I'm sorry. Who are you?

“You are a murderer!”

The adventurers all look stunned. They begin to question each other and the shop keep. They begin to become indignant. “Us? Who? What are you talking about?”

Blue and Red mutter, shocked, annoyed with Green for his accusations. “What are you doing? These are customers!”

A determined Green sternly stares down the group, larger than he remembers, his eyes narrowing, his bony finger pointing. “You are a murderer.”

Red and Blue turn and go inside arguing in low voices.

Jhalo walks a few steps from the group and notes the finger does not follow him. Wik moves next and he notices the finger follows him. A low laugh and a flash of an aware grin passes across his face.

He confesses to killing the wizard, “Is it because I wear his cloak?”

Ooma adds, “Besides, I killed that dude, man. Come on, guys. We spent a lot of money in here. Can we have an explanation.”

Green looks at Wik, “Would you care to explain?”

Jhalo pipes up. “You know, it’s the funniest thing, I keep hearing there’s this guy who looks exactly like my friend here but with a different hair colour and a different skin colour. Could that be who you’re talking about? Yah?”

Green (ignore the reference to Blue and/or Red in the video...) folds his small arms, “You think we don’t know colour?” he says disdainfully.

The group interjects with their own accusations, inferring that Green may be mad, a man, or a racist. Heated words are exchanged.

“Are you speaking of the prefect? He attacked me.” Wik bleats.

Anger begins to build in the group as this Halfling; this Sprite, Brownie, Pixie, Gnome – whatever he is – haughtily snubs them with his superior attitude.

“You know we’ve saved more people than we’ve killed. Just sayin’. You sold us a bunch of weapons, do you really want to start something now?”

Morgan puffs up, eyes narrowed, anger bubbling, “Why are we arguing this? I’ll just punch you over this palisade if you don’t apologise for what you said right now.”

Green, looks at him, “Try it.” He smiles as he steps back across the threshold, inside.

Jhalo, with a cool head and moderate temper, notices something. “Hey, guys, guys. You realise he’s not calling guards or anything, we can just walk away.”

“Go talk to whatshername, Edith, and ask her how we saved her kid.” Ooma tosses.

This is unimpressive to Green. “I care not for that family.”

This again, riles the group as they defend themselves against this arrogant being. Tessalia muttering, “Small people, small minds – little pricks!”

The group twirls around and stomps off, Ooma sneering over her shoulder, “And if something attacks you, we’ll not be helping you.”

Jhalo adds in a stage-whisper, “Unless it’s really profitable.”

The Crayol’s watch the group leave.

As soon as they are away, Tessalia looks to Wik, “So, did you kill someone?”

Wik looks sheepish, “About four months ago I was relieving a family of the burden of having far too many pieces of fine jewellery. The owner of the jewellery interrupted me. In the ensuing battle, he was killed.” Wik shrugs. “Redistribution of wealth, you know.”

As a group they seem to take this story in stride. Tessalia nods, “Well, of course.” Amaril and Morgan file away the information that there may be a bounty on Wik’s head should they return to Triton.

They continue walking, deciding to let Ichabod lead for a while.

A discussion of a fabled thief, Robin Hood and Little Joan, who has biiiig....eyes, ensues.

They walk for hours, spying a large lake in the distance. As they get closer, they notice about five or six boats floating, fishing in the lake. A few people in each boat, either tossing nets or throwing lines from poles in the water.

There are no houses or buildings around the lake that can be seen. The path goes left and right and, Morgan, wanting to be away from Ichabod defiantly waits until she chooses her direction before going the opposite way.

As the group is about three-quarters of the way along the shore, through the trees, a bright light flashes in the centre of the lake and they notice the boats have disappeared. They are not pulled up on the shore. A mystery to be sure.

It is getting toward dusk as the group reconvenes at the opposite end of the lake, following Ichabod who is following an animal trail, into the woods again, they stop when she announces, “This will make a good spot to rest for the night.”

The rustle of setting up a small camp, unfurling blankets and rations; the lighting of a small fire disturbs the night birds and insects.

Tired, the group falls asleep quickly, trusting each watch to do their jobs. Jhalo hands out goodberries to the injured who gobble them thankfully.

As the second watch passes its halfway point, about twenty firefly-like lights can be seen flitting about. These lights flutter close to Morgan and he blinks as he is sure they look like people! Nervous he pulls out his new shiny, silver cross, mumbling, “What the hell are you?”

