The mornng mist rolls in from the nearby Hool marshes mixing with the briny air of the sea to produce a persistent miasma. You have come to Bale Keep, a lonely outpost of man on the verge of the Hool, answering a call for mercenaries. The keep sits inland a few hundred meters from the sea, at the terminus of the old seaside road that stretches eastward to Saltmarsh, then on to Seaton.
Bale Keep crouches on a steep hill of packed turf like some torporous batrachian idol. A palisade of stout Dreadwood timber girdles the small bailey at the height of a hill giant. Eight meter high towers abut the gatehouse and the corners of the keep, standing like wickermen, their somnolent battlements obscured in heavy fog.
At the closed gate stand two guardsmen. The guard on the right looks recently birthed into his stiff, glinting mail, tipping his ill-fitting helmet 2 or 3 times arights. His round wooden shield displays a black sphinx couchant.
The guard on the left is short, barrel chested, and possessed of a fully cured and balefully scarred leathery integument. Your eye is drawn inadvertently to the empty socket where his right eye was, then to his piercing blue left eye, which seems not to accept your inferred apology for accidentally gawking.
My good sirs! Oh, ummm. A patch would serve well for that eye there fellow...
Myself and my similarly knowledgable companion have come in answer to a call for persons of a mercenary bent. Fear not! For we have arrived and shall complete the mission with utmost alacrity! My name is Riese. You shall speak of the day you met me with pride for my deeds will be the stuff of legend. Oh and this is my companion, ummm, what did you say your name was again?, Oh never mind, direct us towards whomever put out the call, good sir!
The one-eyed guardsman walks over to the younger one, and whispers something in his ear.
The younger guardsman looks at Riese and says, "Uh, good squire, he says he don't like eyepatches. They make him look like a pirate."
What? Oh, sorry. Did you say something sir? I was sure that our conversation was ended and that I was to be guided to someone of import. Sometimes I have a slight tendancy to ignore grunts, not that you aren't fine gentlemen, and do imagining in my head as to how my current situation will translate into my memoirs....Yes, please. Do lead on.
He whispers in the youth's ear again.
"Good squire, from whence do you procede? And....(one eyed guard snickers)...are you daft?"
Altai? Is that it? Good. Would be so kind as to continue this discussion with the doormen here? They keep interrupting my train of thought with their obviously infantile inquiries. I am trying to decide on whether the ink for my memoirs should be of a differing coloration than the normal colorings of ink and ...........*trails off*
At that one eye decrees to the noob:
"Soldier!....whatever your name is..."
"Panquo, Sir!"
"Sir? Strumpet your mother out you call me Sir again!
Panquo...indeed...I'll be sure and remember that!
This smarmy-mouthed wanker (he winks his one eye at Riese) called you infantile. Do you know what that means?"
"Yes sir!....I mean, Sargeant!"
"Well what are you going to do about it?"
The noob looks at the ground, thoughtfully, then pipes up....
"I'll have you know, I'm 17 SUMMERS OLD!!!"
The Sargeant looks at the ground, shaking his head.
"You really are a moon-calf. Panquo."
*A little while later*
A porcine dwarf comes jogging into sight in the distance with a large hound on his heels. At this distance his approach seems to be playing out in slow motion—the guards have several minutes to consider him, and no doubt reckon that due to the extraordinary effort taking him move all that bulk, that it is the first time this dwarf has ever bothered running.
After some time, the robust dwarf reaches the gate: gasping, wheezing, veins bulging, sweating prodigiously.
“Gooblins”
<wheeze, cough, cough, gasp>
“Ale”
<cough, cough>
“Eh ladies, raise the alarm, coom roonnin’, hoop to it noo! <couch, cough, wheeze> The ale is in peril! gooblins ‘as assailed me an the wagins foocked – int goon nowheres. <cough, cough> Bet ye kin bet thet anithin with ‘alf a mind l’be nickin’ 'em kegs. <gasps for a while> They cood be goon aready. Ef yoo doont wanna be hoong bah yer mates Ahd advise ye too poot toogethah woor pahty at woonce. <puffing begins to slow>”
"There be 18 kegs so brring some strong fellers... Well, 17 en' ah beet, there's a leaky woon."
