BOOBS!

I WANT my weapons...

The Adventurers take the looooong scenic route up and over the hill returning to the entrance for the Twilight Supper, to retrieve their weapons from the unusually large cache dumped onto a table. (Surprising, because it’s a party not a war council, why would so many weapons be brought to a party filled with the town's elite?)

Demanding the return of their property, and being refused politely but firmly, Wik insists on the return of his equipment in a very vocal, no-nonsense manner. At that second, an immense shriek rises from the festival goers. The soldiers freeze for a second, as do our Heroes.

Ichabod, (momentarily forgotten in the intricate weaving of an arcane spell, passing through the time wheel (perhaps before is ceases to turn?) and into the magic boxes of the future, summoning Jahlo, as the word BOOBS appears, Jahlo is sucked into the magic box and transported to the hilly knoll, a sanguine grin wide on his face), simply remains and watches over the various actions.

More shrieks explode into the air.

The soldiers are torn between remaining at the gate and heading to see what the ruckus is. Within a few seconds citizens are screaming and racing by them in a mad panicked-rush. Lords and Ladies roughly shoving anyone in their path, glancing back over their shoulders with a look of horror etched on their faces. Those tripping in their haste are simply ignored and trampled by the crowds behind them.

As they crush past, the screams grow and by far, outweigh the din. Our Heroes with elven ears hear the individual remarks: “Bears!” “Rampaging feral creatures!” “Triton will pay!” “Where are the guards?” “Bloody mercenaries, leave us to fend for ourselves!” “Weapons! Took our flippin’ weapons!” “Aiieee!!!!!!!”

The saying goes ‘women and children first’; it appears that is not the case among the upper-crust, with females straggling behind; women being mauled and trampled; children, (what few are attending), are left to fend for themselves; parents or caregivers ditching the offspring as they run for their pitiful lives.

As the masses crash the narrow gates to exit, the soldiers make up their minds, and sprint to help their companions trying to aid the handlers wrangle the bears without much success. The wranglers are swaying and laughing, not assisting in the mayhem at all, rope-harnesses dangling in their fingers.

Fresh screams draw everyone’s attention and the entire platoon of well-outfitted soldiers seems to abandon the guests welfare and move, in sync, to the dais area where the Triton family is being threatened by one of the creatures, mad and frothing at its muzzle.

Simultaneously, the soldiers whisk the six Triton members out of danger and dispatch the single bear fluidly. The soldiers forming ranks around the Tritons, hustle them out of the area, abandoning the remaining guests to their fate.

Our Heroes, finding themselves standing at the weapons cache without supervision, and hearing the screams of fright, glance furtively around. Amaril, his weapons still upon his body, doesn’t hesitate to shove his way through the fleeing crowd to get a better view.

He witnesses three massive black bears, wearing colourful ruffled collars and matching tutus, their paws swiping at the guests, going bonkers; knocking over chairs, tables, candles and people! Although bears don’t normally attack without provocation, these bears are not backing away from the confusion, they are growling and charging guests in a berserker-style.

Blood is coating a great number of people, with mounds of expensive fabric lying, dotting the landscape, moaning and crawling out of the target area. Amaril continues around the tent, curious to see where the bears have come from.

The Heroes fumble through the weapons on the table, gathering up not only their weapons, but exotic, expensive, sturdier paraphernalia. Morgan picks up a scimitar with exotic etching on the slivered blade, a long, wooden handle with three brass-bands circling the tang area and continues searching for a dagger, finding a fine, albeit short, specimen with a red gem embedded in the hilt. He tucks these into his backpack, hiding them, before searching further, locating his own weapons and starting towards the biggest bear.

Ooma, checks her backpack and finds... everything still inside. She also spies the heavy gold and jewelled broach that she tried to return to the guard earlier. His reaction to it has given her the creeps regarding it. She tosses it off into the brush. She withdraws her Dwarven axe and hustles after Morgan.

Wik, looking the table of treasures over, locates his backpack. Since he’d strapped his weapons to his backpack, he merely unstraps them and straps his short sword, and dagger to his body, keeps his short -bow in hand and follows Ooma.

Jahlo, worried the animals are going to be injured in this confusion and panic, moves a few feet closer to the edge of the tents where one of the enormous bears is sniffing out the food. Seeming more placid than the others, it lunges toward the tables filled with proteins, scattering the few remaining servants with scratches and puffs of hot air as grunts of near misses brush their cheeks.

Jahlo BOOBS Quin waves his arms, his Holy Club forming an intricate design on the cooling air as it drifts toward the animal gorging on the delectable offerings now lying on the ground. The Ursidae’s enormous paws and weight easily tipping the 40-foot table, crashing the tasty morsels to the makeshift flooring. Its muzzle hastily gnawing cherry-coated boar steaks from a large platter, the black bear abruptly sits, relaxing, as the Handle Animal spell coats it effortlessly. The ruffle-necked, skirt-wearing bear continues eating, its enormous claws scooping platters full of meat into its muzzle.

Alistar weaves to the table of weapons and leans heavily upon it. “Now, whisch ones ‘r mine?” He ponders, his mind fuzzy as he admires the selection. “I think I hashd one of theesh," a striking great sword with a masterfully crafted wooden hilt and wicked sharp blade, "and one of thosh crowsh-bowls.” He removes these weapons from the table and backs away.

Tessalia glances over the table, her eyes carefully considering her choices before electing to take a tall, walking cane with a detailed Ivory knob above a collar of pure-silver filigree, capping an elaborately scrimshawed shaft. Three javelins catch her eye as well, one a rust-tipped ill-cared for article, and two, well-crafted, balanced ones with sharp points and heavy shafts that she slides inside her pack, before turning and following the others as they follow Morgan into the centre of the action.

The tent flapping and beginning to crumple, candles have toppled, guide-lines have snapped; pegs are popping, a good many of the chandeliers have crashed adding to the dangers. Those guests still remaining to drag the injured away are staying well back of the dangers – most of the revellers have left.

Jhalo, after making sure the bear is still enjoying the offered food rather than the guests, turns back to the weapon table and hunts, finding a well-tanned sling with an arsenal of bullets, half of them chiselled to a fine point; a short spear with a fine silver-appearing head, an odd fabric-bow tied at the junction of the head and shaft, and a scimitar with a sharp blade firmly attached to a sturdy handle.

Wik, well back, nocks an arrow and lets it loose, flying straight and true, slipping the tip deep into the bear's shoulder, eliciting a great growl of rage.

Morgan, closest to the roaring hulk of a bear charges at it shouting “Face me, the dreaded MORGAN ROBERTS, you sorry excuse for a clown!” Morgan glances about, as he runs forward, his blade drawn, “MORGAN ROBERTS will see your death!” People’s heads do turn to see this large, weaving body running toward the bear.

“Morgan who?” “Roberts...what?”

Morgan, seeing the arrow sticking from the bear’s shoulder, swings and stumbles, his scimitar slashing air as his scabbard thumps one of the guests the bear was chomping on, eliciting a roar of anger from the bear, and a wealth of expletives from the bear’s main course. “It’s not my fault! I haven’t drunk nearly enough!” Morgan explains boldly.

Alistar lunges forward, his unsteady gait and wildly swinging arm hits the growling mammal lopping its ear off and enraging it further! While he does this Ooma stretches forward and lands a vicious blow to his muzzle, causing his head to bounce, his teeth crush and a bloody grin faces the Heroes.

Jhalo, still horrified that the bears are being attacked, whistles to Benji and instructs him to guide those still in danger, out of the area, while he readies his sling to help put the injured one out of his misery. Swinging wildly he lets the bullet fly and, being a new sling, his unfamiliarity with the arc sends the bullet sailing off to the right narrowly missing a gathering of Human-Orc-handlers. “A warning shot, yah?”

Alistar grins at the Druid and slashes his sword down putting the bear out of his wretchedness, ending his short life with blood seeping out in spurts as Alistar withdraws his newly acquired weapon.

Ooma immediately jumps forward when the third bear leaps for Alistar, her Dwarven axe smashing broadside into the bear’s snout. A yelp and a roar utter forth as the bear is momentarily stunned, continuing its forward momentum.

While it is dazed, Wik pulls the string on his bow back, the arrow flying true, slicing the jugular and exiting as the bear drops to his knees, keeling over narrowly missing the man whose leg was being munched earlier. As the bear drops more screams reach the shredded tent, and, turning, three women, Dwarves, are spotted, holding their skirts high, running, their chests heaving, their long hair flowing behind them.

“Help! Please!”

Behind the ladies, closing fast are two dark animals. Their shape emulates a cat; a very large cat. Growls and yowls from these animals alert the group to their intentions. Jhalo, thinking quickly, casts Entangle and the grass under the cat’s feet immediately begins to grow, grasping at their ankles, slowing the surprise felines, but not enough to distract them from their snack.

The ladies, although running full out, are having trouble widening the distance between the cats and themselves. Our Heroes practically roll their eyes as they turn and jog toward the ladies, hoping to place themselves between the two groups.

Meanwhile, Amaril, searching near the cages, sees a shadow run off around the back of a wagon, too far to give chase, but he moves toward that area, finding three more open cages and three cheetahs with their throats slit, bleeding out in front of the cages.

As he examines this development, he stumbles upon a body lying at the foot of one of the open cages, a scrap of torn fabric clutched in his fingers. He checks to be sure the man is deceased, before grasping the fabric and removing it from the man’s rigor mortise-curled fingers.

