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"Right. Close quarters, so be wary." Trage puts away his crossbow and draws his waraxe and klar. "Keep a sharp eye out. If it is goblins (and who else would it be?), you'd be surprised where the little buggers can hide." Targ heads inside, scanning for any signs of goblins in the house.
"We're with the militia," Targ snaps authoritatively. "What's going on here? Where's your husband and son, ma'am?"
"I'm beginnin' to think joinin' the militia was a bad idea," Targ grumbles. He takes one last look at the tracks, as if to fix them in his memory, then loads his crossbow. "Right. Let's go see what all the hubbub is." He heads toward the crowd, still muttering and grumbling.
"He was a big one, might be useful if the goblins try another raid. We can check that place where he said he's staying - Ven Vinder's? - later. Now I want to see where these tracks go." Studying the ground, Targ follows the tracks, assuming his companions will follow.
"Yeh, we're done," Targ says when none of his companions speak up. "Let's see where these tracks lead. Maybe the cathedral's lost another body. Anybody notice anything suspicious about that big guy?"
With Szaranoth's help, Targ studies the tracks in the dirt. He stands up, leaning on the stock of his crossbow, and points down the road. "Gods tear it. They head back to the cathedral. And we've already run into the little buggers' spoor there. Looks like this town's got an infestation that goes beyond yesterday's raid." As the shadow of the big man falls across him, Targ hitches up his belt and looks up the stranger, eyes squinting in the sunlight beneath bushy brows. "We've already found it, stranger," Targ answers the man's question. "Can we help you with something?" he asks, though it's obvious that Targ has no interest in helping him. He adds under his breath, "Tall drink o' water, ain't he?" Targ is a stout dwarf, with flaming red hair and beard tied in a complicated knot. His skin is tanned and weathered from time spent outdoors. He's wearing a chain shirt, with a waraxe on his back and a klar on his belt, which is sewn with rows of small teeth.
Targ hefts the pouch of strange gold in his hand. "This guy got any next of kin?" he asks Mark."None that we know of, sir," replies Mark, awe and respect evident in his voice. "Fine. I'll just hold onto this for safekeeping then. Evidence." Targ adds the pouch of gold to the tobacco and liquor he already confiscated. "I'm goin' downstairs to see if I can follow these tracks. See where they head. We might want to keep those books as evidence too," he says over his shoulder as he walks out the door. Outside, Targ takes a swig of the man's liquor (hair of the dog) and studies the ground for goblin tracks.
Targ hefts the pouch of strange gold in his hand. "This guy got any next of kin?" he asks Mark.
"Yar, it's goblin tracks alright," Targ responds. "Don't know if a house-to-house search'll work, though. Lotta houses in this town. Depends if I can follow the tracks, really." Targ hefts the pouch of strange gold in his hand. "This guy got any next of kin?" he asks Mark.
"Well whaddya know? They are gobbo footprints after all!" Targ heads over to the window to see if the tracks can be followed outside as well. Rad:
Spoiler:
"Yes, I have spoken with him yesterday, twice. His purse was stolen from him yesterday during the festival and I later brought him the news about our failure to recover the stolen property in the evening. It is also clear from the way the books are lying around that someone searched the room quiet throughly and probably found what he was looking for." "You say his purse was stolen? Well, he seems to have recovered it somehow." Targ tosses the pouch of gold onto a table. "Looks about fifty pieces. Never seen this mint before, though." He holds up one of the gold pieces to display its weird serpentine device. "And how about these books? Anybody recognize the writing? Looks magical to me, but what do I know?" Targ pockets the tobacco and liquor and stumps around the room, still looking for clues.
Targ grimaces in disgust at the severed head and blood-spattered walls, but shows no other reaction to the carnage. He's seen worse on the frontier at the hands of goblins and their kin. "I could almost say this is the work of goblins," he muses. "But it's too neat, really, and no one heard nothing. Maybe a bugbear, then. They're brutes, but sneaky as a black cat on a moonless night." Targ turns to Mark. "Any idea on who this guy was? Oh, and where's the body?" Targ turns his attention to the remains and the room itself, rifling the body's pockets and looking for any tracks or traces of the attacker.
"Well, interesting times, as the saying goes," Targ says as he finishes his drink and meal. "I've got a mind to go over there and see what's what. Anybody else want to tag along? Eat up. I'll go see if Shalelu wants to come too." Targ waits for his companions' replies, then goes upstairs to find Shalelu and get dressed.
Targ takes a long pull from his ale and sighs contentedly. "So what's the plan for today, mates?" he asks.
