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...

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