The 9th day of Pharast, 4710 AR
The last frost of winter was several weeks ago, and spring is now fully in evidence in the rolling hills of the Kamelands, though in the area between the Shrike and Thorn rivers, war is in far more evidence than spring.
The entrance to the mine the Sootscale Tribe lives in has been trapped extensively, with pit traps, alcoves, even an iron gate to ward off the evil mites to the northwest, who cannot bear the touch of cold iron. Beyond the mine, pit traps, snares, and nets have been set up in countless locations around the area, all in hopes of killing or capturing mites before they can reach the Sootscale Caverns.
Inside the ancient tunnels of the mine, things are quite grim. Tartuk is in a foul mood, refusing to come out of his quarters, even to deliver sermons in the temple, ever since the mites managed to invade the mine and steal away with the statue of Old Sharptooth from the very altar it had been placed upon. Chief Sootscale has grown despondent, certain that the whole tribe is cursed and constantly checking himself and others for signs of yellowing scales.
Today, the last of the work has finally been completed on the pit traps protecting the mine against further intrusions of mites, and yet still no word has been heard of the war party sent to recapture Old Sharptooth's statue. Donning his ceremonial headdress and the club made of carved bone which he uses as a sceptre, Chief Sootscale summons the whole tribe to gather in the temple, excusing only Shaman Tartuk, the few kobolds still patrolling the countryside, and Nakpik, who has drawn watchout duty for the day.
"Sootscales! The curse of Old Sharptooth weighs heavy on us all, and too long has passed since last we heard of brave Ipmula Onyxtail, Mikmek, Neelik, and Ozmada. Already I fear our scales may be slowly turning to yellow, and death shall surely follow. Step forward, Draazhin, Krik, Sezzen, Skoll, Werpfoil, Yresk."
He gestures with his bone club the space to his left, then waits for the indicated members of the tribe to gather there, a full third of the kobolds gathered together for the meeting.
Skoll approaches the Chief, head held proud. Mandible shadows Skoll's ankles, chittering quietly. The mites interest Skoll, but he doesn't let anybody know this. He remembers talking earnestly with Ozmada before the first group left, trying to find out as muh as possible about the "hated" foe.
For now he is just glad to be chosen, and a little proud that his value to the tribe has been recognised.
Sezzen takes her place where the Chief has indicated she should stand. She's quiet, but her earfans are perked high with interest. She can guess at what's coming next, but it's not quite certain.
The tip of her tail flicks back and forth once in a while, as she waits.
Yresk steps out of the shadows near the wall at the back of the gathered group of kobolds. A few daggers dangle at his waist as he moves up, some of the lesser kobolds giving way to him.
He runs his blades through his fingers as he silently waits for what is to come, something where his skills can be put to use he expects.
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Draazhin Greyscale knowing beforehand that the group was meeting the chief and a sizable part of the tribe made sure to be dressed in full armor and equipment wearing his shield on his back, a metal shield that has been repainted over with the symbol of the Sootscale Tribe. At his side a scabbard with a long sword within also made of metal and sized for someone of his stature. He strides in confidently forward knowing that he is deserving of any honor that shall be bestowed upon him.
His wolf Glyphar at the moment is back at his tent and ordered to stay there as Draazhin knows that many of the tribe fear the beast he rides into battle and now was not the time for intimidation. It was now the time to show respect to the chief of the tribe and his fellow kobolds.
He looks boldly to the chief and stands at attention, showing uncommon discipline in his posture and awaits the words of the chief. Indeed if the chief has a mission he has a duty to serve the tribe and make sure that mission is accomplished.
Standing tall and proud among his peers, Werpfoil smiles warmly as he steps forward - nodding to friends and allies - as if this honor was shared by them all.
Once you're all gathered, Chief Sootscale bows his head for a moment of contemplation, then looks up and addresses those not selected.
"This is our last chance for redemption. We cannot all go, for many of you are too young and would surely die in battle, leaving our tribe too small to endure."
Chief Sootscale then turns to the group he has selected, "You six shall go forth, meet the mites in battle, and reclaim Old Sharptooth's statue. If you can, learn what happened to Ipmula, Mikmek, Neelik, and Ozmada, but do not allow avenging their deaths to distract from your mission. If the statue is not returned soon, we shall surely all die."