He hears mumbles and a few words, “Pretty, shiny, nice, sleep.”

Morgan hunches over, curling his finger, beckoning them. One comes to within about a foot. Morgan asks nervously, “Do you know anything about magic?”

A smiling nod, “Yes, we know magic.”

Morgan directs them toward Ichabod’s belongings distracting them from his cross. “That staff she carries is full of magic.” A few go eagerly over to peer at Ichabod.

The firelights are flitting about each person. Some are waking with the light touches and small giggles, others snore onward.

 As Ooma awakens sleepily, she leaps up and hollers. Some of the group wake, others turn over and sleep on. As she yells, the fireflies freeze solid, gather together and fly off into the darkness of the forest.

Grumbles are heard through the camp as they see nothing worth of Ooma’s shout. Morgan fakes sleep and then snorts awake, yawning. “No, no, I didn’t fall asleep,” he shifts to be comfortable, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jhalo chucks an acorn at him, he and Tessalia remaining awake for their uneventful watch, sleepily waking Ooma and Wik to take over.

Ooma and Wik awaken for their watch sitting beside the fire, Ooma stirring the coals, Wik staring outward, into the forest. Benji snuggles between them.

As the morning dawns, grey and purple streaks turning slowly to pink, a peaceful idyllic watch is suddenly interrupted as Wik spies about twenty firefly lights bobbing and darting in their direction, entering the camp determinedly.

As if a well oiled machine, they break off, three to each of the adventurers and two toward Ichabod, poking and turning their belongings over, stealing bright and shinies. Ooma smacks at them, clapping her hands.

Wik shouts, “Attack! We’re under attack!” Waking everyone, creating confusion and discombobulation, their arms flailing about brushing at the critters.

These gnat-like creatures dart and dive relentlessly.

As our group awakens fully, they become more organised, and begin to attack in a concerted order.

Jhalo charms three of the wee-folk into listening to him and to stop attacking.

The others continue persistently. As a unit the human-pixie-like fireflies draw tiny bows and nock tiny arrows that, when released and hit their target, surprisingly hurt! Several of the arrows fall to the ground, but six find their way into two members, Tessalia and Morgan. As they enter, a warmth flows through their veins and arteries speedily, and it is only a few seconds before they become confused and befuddled, disoriented and unaware.

Wik leaps around trying to grab his belongings and the fireflies giggle and laugh at his actions. He holds a tiny gem up and the one that has not absconded with his boxes, gleefully snatches the item and flits about hoping for more.

Ooma claps her hands, capturing one, killing it instantly. It slumps like a large dragonfly. Ooma chucks it into the fire and the flames leap and soar as high as the treetops and in multi-colours, before dying back to small embers.

Amaril turns and look through the trees for the ones who’ve flown off.

Jhalo calls to the ones he’s befriended and asks them to ask their friends to stop their attack, which they do, being cheerful with his thoughts in their minds. Their friends do not listen. Benjo barks exuberantly as the few paying him attention fly down and poke his butt.

Morgan sits and stares at the flying people amused and without intelligent thought.

Ichabod stands and brings her hands together high over her head. A golden light glows in her palms. She brings them down suddenly and they can see tiny golden threads, like spider-silk, stretching to each of the firefly-like creatures wrapping around them four times, stilling their motion. Ichabod begins chanting in Sylvan, her words low, “Gossamer wings, golden thread, faerie rings, home to bed.”

The golden threads float from her fingers, dimming as they do, riding back to the fireflies. As they reach the creatures they unwind until disappearing entirely. When the thread releases them the fireflies join together, rise and fly off into the woods.

The assembly tries to regroup. The morning noise and light is stealing over the area. Gathering their stuff from where it’s been flung, Jhalo notices Tessalia flapping her hands with a frightened, frantic appearance about her. “Tess? Are you alright?”

“Tess? Who’s Tess? What’s a Tess?” she responds anxiously.

Ooma, noticing Morgan sitting, staring at the events with a dumbfounded look, saunters over and offer him her wineskin. She gets worried when he lifts the skin and begins to pour the contents onto the ground! “That’s enough of that!” she takes the skin back. She looks to the rest, “We have a problem here.”

They look back and forth between each other, confounded. What has happened to these two fine people?

o0o

XP FOR SEPT. 9 – For NOT fighting with the Crayol’s, a bonus of 500XP each. For trekking over twelve hours in one day, 200XP each. For killing one ‘house-constructed’ Pixie-Firefly, 150XP to Ooma. For befriending three Pixie-Fireflies, 300XP to Jhalo.

