Perception (1d20+3=17)
"Great. I can't see anything."
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Quince follows nervously behind, wishing he had a spell to see in the dark.
"Um...me and Drint go forward? By ourselves? There has to be a better plan. Someone? Anyone?" Quince looks nervously around at the rest of the group, Drint's and Rolly's continuing argument completely forgotten. "I...I think we should see if we can find whoever was calling for help first. If we can't find anybody, then...maybe...we can go with Fjyndel's...umm...plan."
Quince stumbles up in the darkness, not willing to light a light and give away the group's position unless absolutely necessary. "Footprints? So that was a scream I heard. Drint may be right, we don't know the whole story. But might I suggest we wait until morning to investigate further? Not all of us can see in the dark you know, and if the kobolds are bad (and Drint, I'm only going on our own previous experiences in the ruins here), it might be better to go in the daylight when we have the advantage, however small it may be."
Perception (sound) 1d20+5=19
Quince looks around to see if anyone has wandered off during the night. Perception (sight) 1d20+3=20
"Well, it seems our sleeping problems are mostly solved," Quince says. "Who wants to sleep in a tent, and who wants to bunk in the cave?"
Quince clears his throat loudly. "Perhaps we should all get a good night's sleep first, before we decide how to go back in. Drint, I think you have a good idea, but what if you're wrong? You'll be all alone, and you said they already stabbed you in the back! I think it's better if we all went together - kobolds, gnomes, and dwarves. And halflings and pixies too, of course." "So let's see, perhaps we could share the cave. Some of sleep inside, the rest on watch, and switch during the night."
The argument between Drint and Rolly took Quince by surprise, and he spent the whole time staring at the town of them, mouth open, unable to think or say anything. Now that it seems to have (mostly) passed, he finds his voice again. "Well, we may not have anything to eat," he says, "but at least that deer reminded us of our real priorities. We got our bottoms handed to us back there, and if we start fighting between ourselves they'll pick us off one by one, and Falcon's Hollow will die." "We know what's important: food and shelter first, then we go back - together, as a team - find the mushrooms, and get back to town." "Now - anybody see a place where we can get out of this storm that's coming?"
Make that six! Quince is ready for...ADVENTURE!
Quince somehow misses the howling of the wolves, and is somewhat taken aback when they emerge from the woods. "Yikes!" Looking around to make sure Risk is safe, he notices Quirk flying into the air. I wish I could levitate, he wistfully thinks, then turns his attention to the task at hand, throwing a burst of light at the nearest wolf in hopes of scaring them away. For Rad:
Spoiler: Any chance we might see you again in the Iskandria game? If you've got a lot going on and want to drop out, that's fine, just let us know!
Rad:
Spoiler:
"So we've got the moss and the rat's tail, what's next? The mushrooms? Think we'll find them in there?" Quince points to the old monastery.
Not wanting to hit Rolly, Quince hopes his unerring magic missiles will impact only the cauldron and not the dwarf. He sends a pair of bolts across the clearing, then retreats to the edge of the clearing, hopefully far enough away to be safe from the cauldron's attacks.
Quince yelps as he sees the cauldron moving. Holding his fingers together, he spreads them out in a fan, and a blast of lightning shoots from his fingertips. Burning hands (lightning damage) (3d4=4) Initiative (1d20+4=22)
"It might be a spellbook," Quince answers Coralee. "I'll take a closer look outside. And grab the head, it might be useful." Quince pauses a moment in thought. "Then again, it could be some magical fetish that Uzmilla could use to spy on us after we've looted her hut. Oh well, like my mother always said, 'Danger is the spice of life!' Or was that my uncle? Or Grandpa?" Muttering to himself, Quince steps outside to take a closer look at the book he found.
Quince studies the book carefully (Perception (1d20+3=23) Woo!). If he finds nothing dangerous, he opens the book to take a look inside.
"Hmmmmm, interesting," Quince murmurs, looking at the leatherbound book in his hands. He turns it over and over in his hands, inspecting it but not opening it (yet).
"Anybody find anything interesting?" he asks the group.
