Caves Suck...

Dwarven Warrior Princesses, raised by humans, really HATE caves... 

The short version: Our Heroes tiredly struggle and emerge victorious, (though bloody, muddy and cranky), against two tough-vermin critters before Amaril is sucked away via a whirlpool trap, after locating a hidden doorway. Wik locates another hidden door and Ooma, followed by Wik, Adrie, Fequr, Racelette, Ichabod, and Morgan, with Benji bringing up the rear, go through this door, emerge in an even larger cave, (chilly, cold cave), where they dispatch one foul reptilian creature and another one rounds the bend. "I really hate caves," Ooma sighs. 

The longer, picturesque route...

As you will recall, if you were paying attention last week, we begin this week at the ready in a granite-sided tunnel with a soaring ceiling and a rubble strewn, muddy, floor with about six to eight inches of water trickling along. The scratching noises are growing and the lighted sword that Jahlo magically imbued, sputters and blinks out just as an enormous form rounds the slight curve to the south...

Alert, even though blind momentarily from the disappearance of the light, Morgan, in the lead, calmly searches his pack, listening as the noises grow, finding a torch and lighting it.

As the torch sparks to life the group gasps in shock, then fright, then horror as they perceive two monstrous centipedes, approximately 15-18-feet long, their pinkish-white scale-like skin reflecting the torchlight. Our group haven’t time to do anything further as the lead centipede lunges for Morgan, its maw wide showing the many rows of sharp needle-like teeth.

Morgan, startled, quickly transfers the torch to his offhand and draws his weapon. Wik moves forward and plunges his short sword deep into the creature’s neck, the wide gash spewing a foul yellow bile, the creature screaming and twisting, moving closer. Adrie shifts toward the creature nervously, raising the dagger given her by Wik, throwing it, but, in her nervousness, she over compensates and the party hears the knife clatter well beyond the beast.

Ooma can smell this creature, and she swings wildly with her axe, nearly decapitating Adrie and Wik. “Hey hey hey! Wait; wait! You’re not anywhere near the creature! Jeeez!” They pant as Ooma, knocked nearly off-balance from her twirl, stumbles to a stop, her axe handle gripped tightly within her hand.

Ooma mutters, “Well, I need help. Point me to the bad guy next time! Sheesh!”

The creature rears up and lunges again for Morgan, misjudging the distance, due to the yellowy-pus oozing from its neck and eats a mouthful of rubble on the ground in front of Morgan. The second beast meanwhile is crawling along the far wall, it’s length nearly as long as the line of adventurers. It remains about ten-feet up on the side of the rough, damp wall, endeavouring to come up behind his meal.

Fequr throws her dagger at the creature as it slithers along and succeeds in hitting the wall just under the beast, her blade clattering to the watery-rocks below. Amaril considers sending a flaming arrow into the side of this beast, pulling a flask of oil from his pack, and preparing the ends of two arrows, glancing at the creature often as he does this. Racelette raises her arm, throws her dagger hard and strikes the wall in front of the creature, gaining its attention as sparks flicker, but losing her dagger in the watery muck below.

Ichabod steps forward, her mighty staff swings and crushes into the second beast’s skull, the heavy jewelled top of her staff wounding the creature, leaving it with a rather bloody grin.

Morgan, meanwhile, swings his weapon at the first creature who manages to roll, avoiding the sharp blade. Morgan then moves to deftly step around the creature, turning his body so as to flank the creature between Wik and himself, circling to the right and behind, keeping both beasts in his line of vision. While Morgan does this, Wik steps forward and again tries to plunge his blade deep into this hungry creature, but, in the slimy, sloppy trail of its bile, Wik slips and the blade glances off the stone just in front of the beast.

Ooma, hearing the muttered curses and clangs upon the stones, readies her axe and shouts, “Don’t you come near me!” Warning all and sundry that she will swing at the first thing that brushes against her!

The creature, frustrated that it can smell a meal but can’t seem to latch on, slithers speedily towards the party, its jaws opening and clamping around Racelette, who screams, pushing at it, pain radiating as the beast drops off, leaving a circle of tiny pin-holes on her leg, the poison the beast injects as it bites, trying to subdue her, fails, as she has become immune to various poisons over the years. Still blood droplets drip slowly from the piercings. She backs away, limping.

