Iron rusts...

“May our rolls be high and the DM merciful,” Ooma’s voice rings out...

Our heroes, cranky at their trek through the labyrinth of obsidian, granite, limestone, agate and other stone lined walls and floors, rise once again, their rest, uninterrupted, feeling stronger, full and healthy from their meal of tubers and ketchup.

Wik finally remembers to use the ointment the Alchemist offered him to help turn his colouring back to a more normal shade of skin-tone. It is difficult to say whether it will work as it has not been used according to directions, but, we shall see... Morgan’s memory has mostly returned and he vaguely remembers everything that has happened up to this point.

They gather themselves up and prepare to move onward, when a sudden violent shaking occurs, tossing them to the ground, prone. The intersecting corridors rattle with a small shower of dust and pebbles. It settles after a moment.

When no further rumblings occur, Wik lights his lantern, and leads the way. They clamour to their feet and begin again to seek the exit from this sarcophagus-feeling maze.

Winding along the uneven stone floors, trying to avoid the spikes jutting from the wall, they serpentine through the dark tunnel, never once questioning who, or what, has made these fissures large enough for them to walk, upright, through...

Turning a corner, Wik, in the lead, spies a dark circular shadow on the wall, about waist height. Upon closer inspection he sees it is a hole. He warns everyone, “I have an uneasy feeling about this.” He directs the team to file past while he elects to stay at the rear, watching the hole intently.

All pass without incident and he warily lifts his lantern and slides past, glancing ahead for a moment to steer himself safely. In that pause of inattention a creature lunges from the hole and grabs hold of Wik!

The tentacles of this six-foot long worm-like monster are a little longer than an average human's forearms, and are located on its head, two to either side of its beaklike jaw. With its dark colouration and pale underbelly it is camouflaged in the darkness. Un-camouflaged it is a weak-jawed hungry critter.

Wrestling with the creature as it grapples him, Wik wriggles, and out manoeuvres the creature, freeing himself from its clutches and smashes it with his short sword, slicing off one of his tentacles, causing the creature to shriek in pain, backing him up.

“Keep moving, I got this!” he shouts to Amaril, who has turned, as well as the others, “Go!” Then it lunges again, missing Wik and flopping to the ground, before sucking back into the hole, moaning, a sickly wet blood oozing from his injuries.

 Wik takes advantage of this and hustles back to the front of the line, the party ducking between the spikes to allow him to pass. Amaril takes a few lesions as Wik brushes past him.

With Wik back in the lead, the party continues along the corridor, carefully attempting to avoid being scratched or poked, the floor disappearing behind them until they come to a cross-roads with the corridor continuing in a twisting pattern forward, another to the east and another to the west. After a quick debate, the corridor behind them disintegrating leaving them with a few feet of stone before inky depth, they choose to go east.

These corridors are wider and the spikes protrude less and are smoother, not so much of a danger to our heroes. They step cautiously along the rubble strewn floor.

 

As they pass the first curve Wik spots a creature about fifteen feet in front of them, muttering and jabbering away to himself. In the lantern’s glow, he appears to be a small, stocky dwarf-like creature in studded leather armour. His skin is a pale blue colour and his bulbous white eyes have no irises or pupils. His hair is coarse and white and a long moustache droops past his chin. His laughter is eerie and his voice scratchy and high-pitched. He carries in his hands, a wicked looking short sword, the hilt of wrapped leather and the blade obsidian.

Wik asks Ooma if she can, “Make him out?”

Ooma quizzically shakes her head, “No man, he ain’t speaking no language I’ve ever heard!”

The creature looks up, his eyes glitter and he moves his arms and, suddenly, coming from the creature a darkness rises. It is like standing in a barrel of black ink. The darkness wraps so completely, blocking all manner of vision, obscuring the creature, Wik, Ooma and Ichabod.

Amaril and Morgan are not included in the darkness as they stand a few feet back, their eyes wide. As the others stand there in the blackness, the sound of galloping horses assails their ears. The hooves clopping on the uneven cobblestone floor is loud and reverberates in the stone area. Whinnies and snorts are heard as the horses huff and puff, their shoes ringing loudly.

Wik shouts for them all to flatten against the walls. “Get out of the way!”