Video link: < https://www.youtube.com/edit?o=U&video_id=sVzZHMEEtQ4 >

o0o

the boats captain, the boats...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~*~

With Crayol’s there are no rulez...

“May the rolls be high and our DM merciful,” Ooma recites her morning prayers...

The birds are singing, the sun is just peeking over the hills.

Ooma goes to thank Edith and ask her if she has some rations they could purchase... (and the lengthy pause with internet issues begins... tag, I’m it tonight...)

(This group needs to chat more... Everyone – tell one thing you really like or hate. Then y’all can discuss your viewpoints...) I’m back! (Or chat about how I can fix Hangouts... maybe together we’ll hit on the right procedure...)

OKAY, BACK TO THE KNOLL...

Ooma ...rations, travel...

Edith offers the group breakfast and Wik dashes in, his hollow leg empty.

(Why don’t chickens have nipples?” Wik asks. “So they don’t poke through the packaging!” he snorts as he forks an egg into his mouth.)

The others gather at the table, Morgan lifting his head and glancing at them, his eyes red. As he focuses he straightens, yawning widely, and reaching for the empty bottle in front of him. Lance is already on his way to replenish their supply, and, when he returns from the cellar, he grins at Morgan and slides three bottles of his mother’s wine in Morgan’s bag.

Ooma, smiling at the kids, calls Lance over and hands him her wineskin, and asks him to fill it, giving him a gold coin for his trouble. He fills it to nearly bursting!

The group goes about their morning rituals. Edith comments that her journey to the Dwarf caves will be long and she’d like to get started soon.

The group graciously hurries about, shuffling their belongings and heading for the exit. Morgan nods, scarfing down his food, “I can certainly understand you wanting to be rid of Ooma as soon as possible.” He laughs.

"To the South? Surely, that's the road you'll be taking?" Edith says as they prepare to set off.

Ichabod, smiles sweetly, her eyes narrowing, "No, I think not. I believe we'll be going to the East." Her gazed levelled at Edith. A tension creeps between them.

Edith stares at Ichabod, eyes narrowed, before she masks her face, “Well, as you wish, I must get ready, it’s a long walk to the dwarf village.” She turns and stalks back into the house, her children playing with the Dwarf servants off in the trees.

As the party leaves heading toward Montgomery and the Tavern door, Wik comes up beside Ooma, shyly walking next to her as the party treks through the forest.

Suddenly, a tall, skinny human male wearing flowing black robes, with greasy black hair spiking from under the hood of his black cloak, kicking stones and throwing his arms about as he stomps purposefully along the forest floor, bars their way. His crooked nose appears to have been bloodied recently.

Morgan looks impudently, and contemptuously asks, “Who wears all black? Are we in a children’s story?”

The fellow disdainfully replies, “Black is my colour.”

Wik sneers, “And blood is mine – shall I be wearing yours next?”

Eyes the colour of pond scum pierce them angrily, and in an instant, clapping his hands, he becomes seven, which immediately begin to flank the group, paying special attention to Wik.

Morgan snorts, “Black isn’t a favourite colour – black is a complete lack of imagination!” As the group readies for battle, Ichabod slashes her staff solidly at one of the formats, which comes too close, watching it vaporise and dissipate, leaving five mirror-images and the original person.

Wik nocks his new bow, pulling back an arrow and sending it through another image, eliminating it. The group turns their attention to the remaining five.

Amaril fires his crossbow and it sends another wisp into the ethereal. Ooma swings her new weapon and, surprised by the feel, spins widely leaning on a tree while shaking her head clear.

Itoris the Black, grins at them, his teeth yellow, turning his attention to Wik, “You are a rude pup!” and, in Elven, he rumbles, “Magic Missile.” Wik sees a coal-black mist shoot from his fingertips, mimicked by the images, forming into missiles of force hurtling towards him, striking and staggering him backward.

Morgan leaps using weapons in both hands, strikes two of the dark figures, one evaporating into a black mist, the other staggering, a bloody rent appearing on the three remaining images which quickly slide about like the shells in a shell game, masking the original. Ichabod spins her staff missing everything, landing on her ass on the soft pine needles, picking herself up as the battle continues.

Wik shoots his arrow, and another image poofs into mist. Amaril launches another arrow which should have dissipated another image, while Ooma strikes with her axe, gouging deeply into the remaining image, the real one.