The other beast, leaps toward Wik, who jumps back, avoiding the gaping orifice. Amaril, hustles to the torch, lighting his oil-dipped arrow turning and firing before he finishes his spin causing the arrow to sail over the creature’s head landing in the shallow water with a sizzling splash fading to nothing.

Racelette, Fequr and Adrie, now weapon-less, move to stand near Ooma, their backs to the wall as Ooma shouts at them to, “Just stay put! The wolf will protect you! Protect them Benji.”

 Ichabod steps forward and with an oath, swings her staff and connects with... air, as the beast ducks. Morgan, moves into position and elevates his scimitar above his head, then down on the creature’s back, neatly drawing a line, intersecting with Wik’s earlier cut, enabling the escape of more yellowish-bile and causing the creature to rear up in fearful pain.

Amaril drops his crossbow and tries to haul out his scimitar, getting it caught in his armour and manages to twist himself about, while Ichabod swings her staff downward, and, as the beast tries to clamp onto the top, and she manages only to break one of its many teeth while pulling the staff back.

Morgan, eyeing the beast in front of him, hoping it keeps its attention focussed on Wik, swings his weapon and slices a mighty gash along its back crossing the earlier one, and splashes of ooze leaks forth. As Morgan’s blade is pulled back, Wik’s sinks in deeply, causing the creature to shriek an un-holy sound, its pain voluble.

Ooma, her eyes finally adjusting from the flash of brilliant light, wishes she couldn’t see! The large centipedes with their growling rumble and putrid scent spur her to charge the one near Wik and Morgan, her feet slipping and sliding in the slimy mass stumbling and nearly toppling arse over head. As she comes to a stop, righting herself, Morgan sardonically mumbles, “You really didn’t grow up in a cave, did you Dwarf?”

Causing Ooma to lift the hem of her dress and emphatically reply, “No, I did NOT!”

Ichabod, smiles at this exchange before swinging her staff at the beast, missing completely. While Morgan takes another swing at the one in front of him, slashing a large slice out of the beast’s side.

Wik follows, shoving his blade, again into the side, cutting upward. Ooma once more swings her axe, and cleaves a boulder in two, as the centipede manages to duck and roll out of the way of the oncoming death blow! Ooma shouts at the beast in frustration!

Amaril swing his scimitar and it connects with... air. The monsters rear up; their fear palpable. The one near Wik flips up and weakly attempts to bite Wik, but as he is so frail he is barely able to mount a splash, sliding backward, his feet sinking in the sludge. The other creature leaps for Ooma, his aim, off, the pain of losing a tooth bothering him, it instead grapples the rock Ooma cleaved into earlier.

Morgan jumps, his frustration evident, “How can we be mighty Heroes we can’t even down another of these creatures! I am going to slay you!” He thrusts his scimitar deftly inside the creature piercing straight through. The creature rears up, in a dramatic fashion, quivering and shaking before straightening and flopping down, dead. Morgan calmly steps on the centipede as he withdraws his scimitar, wiping the muck off along the creature’s side. His leather boots becoming slick with the pus and bile flowing from this dead critter. He then speedily walks toward the other beast, “Make yourself useful,” he shoves the torch into Adrie’s hands as he passes, while Ooma mutters that the ladies should find their daggers.

Adrie holds out her arm, waving it, the flickering light creating shadows, bright flashes and back to shadows again. Wik sneaks up and stabs the creature in the bum, ending its constipation problem, but earning Wik a roar of displeasure! While Ooma swings her axe as the torch light flickers, startling her and she steps back lowering her weapon in uncertainty.

With this the beast lunges at her and, as she steps back again, soars over her to the left and slithers to a stop on square one, square two, square... Ooma, taking advantage of his near miss, swings her axe, chopping a gash in its scaly hide. Wik, ever watchful, sees the creature sliding to a stop beside him quickly stabs with his shortsword, rendering a mighty twelve-inch gash before hauling the sticky blade out of the centipede’s side.