He sighs and looks down at the floor of the cavern, "I wish that I could risk accompanying you, but you are the last warriors our tribe has, and should the mites or something else attack while you are gone... well... you go forth to ensure that we will survive, and I must remain to ensure there is a reason for us to survive."
Turning away from the group, he reaches for a small pot and removes the lid, holding the opened pot in one hand while dabbing a finger into it with the other. Stepping up to the first of you in line, he says, "Inspire fear in our enemies, that they shall know never to cross us again." He then draws simple shapes on the faces of each of your with the war paint, marking you as truly the warriors he claimed you to be.
Skoll listens attentively, and ponders his chief's words. Seeing as none of his fellows have yet asked any questions, Skoll steps forward, making the necessary customary obeisance.
"Chief Sootscale - mighty lord of our tribe. Forgive this lowly hero's lack of knowledge. What do we know of these savages that profane our idol? Why did they seek it, or come to steal it from us? Can it be that they also wish to worship Old Sharptooth?"
Skoll pauses momentarily, looking over his proud fellows before continuing.
"Where do they live? Do they have heroes of their own that we should know about?"
Skoll is wize to not simply rush off to combat as did Ipmula and the others, rashly hoping that their rightous anger would prevail without preparation. It will be good to have him with me. Nodding at Skoll, Werpfoil agrees, "Answers to these questions will aid us in our quest."
As Dragon wanderes around his ankles hissing at a beetle, he turns to face the Chief, "My friend Skoll may not wield metal, but the mighty Sezzin and Draahzin do, as does the crafty Skoll, and so I will ask... As we ready for the journey does the tribe have any weapons of cold-iron that we might wield against the mites to burn and rend their unholy flesh with? And do we have any maps or knowledge of their lair?"
"Werpfoil and Skoll ask good questions," Yresk says as he twirls his knife in his hand.
"Do they have any meeting points or traditions from where we can surprise or ambush them? It seems any advantage we can get will help us succeed."
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Draahzin Greyscale gives a respectful bow to the Chief and then says, "I shall serve the Sootscale Tribe and bring fear and death to those that impede our path to the great statue of Old Sharptooth. I do not fear the mites. They are the same size as Kobolds so it will be a fair fight for mighty warriors."
He gives a slight look to his companions and then looks back to the chief and says, "My fellows among the tribe to make some good points. Directions will be needed to travel these lands and find the prize that we seek."
It was as he feared, he was being volunteered to go die against the mites.
He wasn't sure if he stepped forward or the others stepped back, but he found himself staring raptly as fully a third of the tribe prepared to march to their deaths.
TBC
Sezzen bows her head when Chief Sootscale arrives at her position in line - both as a show of respect and so that she can more easily smell the mixture of oil and pigments, fixing this moment in her memory.
"My companions ask worthy questions, but I have one more: What tactics do our enemies favor? What fey trickery is at their disposal?"
Krik was surprised at the questions of the others, their memories must be addled, too soon they left the creche, maybe? Why it was only... yesterday? that the mites attacked. Krik realizes he's been gathering moss again and tries to pay attention.
He glances about the tribe, if that is what you could call it. So few females left. I'm not even sure we could survive, even with the idol returned. Without joining another tribe we've already lost a generation, maybe two.
Timidly raising a claw, Krik bows low and addresses his chief, Most honorable and scaly one, while I am most honored to be called as one of the tribes warrior's, this lowly one humbly suggests there may have been an error? Maybe his holy eminence was given advice that had the wrong name? I know not how to wield a sword, though my tooth and claw be for the tribe!
Sensing the reluctance and humility of the kobold mage, Werpfoil walks over to him and speaks loudly enough for the group to hear, if not the community. "Krik', I for one will be honored to travel with you. It is known that your arcane skill surpasses my own and your wit is as sharp as any blade you might carry. We will journey forth proudly and return victorious over the hated Mites. It will take all of our combined skill to do this, but do this we must - for there is no other way."
Werpfoil leaves his hand on the mage's shoulder as he looks to the chief for his response to the many questions his new companions have asked.
Chief Sootscale listens attentively to each of you in turn, at first provoked to introspection when Skoll asks about the statue, morose as Werpfoil asks about cold iron, then exuberant when asked about a map. However, he addresses Krik's question first, "Ah, Krik', you are right, you do not have any special skill at arms, but Ipmula Onyxtail was our tribe's greatest war chief since before I was chieftain, and where is she now? I selected you because claw and tooth and blade might simply not be enough to overcome these mites. They are as cunning as we are, though childlike and mischievous."