Turning the man over, he hears the unmistakable jangle of coins and proceeds to relieve the body of its valuables; five gold necklaces, a bracelet and a good quantity of coins rattling around in his trouser pockets. In an upper pocket he finds an unusual ring that he pops into his own pocket, to examine later. Finding nothing more of value, he tucks the body to the side.

As he starts back he notices Ichabod come near, he hasn’t met her before, but he remembers her arriving with the rest of his friends. “What are you up to?” she asks, peering beyond him. “What happened?” she asks.

Smartly, Amaril responds, “I’m no doctor, but I think he’s dead.”

She nods, steps around Amaril, flips the body over noting his pale pale skin, then stands and walks back toward the group. Amaril, watching her, follows at a slower pace.

As the servants get closer to our fighting Heroes, they begin to veer toward Ooma recognising her a kindred spirit.

While our Heroes also shift closer, Jahlo attempts to instruct the remaining bear to attack the cats, and the bear turns, gives Jahlo a baleful stare, glances at the cats for a long gape, before returning to his food, shrugging, as if to say, “Yah, if they get near this food, okay, we have a deal.”

The two groups edge closer as the cats, free from the sticky-grass, lunge forward rapidly and our Heroes charge. As they clash, Alistar plunges his sword deep in the first cat’s shoulder slicing the ligaments and muscle, rendering the leg useless, while Jahlo readies his sling and flings a stone behind him, narrowly avoiding Benji. Morgan rams his scimitar and decapitates the cat, scarcely missing Alistar as the blade whooshes downward.

The second cat leaps forward, her yowl ferocious as her mate gurgles, so enraged she trips over her feet and summersaults, slowly erecting herself looking sheepish, pulling her head back as Alistar’s weapon swishes past, snipping a few whiskers. The surprised cat growls again, her bad breath sending Alistar beyond her haunches, as she reaches with her powerful paw and grabs his armour wrapping herself around him seeking anywhere to sink her teeth.

Ooma, already charging swings her mighty axe at the cat’s loin, carving a deep gash in her muscles disabling the leg, while an arrow shot by Wik plunges deep into her neck, again, narrowly missing Alistar. Benji, seeing Alistar in trouble and getting the command from Jahlo, scampers in, barking and nipping at the cat, pouncing around her, while Morgan shouts to Alistar to “HOLD STILL,” and Alistar holds his breath as the deadly-sharp blade of the scimitar comes slashing downward, nipping passed his nose burying itself deep in the cat.

The cat roars a mighty snarl, jerks about, its hug forming closer around Alistar as its soul departs. Morgan leans forward and uses the cat’s fur to clean his blade before reaching his arm out to Alistar, “Hey! Stop layin’ about!” he jokes, helping him to his feet.

Amaril finally returns, excited, telling the group about the body and describing it as he gives the news that the animals were released on purpose. “This was clutched in the dead man’s hand.” He shows you a red scrap of torn cloth. “But we’d better keep an eye out for whoever opened those cages!”

The group peer at it, trying to recall who was wearing red this evening...

Wik, taking the rope from the handlers, stealthily moves up to the still gorging bear and slips the trainer’s loop over his head, letting it drop to his shoulders. The bear pauses, looks around, snorts, then goes back to the huge bucket of fish in front of him...

Video link to the LIVE feed episode...

Mysterious Tavern On Air

o0o

And, as the DM hit 'end broadcast', and bid her fellow gamers goodnight, shutting down her computer and closing the monster manual, her gargantuan-headache about to burst through the top of her skull, she stood and...

‘Wow, those are some gorgeous brown-eyes...’ she thinks, looking up at the paramedic wondering why...

‘Someone ask me if I’ve eaten before we begin next game, ‘k?’ *wry grin*...

o0o

I got the bump and bruise to prove it...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

*~*~*~*~*

Off With His Head!

Accolades ...and curiosities...

Standing on the sloping path looking back at the massive destruction they have just wrought, breathing heavily, our Heroes stare in astonishment.

“What the hell?!”

“Language,” our Paladin Alistair snorts. “That just can’t be. That tree; there’s something.” He starts toward the tree. “I’m only going to touch it,” he says, as the others watch apprehensively. Cautiously he approaches and lays his hand upon the first branch low enough to reach. He is puzzled. “A tree. Just a bleedin’ tree.” He turns and heads back to the group.

While he is busy walking back, Wik decides to remove the ring, (which has caused so much trouble) and after a lengthy discussion as to whether he should or should not, he skilfully pulls the resisting ring off and returns it to the inside pocket in the upper right-hand side of his cloak.

The Heroes continue following the parade of well-dressed people into the Twilight Supper, arriving at the entrance in due time. They are mildly surprised that everyone is being asked to hand over their weapons, but, without too much grumbling, they hand over their weapons. Or, at least the weapons the guards can see...

The pat down following is a mere formality, the guards are aware these are noble persons. The soldier who pats Wik feels a twinge as his hand passes across the pocket containing the ring and he looks oddly at Wik before allowing him to continue.

The group eyes the growing pile of interesting weapons. Morgan nods slowly as he makes eye contact with both Ooma and Wik. Ooma is very careful to put both her Dwarven War axe and her mace inside her rucksack before she passes the bulky sack over.

They are given the go-ahead to proceed, and enter the vibrantly colourful pavilion as a group, minus Jahlo, spying whom, they assume to be, Lord Triton, his massive height placing him head and shoulders above the other guests.

They note to their right, tables groaning under the weight of all fashion of known meats and some they are unfamiliar with; slabs of bison, boar, lamb; winged-creatures of all variety, artfully displayed, some rather risqué; some life-like, arranged with their limbs poised as if still attached!

Bear steaks; badger balls; and fresh fish in delicate jellies or formed on sticks and fried; trays of colourful shellfish displayed like jewels on white-salt beds.

Vegetables and casseroles, steaming, some with pastry-lids, others swimming in delectable sauces offered as well, although they do not seem as carefully considered as the meats and sweets.

The sweet table contains candies, fruit pies, light sponges with heavy cream sauces. Cookies with fluffy-fillings; snowy-white meringues; sugared-nuts and fudge. A spun-sugar masterpiece sits in the centre of the vast square-table, its design stunning – a large, colourful-winged bird with feathers spun so delicately they look real!

To their left, a booze lovers paradise, Meade, ale, wines, and exotic hard liquors being poured freely; mugs and crystal glasses passed swiftly to parched guests, a crowd surrounds this table as men and women snatch up containers of chilled liquids.

Our group is surprised to find such a heavy presence of soldiers attending, but fail to notice the baubles and gems dripping from nearly every lady and most of the gentlemen present. These are the upper echelon of Triton. Servants, (of a shorter-stature), rush quickly to comply with the, sometimes odd, requests from the nobles. These servants barely make eye-contact and, although there is naught to encourage the idea save their stature, a sense of oppression seems to radiate from them.

Jahlo, returning from his sojourn, having to take care of a matter for his gawd, now hustles toward the entrance and explains to the soldier he meets, whom he is and what party he’s with. The soldiers are dubious, but they’ve been around a long time. “Leave the mutt there, hand over your weapon, and go on in,” one squat soldier snarls.

Jahlo, when told to hand over his weapon, he explains that, “it is not a weapon, but a Holy Symbol. And that is not a ‘mutt’, but, in fact, a pure bred Wolf, who was invited as well.”

“Gawd damned nobles,” one mutters non-too quietly. “Listen, you’ll have to get his Lordship’s permission to bring the Wolf in. Follow me.”

The soldier leads Jahlo past the group, who watch curiously, smiling when they see him wink, blow Tessalia and Ooma a kiss, before turning and continue to follow the soldier. Morgan merely nods as he moves forward in the crush to obtain drinks.

Upon reaching Lord Triton and explaining why he’s dragged this guest over, Lord Triton stares intimidating, at Jahlo, “Who’re you?” his great voice booms. Jahlo begins to explain that he is one of the party who rescued his daughters from the alleyway when Jane rushes up.

She explains that this is indeed one of the people who rescued them in the lane. She goes on to confirm that the wolf, Benji, will bring no trouble to the festivities, and begs her father to allow the beast to remain.

The hulking man looks down at his daughter and indulgently nods to her request. She smiles and then drags Jahlo off to meet her husband. Jahlo, upon passing a servant carrying a tray of bird legs, snatches one for Benji, and one for himself as he follows the lovely, swaying, wide-hips of Jane.

She turns suddenly, “Where’s the rest of your group? Surely you didn’t come alone?”

He blushes as he's caught watching her derrière and he points to the crowd, where, if she looks closely, Jane can make out the Heroes, drinks in hand. She waves and pleads with them to follow her. Jane also waves to a couple of servants, indicating they should bring trays of refreshments.

As the group of Heroes comes closer, Jahlo enthusiastically mentions to them “We’re going to meet the husbands,” and, as Jane leads, walking out in front, Jahlo whispers under his breath, “Bloody bird’s gonna drive me crazy, yah?”

About this time, Alistair and Jahlo notice each other and are formally introduced. “Hey! Here Now; Who’re you?” They hit it off as if brothers from different mothers; finding their fondness for a pretty lady and a cool mug a comforting common ground.

Jahlo also lends a friendly counsel to Alistair. “Aye, that’s one to watch for completely different reasons,” as Alistair singles Wik out as one to keep an eye on.