Amaril jumps and brings his arm down, his scimitar gashing a huge hole in its belly, spilling a glistening, round, egg-like sac, the slime-coated pearls sinking into the murky water. Bothered by the creature’s apparent state of motherhood, Ichabod’s staff swishes above the centipede, merely fanning it.

Morgan pulls his scabbard out and flails at the centipede, the scabbard causing the creature to vomit and spew bile in his direction before dropping like a stone, dead, laying in its own fetid excrement.

The party takes a short break, resting their weary bodies, Ooma vocally objecting to continuing further into these caves, “I tell you, I smell a trap!” The ladies shake their heads sadly.

“No wonder you don’t live underground, this place sucks!” Morgan agrees with Ooma, then offers the ladies a swig from one of the bottles of liquor he filched from the bar and raises an eyebrow when they shake their heads.

“No, thanks, we don’t drink.”

Ooma’s ears perk and she turns to them, “A Dwarf that doesn’t drink?” She shakes her head, “Now I’m certain we’re going into a trap.”

“It’s not so bad living underground,” the youngest, sister, Racelette, murmurs.

Ooma petulantly snipes at the serving ladies, “Fine, if you like it, you can find your own way from here. Fuck this shit! I’m out! If you can handle this shit what do you need us for? Ruined my new dress.”

Afraid they might have offended their benefactors, Adrie reaches for the bottle, and, grimacing slightly she swallows a mouthful, and hands the bottle to her sister Fequr who gulps a mouthful, shuddering as she passes the bottle to Racelette, who sees Morgan watching her intently. She lets him see the liquid spill into her mouth, raising the bottle high and pouring, before she swallows and hands the bottle back to Morgan, shuddering. “Vile stuff, that is.”

“My faith has been restored!” He gulps a few mouthfuls of the ‘fire-water’.

“Don’t worry, we’ll clean and repair your dress. We wouldn’t have asked but this way to our home is one we’ve travelled only once before. We don’t know what to expect.”

“And, as you see, we’re not battle maidens,” one adds softly.

As they sense animosity from the Dwarf in the group, the three move off, locating two of their three daggers, and moving to harvest the feet.

Morgan staggers over and asks, “Why didn’t t’ch’all make your home closer to the entrance?” As he swallows more of clear liquid in the bottle.

As they are resting, wiping their tools, drinking, nibbling some food they’d managed to pocket as they left the party grounds, Wik and Amaril feel a tingle in their noodles. Ooma would have too, if her heart had been less hardened against being underground, the other ladies should have been aware of the hidden door, but their minds are focussed elsewhere.

Amaril, peering about suddenly exclaims, “Hey ya’ll, see this?” He points to the solid block of granite. Wik grins, nodding. Amaril locates the tiniest hairline fracture darkening a rectangular block of granite and notices a small finger-hold along the left-hand edge, and he warns the party, “Ya’ll need to move to the front of the cave here, I think I’ve found a trap.”

Wik nudges one of the servants, “Do you know anything about this?”

Glancing, “No, would you like us to take a look?” At his nod, they pile the feet they have gathered into the makeshift bag, with the others from the previous kill, stand, walk toward the spot Amaril has indicated.

Amaril walks in front of the ladies, his thoughts focussed on distinguishing any traps, and, although he does, before he can speak, the floor around him opens up and he is drawn in the wink-of-an-eye into a smooth, deep-purple almost black, glass-like tube about five-feet in diameter, immersing him in arctic-cold rushing-water propelling him downward at an amazing rate of speed prior to branching to a 45-degree slide, enabling Amaril to lift his head and gasp a lungful of air before the 30-second ride culminates in a fifteen-foot freefall-plunge into a shockingly-cold naturally-carved stone bowl.

As he pops back above the surface, “What the heck!?!” he chokes, coughing mouthfuls of water out. His teeth are chattering and he hastily forces his frozen limbs to the shore of the large body of water he has just splashed into. Grasping onto the rock that serves as the shore, coughing and shaking, he pulls his body from the crystal-clear water. A soft glow radiates from lime green organic, rectangular-ish blobs, both, on the walls of the cave and under the water. Along with the evenly spaced glowing-blobs, the bottom of the Rock Bowl is encrusted with vibrant, colourful gems entrenched deep in the rough stony surface.