Morgan shakes his head in disbelief and then wisely flattens against the wall, ‘just in case’. He reaches in to the darkness trying to pull his companions out. He fails three attempts, his hands grasping the darkness.

This crazed dwarf moves in the darkness, able to sense, he swings at Wik, the battered short-sword clipping his leg, offering a nasty scratch. Ichabod leaps forward, forgetting she doesn’t have her staff and steps back her mind slightly confused.

The creature spies something else that excites him in the darkness and he swings toward Ooma, who feels the swish of the blade as it whooshes past her nose.

Ichabod raises her hands, her thinking cleared, and commands, “Light dispel.” Immediately the dark gloom lifts and a brightness shines like the noonday sun, momentarily blinding everyone, including the creature who shakes his head, his squawking growing in volume.

Ooma, the creature standing in front of her, her blade ready, swings, the light shifting her aim, the creature jumps backward, Ooma’s weapon tearing at his tattered clothing. Morgan tries to flank while Ooma is engaged, and the creature swings at him as Morgan passes, winding between the spikes avoiding the creature’s short-sword.

Morgan turns, swinging his scimitar, missing as he wobbles on his feet, engaging the creature, who spins and slices upward, missing Morgan, his teeth gnashing.

 Ichabod spins her arms, weaving an intricate barrage of words, drawing mist from the dampness imbedded in the stone, and heating the air creating a fog-like mist, the light reflecting against its whiteness creating murky shadows, concealing forms and actions.

Ooma is not blinded in this gloom, “Get against the wall!” and she swings her axe carving a deep gash through his middle, right through his backbone slicing him in two. Wik insists on leaning forward and slicing his throat, ear-to-ear, “Never turn your back on a kill until you’re sure it’s dead,” as Ichabod dispels the mist.

Ooma, foot on its chest, examining her fingernails, raises an eyebrow. “Dude? I sliced him in two. I think he’s dead.”

Morgan looks to Ichabod, “Hey? Do you know what that creature was?”

She looks, and considers. “Looks like a Derro to me. A completely mad creature. Been driven mad by a sorceress, lich, wizard or...?” Morgan stares at her, his eyes blinking slowly in disdain. Ichabod stares back, a smile forming on her lips, “You have yet a mighty role to play young Sir.”

Morgan stiffens, petulantly muttering, “I’m older than you.”

Ichabod giggles girlishly at that, “You keep right on believing that.” As the others attempt to command the ‘eldest’ honour, Wik proudly intoning he is over one-hundred-thirty winters on this planet. Ichabod smiles, “At a thousand your race withers, now imagine thrice as long...”

Morgan insolently asks Ichabod, “How many Derros have you made in your time?”

Ichabod smiles, shakes her head, “I am not into the black magicks.” Following, under her breath she mutters, “Unless it suits my purposes.” A wide grin lighting her face.

Morgan and Wik insist on her proving she is not thwarting their attempts to find the Lady, which Ichabod soundly verifies, (her Charm Person spell so subtle none feel its presence envelop them.)

The group moves forward, the winding corridor turning south. Suddenly Ooma stops, looking at the solid wall of stone, exclaims, “There’s a secret door hidden here.”

Wik does a search, looking for a handle or lock mechanism. He locates a slight indentation, and the hinges opposite it pressing it, hearing a hissing sound, and a ‘POP!’

The thick stone door opens inward revealing a dark, low-ceilinged, narrow passage with smooth walls and a downward sloping floor. As soon as the last person passes through the opening, the doorway swings shut reverberating loudly.

Following the tunnel they come to a room of enormous proportions in which they can barely see the north or south ends, and the east wall appears to be about a football pitch away. Small patches of sunlight filter down into the area (sporting light brown piles of dusty debris). The walls in here sparkle with iron deposits, as well as copper, and other metals embedded in the stone. Our heroes enter, and it is not long, maybe a minute before they hear a noisy clopping sound coming closer and within a few seconds they spot two, charging, insectoid horses galloping at them from the left and right.

As they prepare for battle, they size up these creatures in horror. Appearing as a small pony with insect-like legs, a squat, humped body protected by a sticky, lumpy hide. Its tail is covered in armour plates and ending in a bony projection resembling a double beaver-tail or paddle. Two large feathery antennae project, one beneath each of its beady eyes, and these antennae are cautiously flitting closer to the heroes.