Itoris is mad. He sends black smoky missiles into Ooma’s body.

Morgan retaliates his arms flinging his weapons, winking out the final false image (which, due to DM error in count remained). Ichabod springs forward and loses her balance as her staff misses the man again.

Wik, his arrow nocked, waiting for Ichabod to move, sails it deep into the sorcerer’s body, the shaft sticking out gruesomely. Amaril’s arrow shoots wide as the target spins about, with Ooma chopping into his body, killing him.

As he lies, crumpled on the forest floor, Wik leans over him and spits, “That’s why you don’t mess with Wik the Red.”

Amaril begins stripping the body of its valuables, finding a very sturdy, sharp dagger and a bag of copper coins with a few gold and silver coins mixed in. He also discovers glass vials, one of goldish and two of silvery liquids.

Morgan removes his boots and trades his muddied boots for the soft leather ones of the unfortunate attacker. Grateful for their comfort he comments that, “these are the most comfortable boots I’ve ever owned.”

Wik removes his cloak, handing it to Ooma, and pulls on the oversized bloodied cloak of the magician.

Morgan slights Ichabod, muttering that, “she is good for nothing.”

Ichabod takes offense. “I don’t have to be with you,” she announces pointedly.

“Well, fine then, I’m not walking with you anymore,” Morgan announces petulantly, stepping to the other side of the road. “This is where we part ways.”

Ichabod shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Truly, to her it does not matter, she is after one thing, and one thing only: To free the one calling through the ages to her Order, knowing that in doing so she will let loose the mechanisms that will either end creation as it is known now, or extend it for a further millennia. That will be up to those walking with her. She walks on.

Ooma shakes her head.

A stream nearby beckons to Wik and he feels the need to purge the ‘tame’ water from Edith’s and fill his waterskins with the wild water flowing across the mosses and rocks.

Morgan laughs and snorts, “It needs to be ‘free-range’ water?”

It takes the group several minutes to recover as laughter fills the Knoll while they watch Wik ‘corral’ the water.

Going through a grotto, they discover a tall fence made of wood, laced together with wicked-looking barbs; a palisades. A gate stands open and there appears to be no one about.

Wik and Amaril sneak in, checking for traps, as the rest of the party readies themselves for battle.

Wik and Amaril return relaying they’ve seen a long, stone building with a thatch roof. A tiny, square building sits at the back, and a large aviary, (it is assumed, due to the large amounts of feathers littering the ground) to the side as they pass the palisade.

There is a door in the centre with two windows on either side, each about a third of the way along the otherwise blank wall. Smoke curls from the chimney. They discuss what this building could be and if they should venture forward. Eventually they do move forward.

As they get close to the door they hear noises. Deciding to avoid disturbing the people, Wik moves around to the back, deciding to enter the smaller building first. Opening the door cautiously, ready to leap on anything inside, he gets a whiff of a strong odour as he discovers he’s stalking the outhouse.

Morgan’s conscious pricks at him and he mumbles something about some-people’s parenting skill and how it is that they let their children play at a tavern that takes them past a heavily fortified fort – it goes mostly unanswered.

Ooma bravely goes to the door and knocks. “Who’s there?”

“Adventurers Incorporated.”

A short shop keep approaches and you discover he is RED. Red-skin and wearing all red, he looks like a blood stain. “How can I help you?” His voice is almost cold.

“We’re looking for a Tavern, do you know where it is?”

Before he can answer, Morgan shoulders in, “Do you have any rum?”

He turns to him, “Why yes, of course, come in, come in.”

Amaril and Wik walk in and the man turns in disgust, ignoring them. He takes Morgan over to the counter.

The rest of the party looks about the shop. They spy two other shopkeepers, one green and a blue one.

The blue one pushes Ooma aside and welcomes Wik and Amaril warmly.

The green fellow comes to Ooma, “I’m so sorry my dear. Hey, Blue, don’t be such an ass!” He draws Ooma to the counter. “Now, what can I do for you my dear?”

Ooma wonders about healing potions. “What type? We have ones for poisons, ones for injuries, scrapes, sprains,” the list goes on.

“Wounds. Slashing and piercing.”

“Now, it’s just for you, correct?” He seems pleased with her answer as he goes back and begins to mix some concoctions.

Morgan is tricked into purchasing a glass of rum, and one for the shopkeep as well, who professes the watered down rum to be of the finest quality.