As Amaril stares, a slow, rhythmic thrum begins to emanate from somewhere, vibrating the level-surface of the placid water in concentric circles.

To the east, on the shore, a small, unattended, fire crackles. A structure, resembling a three-sided tent, sits behind the fire. From his location Amaril can see various items in and around the tent. His teeth chattering and mind numb, he, at first thinks it best to stay put, but as his fingertips begin to deaden, he makes the connection between fire and warmth; mincing his way around the narrow, five-foot ledge, to the larger circle where the fire snaps, his toes frozen.

A stack of wood, or roots? lay waiting as fuel for the fire, and beside that is a hollowed out log, containing ten tinder dry twigs. A roll and blanket are tucked in the back of the tent, the awning re-directing much of the heat inside, a bulls-eye lantern sits next to the bedroll with two flasks, presumably of oil, sit nearby. Three small, sealed wooden boxes sit by themselves on a low bench, as Amaril peers into them, he finds a leather pouch tied with a red bit of string in each.

As he continues to explore this bounty, he unearths a leather bag with a drawstring that, when lifted, feels oddly heavy and squishy. An assortment of tools: a grappling hook attached to a long hemp rope, a small, rusty miner’s pick, a pure silver signal whistle, a three-inch round mirror, a leather tube with a tightly fitted lid, that, when opened reveals a parchment written in Elven, (but it makes little sense to him), a long, thin vial of inky-black liquid, a pen, and three, foot-long metal rods with golden tips. In a leather rucksack Amaril discovers three clear-glass vials containing a pinkish liquid, a clear vial with a light blue liquid, a heap of trail rations and a small pouch that appears to be a Healer’s kit, mostly intact.

He sits down in his wet clothes to think, his breath puffing little clouds in the frigid air, staying near the fire, both warming and drying himself. 

Above him, back in the tunnel, the ladies scream as Amaril is flushed. The group stars open mouthed. “He... he just ...disappeared!”

Ooma comments, with dry humour, “I think there’s a trap over there.”

The group begins to hear a thrum vibrate its rhythmic, mesmerising beat causing them to glance at each other in concern. When the party turns to look at the serving girls they discern fear. The ladies are clutching each other’s hands, wide-eyed, their mouths open.

“That shu’na be hap’en’n,” Fequr’s shaky voice expels. “Nuthin’ any good ever come from that thrummin’.” The other two nod in agreement. “We’ve long since sought the source, but we naught know from whence it comes.” They look at each other as if passing a secret between them, that goes unnoticed by our Heroes.

Their speech has thickened, the party doesn’t seem to have noticed this either.

Ooma suddenly asks “What do you do with the feet you remove from the centipedes?”

Looking at her, questioningly. “The feet contain the poison. We gather them and use them as weapons; poisonous darts,” she explains.

Wik begins to search the cave, and his eyes notice another dark outline in the cave wall. He searches for traps, carefully examining the long wide corridor. He only is concerned about the whirlpool and the two apparent doors, and he wanders back to the apparent door after considering trying to disable the whirlpool trap and sensing something about the swirling water that isn’t normal, he changes his mind.

The door is almost exactly as the other, and Wik, cautiously, orders one of the Dwarf servants to open it. Fequr obliges, examining the doorway, puzzling, “There’s a finger hold lock-mechanism here.” As she speaks, she presses her finger in the opening, drawing it back with a yelp, sucking on it to staunch the trickle of blood. “Has anyone a small round instrument?”

A quick(ish) search of the area turns up nothing. Wik thinks of his glove and hands it to her with a warning, “Don’t wreck it.”

She looks at him, “It pierced me finger. Do you expect me to put that glove on, and not tear it? Are ya daft, man?”

Wik sighs, “Don’t you laugh at my hair.” he warns, as he removes his turban and hands it to her.

“Whatcha ex’pect me ta doo wit’ that?”

“Stuff it in, see if it will open,” Wik sarcastically mentions.

She looks at him, sure he is daft, but shrugs, “Okay.” After tearing it in the opening, he tells her she can keep it. She frowns and wraps her shoulders with it. “I need som’thin’ round. An’ stiff.”