Targ wakes with a splitting headache and that taste in his mouth that feels like he ate a wet ferret and washed it down with a healthy portion of rotten eggs. Ugh, one of those nights, he thinks as he groggily sits up, head spinning. Someone nearby is busily hammering away at a forge, making an awful racket, and it takes Targ a moment to realize that the sound is only in his head. He staggers over to the washbasin and dunks his head. It doesn't stop the spinning, or the pounding, but it does clear his thoughts a bit. What happened last night? He vaguely remembers talking with Shalelu, sharing lore on goblins, and showing her his belt of teeth. He also remembers the thug at the bar, and his stupid attempt at intimidation. But nothing happened, right? So maybe it wasn't so stupid after all. In any case, the others were there, too. They would have watched out for me, wouldn't they? Targ notices that he somehow removed his chain shirt before falling asleep, but only one boot, and it takes him a few minutes to find the other one. Finally dressed (mostly), he makes his way to the common room to see how the others fared during the night. First things first, Targ thinks. A little hair of the dog. He calls for an ale and sits down heavily at a table.
"So whaddya say, Etellio?" Targ asks. "Seen any more of these buggers, or did I scare 'em all off?" Targ sits down heavily (and a bit unsteadily), and flashes a smile at Shalelu.
Shalelu tells Etellio, "Your friend Targ is brave."
Targ heads back to the table, grumbling. "I sent him packing, but it's best to take care tonight. I don't think they're gone for good."
Targ approaches a man with a goatee. He flashes a smile at Targ, "Good evening, deputy. A fine night for a drink, isn't it? Might I offer you some?" He lazily swings his scarf in one hand. "Yeah, it is a fine night for a drink. But I don't need one from the likes of you." Targ punctuates his words with a hard poke at the other man's chest. "How's about you and your friends take it somewhere else tonight? I'm finding the sight of you makes my drink taste funny. So just move along, and we'll call it even, and you won't have to get into any trouble. And believe me, boyo, trouble with me is the last thing you want tonight."
Targ sets down his latest mug with a heavy THUMP. "All right, I'm sick of this s#!t. We spend all day fighting goblins to save this town, and now these local ruffians want to give us a hard time, because we busted their buddies earlier today? I just want to relax, have a few drinks, and get some sleep. Maybe it's the booze talking, but I'll sleep a lot better knowing I don't have these scalliwags to worry about." Targ tips back the rest of his drink, picks up his klar, and heads for the nearest person that Etellio pointed out.
Targ closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him, dozing off after the hard labors of the day.
Distracted by the conversation with Shalelu, Targ's normally keen eyes don't notice anything.
Targ points out the man in armor to Shalelu. "Got any idea who that guy is? Seems a big bodyguard for an innkeep."
Targ listens with interest to Shalelu's stories, interjecting questions and adding points from his own experience as well. He toasts with Etellio, and offers up another toast to the fallen, particularly Sanjuro. He then focuses on drinking ale, grimacing every now and again when he forgets about his wounds. When the chicken is brought over, he tucks in greedily, talking around mouthfuls of chicken. "Looks like the rumors I heard were right. 'Goblins in Sandpoint,' they said. And that there certainly are. The question is, who is it that's helping 'em? And what's next for us? Just stay in town and wait for the next attack?"
"I'll drink to that!"
"Ale, food, and rest in that order," Targ agrees. "And perhaps some healing for me, if I can find it. Back to the Rusty Dragon then?" Targ turns to the elf. "Mistress Shalelu, care to join us? You can tell us more about these gobbos over a pint."
Targ gulps his ale and nods sagely as the elven ranger speaks, occasionally interjecting comments like "Yep", "got that right", and "Damn straight!" When she finishes, he adds, "It all makes sense then. Like Etellio says, the goblins at the cathedral had help, possibly from an elf - no disrespect, ma'am - and something about this 'raid' has been bugging me all day. It was too damn organized. It sure sounds like someone's got 'em riled up." Targ addresses Shalelu. "So what's the next step? What's the biggest tribe in the area? Where's their lair? Sounds to me like that should be our first stop." Targ shakes a handful of goblin teeth in his fist. "At this rate, I'm gonna need a new belt."
Targ nods a greeting to the two women. "Ma'ams." He turns his attention to the sheriff. "What can we do for ya, Sheriff?"
"Somebody definitely helped the goblins there," Targ says as he joins the group heading back to meet the sheriff. "We should find out just whose body it was that got snatched, and whether anybody in town has some kind of grudge against him, or the town itself." As an afterthought he adds, "Damn! Are we ever gonna get a chance to sit down and enjoy a drink after the battle?"
Seeing everyone scrambling about in the dark, Targ decides to add his keen tracker's eye to the mix, looking for traces of the graverobbers.