He then begins drawing a map on the floor of the cave with a simple piece of chalk while addressing Skoll's first question, "It does not matter whether they wish to worship Old Sharptooth as we do, though I very much doubt it. The mites keep to old forest gods, tricksters as ancient and fearsome as Dahak. No, they have stolen our idol because they know its great value, and may even suspect that desecrating it shall cause us to suffer Old Sharptooth's wrath."
Giving as much attention to detail as he can, Chief Sootscale's hastily drawn map shows the mighty Shrike River which flows from the northeast, passes south of the Sootscale Caverns in a westerly, then swings south towards the massive Tuskwater Lake. From the northwest flows the Thorn River, out of the ancient forest called the Narlmarches to the west, joining with the Shrike river some ten or so miles to the southwest. At a point equal in distance from the Shrike and Thorn rivers in the three cardinal directions besides north, he draws a mighty tree atop a lonely hill, and from the scale of the map, you might guess it to be ten miles distant, north by northwest.
"This is where the mites live. Somewhere inside a hill beneath a tree older than our tribe, so large and lonely you cannot possibly mistake it for any other. I do not know where the entrance to their lair is, it may take cunning to find, or simply a very sharp eye, but be wary and alert. The mites raise giant centipedes and other insects as pets..." Upon saying this, he turns his attention back to Skoll, "Not unlike your own 'Mandible'. Take care, we haven't any means of treating their poisons, so do not let them bite you."
"Now... as for cold iron... I do not know the fate of dear Ipmula and the others, and we can only hope that they still live, but she carried the only weapon made of it that we ever owned. I wish that we had enough to make a gate from the material, for then the mites could never have entered our home and stolen Old Sharptooth. If she fell in battle, her sword cannot be far away, for it burns their skin to touch. Sadly, that is nearly all the wisdom I can grant you. The last piece of advice I can impart is that they love to bestow ill fortune on their enemies. Some fey trickery allows them to curse the luck of others, so be especially wary should you encounter more than a couple at a time, lest you all fall victim at once."
Skoll is immediately both excited and perturbed. Excited to be leaving and heading into the wilds to see a tree older than the Sootscale tribe; perturbed that Mandible might be at risk.
If only they could find more cold iron.
Skoll ponders the task ahead before speaking.
"Great Chief. Pray do not think this impertinent... If we succeed in retrieving Sharptooth's idol, do we consider that enough - do we strike a further, deeper blow or do we attempt some kind of diplomacy with the mites?"
Yresk looks at Skoll with great enthusiasm at his mention of striking a deeper blow.
"Yes, that sounds excellent. Do we have any specific targets amongst the mites that we might strike a blow against? A hero or a leader?"
Yresk is wringing his hands in excitement.
Our enemies's blood will adorn my blades, hopefully they'll taste important blood.
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Draahzin scowls at Skoll and says to him, "There can be no talk between the Kobolds and the Mites! They have stolen our statue and thus must pay in blood for their crimes. Still, if they were strong enough to defeat the champions who came before us then they are likely too numerous to slay to the last creature on our own. We must move quickly and secure the statue and retreat with our prize before they overwhelm us with numbers."
Sezzen gives Skoll a skeptical look at the mention of parlay with the mites, as if such starry-eyed idealism could scarcely be believed. However, she waits for Chief Sootscale to bring her companion back to reality. Saving people from themselves is hardly her task.
Instead, she turns her attention back to the map, memorizing it as best she's able.
Chief Sootscale looks momentarily offended at Skoll's suggestion, then thoughtful for a short while before shaking his head, "No. There can be no peace, and they are not fit to be slaves. They are like children. Mischievous, unfocused, and lazy."
Realizing that he hadn't actually answered Yresk before, he then addresses the dagger enthusiast, "I think they must have a chief. Someone planned their raid, knew that stealing Old Sharptooth would weaken our tribe. Perhaps if you can find this chief, kill them, you can end their threat to the Sootscales, if only until a new leader emerges. We cannot just cut off the head, or a new one will grow, so they must all die. Until then though... they may be as a headless chicken."
Genocide. Skoll merely nods in assent.
Werpfoil bows before the chieftan, turns to his companions. "Let us make ready to slay our enemies then."