Morgan then asks if Red has anything that will protect him against evil witches. “Oh, yes, yes! I believe I have just the thing.” He goes to the back and begins searching. Morgan, eyeing the open bottle and glass left behind, calls to the man, “it needs to be really good, she’s really evil!” His hand pouring a drink.

Wik looks at Blue and insensitively questions, “What species are you?”

“Species? We are Crayols,” he says rather indignantly. “Now, what can I get for you?”

Ooma shouts over, “Get something for your skin, I don’t trust that last Alchemist.”

“My skin is fine,” he sighs.

Blue looks at Ooma, his repugnance showing, “What does she know, you look fine. Can I get you anything?”

Wik is looking for a nice rapier and Amaril requests a composite bow. Blue’s eyes opening wide as Wik shows his pouch of gems. “It better be nice.”

“Of course it’ll be nice, we don’t sell junk like that husband and wife pair over yonder, that Edith witch.”

Ooma, overhearing this, mutters, “she has a small shop, but her food is delicious.”

Green pipes in, “Aye, I’ll give her that, she’s a good cook. Now here,” he draws her attention to the vials in his hands, passing them to her one at a time. “This pink one is for healing nasty cuts, or goring, just pour this on the spot and a nice fizz will heal the wound right up. This here, yellow one will return you to life, even if you are unconscious. Have someone pour it down your throat and it will perk you right back up. This one, he hands her another vial filled with a shimmery silver colour. This one is only to be used if you are hit with electrical magic. Rub it well into your skin and the effects will protect you for about ten days.”

As Ooma goes to pay with white diamonds Green’s eyes shimmer as he takes two of the stones.

“Now, this vial, a golden liquid, is special. Even if you are at death’s door, this one will revive you with more vigour and constitution than you had beforehand. This amount is good for two uses.”

“That’s a good deal.”

“Yes, but remember, it’s for you,” as he turns to look at Morgan, “not for them.” His voice drips acid.

Red comes back, a velvet bag in his hand which he furtively attempts to hide from the others, pouring the contents, a pure silver cross, onto his hand. “Now there. That’ll protect you from the worst of the witches. Just show it to a witch and she cannot get within ten-feet of you.”

“Seems reasonable.”

Blue returns with the rapier and a crossbow, “Will these do?” he asks of Amaril and Wik.

Amaril immediately examines the weapon thoroughly. Seeming pleased with its quality, he and Wik cough up the required amount, and the merchant seems happy as he fills his pocket with jewels, his shifty eyes sliding left and right.

“Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“How about something to deal with a lich?”

“A lich! How do you deal with a lich?” He ponders for a moment, “Ah-ha!” he exclaims as the answer comes to him. He disappears to the back, returning with a thick-soled, light-weight pair of grey leather boots. “Here, these might help you run fast enough.”

“Thanks, but, no.”

“Drats, I thought I’d sold them this time” he mutters loudly to his partners.

Morgan pipes up, “Whoa, how much faster? Can I try them on?”

Red shakes his head. “Once you put them on you can’t take them off.” He answers honestly.

Wik begins to sense a coldness; an aloofness from Blue, like he just doesn’t care.

Morgan slips the cross over his neck and senses nothing particularly. Red reassures him, “We’ve never had any witches in here.”

Ooma suddenly asks if they have any oil? Green pulls three clay bottles up and places them on the counter, “This what you’re looking for?”

She takes twenty, distributing them amongst the group when she exits the building. She also purchases twenty Tinder Twigs.

Amaril wanders about the store, the Blue dude following him, trying to sell him more of anything! “Do you have any arrows?”

“Poisoned? Metal tipped? Stone tipped? Wooden practise ones?”

“Can I have twenty poison-tipped ones please?”

“Of course. Be very careful not to touch the tip,” Blue warns him as he hands them with the black, tarry-tips wrapped in a parchment. Amaril leans close and asks, “Do you have an invisibility cloak?”

“It’s very expensive. Twenty thousand gold.” Amaril is disappointed, but not as disappointed as Blue. Even lowering the cost to fifteen thousand is still to rich for the party’s pouches.

As they finish their purchases, they exit the building. Ooma rushes back in and asks if they have any pink cloth?

She is shown by Green to the bolts of pink cloths. Ooma chooses five yards of soft pink silk that the shop keep offers. She is very pleased as she exits the building.