"Rurry!"
Oneeye:"Okay, okay....Pufkin, wotever your name is... whaddya do!"
Noob:"Uh, sound assembly."
Oneeye:"For?"
Noob:"Uh, uh,...for....scouts?"
Oneeye:"No, not scouts, git!!! We need speed!!! Cav scouts!!!"
He pulls out a whistle, three trills sound.
"Now, what? Never mind, you're useless."
He looks at the dwarf.
"Okay, time's of the essence here, so don't piss and picnic."
He rattles off a list of demanding queries.
"How many? All gobboes, or mixed?
How armed?
On worgs?
How far away?
How long ago was this?
Who, if anyone, was left behind?
Do they know that you escaped? Which way you went?
Did they give pursuit?"
"A hef scoore uh them ran like the dickens eft Ah beheaded there leader. Ole goobs. Tis naht far laddy. Shoorly tis tharoma of Blue Frog emboldened them to strike so close."
<gasp>
Stig falls over. Tenser licks his face.
"Ah kint roon noo moor. Save the ale!"
"Medic"
The gate opens; four soldiers on horse come cantering out.
"Goblins. About ten. They've robbed this good merchant of a shipment of blue frog. Get him ahorse; he'll show you where.
How far, dwarf?"
A horse is brought forth for the dwarf.
"Ruhroh."
Stig is still on his back.
From the ground: "Ah kint ride a hoorse, laddy, mooch less stand. A wagin fool of ale, kint miss it. <he waves his hand toward Saltmarsh> Git, Ahv doon mah share. Save the ale!"
Stig is still on his back.
From the ground: "Ah kint ride a hoorse, laddy, mooch less stand. A wagin fool of ale, kint miss it. <he waves his hand toward Saltmarsh> Git, Ahv doon mah share. Save the ale!"
The one-eyed jack guard goes to grasp your hand and elbow and hoist you to feet. You can roll against him grappling, or let him do it.
"Oh, Bert Cudgel it! Get up! Are you a dwarf or are you a baby swapped pictli?!?
Think of the ale, man!!! Think....of (snif) th' ale!!!"
Stig staggers to his feet. "Ok then, tis but a league. Heelp me on this moonster."
Stig tries to get on the horse.
It seems that Beldan’s luck is changing.
He’d become turned around in the morning mists, and spent the last hour trudging through ankle deep swamp muck, searching in vain for the lost path. Finally he had found it … and something better too – an apparently abandoned wagon. An abandoned wagon apparently still full of cargo.
He creeps out of the bushes towards the wagon – noting the broken traces, the lack of any mule or pony, and the crooked wheel. He notes with a grin the blue frog symbol stamped on the eighteen barrels. He frowns upon hearing the sound of dripping from the other side of the wagon.
Then he recoils in horror as he nearly treads on the small, headless humanoid body lying in the road behind the cart.
The one-eyed jack boosts you into the saddle.
"Lead the way, dwarf!!!" Shouts one of the riders.
Stig tries to mount the horse, which isn't very happy to have an overweight dwarf mount it.
Now on the horse, sideways, it bucks and throws him about ten feet.
Reflex roll to land (1d20+0=2)
Stig is once again laying on the road, this time face down about ten feet from where the guard helped him up. Bubbles in the soupy muck of a wheel rut indicate that he is still alive.
Beldan crouches, and begins scanning the area carefully for any sign of the headless guy’s friends – or foes.
Then … well, he’s down here anyway … he begins searching the small fellow’s corpse and the immediate environs for any sign of loot. Only he’s a bit distracted by the thought that there is something dangerous in the area, and doesn’t do nearly as thorough a job as he normally would.
The rogue sees signs of scuffling and running off to the north; the road going east and west. The corpse is stripped to his loinclout. Not even a pair of boots remains.
Listen roll, dc10
Stiggy takes 1 h.p. in damage. His nose is broke....ageeyun...
"Hell with him. Let's ride!!!"
The riders bolt off.
"Bubblubblubblubble"
<cough>
"Aroo. Wo, wo, wo, wo!"