Yresk nods in agreement with Chief Sootscale's words.
"So it shall be done, O mighty Chief."
Then he turns to Werpfoil.
"I am almost ready, Werpfoil, as I travel lightly and don't own much."
Sighing at the inevitable, Krik takes a moment to study the map drawn on the floor. I will gather my supplies. When do we leave?
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Draahzin Greyscale salutes the Chief and says, "When the Mite Chief is found we shall slay him and bring you his head Chief Sootscale. We shall accomplish our goal and restore the strength of the Sootscale Tribe."
He looks to his fellows and says in a commanding voice, "Gear up and be prepared to march! I don't want any of you slacking off! We leave within the hour to the realm of our enemy. The Mites will regret the day they crossed us!"
Draahzin awaits being given leave from the Chief before heading back to his tent and preparing Glyphar for travel and his gear for the journey. He makes sure to pack some extra provisions in his Saddlebags for the trip.
Grinning broadly and showing his dragon fangs to Draahzin, Werpfoil laughs at the apparent joke and wanders of to gather his gear for the journey and conflict.
Skoll favors Draazhin with a withering look before bowing to his chief and withdrawing quietly to prepare for the journey.
The rest of the tribe is eager to see you well-provisioned for your expedition, and Chief Sootscale opens the much depleted stores to make sure you each have 4 days worth of rations. The salted meat, dried mushrooms, turnips, and moonshine will keep for a long time if you can forage along the way, but there should be more than plenty for the journey there and back.
Once you are all prepared, Chief Sootscale escorts the six of you to the entrance of the caverns, unlocking the iron gate and then ducking into an alcove to tug on the hempen nooses which disable the pit traps. "May you escape Dahak's notice! Good fortune to you all, and hurry back quickly with Old Sharptooth's idol!"
Outside, the sun is just now setting, the world dimming to a level much more suitable for kobolds, though the sky is mostly cloudless, ensuring that the stars will provide illumination.
Skoll revels in the freedom of travelling in the Open World. Though nominally a worshipper of Old Sharptooth, Skoll is open minded enough to consider any and all other divinities - the evidence around him of nature's variety supports his consideration, and attracts his sharp eye.
Perception:
Too busy inspecting nature's grandeur I guess... ;)
Mandible walks a little in front of Skoll, regardless of their marching order. His antennae work constantly, waving this way and that sensing changes in air temperature, radiant heat from the ground, pressure differentials in the nearby environment.
Perception:
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Draahzin being the most imposing character in the group mounted upon his wolf and bearing a full suit of armor takes the lead of the group. Indeed this is tactically advantageous. He certainly cannot be very stealthy mounted on a wolf and wearing a lot of armor but the size of his wolf (Medium Size) means that he is an effective screen for the rest of the party. Kobolds can use him as cover to hide their numbers thus allowing them more venues to sneak around the battlefield. He of course looks around from his good vantage point checking for dangers that may be hidden in the wilderness. He keeps control of his mount (with a ride check) and looks around (using perception).
He is as sharp as a razor looking around for dangers that may be apparent.
At the same time his wolf Glyphar will sniff around for unusual scents and perk up if he notices anything.
"I suggest that we travel during the dark hours, out of the brigtness. We can find hidden camps to pass the bright hours, avoiding the eyes of the surface-dwellers." Werpfoil suggests as the group makes their plans.
Keeping towards the middle of the group, Werpfoil sets off for the long journey. Dragon walks along with him, often wandering around his ankles and between his legs but never in such a way as to trip him up. The kobold makes pleasant conversation with his companions as they trave, trying to establish friendships and learn the strengths among the group.
"Agreed, that sounds the most preferable. I'm not sure if any of us don't have problems with the bright daylight."
Yresk seems content in following Draahzin around or any of the others for that matter, his interests lie elsewhere besides leadership.
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Draahzin nods to Werpfoil and says, "Yes, yes. Kobolds see better in the dark. Daylight very bright and hurts eyes. Mites also see in the dark too though so we see each other. Maybe they are sleepy during the day and we get them by surprise when they are not awake. Also Glyphar and other beasties work better during the day. What does the rest of you say? We travel by day or by night?"
Krik' considers the discussion about traveling by day or night, Our vision is affected either way. Dazzled by the light, but able to see far, or hidden by shadows and only able to see a few dozen strides.