Wik remember the poison spines he has and he offers Fequr one. She nods. “Aye. That’ll do. These come from Madame Quirry’s specimens, I’ll be thinkin’.”

She pushes the spine, needle-nose first, in, hearing a click as the gate/door pops open an inch or so. Several attempts at tugging the door open result in minor success. Morgan swaggers over, “Here, let me help you.” And they yanks several more times, until they all, mad as heck, yank the door which finally results in it grinding open, revealing a short corridor, ten-to-fifteen foot, with a sharp turn. The ceilings are about eight foot high, and the jagged stone carved tunnel is about five-foot wide. The stench that seeps out is foul. Luckily, it dissipates fairly quickly.

Morgan diligently pounds several pitons in the framework of the door’s mechanism, over-compensating in fear the door will slam close after they enter. “If you close after we enter,” he threatens the inanimate object, “I am going to haul you out of here take you back to the city and pulverise you into dust! Don’t you even THINK about closing!”

Ooma is very adamant that they ought to just abandon this decision and leave the cave, go back to the Inn get a room and call it a night. “I mean, c’mon guys, a bed, some food...”

Morgan reminds her of Amaril, who could be trapped somewhere.

“He could be dead,” she grouses, looking at her destroyed tunic in dismay.

“Well, if you want to go back, you go ahead,” Morgan encourages, “But I’m going to find our lost friend.”

“Oh, fine!” Ooma agrees, cranky because of lack of sleep and needing the comforts of a bath and clean clothes. “We’ll probably never get out of here.”

Ooma, her axe and shield out and ready, is elected to lead the party and vehemently opposes being followed by either of the serving girls. Wik enters behind her, followed by the rest of the party, cautiously with Wik holding his bow ready, above Ooma’s head.

Ichabod, the second to last one to go in the tunnel, pauses and shakes her head at Morgan, pounding pitons in all four sides, “I think it’ll stay open.” When he is satisfied, he nods to Ichabod, whom he follows into the tunnel.

The group walks down the narrow passageway, turn the corner and round a wide bend, for about forty metres. The ceiling begins to get much higher and the sides smoother. Looking around they get a sense the space they have entered is enormous although they can only see a high ceilinged tunnel.

“It’s getting cold,” Ooma complains, and the party notices a chill seeming to permeate the further in they go.

They continue forward, silently stopping short as a person suddenly materializes, with its back to them. Wik, keyed up and nervous, pulls the trigger on his crossbow and lands the stone tipped head deep within the creature’s back.

Stumbling, the monster, a lizard creature turns to face Ooma, and the rest, gasping and burping a foul cloud of stench that thankfully, is sucked away swiftly before it is able to incapacitate the party.

Unexpectedly Wik hears a loud, piercing whistle.

Before he can alert the group, Ooma charges the lizard creature cleaving the beast’s arm off and his head rolls He lets loose a tortured bellow. From off in the distance a loud shout, “Hey? You okay?” before the sound of wet feet slapping on the smooth rock reaches their ears.

Amaril hears a loud bellow, and, sitting up he tilts his head, listening as he hears another shout, the words fuzzy.

“Oh shit!” Ooma mutters tiredly.

o0o

PLEASE ADD

100 EXPERIENCE POINTS for July 1^st.

and

450 EXPERIENCE POINTS EACH FOR Amaril, Morgan, Ooma and Wik, for July 8^th. Also, Benji receives 450 points for sitting and staying while his Handler (Jahlo) had an emergency out-of-cave-experience.

For those who added to the Journal, or other story addition in the Mysterious Tavern community, remember to add 100 – XP. Once per week, sorry...

o0o

shivering in the arctic blast...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

*~*~*~*~*

All He Wants You To Do Is Tie His Laces...

ALL HE WANT YOU TO DO IS TIE HIS LACES...

"The evening was a total nose dive!" Ooma shook her head. "I thought Lords behaved better..."

The evening was a right mess. Torn sheets of vivid colour draped upturned chairs, heaps of bloodied fabric moaned in the middle of the dance floor. Amazing that a fire did not erupt with the candles being over-turned!