While standing about, making these introductions, Morgan finds himself in a quandary; not enough hands! He ponders for a second, then hands his mug of ale to Lord Triton, standing nearby, while he adjusts his packages. Lord Triton takes the mug in mild surprise and returns it to Morgan when Morgan indicates he’s ready for it. “Thank you kindly!”

“Uh-yah, you’re welcome.” Lord Triton frowns.

They continue strolling over to where the Ladies’ Jane and Jennifer’s husbands are lounging, imbibing heavily in mugs of Meade that are refreshed instantly when drained, by a serving wench standing close by. Surprise etches the Heroes expressions as they are introduced to the foppish men; these are not what they had been expecting; these men are pudgy, soft; dressed in garish clothing, wearing gold chains about their necks and jewelled-rings on every finger.

Jane introduces her husband Jared, and Jennifer introduces her husband, Jingles, she laughs as she says this, “It’s such a sweet nickname for him,” she indulges, her hand patting his ruddy face, “Now, stop,” she admonishes her husband with a smile, the sound of coins ‘jingling’ ceases for a moment.

Jared and Jingles rise to greet the group, but with great effort and not much enthusiasm. They politely speak; lackadaisically thanking them for their great act of courage, but seem to be more interested in the servant passing with a tray of drinks.

Jingles leans forward onto Ooma’s shoulder, slurring his speech, “Hesh... r’ you one of th’ Dwarf from do’n in ‘za minesh?”

“Oh hell no!” Ooma responds emphatically.

He continues his drunken dialogue, “’Ur nosht? Ur a dwarf. What yer doin’ up heresh? Supposhed ta be’s down in the minesh. Dwarfs r’ ‘upposhed ta be in the minesh. Trion’s gonna be pissed!” He leans harder on Ooma’s shoulder.

“I am not THAT kinda Dwarf,” Ooma politely inserts, resisting the urge to thump this fellow into the ground.

“Lord’s gonna be mad,” he continues his utterances. Alistair gently grabs Jingles’ collar and pulls him away from Ooma.

Jennifer takes Jingles’ arm and, red-faced, she rebukes him. “Jingles! Please! Stop! Don’t say things like that!” she hisses at him.

“Dearsh fasher-in-laws, he ha’sh arreshts being made; poor dwarfs. Poor dwarfs; firsht y’re ‘uset’ bysh Cytwris’ whimsh; poor drwfs, poor drawfs...” he continues to shake his head and mumble as he is taken away by an embarrassed Jennifer.

Morgan quickly pushes his dishes at the serving person who has brought the group a tray of Meade, and moves promptly, wrapping his big frame about the almost-girlish frame of Jingles’ and pats his back firmly. Gurgles bubble up as he releases him and bows to the Lady Jennifer, a wide grin on his face.

“He does jingle,” he guffaws taking a fresh mug from the tray handing it to Jingles and taking another for himself, seemingly ignoring Lady Jennifer’s mortified frowns and sighs about him having had enough already.

The two guzzle the ale, belching loudly. Jingles, after splashing half the ale on himself, continues to mutter, “d’rwfs... d’wrfs,” suddenly turning to Ooma, extending a thick hand, “Yoush, yous be carefuls; dwrfs... unnergroun... cap shures...” before Jennifer grabs his arm, “Jingles!” she says firmly, “that’s enough!” and manages to escort her husband away, with him muttering, “Drfs... dwrfs...” The impression being that she wishes she could remove Jingles from the festivities all together. This seems odd as the group were encouraged to meet him...

Jane quickly makes excuses, “I’m so sorry. He goes on and on. Please, ignore him and enjoy the rest of the events. OH! and my mother! Please, you must meet her.” Lady Jane appears to be coming unglued.

Jahlo tilts his head and nods, “Excuse me? What was that last thing he said?”

“Oh, I’m sure it was nothing,” her eyes grow cold. “I wasn’t really paying attention. Just the rambling of a drunk.” Her smile is back.

The group glance at one another, and Jahlo, ever the consummate soother, announces, “We’d be delighted to meet Lady Triton.”

“Please, go, enjoy yourselves, I will find my mother and locate you,” she turns back her head, shaking, as she watches Jennifer and Jingles walk away. She returns to her husband whose head is also shaking. “Not again,” he mutters.

As they encroach on the barmaid for another drink, Ooma hears that, “her relatives have made the Meade and ale.”

“Yah, the ones underground,” Morgan mumbles, accepting another full mug.

“Underground ones?” the barmaid seems surprised. “What underground ones?” And upon learning that Jingles has been speaking with them she shakes her greying head, “Oh Jingles! You mustn’t mind him.”

The enormous pavilion is lively; full of jovial shouts and ribald laughter. As the group moves to the side, they note the Lady Jane returning with, what you can only assume, is her mother.

A corpulent woman, dressed in garish clothing that does not flatter her size, her pale, almost porcelain-smooth skin, nor bright blue-eyes. Her multi-layered dress is obviously made of rich fabrics and fine stitching. The gown sparkles with gems and stones in a floral outline, although, set on the patterned fabric, it is dreadful and clashes loudly! She wears an ornate broach, a snake entwined with a ship’s wheel and an intricate drawing behind the wheel – it appears, pinned to her breast.

The group is polite in their comments, “What a marvellous dress,” Ooma graciously swallows her grin.

“It flatters you so well,” another pipes up.

She sniffs, “Of course.”

“Easy to see,” mumbles Morgan, swallowing another mouthful of Meade.

“Hard to miss you in that, miss,” Alistair tilts his head.

“Well,” her brittle voice snips, “that’s as it should be.”

Lady Jane interrupts smoothly, “Mother, these are the people who rescued us this morning.” She introduces them and pauses, although she knows Alistair’s name and his appearance, “Except you, you were not there, were you?”

“He was not, m’lady, but the tales he can reveal to your discerning ear; the stories he could tell of Triton...” Jahol praises highly his new companion, allowing his gift of gab to imply ideas that may or may not be truthful...

While he has a moment, as Jahlo extols his virtues, a sudden urge overwhelms him and Alistair pulls a poster from his scroll case and compares the facsimile to Wik nodding slowly, saying nothing and replacing the paper in his case and returns his attention to Lady Triton, whom he has heard much about through his days as an apprentice in the order. A good deal of it not flattering. Even the three daughters, he’s heard, are not all they appear, still, he has no personal reason to doubt their veracity and kindness; he is willing to give the benefit of doubt to the insidious rumours being whispered behind the low-stone walls of the monastery.

Morgan leans close to this noble woman and starts rambling to her. “Did I ever tell you about the time I wrangled a bear and drug it under the table? We were staring each other eye to eye and I tipped my mug back, nonchalantly, and then jumped the bear who was twenty-times my size!” his voice slurs slightly. “I shoved his muzzle into a dish and he collapsed... saddest thing I’ve ever seen,” he continues to regal the Lady Triton with his tall tale.

Her breeding has her praising Morgan for his restraint and bravery, all the while looking horrified and silently pleading for her daughter to remove these ruffians from her presence! Her hands are on her ample chest as she gasps and utters mollifying phrases.

Our Heroes eyes stray to the large, ornate broach under her fingers. A gold, you might assume solid gold, snake entwines a ship’s wheel. The eyes of the snake are, what appear to be, rubies or garnets, and, evenly placed around the wheel, are glistening gems with etchings engraved on their surfaces. There is a centre stone of pure black with a clear-red gem beneath it. Seven gems in total, not including the snake’s eyes.

Morgan leans in tipsily, for a really close look, which causes Lady Triton to retreat, “Excuse me!” she utters, her guards stepping forward. “You like my broach do you?” she sniffs. As Morgan nods, she reveals that, “It was given me a few years ago by Lord Triton.” Her voice quivers, “He was out trying to find our son who was on a mission to clear a safe path through the Obsidian. Rumours brought to us speak of attacks and disappearances along a section of the Forest near the Shard Mountains. Lord Triton and his miserable excuses for soldiers travelled...” she is interrupted by Morgan.

“Wait, I think we’ve heard this story before,” he rambles, “It wouldn’t have been a bird creature...?”

The Lady gasps, shrieking, “You know of it?”

Morgan puffs up. “Yeh, I was planning on slaying it, however the bear got in the way or I’d be on my way there now,” he boasts, tipping back his mug.

The Lady is completely flustered; no one has been able to locate these creatures or been able to tell her anything more about her son’s death. She is pale and slumps as if she may faint. “We can find nothing of them. My husband located a single feather, t’was all that remained.”

“Well, I would have left long ago, but, finances to purchase better equipment, you know,” Morgan spreads his hands in a shrug.

Lady Jane, near tears as she recalls the loss of her young brother, pleads with her mother to provide for these heroes. “You must help them, mother.” Her mother waves her hand, suddenly weary of this discussion.

“Yes, yes. Go and find your father. I know he wants to publicly thank these helpful creatures. I’m sure he will provide for their needs.”

Alistair glances at Wik and whispers, “Quick, run!”

Wik, arrogant as usual, snorts, “Sure, now you want me to run. Not with the promise of a reward,” he returns under his breath, grinning.

Morgan and Alistair make their way back to the bar area, imbibing and getting happily plastered, shouting out coarse verses of various songs, with quite a number of the local gentry joining in, causing quite the spectacle; almost challenging the circus acts set up ‘especially for their pleasure.