As the group is sorting their purchases, Ooma distributing the oil among the party and as she is doing this the red fellow runs outside and points his finger ominously, “You! You’re a murderer!”

o0o

As you have been gifted with an abundance of powerful weapons, spells and the such, there was to be no XP awarded this week... rest, relax, enjoy your storybook peace...

Oh, heck, ya can all have 500XP each... ya did kill Itoris. PLUS, Morgan and Amaril, you left notes in the Tavern, so you get an additional 200XP this week! (But, ya gotta read this to find them...lol)

o0o

now, whom was he talking to...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~*~

Knoll...

The quick recap – the party is in a smallish cavern with a low ceiling, rough stone walls and stone debris on the floor. The only exit appears to be the tunnel from which they entered (after killing the young Cryohydra) and echoing from that direction is the mournful cries of something in pain, or anguish, accompanied by the sounds of ice being crushed and flung like monkey poop. The noise is creating small stone and debris avalanches in the cave.

A quick discussion ensues as to what to do. Determining the noise is most likely larger versions of Cryohydra, they check their equipment, leaving the searching of the cave to the Dwarves, Benji and Jahlo.

Benji scratches at an area and the serving ladies note that the rock wall he is investigating doesn’t line up. “This looks like a doorway!”

Initial examination shows a slightly offset rectangular shape about twice as tall as wide. Ooma saunters over attempting to pull, then push the shape, seeing if it will give. Wik checks for secret handles or locks, and finds nothing, so he lends his strength to Ooma, the two pushing at the wall of rock until it gives, opening about a foot exposing a sliver of a pastoral scene.

Green grass spreads in all directions a tall trees grow abundantly. The sounds of birds chirping and water flowing in the distance floats through the opening. Also heard, faintly, is someone, a female, calling worriedly.

Wik pushes the stone-door back giving full access to a woodland knoll. He walks out and looking upward he almost embraces the sky as he wanders farther, pulling his bow and nocking it in preparation.

Ooma follows quickly, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun and the gentle breezes. Turning back she enquires of the serving ladies, “Where are we?”

Shaking their heads, they seem extremely perplexed. “This tunnel used to be a through tunnel. I’ve,” she turns to her sisters, “We’ve, never seen this area before.”

Jahlo senses a small bit of magic that seems to be dissipating from around the doorway as he steps through muttering about condiments... “Let’s find those voices and see if we can obtain a meal.” Tessalia seems weak, and leans on Jahlo as they exit the cave.

They discuss blocking the door open with the remaining pitons before they move forward into grotto. Morgan peers about, seeming relieved he hasn’t spied any red feathers, he turns to the serving ladies as he steps through the door, “Looks like you’re sh*t outta luck.”

The serving ladies shrug and scurry to follow, preferring this over the alternative, as the Cryohydra shrieks and wails.

The party hears the voice calling, much closer this time. The words are muffled but it sounds like, “Merrrrccccyyyy; Merrrrrccccyyyy!” 

As it comes closers still, “LLLLuuuuucccccyyyyy; LLLLuuuuucccccyyyyy!”

Some of the group moves toward the voice, while Morgan hammers the pitons in.

As Wik and Amaril move forward, they hear a small child crying and alter their course towards the sound, to their right. At the edge of a stream a small yard-ape sits holding her ankle. Wik calls to her, learning she has hurt herself, and cautiously makes his way down the embankment to where the child sits.

Benji comes bounding up, quickly assesses the situation, nuzzling the teary-eyed girl eliciting a giggle. “What a pretty doggie,” she chortles.

Ooma moves toward the woman heralding, and leads the woman towards Wik, and the child.

Jahlo touches the child’s ankle to heal her wounds. The lady watches curiously, reaching down picking up her daughter. She smiles at Jahlo. “Are you an alchemist?” Learning that he is a Druid, she brightens. “If you like, I have a shop over yonder. I have some interesting wares you may be interested in? You all may be interested in.”

Ooma asks where they are. The lady replies, “In the Knoll.” Ooma speaks of Triton. “Tri-ton? Nooo, I’ve not heard of Triton. I’ve lived here all my life.”

Puzzled, the group glances at each other. “I’m Ooma, this is Wik, Morgan, Tessalia, Jahlo, Amaril, Ichabod, Adrie, Fequr, Racelette, and that big beast is Benji,” she introduces the group.

“Pleased to meet you.” The lady offers no name.

Jahlo bears down upon her, “What we’re in real need of is a decent hot meal, jah?