"So, anyone think we should hit the gong?" "Most definitely NOT," Quince responds. "Let's find this root and begone. The less time spent here, the better, I think." While Coralee looks for magic, Quince begins inspecting the herbs and fetishes along the walls, trying to touch as little as possible.
"Quirk, Fjyndel, any idea what this root looks like?"
Quince is more than happy to let Rolly lead the way, just in case the witch is quietly lying in wait for them. "After you, Master Dwarf."
Perception (hearing) (1d20+5=22) "Doesn't sound like anyone's home," Quince says, striding into the clearing. "Our ears and wings and eyes and noses should be safe." He gestures with his hand and the plank door bangs open. Just to make sure, he calls out, "Hellooo! Anybody hoooome?"
Quince makes a small bow. "Quince Darkivy, at your service." He indicated the fox at his feet. "And this is Risk. A pleasure to meet you, Rolly."
"Hold, sir!" Quince calls out with a friendly smile. "All of our pets are with us, but we did misplace a dwarf. Any chance you might have met him?" Quince is a bit on the short side for a halfling, with tan skin, green eyes, and long black hair queued in a ponytail. He's wearing a leather vest over a blue shirt, bright red leggings, and worn leather traveling boots. Bandoliers bristling with daggers crisscross his chest. A small fox with bright red tufts of fur around its feet is twined between the halfling's bare feet.
"I'm beginning to feel distinctly disliked in this forest," Quince says to no one in particular. "It almost makes me want to go back to Riddleport." He draws a dagger and hurries after Fjyndel and Grendel, wishing he had a big animal to ride, too.
"If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer not to trade my tongue, thank you very much," Quince says. "Some sorcerer I'd be if all I could do was mumble and drool. Now Coralee, on the other hand, probably has an extra tongue or two she could trade. I don't see how anybody could talk so much with just one tongue!" Quince smiles broadly and throws her a wink to let her know he's just joking. "Quirk, it seems you're our best guide. Lead on then, to the witch Uzmilla! And with Desna's fortune, maybe we'll get our root without having to trade assorted and sundry body parts for it!" Quince sets off down the path, whistling a jaunty tune in the crisp morning air.
"Right," Quince agrees with his friends. "He probably wasn't bewitched, he went off for reasons of his own. But we need to find the root and help the town. I think the name Laurel mentioned was 'Uzmilla', or something like that. Why, Quirk? Have you heard of her? Can you lead us to her hut?"
Quince wakes up well-rested and in a good mood, which quickly turns sour when he realizes Girther is gone. He turns to his friends. "Why did he leave? Without even telling us? And alone? It doesn't look like there was a fight, or anything. But we still have more things to gather for Laurel, some kind of root - rat's tail, isn't it? Should we follow Girther, or look for the root? I think Laurel said some witch had it."
Quince sits down with a sigh of contentment. "Can someone start a fire? My feet are about to turn blue!" He briskly rubs his feet to warm them up, and adds, "Whew! Who would have thought that just gathering a few herbs would be so tiring? Or dangerous, for that matter?"
"See anything up there, Quirk?" Quince tries to keep his eye on the diminutive pixies through the tree's foliage.
Quince's big eyes notice the tracks in the snow gleaming in the moonlight. "Look, more tracks!" he says, pointing them out. Perception (1d20+3=16) "It's late, an ordinarily I'd say we should camp. But not if something else is waiting to attack us as soon as we close our eyes. Like our scythe-wielding 'friend'." Quince glances around nervously, and Risk huddles up against his legs.
"To the tree then!" Quince sets off, trying to avoid deep snow as much as possible. His feet quickly turn bright red from the cold snow. This is why big folk wear shoes, he thinks. Focused on his numb feet, Quince isn't paying much attention to anything else happening.
"A prize, eh?" Quince raises an eyebrow and flashes Coralee a roguish grin. "Perhaps I'll collect later..." He drops the snowball he was holding and takes another look at the tracks in the snow. "I have no idea what made these. Tracking beasts through the wilderness really isn't my area of expertise. Quirk, Fjyndel? Any ideas?"