An agreeable lady, dressed in a plain skirt, with a bejewelled jacket, rushes up to Tessalia and Ooma, grabbing their hands surreptitiously, “Have you seen the fortune teller, Zelmranda? You must come and see her!” her enthusiasm finally winning the ladies over and the group follows, curious. Wik declines, pushing his way to the side of the tent nursing a drink and keeping a low-profile.

They entre, crowding a tent-within-a-tent. A small round canopy holding long, pastel fabric strips, fall to a carpeted floor. A small round table with a cheesy-circular, clear-globe upon a low, three-pronged, curved, black wooden-brace to prevent it from rolling off the intricate crochet cloth, sits in front of a petite, hook-nosed, steely-haired woman of indiscriminate age. Her lips, painted a crimson-vermillion shade, the colour running into the lines around her lips, and her eyes ringed with dark kohl pencil. A jangle from the massive number of thin bracelets she wears along with the tinkle from the gold-bells sewn into the hem of her wide sleeves, silences, before rising again.

“Oh, m’re customers! Please, be havin’ a seat.” The five look at the single seat, as the lady who dragged them in disappears. “Who’d like to be first?” You note a near, almost, hint of Irish? Maybe? If you knew what Irish is/was...

Tessalia sits and the woman takes her hand, eyeing the sorceress warily. “Oh, oh... I see a long life-line...” she pauses, before continuing vaguely, “Everything is cloudy; I see a long life-line, but it is broken – are you involved in anything which would put you in danger?” Tessalia reveals she is an adventurer, to which the lady’s painted eyebrows raise and her black-eyes drive into Tessalia. “I see,” she purses her lips. “I see only a cloudy future, I’m sorry there is nothing else. Oh! Red! I see red.” She reveals. “Something red is coming your way. I don’t glimpse danger.”

Ooma hip-checks Tessalia off the stool, smiling and hands the Fortune Teller her palm and notices the lady looking at her oddly. She takes the proffered hand probing. “You don’t work in the mines?” she questions.

“Very strange. Your aura...” she pauses, thinking. “Not anger. Not discontent.” her face appears to be puzzled. Suddenly she looks at Ooma, her eyes wide. “Oh my!” she is clearly disturbed. “Uhm – yes, yes! It looks as if you shall have a very nice future as well...” she looks away from Ooma, “Who’s next?” she asks, ignoring their obvious disbelief, stuttering and avoiding directly confronting Ooma.

Jahlo leans forward and places his hand up, and whistles for Benji, who startles the inept Fortune Teller. Benji places is paw on Zelmranda’s hand, and a searing sound is heard! The lady withdraws her hand, obviously attempting to make light of the incident, as she pulls her hand back, although she is unable to repress her exclamation of pain! “Ouch!”

Ignoring the wolf for a moment, she clasps Jahlo’s hand and begins by stating the obvious and taking her cues from his companions she reveals an uplifting night of blissful adventures later, to much elbowing from his cohorts.

Morgan elbows his way in and lays his hand on the table, as Jahlo cuts in, “Hey! What about my wolf, yah?”

Zelmranda looks at the canine. “We’ll get to the dog,” she reassures Jahlo, taking Morgan’s hand.

“Oh, my,” she looks up at him, “Had a few pints tonight, have we?” As she examines his hand, a shudder passes through her and the soothing fortune she was about to disclose, changes. “You are going to be in a colossal fight soon...” her voice takes on an ‘other-worldly’ tone as she continues. “You should do what you are not expected to do...”

A quiet ensues. “This is a fight you should walk away from,” her eyes touch Morgan’s. “I see daggers; a struggle, close combat, two figures grappling, and struggling.”

As Alistair pokes his head in the charlatan’s office, he wonders at how they are all fitting inside?!

Zelmranda drops Morgan’s hand and reaches for Alistair’s before her keen mind distinguishes a member of the clergy. When she recognises Alistair, she comments that, “You probably don’t recogniseme.” To which he replies, “I don’t remember a lot of things.” She releases his hand.

She nods and turns to the wolf, taking his paw into her hand, visibly forgoing the obvious pain she must be feeling as steam actually rises from where the animal’s paw rests on her palm. “I see that he will be a great protector, and will need protection soon,” she says, dropping his paw and turning from the wolf.

“Is that supposed to happen? Is that smoke normal?”

Before she can reply, Lady Jane pokes her head in, “Oh! Here you are! Come, Father is ready to chat with you now. Come.”

Zelmranda looks up, her beady-eyes hard, “Lord Triton is here? Please send him in. I have a message for him.” Her cheerful, seductive voice is at odds with her sudden stiff stature.

As Lord Triton pokes his head in, the Fortune Teller urges him to sit, “Let me have your palm.” Lord Triton, not wanting to spoil the illusion for his guests, sits and offers his palm.

Zelmranda takes his hand and ignores it, gasping, turning to her crystal ball, a small smile plying her lips, “I see a feather. Blood red.” she looks at him through lowered lashes. “I see blood; life-giving blood,” her fingers trail down the globe, her long nails tapping, “draining... from you.” She lifts her head and stares into Lord Triton’s eye as he looks at her, paling.

He snorts, a worried scepticism crossing his features.

The Fortune Teller continues, “I see fire. Fire and gems. Lots of gems.” She theatrically leans back, flinging her arms into the air, a gleeful sound erupts from her, “Death is coming. Death is coming!” Before a cloud crosses her face and she slumps in her chair breathing heavily. “No; no, nooo!” she wails.

Lord Triton visible trembles, paling even further, before he takes an unsteady breath and laughs uncertainly. Then with greater vigour, “Such nonsense!” he utters. “Rubbish!”

He turns before he leaves, tossing a few gold coins on the table, “It’s good that you can entertain my guests.” Although the look he gives Zelmranda seems to convey a message being passed.

“Come, let’s give you your rewards,” Lord Triton speaks to the group.

Morgan sidles up next to Lord Triton boasting. “You don’t need to worry about that creature,” he tells him. “If you ever see it again its head will be on a pike; if I owned a pike,” Morgan laments.

Lord Triton nods absently, wringing his large hands, surprisingly free of rings. “Uh, yes. Uh-huh,” he utters walking toward a dais raised a few feet off the ground.

Morgan, watching him come unglued, hands him the mug of ale he’s just lifted off a passing tray, “Here, you obviously need this more than I do.” Lord Triton takes the mug, draining its contents without much attention, passing the mug back to Morgan.

The attractive lady who originally invited our Heroes to the Fortune Teller’s is standing nearby, her eyes following Lord Triton, a smile playing on her lips. Jahlo observes her figure, winks and nods to Tessalia, “Whatcha think?” he comments, “should we talk this one into ritual, yah?”

To which Alistair leans over the comely wench and drunkenly asks, “So, ya wanna see my ...holy avenger?”

To which his sister replies, “ Alistair! You know me!” her face crimson. “What is your problem!?”

Morgan nudges Wik, who has rejoined the group from the side of the tent. “He’s finally worked up the courage to express his feelings for her,” he grins, laughing.

Jahlo tries to diffuse the situation but he barely begins when Alistair looks to the woman, his arm about her, “So is that a no?” Her hand slaps his face hard, leaving a visible red-mark, as she huffs off.

Morgan leans to Wik, whispering, “So is THAT a no?” They chortle.

Lady Jane calls for the Heroes. “Come,” her voice carries, “Come, come; come!”

Alistair comments under his breath, “Well, THAT’S not happening tonight.” As they heed Lady Jane’s summons, Ooma shaking her head in good-humoured disgust.

They climb the dais and Lord Triton gives a short speech, thanking them for their aid in caring for his daughter’s well being. Our group shuffle their feet, sort of like, ‘hurry it up, would you – get to the good stuff...’

Lord Triton goes on, signalling two Orcish-looking men, who drag in a battered and bruised soldier whom our Heroes recognise as the captain of the ones sent to protect the Ladies’ Jane and Jennifer.

Our Heroes gasp. Lord Triton looks down at the man and interrogates him. “You deny you were negligent in your duties?”

Our group goes to step forward in protest of his treatment and are soundly rebuked by the booming voice of Lord Triton, “Silence! I expect obedience from my soldiers and cannot allow dereliction in those assignments.” He turns back to the hapless man. “You have disgraced your family and your post.”

Lady Jane steps forward clasping her husband’s arm, her eyes rove across the guests. “Papa, please. No.”

Lord Triton draws a wicked looking curved sword, an ornately carved snake on the hilt, glittering red-gems in the eye sockets. He raises his arm, “I release you from your duties.” Dispassionately, the blade is dropped, cleanly slicing the man’s head from his neck.

A chorus of shrieks and curses come from an area beyond the pavilion. The pavilion goes silent for a moment before gasps; moans; shrieks and the unmistakable sound of retching floats like a heavy cloud.

Lady Triton looks upon the revolting massacre. “Get some servants to clean that up,” she commands as she disinterestedly walks away.

Lord Triton looks to our Heroes and sighs heavily. “It was necessary, to maintain order.”

One bold Paladin speaks up, “But fear only leads to disorder.”

Lord Triton cants his head, “You would tell me how to run my town?” Unwilling to allow the Paladin to question him.

He stares the group down until they shuffle, wisely abiding their time. Two serving girls walk out with large trays on their heads heaped with gold and silver coins. “I thank you for your trouble, I thank you for looking after the welfare of my daughters, and I grant you Free Reign in my town.”