The one remaining wild animal, a very-full black bear placidly allows Wik to guide it out of the carnage, its tutu swinging comically.

Morgan grabs some of the cleaner scraps of cloth, table coverings and whatnot that he spies as he makes his way to the nearest moaning heap, grabbing a bleeding arm, wrapping it in the strip of tablecloth he tears, eliciting a squeal from the patient as he binds the tourniquet tightly enough to stop the blood flow entirely!

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” the bumbling Mr. Roberts fumbles with it, loosening it to where it is barely touching the arm at all. “Better?” he asks anxiously, before rushing off to his next victim...errr patient. “Not my real profession,” he mutters.

Ooma is trying to calm the three serving girls, who, now that the cheetahs have been dispatched, are anxious to get home. Ooma feels a trite bit suspicious and promises the girls that they will get them home come daylight. “I ain’t going into any damn caves,” she insists, and tiredly moves to help Morgan before the man kills the people he’s trying to help.

Adrie shakes her head, “We must get home. We have to see if mum is alive,” she tells the other two, who nod. They curtsy to the group, turn and trail up the hill around behind the bear cages, following Wik and Jhalo, who are returning the bear.

Ichabod nods and follows the ladies. She has sensed something in their motives, or plea. Only known to her, the staff she grips warms as the ladies near.

Meanwhile distant shouts and general ruckus sounds are coming from the lower half of the park where the circus has set up and, if the serving girls are to be believed, someone has released the animals down there as well. This doesn’t seem to worry our Heroes.

After placing the bear in his cage with fresh water and hay, Wik locks the cage carefully, then he, and Jahlo turn and follow the serving girls down a forested path, bursting out of the dark trail into a small clearing, a mountainous hill rising only a few metres in front of them. The ladies are approaching a dark black spot on the sheer hill, low to the ground.

As they step closer, the cave’s entrance begins to glow, and Ichabod feels the excitement stir in her again. “A back entrance?” She wonders, “or the front?” She plunges into the opening.

Jhalo smiles forcefully, believing the ladies to be leading them into a trap, when they reach the narrow opening to the tunnel systems that lead to their cavern deep under the Obsidian Forest. "Ladies first."

"Some Heroes these be," Adrie mutters as she easily pushes through the thin veil of ivy that obscures the opening. “You can come in now,” she fairly mocks. The other servants drop in first, followed hesitantly by Jhalo, Wik, and then Benji.

A quick look reveals it to be an ordinary cave. Flecked, sparkling granite walls and a muddied stone floor, about 30 metres to a bend, the ceiling appears to rise, probably following the mountain outside. There are grooves in the walls where animals or tools may have carved long ago, but it is all just scratches now. Footprints, of various type can be seen traversing the muddy floor. The light from the small opening, where the sun is just beginning to make her first rays known to the morning, dimly light the cave for about 30 metres, it is grey shadows and blackness beyond that.

The ladies are grateful for Ichabod’s enthusiasm, “Will you walk us further along please?” Ichabod nods, turning to the tunnel.

Mere metres from the cave’s exit, Jhalo again gets a prickly feeling in his neck. “Hey, will there be a reward for this?” he asks. “I mean, it’s nice and all sticking our necks out, but...” his speech fades.

The ladies look at each other, “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m sure we can arrange for some gems... something,” Fequr nods.

At the mention of the word ‘gems’ Wik moves closer. As he does so, one of the ladies looks closely at him. “You look familiar, have we met?” As Wik denies meeting her, she continues, “I never forget a face, it’ll come to me.”

Back at pandemonium headquarters the rest of the group is helping themselves to the liquor that, somehow, miraculously survived the carnage. Morgan, diligently searches for any remaining dangers and, while he’s at it, he checks the grounds for lost coins or trinkets, and discovers 2-gold coins. “Bloody stingy bunch of hob-nobbers,” he grouses.

As they are about their business, a well outfitted soldier approaches from the opposite direction, hailing the stragglers and our remaining party members. Wary at first, are pleased, they think, to make the acquaintance of Ayrowynn Bishop Fletcher, “Fletcher, please,” The tall brunette flings her long braid back over her shoulder.