The young guardsman looks pale faced; looks at Stig, at the one-eyed Sargent, and back at Stig again.
"I don't know either," he replies.
Beldan is so busy looking for trouble, he’s not paying much attention to his other senses. “And I’m not searching in there,” he mutters in distaste, glancing at the little creature’s soiled loincloth.
He decides to inspect the wares in the back of the cart. Mindful that there might be danger in the area, he sneaks stealthily around the place.
Hears many jibbering voices, in an unknown tongue. Beldan finds a handy tarpaulin, and makes like a lump of baggage. They don't seem to see him.
There's 6 goblins and a mule. Two are trying to attach the mule to the front of the cart. Two are examining the front left wheel, which seems somewhat askew. One's around back of the wagon; he's urinating. One climbs up in to the wagon, bangs on a cask, and exclaims, "Yeeeeeeee Zanga!!! Zanga!!! Zaaaaaaaan-Gaaaaaaa!"
Riese's skinny companion hasn't said much since arriving at the fort. However, after the drunken dwarf's arrival and his tales of gobliniod mayhem, he has perked up considerably. Hefting his crossbow, he walks up to the sergeant in charge at the gate. "Goblins? Where are they?"
"Hurh! Ask the sot in the mud there; he seems to know! I hope those riders find that ale." The Sargent answers.
The riderless horse seems to be waiting, snorting and picking at the ground for something green.
Oh, excellent plan Belane, thinks the thief from under his tarpaulin. An abandoned cart indeed. Oh very good. Now what?
Maybe they’ll let me live if I give them all my gold … maybe half my gold.
The goblin in the cart lifts a cask over his head. "Zoogo zoogo!!!"
The urinating goblin laughs.
"Um, Stigwold, is that you?" With no small amount of surprise, Altai recognises the fellow patron from the Lizard's Boat. "What are you doing here?"
They look like goblins …. Maybe they’ll settle for silver ….
The goblin puts the cask down. He's counting the casks. He's having trouble because he doesn't have as many fingers as there are casks. So he gets the brilliant idea to continue counting on his toes.
If goblins ever discover geometry, it'll be this guy's great great great grand offspring.
Beldan, you have surprise, then it'll be initiative.
Altai, you ride about a league pursuing the four scouts. You see they're closing with a crew of goblins around a cart.
Beldan, you hear crossbow bolts with whistling arrowheads being fired, horses galloping, shouting, and a goblin screaming.
You know this dwarf?!? Hmmmm. I find it difficult to picture someone of such obvious intellect befriending.....this.....person.
Dwarves, with their ridiculous speech patterns and all, are bad enough, but this one is quite obviously inebriated. Probably drank the whole curricle's load and blamed some fancied goblins......*trails off*
Oh Bugger! Now where is he off to? THERE IS ROOM ON THE HORSE THERE ALTOID! I COULD RIDE WITH YOU! You know, to KEEP YOU SAFE!
Beldan hears the sounds of galloping hooves, crossbow bolts zinging, and goblins screaming.
Time to get out of here, he thinks.
Beldan suddenly stands, gripping the edges of the tarp as he does so, and attempts to throw the heavy canvas over the goblin standing nearby in the cart.
Beldan snares the goblin in the tarp. On round one, he darts under the cart. The formerly urinating goblin is lieing right next to him. The goblin starts squealing, thrashing, slapping, and finally draws dagger. Stab comes next round.
Vatters drops one of the goblins by the wheel. One of the guards finally hits and drops a goblin by the mule. 2 down, one tangled, one by the mule, one under the cart rolling in the mud with Beldan, one by the wheel.
Waiting for fakey, then the goblins.
Dammit, Altoid. A hero-to-be such as myself shouldn't be seen riding to battle on a mule....
attack roll-1d20+3=6
initiative-1d20+3=9
Oh bother, that won't due at all. Damn shame to have to start a career so promising as mine with a shoddy crossbow that seems determined to shoot wide left....perhaps if I adjust the targeting bracket slightly.....or just move my aim over by 12 to 18 inches...yes that should work out brilliantly.