As the chatter in the pavilion returns to a normal level, people no doubt discussing the beheading, servants are busy cleaning the unexpected consequences of the disciplinary action and Morgan nudges the head with his foot, “You might wanna get a pike for that.”

The nearby guard looks at him in undisguised repulsion. “That was our friend,” he marches off.

 Alistair is indignant and storms to the path intent on retrieving his weapons and stomping away in protest, is stopped by the guards. “We’re sorry, you cannot get your weapons back without permission from Lord Triton.” Alistair shoots them a look that conveys his anger and disgust, making the guards wither.

Lady Jane, her manners and her stiff-back presiding, encourages the Heroes to, “go back to enjoying the events scheduled – sword swallowers, fire-eaters; knife throwing acts! Exotic, wild cats performing amazing feats! Even a high-wire act that is sure to stun you!” Her enthusiasm seems forced.

The group, fills their pockets and moves off; men and ladies come up to them, thanking them for their unselfish act of courage in keeping Lady Jane and Jennifer safe. As they are chatting, Wik notices an Amazon goddess, with flowing black hair and green-eyes staring at him.

Ooma nudges Wik, “I think she’s checking you out dude.”

She is wearing robes with blue flame-tinged snakes embroidered in fine stitching. She walks toward Wik and the eyes of the animals intricately and masterfully carved into her quarterstaff glow brighter as she comes near. She looks at Wik with curiosity, and leans her staff close, waving it in front of him; circling him with it.

Wik’s voice pipes up, “What are you looking for?”

She lifts her chin and nods at Wik, “You have the ring.”

“I have MY ring,” Wik acknowledges. “I do not know if I have ‘a’ ring, but I have MY ring.”

She pulls her staff back, resting the silver capped end on the ground. “You have the ring. May I see it?”

“Uh, honestly. I don’t know what ring you are talking about,” Wik persists. “I have my ring; been in my family for generations,” he tries.

She tilts her head, a wide smile creasing her dark features, “As you wish.” And she sweeps her staff under Wik’s legs, landing his ass on the ground before he even sees her move. She then takes her staff and places the top directly over the pocket containing the ring.

“You have the ring – let me see it.”

Wik, supercilious to the end, “Get your quarterstaff off my ring and I will show it to you.” The Amazon smiles, her teeth gleaming in the darkness as she removes her staff.

Wik jumps to his feet, pulls the ring from his pocket, carefully guarding it so she cannot take it.

As the ring is exposed, the Heroes see an immediate blue ‘line’ run from the quarterstaff to the ring, connecting the two articles. The sapphires along the flames of the ring begin to shimmer and glitter as they connect to the eyes in the head of the carved Roc at the top of her staff. The Badger, curled around the length of the staff, almost seems real. Impossible to deny the force joining the two, she again says, “You have the ring.”

Wik, still pulling at straw-claims, “Yes, and I’m keeping the ring.” He attempts to return it to his pocket, and as he endeavours to do this, she knocks his hand, firmly, the ring tumbling to the ground.

“Do you know what you have there?”

“Yes. My ring. I have MY ring.” He steps forward to retrieve it.

The Amazon places her bare foot over the ring. “Maybe you’d like to know what you have before you cleave to it so dearly.”

“I just fought a bloody tree for this ring, move your bloody foot or I’ll cut it off.”

She ignores his meaningless threats. “So, you saw the Warlock Tree? Did you destroy it?”

“We destroyed the tree but a creature ran from it, now give me back my damned ring!”

“The imp ran!? You didn’t catch it?!” She seems very perturbed the imp escaped. She bends and picks up the ring. Holding it in front of her, examining it, she mourns, “You really don’t know what you have here, do you.”

Wik, petulant now, demands, “I have my ring. Finders Keepers Losers Weepers.”

She laughs, “I’m sorry. No. No. This ring...”

Wik interrupts. “Is worth ten thousand gold.”

“It’s worth far more than that.”

“Even better,” Wik concedes, “give it back.”

Chuckling, she replies, “No. No. Our Order, Iceheart, has been summoned to the area. A fine thread of a plea for help reached our Order a millennia ago. Our mages and weavers have sought through the ages to find the magician who conjured the plea. This ring shimmers with the essence of that plea; either it was worn by the one in need, or it belonged to the one imprisoning them. The image we seek,” she stares off into the distance, “is of a towering stalagmite, smooth and dark – rising to impossible heights – with an orb, a sphere, of thin glass precariously balanced on a flat, kerb-less disk atop the fragile stem. A cry echoes from within the globe; a figure, akin to a genie, paces, as thorns bear down upon the fragile sphere guarded by a mass of writhing red-eyed serpents at its base... we believe it's the Obsidian Forest, but haven't isolated the precise location...” She continues, “This ring, contains the blood Malachite Stone in the centre. Do you still say this is your ring?”

“Yes! I picked it up from the ground,” Wik whines, “It’s mine.” Wik’s friends giggle and smirk, wondering how he thinks he can continue this.

The Amazon requests Wik to show her the exact spot he found the ring.

He points and says, “At the bottom of this hillock.”

“Let’s go.” They return to the weapon area and are refused access to their weapons. As they argue, an agreement is finally reached where Lady Jane assigns guards to accompany them down the hill in place of returning their weapons. Grumbling loudly, they finally agree to this decision.

“Methlynd, Rende, Arthur, Reggie and Corsur please accompany these people and see to their safety.”

They avoid the path and walk through the wood down to the place where Wik found the ring. “Here, some where there.” He points at the ground.

The Amazon leans over and places her hand on the ground. “This is not the place. Where did you locate the ring?”

“Oh it’s there somewhere, I don’t know the exact spot. If you can find it by touching the ground, it’s in the near vicinity; a foot either way.” Alistair admonishes Wik for his attitude, thinking he might be a little more friendly.

The Amazon touches about, and suddenly the Heroes notice the ground glowing blue. Amazed, the group assumes that is the exact spot Wik lifted the ring from. “That is where you found the ring? Very well.” She tosses the ring back to Wik. “You do not know the power you may wield. Please keep that ring in your pocket.”

“Pshaa. I wore it earlier.”

She seems confused that he wore it and asks to see it again. At Ooma’s query she again repeats that her Order received a plea a millennia ago and the ring contains an essence of that plea. “But you are not the ones who sent it.”

She grows excited, “There’s something about this area; this spot; this town! I feel I am close.”

Ooma agrees. “There’s a lot about this area that’s weird.”

“Maybe so, but I am concerned only in the entreaty for help. Okay,” she states suddenly. “Thank you for your help.” She requests, again, to hold the ring one last time, and, as Wik allows this, the ring blazes, the sapphires sending out blue-rays. She concentrates on the ring, staring into it, the rays like direct lines to and from her.

In the meantime, Alistair decides he would like to test this woman’s motivations and begins covertly concentrating upon her auras. He does not detect anything evil about her. She appears to be just as she intoned, a cleric on a quest for her Order, Iceheart.

As she holds the ring, you see her staff’s eyes flare, sending an enormous jolt of blue to the ring, or, sucking it from the ring. The ring lies in her hand, a simple ring, the essence appears to have been drawn forth. She nod’s and returns the ring.

Alistair wonders why this generous person wants to help something that is pure evil. The Amazon shakes her head, “No. We don’t sense evil within the ring. We sense that there is an evil aura holding something against its will, and the ring, or rather the good-aura within it, is pleading for release.”

Ooma mumbles that, “This might be the same person we are looking for. Hey,” she speaks up, “there’s a lady stuck in a Tavern in the forest over there!”

The woman is immediately interested, “What forest? Where?”

“The Obsidian Forest.”

The woman appears beside herself with excitement. “The Tavern! You’ve seen it!?” Ooma responds that they came out of the tavern through the Apothecary, into the town. “You must show me the door! This MUST be what I am looking for!”

They explain where the Apothecary is and try to get her to wait until morning, but she is solely focussed on her quest. She begins to walk in the direction they have told her she will locate the Apothecary.

Several of the group look in askance, determined to follow her, wondering what has made this plea for help different than the hundreds of persons who cry for help daily.

She responds, “This plea came along a little known channel, a conduit used only when the time wheel is threatened. The Autumn Wind brought it to us.”

Morgan wonders aloud that the Amazon must want something as a reward, to which she replies that, “No, just the ability to rescue this person.” Morgan is horrified that she would waste her entire life on this one person and not expect riches! (Especially when there is a world full of people who need help; and would provide rewards for doing so.) He doubts her altruistic motives.

Wik agrees.

Ooma disagrees. “She’s a good guy, dudes.”

The Amazon nods, understanding their misgivings, “as you wish, forgive me for interrupting you. Thank you for your help thus far.” She turns and heads for the Apothecary, pausing, turning back to the group, fluttering her hands in the air, as if grasping strands and pulling them, she nods, “Have a good evening.” She turns and heads up the road.

The group gathers together whispering, arguing about her motives and if they should trust her... Ooma suggests that perhaps she can get them back to the Tavern; thinking she might be able to help find the FireStone.

Morgan still doesn’t trust her and chooses to follow her. Of his own will, or, perhaps, the spell she has just woven?

The Amazon marches up the street, unconcerned with shadows or lurkers. Her gait strong and sure. She sees things they don’t in the night.

Alistair pleads, if he can “NOW have my weapons back, please!”

He is again refused.

