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...

*~*~*~*~*