“You look oddly familiar?”

“Ahh, I see you’ve met Alistar. Where is that stupid brother of mine?” She looks over the area.

“Yes, he’s right ...over,” looking around, it appears Alistar has faded into the night. “I hauled him from the jaws of death, errr... I mean the cheetah’s arms a few minutes ago.” Morgan looks around as if Alistar will suddenly appear.

“Probably heading back to the monastery where he belongs. This ain’t the place for the likes of him.”

“Pleased to meet you; Morgan. You want to give us a hand?” Morgan asks, struggling to wrap a table cloth around a rather thin person’s neck to cover a small gash.

They finish helping the stragglers, moving them to chairs, all the while Fletcher is shaking her head. “What the hell happened here?”

Ooma fills her in on the inexplicable events leading up to the insanity that pretty much ended the Twilight Supper. Fletcher shakes her head, “This is why I so despise these events. Things always end up the same. But, explain to me how that,” she points to the enormous table lined with bottles of liquor, ”is still standing?”

Morgan shrugs, "I suspect because bears don't have opposable thumbs."

“We should go check on Wik.” Ooma begins to wonder what has happened to the other party members too. “They’ve been gone a long while. I bet they went to help them Dwarf chicks,” Ooma sneers.

Morgan looks around, “Oh, where are they?” He grabs two more bottles of Meade, handing one to Fletcher. “We’re going to need this to find those Dwarf caves. Are you going to be able to find the caves?” He looks at Ooma.

“Oh no you di’n’t’,” she stares at Morgan. “I am not a cave dwelling Dwarf,” she snaps at Morgan.

Looking confused, Morgan swills back another deep drought of Meade. “Well then, how are we going to be able to find these caves, I means,” he slurs, lifting two more tankards of Meade, again handing one to Fletcher, “they’re supposed to be so well hidden.” He leans his arm on Fletcher’s shoulder. “I thought all Dwarves knew where their caves are.”

Tessalia grabs Oomas arm, stopping her punch in mid-flight.

Amaril nods to the others then heads on up to find the missing members, his keen eye-sight easily locating the path. He hollers into the opening, and, after a few seconds, hears Jahlo’s cheerful voice bellow back. He enters the cave, and within a few minutes sees them standing around in a circle, seemingly discussing their options.

Listening vigilantly they perceive unmistakable scritching sounds bouncing off the walls, evoking memories of their near death struggle with the rats a few days earlier. Jahlo tips his head to the side. “’ere now. Listen. That sounds familiar, but not, know what I mean, yah?”

Morgan, uses Fletcher as a leaning post as she begins a discourse on how Lord Triton thinks he has a contract enslaving the Dwarves and forcing them to remain underground – whether he does or not is still a mystery. “As long as anyone can remember, Triton’s ruled the town and controlled the Dwarves. Or, as long as anyone cares to remember.” She adds.

“So can you lead us to the Dwarves?”

“I do know where the cave entrances are. There are quite a few dotting the forest; as children Alistar and I, along with other brothers and sister and cousins used to wander all over the woods. We never actually went as far as the Deep, but, yeh, I know where a goodly number of the caves lie.”

Polishing off another tankard of Meade, the slightly wobbled steps of Fletcher lead the party through the under-brush and along a trail that hasn’t been used in years, popping out in a small corridor where three or four cave openings are revealed as the sun continues its upward climb.

Shouting into one after the other, they finally guess, (and check the openings to see which one has been disturbed lately), crawling through the narrow opening and warily stepping, grabbing hands and ...other body parts... in the darkness, eliciting a few curses, so as not to slip in the mud they eventually meet up with the other members, who are deep within the cave now, its soaring ceiling and vast girth surprises them, they can only guess at it true size as they are still within the large artery feeding into the room. Jahlo uses a magic spell to create a small glow of light, enabling Amaril, and the others to locate them, as well as to provide illumination to the very dark corridor.

About this time a hallucinatory dream spell floats briefly over the party, causing them to see Dragon eggs and gold coins piled high, with the letters XP waving, like a flag, above the numerical formation '3000' – a foreshadowing, perhaps...?