She smiles as he takes her youngster, tossing her upon his shoulder, while Tessalia leans heavily upon his arm. “I’m sure I have plenty to share. Simple food, but good and hot. Come with me.”

As they continue walking with the lady, Wik hangs back and hisses at Ichabod, “What did you get from the Cryohydra?”

She smiles, “A few shingles of scale and about ten yards of hide.”

They come to a long house with a door about mid-way along the wooden structure, with windows, evenly spaced on either side. The lady invites them in and sends one of her older children to get some wine from a cellar store house.

She sets a large cauldron filled with steamy meat-and-vegetable stew on the long, hardwood table, while her older daughter sets plates and spoons alongside baskets of still warm biscuits and water goblets. She puts a wine glass in front of each plate as well.

The young child is set in a rocker by the low fire to rest her ankle.

Morgan takes a bottle of the wine, popping the cork and guzzling from the neck, a happy smile brightening his face. The others pour glassfuls from the other bottles for themselves and the young boy returns to the cellar to retrieve more bottles.

While they eat, the lady brings forward a large branch of Holly and shows it to Jahlo, whose eyes brighten as he examines this near perfect specimen. Jahlo teases the woman, “Druid-nip!”

Morgan asks about eye-of-newt and mandrake plants when she mentions she has a shop through the opening. While she goes to search for the requested material, Morgan eyes the eldest boy, “You there! Boy! Go and bring me another bottle of this wine!” he waves the half finished bottle about, sloshing it, as he gives his orders, before tucking it inside his jacket when a new bottle is set before him.

The children continue to stare like only kids will, listening to the wild story that Ooma embellishes as the kids eyes grow huge. The party enjoys hamming it up for the youngsters, winning their trust and approval.

Ooma reaches into her pouch and withdraws a tiny gem for each of the kids, whose eyes grow even bigger as they clutch their own shiny stone in their hands. Oooo and ahhhing, showing the gems to each other.

Morgan, in his drunken stupor, hands the older three children each a rusty dagger from his ample supply. He spews some malarkey about needing to learn to defend their valuables, before turning his attention back to his glass of wine.

The children, in their excitement, completely forget Jahlo’s rule of not running with sharp things in their hands, and run off to show their mum. Jahlo bets that one of the children is going to put an eye out before they leave. Wik takes that bet.

Ooma asks about a washroom and is told there is an outhouse out back. She reemphasises what she is actually looking for is a wash basin, and is led to a small room with an ewer and a porcelain bowl on a dresser with a framed mirror hanging above it. Morgan rifles through his pockets and hands Ooma a sharp dagger, which she uses to shave and make herself presentable.

Wik and Amaril browse the shop.

The lady comes up to Wik and shows him a finely made longbow. “Only two thousand gold coins. I’ll throw in twenty arrows as well.” A little dickering, spending his gems, and Wik has a finely crafted longbow, made by elves for elves. He can feel the power just by holding it.

She turns to Amaril, “Would you like a bow as well, or a suit of leather armour? Or both? Only two thousand gold coins. I can exchange gems, if you have them.”

Amaril barters his gold necklaces and gems, and borrows the final two hundred from Wik, obtaining a sturdy leather, intricately tooled and tanned, suit of armour.

For Tessalia, who upon entering the fresh air and bright-light, fell ill again. The trek across the forest proving too much for her. Jahlo assists her, at the insistence of Edith, on top of a feather bed in a small alcove at the back of the hearth. Edith presents Jahlo with a wand, explaining, "This wand will allow your sorceress to cast Magic Missiles for thirty uses. I’m sure she will be thrilled to have it, only a thousand gold."

For Jahlo, she lifts up a bronze censer, "This is a special construct," she says, "It's called a Censer of Jeffrey's Aid. Place it on a flat surface, recite the words, “Fire and Water, Sand and Air, Steel Our Hearts, Hear Our Prayer,” and all within ten-feet of the censer receive a boost to their combat morale and their fear saves!" She looks at Jahlo. "The best part is it offers a temporary cover, allowing each member who stays within the ten-foot radius while the spell is burns, a bonus to their HP of 1d8+3! Only twenty-five hundred gold coins.”

Jhalo tries to bluff his way around the expense, which the savvy shop keep is wise to, but, knowing her profit is safe, she does lower the cost, and tries to offer him more Holly, for a price.