Targ looks up from the plant he was talking to. "It wasn't just goblins. They had somebody else with 'em, probably an elf." Seeing Etellio on the wall, Targ heads over there. "What did you find?"
"I can speak with the spirits of the wilderness," Targ answers, "if they choose to be cooperative. If not, I can try tracking them myself." He turns his attention back to the grass, taking Etellio's suggestion. "I am sorry to wake you, but I need information. What stepped on you and cut through your brethren to dig into the earth? Did you hear anything they said?"
"It was definitely gobbos, five of them, if I'm reading the tracks right. But they had help, maybe a human or elf. But I can't think of any reason why they'd dig up a grave. They'll eat almost anything, but there were plenty of fresh bodies in the town after the raid. There's no reason they'd dig up an old one." Targ kneels down on the ground, digging his hands into the earth. His lips move in soft whispers. Radavel:
Spoiler: Targ will use speak with plants on a nearby tree (or the grass, if that's all there is) to get any further information he can about the grave-robbers.
"No...I'm sorry. Nature has only given me so much power today. This is the most I can do." He raises his hand over Targ's wound, and mutters a quick prayer. Targ breathes a sigh of relief. "My thanks, Grael, it at least closes the wound." Targ loads up his crossbow again, just in case, as the group enters the graveyard, scanning the surroundings with his darkvision.
"Back to the cathedral then. Looks like the ale will have to wait." Targ comes up to Grael. "Grael, is there any chance you have any healing magic left? I was wounded in the fight, and I think Father Zantus has his hands full of wounded townsfolk already."
Targ breathes a sigh of relief as the blood and gore are washed away by Etellio's magic. "My thanks, Etellio." To Grael, he adds, "Perhaps we'll find out if we check in with the sheriff." Targ leads the group over to the sheriff. "New deputies reporting in, sir. We were able to eliminate several pockets of goblin threat in the town. What's the status now? Any fires still to be put out? We're still available, if needed."
Targ looks around at all the wounded civilians; his own wounds aren't bad enough to tax the priest with at this point. "Fine. Let's go report to the sheriff, and if nothing else needs doing, we can look up this Foxglove for our free drinks. I need to bandage my wounds anyways, and wash this goblin filth from my beard."
"Worry about that later, when the goblins have been taken care of." Targ lays Soujiro's body on the ground. "Do you know of anywhere where they are still fighting, Father?" Targ asks.
"It's as good a plan as any. Keep your eyes open for any more of the little bastards." Targ pauses. "Sorry, Grael," he adds as an afterthought. Targ leads the way back to the cathedral, Soujiro's body over one shoulder, his crossbow ready in his other hand.
"I'm not sure if we should be taking time to do this," Targ mutters. "We should look to the living before we think about the dead." Nevertheless, he picks up Soujiro's body and hoists it onto his shoulder, keeping one hand free for his loaded crossbow.
Targ looks up. "You buying?" he asks.
A genteel looking man stands up from behind a barrel, "I say jolly good show. Especially you master dwarf. Your fighting skill simply amazing. You think I can learn how to do that too?" Targ grunts in response to the human as he wipes his blade clean on a goblin. "I don't know, citizen. Got a hundred years or two to practice?" "By the way, the name is Aldern Foxglove and I am at your service." "Pleased to meet you," Targ answers without looking at the man. He stoops down to collect more teeth, searching for anything of value that Etellio might miss.
Targ is happy to oblige.
Generic rolls (1d20=7, 1d20=5, 1d20=6, 1d20=2, 1d20=17, 1d20=8, 1d20=13, 1d20=14, 1d20=3, 1d20=6) Attack rolls (1d20 4=16, 1d20 4=10, 1d20 4=8, 1d20 4=10, 1d20 4=6, 1d20 4=19, 1d20 4=23, 1d20 4=8, 1d20 4=18, 1d20 4=9)
Damage rolls (base waraxe) (1d10 2=8, 1d10 2=11, 1d10 2=10, 1d10 2=5, 1d10 2=8, 1d10 2=9, 1d10 2=10, 1d10 2=5, 1d10 2=12, 1d10 2=8)
"Goblin dogs are almost as bad as goblins themselves," Targ growls as he swings at the fleeing mount.
Targ looks down at the waraxe and klar in his hands. "Now I need my crossbow," he mutters. "Nothing for it, lady and men. I'm goin' in!"
"I hope you've got more than one cloak, 'cause there'll be a lot more bodies before this day is over. And the best way to repay his sacrifice is with some cold revenge." Targ stands up and pulls his bloody waraxe from the dead body of the goblin, dripping gore. "Let's go find some more before I bleed to death." Listen & Spot checks to find more goblin mayhem (1d20+7=11, 1d20+7=17)
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