He savors the moment, takes a deep breath, and opens the lid...

Mogmurch, out of his traditional explosives, reaches into his bag of tricks and lobs a vial of acid at Vorka.

Acidsplosion!: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (8) + 6 = 14

Mogmurch edges away from the door, admiring his handiwork. Vorka was ugly enough to begin with, he thinks, but with all those stings? HA! I definitely need more of THIS kind of bomb! Oh, and speaking of which...

Conventional Munitions: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (6) + 6 = 121d6 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6

5-foot step to the southeast, and aiming the bomb at Vorka herself. If it hits where I'm aiming, there's definite collateral damage of 3 to the dog and 6 to the swarm, and maybe 3 to Chuffy and/or Poog.

Mogmurch holds the door shut with all his might and giggles uncontrollably.

I love it when a plan comes together!

"Mogmurch not know much about alphabet," he says, "but even ME know TEE is for TURTLE."

*sunglasses*

YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

Mogmurch clutches the safely wrapped wasp bomb and the crippled turtle. "Plan simple," he helpfully expounds.

Mogmurch places the turtle on its back in front of the door. He gives the hive a vigorous shake (delighting in the angry buzzing that emerges), then gingerly places the primed insect bomb on the turtle's belly, holding the loose end of the doghide wrap. He gestures for Chuffy to man the door handle.

"On the count of . . ."

Oh, right, Chuffy thinks numbers are snacks.

"On the count of WINK!" Mogmurch whispers.

Once Chuffy is in position, Mogmurch will give him the signal to open the door momentarily. Then he'll give the hive a nasty kick through the doghide, unraveling it and launching the hive into the cabin just in time for Chuffy to shut the door. Then the Licktoads hold the door shut and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Eat the helpful turtle later.

"Wait a . . . a month," Mogmurch says carefully. He seems to be getting the hang of the esoteric science of chronology. "This boat, huh? SAILboat? Sailboatmen for sure have extra canvas to mend sails! Else, we cut some from for real sails! Lots work, but worth it!"

He looks around for any supply chests on deck, and scopes out the existing sails for suitability.

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (8) + 3 = 11

"Still need grab stingwing house," Mogmurch says. "Anygob gots sack or blanket or summat to hold it safeways?"

Mogmurch considers burning the dogs' corpses immediately, but thinks the better of it.

"Not safe yet," he says quietly, "Dogses not make cooksmell or smoke . . . yet." He points at the smoking stovepipe. "Someone deliberally make fire. Prolly still inside boathut. Mogmurch think Licktoads should chuck stingwing house in and hold door closed til coast clear."

Mogmurch rounds the corner to see Chuffy going toe to toe with the other beast.

There's not room enough to bomb the thing directly without some collateral damage. On the other hand, Chuffy IS pretty creepy and probably deserves it. On the third hand, if he survives, I'm pretty sure he'll ambush me when I'm asleep and eat one of my less-vital organs and watch me bleed to death while peeing on me. That sort of ignominious death is far more fitting to Poog than to myself. It's probably best to go with melee for now.

Mogmurch closes with Scabtongue and attacks with his club.

Going Clubbing: 1d20 ⇒ 131d4 - 1 ⇒ (4) - 1 = 3

Mogmurch shrieks his battle cry: "Battle cry!" (Mogmurch is not very creative in some respects.)

He rushes to the front of the line and lobs a bomb at the loathsome hound!

Super Bomb Attack!: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (14) + 6 = 201d6 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6

The resulting yelp of pain is sweet music to Mogmurch's ears as he giggles maniacally.

Mogmurch straightens up his posture. Stealth is, at this point, a pipe dream.

Nice to see showboating Poog taken down a peg or two, he thinks, but if that frog gets eaten by anything other than me, I'll be cheated of justice. This is unacceptable!

Mogmurch pursues the damnable, delicious beast.

Oh wait! ShowBOATing! We're on a BOAT! Venkelvore, I'm funny.

Mogmurch softly growls, "Dogsies..."

He draws his club and a bomb, ready to do battle at a moment's notice. "Plan: Licktoads go round shiphouse circlewise, sneaklike. Chuffy and Reta lead. No dogsies, we go up and look. Fireworks wait til dogsies dead."

Stealth: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (13) + 12 = 25

Mogmurch, dismayed that Poog probably suspects his intentions towards his frog, grumbles to himself and starts to climb the ladder.

Climb: 1d20 - 1 + 8 ⇒ (19) - 1 + 8 = 26

When he reaches the deck, he glances around. The skull-bedecked door does not bode well, and he'd rather not be caught off-guard.

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20

Although I scouted out the entire perimeter looking for a good entry point, it all looks pretty much the same, and the south side is more convenient.

"Poog! You and Chuffy brace ladder so Mogmurch can steal frog!"

In retrospect, I probably should have kept part of that to myself.

Mogmurch narrows his eyes.

At the very first opportunity, he thinks, I am going to make Poog watch me eat his toad alive.

Mogmurch frowns. "Slippy shippy!" he declares. "No easy climb, without rope or ladder or suchsome."

A faint memory jabs Mogmurch in the brain. "Poog! Still have ladderpatch?" He starts working out the plan: "Poog realifies ladder. Licktoads steady ladder by ship. Reta climb ladder, tie rope to ship. Licktoads climb rope. All Licktoads on ship!"

After a moment's thought, he adds, "Then Licktoads uncarelessly catch mudball in sack. Use stingwings as bomb in pinch!"

Honestly, he thinks, what would these people do without me?

Mogmurch holds his hand up to signal the party to stop. "Too obviclear, too easy," he hisses. "See mudball? Stingwing house. Useful as trap, not so much as door knocker. Mogmurch suggest altricate route." He twists the magic ring around his finger and grins slyly. "Reta! Gimme rope!" he politely requests.

He circles the boat, carefully sizing it up for locations that would be relatively easy to scale and secure the rope to.

Mogmurch savors the anticipation before the conflagration. He continues sneaking forward, ever ready to launch his deadly attack.

Stealth: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (14) + 12 = 26

Bomb: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (12) + 6 = 181d6 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 2 = 7

Mogmurch closes to 20 feet and readies to throw the bomb if Stomp stops idling, or either Reta or Chuffy close to 10 feet.

Mogmurch creeps ever closer to the horse, caressing a bomb. If that abomination dares perk up its stupid ears, it'll learn the meaning of BOOM.

Stealth: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (5) + 12 = 17

Mogmurch sneaks to within a decent throwing range and readies to throw a bomb at the horse should it make a Perception check.

Bomb (just in case): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 111d6 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3

Mogmurch snatches up a taffy and as many larvae as he can find. Traveling is hard work! He chomps through the larvae, half out of hunger, half out of spite, then starts in on the chewy treat.

Huh.

Over a lifetime of the most hands-on study imaginable of substances that may be edible, toxic, or otherwise useful in his trade, Mogmurch has eaten, among other things: musk glands from a two-week-dead skunk, Krub's foot scrapings, Nord slop (both pre- and post-digestion), numerous small rocks, pickled potatoes, and the tip of his own ring finger.

He would rather eat any or all of that rather than subject himself to licorice taffy ever again.