Morgan pulls two daggers from his hidden pockets, and is immediately set upon by the soldiers who gently, but firmly attempt to relieve him of them.

Jahlo attempts to bribe them and, after actually considering the offer, they shake their heads, commenting, “it’s not worth our lives.”

Morgan steadfastly refuses to release his worn daggers, and, rather than cause an incident, the guards shrug and release him. “Just keep them hidden.”

Meanwhile, Ooma heads back to the festivities, Methlynd following her. She slows, drawing the soldier into conversation.

Jahlo asks the Amazon her name and she reveals that you can call her Ichabod... as her real name is far too hard to pronounce. (Truthfully, her Order wants no recognition, and so choose names at random to ensure their humility.)

Jahlo goes on to explain that the trouble with going into the Tavern is that you don’t always come out. Or go in the way you expect, “unless some wibbly-wobbly magic happens, yah?” He goes on to explain that, “I actually have a soft spot for the pretty ghost-lady trapped in the Tavern, and I’d like to help her out as she helped me out. But nothing’s going to happen at ‘daft o’clock’ in the night! Let’s go back to the tavern down the street, me and my partner can show you a good time and we can talk magic and hear this out. C’mon, why’ncha come back with me?”

His word fall on deaf ears; save for the ones, “A lady? Trapped? In the Tavern? A ghost lady?” Jahlo confirms this.

“Yah, but we should go back and enjoy the party; and other events for now, because it’s fracken cold out here and there’s fracken hot food back there and presumable nice beds. C’mon, my lady friend Tess and us, we can get together, lay things out on the table and discuss magic together. What say ya, yah? It makes more sense than walking up to a store that’s closed, yah?”

He is persuasive, Ichabod walks to him, cups his chin in her fingers, lifting his face to hers, peers into his eyes, her thumb gently stroking his cheek, “You’re a very sweet man, maybe when this is over we can discuss your offer, but, until then, I MUST follow my quest. You may return to your party, but I must see if this Apothecary is the place I seek. I sense this is the right place. The right area.”

Jahlo persists in wondering what she’s going to do if her staff ‘thinghy’ glows? “You’re going to need back up, right?”

She grins and her shoulders move as she chuckles, “Back up. Yes, right. It would be nice to have backup. Would you be willing to help me out? Tonight? Now?”

They nod and agree, still shaking their heads. As they do so, they notice the soldiers moving together, their whispers reaching the elven ears of the Heroes.

“Lord Triton ain’t gonna be happy ‘bout this. That ring! We’ve got to tell him where it is.”

As one of the Heroes sneaks up behind the soldiers and mutters, “That Lord Triton, he’s never happy!” To which the guards, shaken after being flanked so easily, heartily disagree. When reminded of events earlier, they shrug and agree that the fellow knew his duties and the consequences.

When offered the Paladin’s services for interment, they shake their heads, “Won’t be necessary. Lord Triton has ...his own embalming methods.” They leave no doubt that this method is distasteful to them.

Ichabod sighs, “Shall we continue up to the Apothecary?”

Jahlo grins, “Yes, I for one am glad to have a soldier protecting me when we get transported to who knows where when this finally activates!” slapping his guard on the back and winking at him. The guard looks at him like he’s nuts!

As they grow closer to the Apothecary the eyes of the staff glow brighter. Ichabod is excited, her strides lengthen as she sways the staff before her, attempting to locate the source of the glow. Directly in front of the Apothecary the eyes smoulder brightly.

She tries the door, and, as expected, it is locked. Wik almost tips his hand to the guards as he bends to release the lock. His friends caution him and he thinks better of his actions, right then.

Tessalia suggests a different method of distracting the soldiers as she raises her gown, unfortunately it distracts the group as well. “Uhm, yes...” Every male present fails their will check...

Ichabod allows them to persuade her to return to the festivities.

Ooma on the other hand chatters with Methlynd, curious about these Dwarfs she’s heard about. She starts off asking Methlynd how he enjoys his job and about his employer. She apologises if she sounds like she is disagreeing with him, but she has a hard time believing he enjoys his job, “that’s all.”

She goes on, “Uh, well, I’ve heard some people going on about slave-Dwarves?” she watches him for his reaction.

He is slightly stunned and looks at her. “You’re a Dwarf. I mean, how did you earn your free...; I mean, how are you here, surely you... do you not know of...”

“I am not from around here!” Ooma asserts.

The soldier relaxes a great deal, “Oh, I see, not from around here. This would explain why you are above ground... So you know nothing of the caves? Or the tunnels?”

Ooma asserts again that she knows nothing.

“Oh, hmmm. Well. The tunnels under North Triton are worked by Dwarfs. They work the mines, and Lord Triton markets the gems and metals for them. You’re not aware of this?” He seems surprised that Ooma is unaware, he mutters that everyone has been wondering how a Dwarf got above ground. “Other than the Haberdashers, who earned their freedom...”

They go on discussing this and the soldier seems genuinely surprised that she doesn’t work the mines. “I was raised with humans, I don’t do mines.” The soldier continues to stare at her, he’s simply never met a dwarf who lives above ground.

Ooma asks, half-joking, if she is in danger of being tossed into these mines? She is only partially reassured at the answer; she is safe because she is under Lady Jane’s protection.

Ooma asks him a difficult question, “Would the city fare better with or without Lord Triton? Are you guys being oppressed?”

He shakes his head, “No.” He sounds uncomfortable and begs her not to continue along this line of chatter.

A thin, willowy lady, her blonde locks flowing behind her, walks down the hill toward the two. Ooma takes a moment to realise that this woman’s cerulean eyes are glowing.

As she reaches them, she places her thin hand on the soldier’s arm and asks, “Are you supposed to be down here?”

The tall guard looks up. “I’m guarding one of your guests on Lady Jane’s orders.”

The gleaming eyes fall upon Ooma and, disdainfully she utters, “Oh, yes. one of the Dwarves. Well, would you please come back. I need you up here now.” The soldier stutters, unsure what to do.

“I’m supposed...”

“I don’t care.” Lady Judy says, “I need you now.” She turns and strides back up the hill.

They both follow, Ooma shrugging and letting the guard know she understands. “No harm,” she reassures him as they walk back in the gated area.

As Ooma attempts to show good breeding, and curtseying rather than smacking the Lady Judy, she sees, in the younger sister’s hand, her mother’s broach. The one they’d admired earlier. Turning but not moving, Ooma over hears the insistent whispers from Judy.

Fingering the broach she scoffs, tossing it in the air, "Mother thinks it a pretty piece of jewellery," she laughs, the sound brittle. "She's so insipid,” she tosses the piece behind her, letting it fall to the ground, and storms off, the soldier shaking his head, following her.

Ooma retrieves the broach and tries to give it to the elderly soldier at the gate who is horrified and practically cries when she tries to hand it to him, “Listen I just found this over there...”

“I’m not touching that. No. You take it to the Lady Triton. I’ll have nothing to do with that...” His face is abject horror. He is terrified of that broach...

Of the Broach? or of Lady Triton? These guards have been fairly easy going, why is the broach terrifying this seasoned veteran...

o0o

weaving magic...

Fledgling Dungeon Master,

khrys...

*~*~*~*~*

Could the Bark, be Worse than the Bite...?

If a tree moves in the forest, will our adventurers heed the warning...?

When last we left our party, they were making their way toward Madame Quirry's Dress Shoppe – Ooma is determined to look presentable as she attends the Twilight Supper.

Arriving at the shop, (which they locate without difficulty), they are wary of the lethal looking spines protruding from the sentry-like Xeriscape cacti lining the even brick-walkway to the yellow door. They can see fabrics lining shelves as they peer at the small cottage-type building through large picture windows on either side of the entrance set in the brick facade.

On either side of the yard sits a dark, brick-pond, filled with still-liquid, protected by more xeriscape plantings. Stones, two deep, edge the ponds in a flat granite-ring. There are a few large leaves resembling water lilies floating atop the inky-coloured water.

Ooma opens the picket gate and heads in as the others impede foot-traffic, forcing others to detour, as they discuss what to do.

When she enters the shop, Ooma is greeted by Madame Quirry, a toad-like creature with greenish, scaly skin, yellow slanted eyes, thick lips and a pink-tongue that flicks out repeatedly. She walks with an awkward gait toward Ooma. Hiding behind a curtain, just pulled to the side are two Haflings, (or children, it's kind of hard to tell in the lighting).

Ooma first asks the proprietor if she has men's clothing for sale.

Her eyes open wide, "Oh my, no. No. The Habers, Haberdashery, men's needs are sold there." Her voice low, rough, like someone whose smoked too many cigars or sang too many bawdy songs in their youth.

Ooma excuses herself and goes back out to inform the others that they'll need to go to the Haberdashery, before returning inside and closing the door.

She queries about a dress for the evening supper party, "Something simple that I can wear over my armour." And, upon mentioning she's going to the Triton Twilight Supper, as an honoured guest, Madame Quirry is all a dither!

"Oh my, we MUST have your outfit complete!” her eyes travel to the few ready made outfits residing on two 'judys', as Ooma describes her desired Toga style choice.

She and Ooma ponder and examine fabrics, deciding on a lovely olive-green material, and, the little ones Ooma spied behind the curtain come running out when Madame Quirry claps her hands.

They quickly and nimbly take the measurements that they require, gather the fabric and disappear behind the curtain, their sweet giggles floating out as Madame Quirry sees Ooma out the door. "Now don't you worry, we will make sure your dress is finished, come back before dark, we should only have to make minor adjustments."