The airborne drugged fog passes and flows out the exit hole, leaving some pretty disappointed explorers.

A quick exchange of greetings as they return from their momentary light-headedness, introducing Fletcher to both Wik and Morgan, they then move forward, slogging through shallow water and over rocky terrain. A few metres later, certainly no more, the scratching noises grow and the party becomes concerned. “If we had a weapon, we could take care of the creatures ourselves,” Racelette grumbles.

Wik, hearing this, leans forward, handing them each a dagger which they sound puzzlingly thankful for. The group takes careful note of the unusual relief formed on one of the walls of the tunnel, before Racelette, followed by Fequr and Adrie take the lead, the darkness doesn’t seem to bother them, although they do remain within the soft glow of Jahlo’s magic light.

Suddenly one of them shrieks! “It’s got me!” and she starts slashing whatever has fastened onto her foot.

The group swiftly jumps to aid her, Morgan wrapping his arms around her, he pulls her hard and they both fly backward. The rest of the group looks back to the creature now scurrying up the wall. A collective gasp escapes as they view a hideous, near hairless monster with a round mouth, that when open shows several rows of razor sharp teeth. The many nub-shaped feet alert the party that this is a centipede, larger than any they’ve seen! Two metres long and about twenty-centimetres thick, the few hairs that do exist upon it’s body give it a grotesque naked-thumb look.

Wik charges the beast, swinging his sword just as the beast ducks, evading the blow. Ooma follows quickly behind, landing a hard-blow which causes the beast to shriek in pain, snarling, or, what passes for snarls from a centipede. Fletcher, familiar with these beasts, fires an arrow into its side, releasing a pussy-stench of yellow slime which causes the beast to rear downward while crawling higher on the wall.

It lunges for Wik, missing by mere centimetres, flopping back into the water and screaming in anger it scuttles away in the water, swiftly climbing the wall again, as Amaril fires a crossbow bolt that sails completely off target, bouncing in the darkness somewhere beyond the creature.

Jahlo intones a carefully crafted speech and a burst of light flashes in front of the creature, unknowing that the creature is blind and cannot be harmed by flashes of light, it hunts by sound, scent or vibration. However, the light flashing in the darkened area catches Ooma and Benji by surprise, causing them to become temporarily blinded.

Tessalia moves forward clapping her hands and thrusting them forward, a large blast of heat flashes against the wall, scorching it, causing the centipede to scurry back, as Morgan jumps up swinging his mighty sword grazing the blackened spot on the wall, leaving a deep scratch in the charcoal.

Wik draws his shortbow, firing into one of the creature's many feet, causing a mighty rumble from the creature as his foot drops off. Ooma, threatens everyone, as she warns if they come near her they risk being cleaved.

Fletcher released another arrow, hitting the centipede solidly, again, more shrieking, the beast crashing forward, his mighty mouth open, glancing off Morgan’s armour landing about a metre in front of Morgan. Amaril swiftly pulls his scimitar out and strikes the fallen creature, the blade cleanly slicing its head off, causing the creature to dramatically shake and quake flopping to the rocks quivering before stiffening and dying.

The three Dwarf servants hesitate only briefly before scrambling forward, daggers in hand, slicing the feet off in such a way as to seal the poisonous liquid, pouring the hundreds of feet into Adrie’s hastily removed and folded apron, tying the strings to create a makeshift bag.

A brief silence among the Heroes allows them to discern more scritching, extending their silence as they look to each other, Ooma and Benji tilting their heads to the side, “What is that?” Ooma asks. “Don’t tell me there’s more!”

The warriors turn toward the bend in the high-ceilinged tunnel, unsure whether to run, or to charge. Benji whines softly, “It’s okay boy,” Jahlo quietens him, empathetic for his friend.

They wait, weapons drawn. Fletcher scrambles forward, retrieving two arrows before skipping back, nocking one of the arrows in the ready.

Someone coughs and is hissed at, “Be quiet!”

The scratching grows, both louder and in number. “Oh crap,” Wik exclaims, his eyes widening as he sees the edge of this creature slide into view, just as the light spell fades to black...

o0o

scritching in the dark...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

*~*~*~*~*

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...

*~*~*~*~*