Quince yelps as Coralee's snowball smacks into him. He glares at her, then scoops up his own handful of snow. Seeing her legs behind Monarch, Quince stays low and pelts her legs with his snowball, stooping down to hurriedly gather up another snowball. Perception (1d20+3=15)
"I may not know much about nature, but I'm sure it's not supposed to snow this early. It's only Sarenith! Surely we haven't journeyed into the Realm of the Mammoth Lords or the Lands of the Witch Queen?" Quince kneels down to scoop up a small bit of snow which he tastes with his tongue. "Tastes okay to me, though."
Quince wakes up, finally feeling refreshed. He spends a few minutes gathering some wood for a fire, lighting it with a tindertwig and hoping the wood isn't too wet to catch fire.
"Who wants breakfast?" he asks cheerily. "Nothing better than fried beef jerky on a cold, wet morning!" Risk ventures a short distance into the forest and returns soon after with a mouse, which he begins to eat as he lies down next to Quince. "So - to the tree today?" Quince asks the group.
"Fine, let's find this tree. We'll be one step closer to finishing our mission, and maybe we can find a dry campsite as well. Drint's about to fall over, Girther didn't sleep all night (thanks, Girther, for keeping watch), and my head is all jumbled. None of us is going to be any use if we don't get some real rest."
Quince wakes up feeling at least a little refreshed. He's been on the road long enough to some sleep is better than none, and there are worse things than water. He even enjoys the feel of the cool water between his toes. As dawn peeks over the horizon, however, Quince mood dampens. Some rest is better than no rest, but some rest isn't enough to recharge his powers. He grumbles about the campsite, picking up his gear, while a very wet and bedraggled Risk sniffs around a bush. "We better not run into anything else dangerous today," Quince grumbles out loud. "Or I guess I'll have to just throw a stick at them."
Quince casts floating disk and uses it to cart the bodies away from the campsite, giving them a quick search. He comes back to the campsite and tells everyone what he found. "Well folks, it appears our attackers had a little bit of treasure on them, so it wasn't a total loss!" Quince lays out what he found: a razor, 12 gp, a pair of dice, a dragon-hilted dagger, and an ivory amulet carved in the shape of a unicorn's head. "Anybody mind if I hold on to the dagger for now?" Rad:
Spoiler: While taking away the bodies, Quince will also bury the pixie wings with a short prayer to Desna.
New feat!
Now updated to level 3.
Still thinking about the missing scythe-woman, Quince is distracted until Coralee addresses him. "Which way? Oh, uh, I'm sure we came...no...wait..." Quince looks around helplessly.
He breathes a sigh of relief when Fjyndel points out the way back to camp.
Quince runs to the edge of the cliff, cursing, and searches for some sign of the vanished woman.
"Uhh!" Quince grunts in pain. That's it, he thinks. Live or die, she is going down...
Sense Motive (1d20-1=18)
"We don't take kindly to death gods here in Darkmoon Vale. Go ahead and jump. Are you that sure you have nothing to fear from death? That your god will take you and protect you from the fall?" "No, woman, you started this. We will end it. Now. Tonight." Quince steps forward menacingly. Again. And again. Closer and closer.
"There! She's in the bushes!" Quince runs after the woman, muttering a quick prayer to Desna for luck.
"Wow, she's evil and tough! Don't let her get away!"
"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. "Gillenfa hythkos!" Quince hurls another magical bolt at the woman.
Drint looks aghast. "I--I don't use that end anymore. Ssssorry." "We should find you a nice quarterstaff, then. Two ends, both non-pointy!"
"Drint! Try the pointy end! It works better!" Quince yells. Maneuvering to get a clear line of sight at the woman, Quince gathers arcane energy around his hand until it is surrounded by a nimbus of electricity. He throws out his arm, hand facing the woman, and launches a bolt of crackling lightning at her. Elemental Ray (ranged touch attack) (1d20+6=15); Damage (electricity) (1d6+1=5)
"Their deaths were exquisite! Their pain a proper sacrifice to the one true god! Ha ha ha! Come!" Yikes! Guess we don't need a moment to figure things out after all. With a worried look at her wicked scythe, Quince gestures and murmurs, "Arvora nasharr." A small breeze picks up, whirling momentarily around his body before it vanishes away.
Perception (1d20+4=22)
Hopefully that'll give us a moment to figure out what to do, Quince thinks.
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