Ooma thanks her, offering her double the cost for agreeing to have it prepared in time, and walks out the door along the path a little too closely to the cacti spines and one imbeds itself in her armour, unable to penetrate the leather, she carefully removes it, securing it in her rucksack and moves down the dusty, well-travelled road to meet with her party.

Separating from Ooma and going to the Haberdashery, the rest of the party locates the large Haberdashery building without much difficulty.

The Haberdashers, nearly empty, save for the tailor and his wife – a friendly couple, probably Dwarfs or Half-Dwarf. Petite, wide with snowy beards and flowing locks of white crowning their skulls.

One can assume gender by the couple’s outfits. The man is dressed in trousers, a short-coat over a white-linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up, leather boots and pins poking from his lips; his wife (you suppose) her hair tidily scrunched into a bun, her merry blue-eyes carefully watching her stitches as needle and thread fly up and down forming one garment where two cloths stood moments earlier. A white off-the shoulder blouse and flowery patterned skirt that falls to her ankles covers her thick waist and hips. Impossible to tell their age unless they reveal it, but you guess around a hundred...?

Dark-coloured, sturdy fabrics set in looms clack away. Looking around for a few minutes before the owners draw near, the party hears chatter and laughter, but they see no source...?

The grandmotherly lady with cherub-rosy cheeks and a semi-plucked beard approaches, “Hello is there something you are looking for?”

The party chats with the lady, her voice pleasant and cheerful sounding. “Oh my, yes. Yes I’m sure we could have this ready for you in an hour or so,” she smiles to Morgan who nods and hands her two-silver coins, for “some nice stitching” on a length of fabric to be stitched into a turban head-dress. Humbled, a flurry of activity sets up, that the party can hear, but not see.

Wik negotiates for a pair of dark leather gloves and a dark cape with a cowl. Immediately upon agreeing to the cost, he feels light touches, like ants, scurrying across his body, taking measurements and tickling him. They are done before he can scratch. Wik looks in question to the two snowy-capped most-likely Dwarfs and the party enquires about the odd noises.

A deep breath and a nod, the lady slips into the tale, a sorrowful look shadowing her features. She begins simply, “The wee-folk work with us, for us, because of our son.” Her voice catches and she clasps her hands before continuing, looking into the distance.

“About five years ago, our son,” she swallows, and takes a deep breath. “Our son was coming home from a journey, he’d gone to visit his cousins to the north. He happened upon a commotion in the Obsidian Blackwood. That commotion was an entire village of screaming wee-folk being tormented by reptiles; snakes! Enchanted snakes! With glowing red-eyes and a deadly poisonous bite; the snakes were as large as a Halfling!”

“Our boy, without a thought to his own safety, St. Cuthbert bless him, leapt into the fray and using his natural born talent; swinging his axe left and right, cleaved and cut through hundreds of the vipers," her voice trembling with pride rising to indignation, "only to be torn apart by red-feathered creatures that came swooping from the sky the wee-folk had never seen these creatures before!” She shuddered, closing her eyes and laying her hand upon her heart, a tear traced down her dewy cheek.

“The wee-folk,” her husband continued, placing his worn hand upon his wife’s shoulder, “The wee-folk came to us, those who escaped, offering their services and refusing to accept any payment except meagre rations to fill their bellies. They told us the story and brought us back this feather,” he points to a feather resting on an elegant shelf. “They say they owe us their lives and in payment for our son’s heroism; they work tirelessly, helping us to create works of art for very reasonable cost, allowing the lesser classes to enjoy finer items they wouldn’t have access to normally.”

The party recalls something of a red-feathered beast, and after thanking the couple, (who politely refuse to let them keep the feather) and retire to the Red-Eyed Snake Pit to ponder this information, break their fast and wait for their articles to be readied.

Arriving at the tavern, they are greeted by the owner, who fills their mugs and seats them as his only customers so early.

As they sit and discuss how to use the time while they wait for evening, when suddenly the peace of the morning is shattered by the shrieks and a wild stampede of people flowing past the saloon’s swinging doors. Our party rises and hustles to get a better look.

“A BEAR! Mauled his handler then broke loose from his rope!” a wild-eyed kid shouts at them as he keeps up with the crowd escaping.

The party notices a flurry of fur swiping at things, knocking displays and batting at anyone who attempts to get close, evading the lariats being tossed by angered, half-dressed Human-Orcs.

The party uses their combined abilities to soothe savage beasts. While Wik creeps closer to the wild creature his voice even and gentle, Morgan coolly, maybe too serenely?, goes back to the Snake Pit, picks up his plate of stew, returns to the street and places it on the ground. 

The, now, mesmerised bear, gobbles it hungrily. Wik continues to calm the creature, returning it safely, and unharmed, to its habitat. The enthralled crowd begins clapping and cheering as our Heroes prevent any further carnage. Some scowl and peer closely at the figure leading the bear away - have they seen this person before?

While watching Wik and Morgan handle the massive black bear with admiration, Tessalia feels a hand fiddling about where none should be touching without permission! Stealthily she reaches up and snags the hand of a thief!

Thinking the distraction of the bear a good opportunity to relieve a few of those in the crowd of their pocket-books, Aramil Nightbreeze, the luckless thief, is caught.

Smiling an attractive lopsided grin, he manages to persuade the fair Tessalia not to turn him into a toad, or honey pot, and with the charisma of a snake-oil salesman, charms her and her fellow travellers, with a wink for Morgan, who grins back shaking his head. They let the fast, smooth-talker join them as they return inside and order a round.

The proprietor of the Snake Pit enjoys their patronage, as new consumers enter and make purchases, following the brave party, still too in awe of the newcomers to speak to them; but about them, they have no trouble.

The ‘lady in residence’ remembers them from their previous visit and tries to make amends for her unexpected and completely out-of-characteristic behaviour offering Tessalia, “One on the house, darling?”

She is turned down, but our newcomer, not having tasted a lady’s favours in a long while accepts her offer, ignoring Tessalia’s warnings to, “watch your throat!” Amaril ascends the staircase and enters the room off the hall.

Our lady smiles as she closes the door and our thief hears the latch click. “Now, whatever shall we do?” her voice purrs stepping close to him.

Suddenly bashful, Amaril finds his voice caught and his mind blank.

“Shy, are we?” Our lady licks her lips, “Then let me lead.” Her fingers lightly brush down his body, unfastening such encumbrances as she comes across them, slipping to her knees, her arms wrapping round his hips, her lips and tongue wrapping themselves around his pleasure...

The townsfolk prolong their awed admiration for the “Magicians” and our party continues to enjoy the pleasure of the free ale, meade (which is among the best they’ve ever tasted!) and bowls of stew, which is, tasty. Ooma returns from the washroom, her armour gleaming and learns of the heroics.

“Oh fu...dge! I missed it!”

One other person approaches them, finding a welcome seat at their table and sharing in their good fortune, offering his assistance as he learns of their quest.

“And who would you be?” our kind-hearted group enquires – Wik slipping in under his breath, “probably a beggar!”

“Alistair Bishop, at your service. Wandering Paladin, stepping out on my first adventure after completing my initial training at the small monastery here in town, St. Cuthbert's, surely you’ve heard of us?” The jovial man clasps their hands in friendship as he is welcomed to join their adventure.

Ooma turns to the proprietor and asks if he has a cloth she might keep and he offers her a dirty scrap of linen which she accepts, wrapping the thorn inside carefully, and replacing it in her pack.

Meanwhile, Aramil, not sure if he’s refreshed or exhausted, but has a smile on his face, dresses, peeks through the drawers and filches a few coins before he tries the door. Finding it locked, he kneels and starts to use his lock picks.

“What is it with you people!?” he hears behind him, the hooker not quite as asleep as he’d thought.

“Uh-uhm...” he stammers, red-faced at being caught.

She twines her fingers in his wiry-poof of hair, pulling him up for a long-kiss before she pulls the key from a chain around her neck, “Have you people never heard of keys?” She unlocks the door and swats his ass as he exits.

He meets Morgan on the staircase, who, again, was just coming up to see if he was needed. Together they descend the stairs.

The party, judiciously refills their wineskins with the free meade, wishing only they had more skins! before they head out to retrieve their purchases.

Anxious to get to the shin-dig, they stop at the Haberdashery first, gathering their purchases and again thanking the couple for their workmanship. They listen as the couple warn them to be wary of the Obsidian Blackwood Forest, should they wander that way. “For the careless it will spell death. There are things in that forest that ought not to be there.”

Thanking them, Ooma and Tessalia head to Madame Quirry’s, who is thrilled to see them.

“I have just finished your gown! She hurriedly slips the gown onto Oomas’ frame, adjusting it until it flows smoothly over Ooma’s armour, concealing it entirely. “It looks perfect! Beautiful!” she admires her handiwork as Ooma twirls and peers into a silvered glass getting a wavy idea of what it looks like.

Tessalia smiles, “It looks perfect!”

Madame Quirry turns to Tessalia, “And what about you my child? What will you wear? Are you going to the Supper, too?”

Tessalia isn’t sure she wants to part with her gold yet, but, when the lady all but demands she need a dress, she agrees to try on one of the lovely gowns Madame Quirry stitched for another customer, who prepaid for the gown only to rant and rave that it wasn’t good enough.