For Ooma, (happy now that she's been able to scrape the ungainly hairs from her chin), is doubly-pleased to trade in her dulled battle axe for a sharp shiny new Dwarven Battle axe, with an etched pattern on the face of the blade, that seems to be built for her alone! Offering a plus two to attacks has her eager to find something to test it on. Ooma barters a deal, trading her old axe, the cost drops by two thousand gold coins.

Morgan squints at the lady, leaning in, whispering, “I need something that will protect me from magic.” He pointedly stares at Ichabod.

She thinks, “I don’t know if this will protect you from magic, but will this help?” She offers a finely woven shirt of very strong, lightweight chain. "Mithiral, should help stop those scars when you get into battle." He hands her a bunch of gems and she picks through taking the required amount.

Ooma asks if she sells clothing or cloth and is told sadly, no. She receives the same answer when she requests the whereabouts of an Inn.

The shop keep tells them there’s the sealed entrance to a Tavern over by Green Lake when they press for details of an Inn or Tavern. “Weird things used to come out of that doorway,” the little boy mentions.

Morgan, suddenly interested, asks their names. “Lucy, the youngest, Lance, is the eldest, Matthew, is next and then Brenda.” She pats her stomach, “And one on the way.” The lady smiles and says, “I go by Mama, but if you insist, you can call me Edith.”

Jahlo offers Edith five Goodberries, to celebrate her expecting condition, explaining the berries value.

She reciprocates. “For your troubles let me tell you the Tavern door is not sealed tight. We just tell the kids that so they won’t go playing down there. Ever since the weird things started coming through the door, we closed it tight. Remarkable Meade or not!”

She goes on to tell them that the city of Montgomery, in the East, is the direction of the Tavern door. “I heard tell there’s an Obsidian Forest up that way, my husband may know, but he won't be returning for a month or longer.” Only Wik, with his local knowledge skills fleetingly wonders why the children are allowed to roam to the Tavern so far from their home? The thought is ephemeral as they continue chatting.

The party spends the remainder of the afternoon, playing with the children, teaching the children all sorts of fun/naughty tricks. While all the party is outside, Morgan shows Edith the broach.

“Oh my gawds! I’ve seen this before. Look here, have you noticed this? The Venetian Man symbol. Do you see this?” He voice trembles as it rises. “This is a replica of the Wheel of Time! Where did you find this? The value is nearly immeasurable!”

Morgan queries if the broach will protect him from magic. “Where did I see this before?” she keeps trying to remember. “Yes, yes, this will protect the whole world if used correctly. Where did I see this?”

Morgan grows impatient, uninterested in anything but the value of the trinket. “Who would know the value?”

“The lady, she would know.” Edith looks at him, “This is worth a king’s Ransom. At least fifty, possibly a hundred thousand gold coins. Used improperly it could spell the end of the existence. It could release the night creatures.”

Morgan, only hearing the woman with half an ear, is disappointed when trying to resupply his rucksack, especially with climbing gear. He does receive three Tinder Twigs, which Edith clearly explains to him how to use. Almost finished, Morgan asks her if she has a pouch filled with an emulsion of itching powder, which, after a few moments of pondering and discussion, is produced. Morgan promptly drops the broach into the powder and puts the package in his rucksack.

Watching that, Edith laughs, “What a clever plan! Lance, go get me another bottle from the basement.” With which she toasts his ingenuity.

Edith volunteers to return the Dwarven ladies to their families when Ooma explains their plight. She seems quite happy to offer this service, and the others seem exuberantly excited at this news.

Ooma points to Wik and asks Edith, “Do you have anything that will turn him back to normal?”

She smiles and shakes her head, “I’ll need to analyse the original ingredients. It will take me a few days, if you’d like to wait or return later, I can see what I can do.”

“No, that’s okay. I won’t take any more of your time.”

Edith offer the group bottles of wine to fill their packs before they set out on their way.

As a final thought for the evening she responds to Morgan’s question regarding the weird things coming from the Tavern door. “Weird flying rats; no, not bats, I know what bat’s are,” she say indignantly. “These were rats with wings.” She shudders, “Unnatural.”

Deciding to remain for the night, they locate suitable spots to bed down for the night. The group finds its restful evening slumber, Amaril, staring at his ring, swears the lady is moving inside the top stone; or are his eyes playing tricks? He drifts off to sleep...

ZzzzZzzzZzz...

o0o

As you have been gifted with an abundance of powerful weapons, spells and the such, there was to be no XP awarded this week... rest, relax, enjoy your storybook peace...

o0o

she was so nice... 

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

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