He keeps moving items around in his pack, trying it on, jumping up and down a couple of times, then taking it off again to rearrange the contents.
Skoll takes second after Draazhin. He agrees night-time is better to travel.
Sezzen walks companionably alongside Yresk, the armored Wall and lithe knife-fighter a study in opposites. She listens to the others' chatter over the obvious without contributing, figuring that the talk is more to relieve a tension that she doesn't share than to decide anything.
Her benign silence could perhaps be mistaken for stupidity, but she is simply a kobold of few words.
Setting out from the Sootscale Caverns, the party winds its way through the rolling hills of the northern Kamelands, skirting around groves of trees and overgrown thickets filled with brambles. Just before midnight, Draahzin and Yresk overhear a piteous mewling sound coming from off to the right, and with their attention drawn in the correct direction, they can just barely make out a shape swinging back and forth, suspended a couple feet off the ground from a rope hanging from the branches of a mulberry tree. Closer inspection reveals the figure to be a blue-skinned mite, caught up in a snare trap which, by appearances, was likely set by a fellow Sootscale. He whines and moans endlessly while trying, quite unsuccessfully, to free himself from the trap, unable to pull himself into a position to try and gnaw at the ropes.
Werpfoil's draconic fangs are revealed into a dark smile as he sees the Mite's fate. He says in Draconic, "Well then... this is fortuitus. Just as we need information as to the fey scum, one of our enemies falls neatly into our hands."
I've never fought before. Should we "blood our claws?" I recall hearing stories of a traditional rite of passage...
Krik looks closely at the mite, his first view of one.
Sezzen gives the mite a measuring look, then turns her attention to the surrounding hills and brush. "Do we know that this one was alone? It may have had a companion, gone to summon help."
"Indeed most fortuitous. We should interrogate the thing and see if it will talk."
Yresk wanders cautiously toward the mite and begins a small conversation with him.
"So... a little in trouble are we? Didn't see the trap that was laid down by our hunting party. It is quite a shame that you fell into this trap, we were hoping for something a little tastier like a rabbit or small deer. Guess you'll have to do." He grins menacingly.
"Though if you are helpful in providing us information we might release you of your awkward position. Do we have a deal?"
Skoll rests on his haunches, taking a load off. His hide armor creaks as he leans back against a tree. Mandible dutifully folds up at his feet, feelers still working in the air. Skoll leans forward and plucks at a grass-head, nestling it between his teeth. He watches as his companions deal with the mite, occasionally looking around, the possibility of more mites where one is found high on his mind.
Perception
The mite is ugly by almost any standard held by intelligent creatures, its puffy blue face so lumpy and covered in scraggly single strands of hair that even inbred ogrekin are a prettier sight. It has particularly large ears, the lobes ragged from being ripped and torn and poorly healed over the years. Though about the same height and maybe only a little heavier than any of you, it appears to have a hunched back that would give it terrible posture... if it weren't dangling upside down from the snare.
He doesn't seem to understand a single word of Draconic, but then you could hardly expect inferior races to be learned in the purest tongue of Golarion. What he clearly does understand, however, is Undercommon, screaming, "Murdering lizards! We kills you all! Then smash you dumb rock-man! I gnaw free and smash you heads in!" It doesn't seem that he's particularly inclined to be helpful, even though it's six to one and he's caught in a trap.
Skoll and Yresk, turning their attention to the surroundings, wary of an ambush, actually find signs that there were likely more mites than just the one, footprints here and there in softer soil suggesting that the mite had several companions who scattered when he was caught by the snare, rather than staying to help free him.
Sezzen's attention is drawn by the shouting as she leans against another tree, watching the mite with amused contempt.
While initially inclined to keep a wary ear out, the mite's screaming drowns out anything she could hope to hear.
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Draahzin looks to the others and says "Mites do not travel alone. This may be a trap to draw us in. How did he fall into one of our traps when we don't live in this region? Before we shall scout the area to make sure there is no Mites hiding in the surrounding woods waiting to ambush us. We must also check if they have not dug any traps near him. Tricky bastards those Mites are."
Draahzin proceeds to ride on his wolf carefully though the woods keeping a good distance from the trapped mite. He says to Glyphar "Glyphar, Track" His wolf Glyphar then sniffs around for hidden Mites while Draahzin searches around for anything unusual.