“I can let you have it at a reasonable cost. Two coppers,” she blurts, afraid to lose the sale.

Tessalia agrees! At that price, she can wear it even if it is a little big or small. It fits like it is made for her! The ladies leave the store quite happy, until the spiny plants reach out and snag Ooma’s new gown, piercing three, tiny, tiny holes in the under-arm area.

Fortunately, Ooma is still wearing her armour, and the spines merely cause an inconvenience. She removes two, and has help removing the third, giving two to Wik and keeping two herself, wrapping them carefully in the cloth.

“Let’s head to the Supper!” It is agreed that it is time they begin to make their way to the pavilion.

The park is lit with torches along the paths of compressed wood chips or crushed stone, but mostly trodden grass. Large, colourful tents perched in a seeming kaleidoscope of patterns.

Cheers, gasps and clapping can be heard from the noisy venues.

The trump of a wild animal or roar of a trained one, give all a thrill to watch perform. Food, the odours of which whet their appetites, was being prepared with a wild variety of unusual spices and other flavours, and was being offered for a copper. The crowds wandered, pressing close to see some of the free acts offered to engage their imagination and draw them inside.

Our party, spying a worker off to the side by himself, ventured to question him as to the direction or location of the Triton Pavilion and were told to, “Take off!”

Morgan takes offense at this Human-Orc’s attitude and decides to adjust it for him, stepping up behind him and pressing a rusty dagger blade to his back he asks again if the Human-Orc would like to change his answer.

Nervously the greenish-skinned male points, “Follow the lighted path. It’s just over the knoll.”

Morgan leans forward over the shaking fellow and drops a few copper coins on the ground in front of him. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The party follows the trickling crowd of well-dressed persons over the hill and arrive at a line.

Not positive the line is for the Triton’s they move their way forward, excusing themselves and announcing they are there as honoured guests when they are accosted.

Snobbily, a woman huffs, “We are all honoured guests of Lord Triton.”

Ooma turns on her, her brow raised, her lips pouty, “Really? And did you also rescue the Lady’s Jane and Jennifer?”

“Or stop the bear rampaging?” one of the party pipes in.

Great gasps go up and the crowd moves aside allowing the heroes their rightful respect – until they arrive at the front of the line.

A thin, angular, hard-faced woman grabs Tessalia by the shoulders and spins her about, “You’re wearing my dress!” she shrieks.

Tessalia shrugs her off, “I beg your pardon? I bought this dress from Madam Quirry.” Her voice firm, but polite.

“It’s mine!” The woman shrieks louder, her face reddening! “How dare you steal it! Take it off immediately!” The woman lunges as if to remove the gown herself.

Tessalia, being a Sorceress finds clothing encumbering anyway, smiles wickedly bends forward and pulls the gown over her head handing it to the shocked woman who nearly faints.

Gentlemen peek as they pretend to avert their eyes. Some stare openly at the comely figure clad only in a thin shift.

The woman stutters and sputters, “I ...I didn’t... I didn’t mean this second!” Her face redder than Tessalia, who is enjoying the shock value and frowns as Morgan removes his newly fashioned turban and wraps the narrow cloth around her, avoiding the wrath of the guards, who aren’t sure to hand her to the boisterous crowd or take her under their protection!

With a final smile, Tessalia turns to the guards and announces their invitation, producing the hair-clip earning them, first scepticism and, after a short discussion, entry.

Tessalia takes pity on the shocked looks and draws her other gown from her rucksack and pulls it over her body, returning Morgan’s headpiece.

Ooma, taking pity on poor Morgan, offers him a swig of her meade.

Returning the wineskin to Ooma, they head along the path with far less persons crowding them now.

A flash catches Wik’s eye and, as he bends to look, he finds a bulky gold ring with beautifully cut sapphires (over 50 of them!) encrusting gold ‘flames’ that appear to ‘lick’ up the sides, their tips holding an enormous purple stone, with tiny black fissures marring the surface. The ring is heavy and they determine, probably a man’s ring due to its large size. Wik immediately puts the ring in his upper, flapped pocket. They decide they will seek its owner later, Wik slyly nods, "Yes, we'll seek the owner later," a smirk creasing his face.

Continuing their stroll, closer to the decidedly delicious aromas wafting over the grounds coming down to meet them, they round a small curve in the path and they feel a chill and spy a large gnarled tree set back from the edge of the path.

There is something about this tree that catches their attention. As they draw near it suddenly lunges for the party, and, as they scatter, the tree’s long branches zero in on Wik, it’s twigs acting as fingers, scratching and clawing. It glows a faint green as it ignores the rest of the party, focussing its attention on Wik, and more to the point, Wik’s pocket.

“Put on the ring, put on the ring!” Ooma urges.

The party takes evasive actions and Wik reaches in his pocket pulling the ring loose and affixing it on his right ring finger, finding it fits as if made for him. As he does this the tree begins to whip around as if in a frantic state the branches lunging toward Wik, the unworldly green-glow falling over the area and the group notices the circus noise gone. There are no people on the path; no odours from cooking foods, nothing except this tree (and the ground it stands in)... And, this tree is pissed.

As they advance against the tree, the tree only has eyes, or limbs, for Wik, or, for Wik’s finger, that is, until it (the tree) is hit with a metal tipped weapon. Then it sparks out in anger against its would be attacker, zipping back a weak jolt, knocking the weapon from his fingertips.

“Take off the ring! Take off the ring!” Ooma advises.

Another attack, another jolt. The tree finds it must deal with many opponents and not just the one it wants. Mildly shocking and zapping party members, they question their efforts.

Alistair focuses on the tree, trying to understand its motives. Ooma also backs off waiting for the right moment. Morgan kneels, removing flint and steel, he prepares to light a torch to toss into the tinder dry forest.

Aramil, wanting to impress his new friends, hacks at the tree, only to be zapped his weapon flying off in the opposite direction of his flight. The tree flicks small branches and twigs at the others who attempt to pierce its thick outer bark as the party ducks and weaves to avoid this barrage of pointy sticks.

Alistair Bishop sees a faint aura forming, his concentration continues, he is unaffected by the tree’s movements as he moves to stand some 30-feet away.

Ooma shouts again at Wik to, “take the ring OFF!” Her words falling on deaf ears as Wik again tries to hit the massive tree, which he remembers from somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind is called a Warlock’s Tree. He reveals this to the party, who groan as they can only wonder at what that means!

Tessalia, after losing her weapon, tries to toast its bark with a spell she has only perfected a bit ago. A searing flame shooting from her fingertips ignites the tree instantly, spreading fire quickly through the branches. Morgan, seeing the flames, abandons his flint and, instead grabs what he thinks is Ooma’s wineskin, but in his partially-sober condition he mistake his own, and begins to squeeze the highly-flammable liquid at the tree aiding the flames in their path.

A scream, almost non-existent, filters to their minds. The tree changes from a green-glow to an angry, violent-red, the tree whipping faster and with more urgency. As players attempt to retreat, some find their path blocked as the tree slams its branches, several five-feet thick, into the ground preventing escape.

A long, thin, supple branch slides forward and grasps Wik’s wrist, the flames licking at his skin above his gloves and below his garments. As he stares in anguish he, smartly, yanks his water-skin up and douses the flames.

Our Paladin learns that there are three evil auras in this struggle and chooses to wait for a sign from his gawds to step in or not.

Ooma shouts for Wik to, “Take the damned ring off!”

He slides her a dirty look, just before three branches slam down, three-quarters enclosing him, his only escape – through the burning tree. “Told ya so!” Ooma’s voice floats to him.

The screeches grow still in their heads, the fire’s roar a distant sound. Alistair steps forward, the screams in his mind a sign; his blow crashing down on the roots as Ooma also lifts her weapon hacking at the roots.

Another blast of fire from Tessalia and the tree is like a thousand snakes writhing; the red-glow popping as the tree is exploding with the heat, another blast of meade shoots forth and the tree suddenly detonates! Fire raining down; sparks showering the ground.

As the tree blasts, it falls, crashing backward with a mighty rumble. From its centre a creature, an ugly, pinkish-white, glowing creature emerges and begins to run north. It is fast.

Morgan jumps and gives chase, his stamina leading him until he realises the hopelessness of his endeavour, the creature gaining ground with every stride until it disappears into the night. Winded, Morgan returns, gasping for oxygen, not fooling anyone as he tries to slow his breathing.

The party, curious and confused, searches the tree. Morgan discovers a pouch containing 6-precious gems, or he supposes they are precious. He attempts to slip them in his pocket and catches Wik’s grinning mug wink at him. He grins sheepishly and pushes them low in his pocket, knowing he’ll have to share some of this bounty with the evil Elf.

A few gold and copper coins are found by Amaril, and, as Wik greedily searches for more, a shoot rises and clasps his wrist.

Ooma lifts her Dwarven axe and slams it downward, Wik’s eyes huge as he watches the mighty blade skim inches from his wrist, the shoot broken, the dead ends still wrapped about Wik’s wrist.

Ooma smiles sweetly and growls, “Take. The. Damned. Ring. OFF!”

The party backs from the tree, moving up the path a ways before pausing and looking back. The glow gone, the area returned to normal as if nothing had occurred on the spot at all. The path is filled with eager guests...

Shaking his head Morgan declares, “I need a drink...”

o0o

Evil? Nah...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress...

khrys...

*~*~*~*~*