The creatures are slowly pushing forward, caution and intense curiosity propelling them. Wik swings his short sword at the left creature, the blade bouncing off, barely cutting into his hide. Wik watches in horror as his blade suddenly disintegrates into rust, the monster licking at the rusty powder.

Morgan stares, “What the hell?” He moves forward, swinging his scimitar, toward the left, creature, his blade hitting hard, a tingle running up his arm dissipating as he steps back, his blade still intact.

Ooma, wearing plate mail and carrying a wooden shield, steps forward and swings her weapon, hitting and carving a neat gouge from the creature, her axe blade turning to instant dust.

The creature’s eye Ooma and Morgan, their metal armour calling to the creatures like a dinner-gong. One drops to enjoy the axe dust while Morgan watches in amused disgust as his mithril chain shirt falls from his body, the creature enjoying the rust it has become.

Amaril nocks and shoots a flaming, poisoned arrow over the backs of the creatures, landing it just beyond where they stand. Ichabod mutters, “I do not like these creatures.” Choosing to slam them with fire, she aims her blast, singeing their hides.

Wik moves back into the hall entrance, nocking an arrow, pinning the left, the arrow jutting from its shoulder.

Morgan, suddenly realising he has a bare chest, jumps to the left critter, his now immune weapon crashing down and the scabbard following behind, annoying the heck out of the hungry monster.

Ooma pulls one of her Molotov cocktails from her pack, lighting the wick and throws it, landing the flask on the ground behind the creatures the oil erupting into a puddle of flame, illuminating the darkened room.

The creatures, ravenous, move forward, the metal in Ooma’s armour calling to them like the baron of beef at a buffet, missing it as she deftly slides to the side. The other, wanting more from Morgan, shies when confronted by a naked chest.

Amaril nocks another arrow, firing it well over their heads. Ichabod raises her hands, muttering, her lips moving silently, fire crisping the one, the creature’s death screams echoing in the chamber. Morgan roars and charges, raising his scimitar, crushing the remaining creature, staggering it.

Ooma pulls another cocktail out, lighting the twig, hitting the side of the creature, and searing a blackened strip, the oil holding the heat and flame as it drips down, the beast charging Ooma, missing her, then turning and fleeing, his injuries too intense.

Morgan, quick to move, jumps, swinging his scimitar down on the creature, slicing his leg nearly through the bone. Amaril nocks an arrow, and snaps it off speedily, the arrow bouncing past again. Ichabod sends flames along the trail of oil, crisping his hide further.

Wik’s arrow flies into his jaw. Morgan charges, tripping over the rubble, skinning his knees.

Amaril has another arrow soar into the inky blackness beyond the creature. Ichabo chants, her incantation landing missiles in its flesh, the creature drops, his squeal echoing.

Ooma wipes a tear for losing her axe. Morgan opens his rucksack, carefully considering, holding up one, then another bottle. “Rum. This is definitely a rum occasion.” He passes the near empty bottle to Ooma. “Here, this might take the sting out of your loss.”

Ooma, swallowing a large mouthful, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, “Effin’ caves!” she shouts. “Nuthin’ good ever happens in a cave!” She drinks another mouthful.

Sitting down on the various available mounds, our group settles for a short rest, indulging in some spirits, hardtack and other nibbles, searching the room as they finish and decide to continue moving forward... if they can just figure out how to get out of here...

o0o

XP: Awarded during game time this week. EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness); or an insight into their character’s backstory... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week...

PLEASE REMEMBER TO VOICE YOUR CHOICE WHETHER THE GAME CONTINUES (with a later start time); IS SHELVED, OR IS CANCELLED. Thx...

o0o

treading close to the edge...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

I summon potatoes!

The party is knee-deep in cold water; Ooma is thigh-deep... in a dark corridor with horizontal stalactites jutting from the rough walls and a floor crumbling behind them; the corridor turns east, and the party hustles down the hall, the force of the water flowing around their legs causing Ooma, Amaril, Morgan and Ichabod to be buffeted into the spikes, bloodying their arms before up-righting themselves.

Wik’s light passes across a hole in the wall roughly three-feet wide, a scant foot-high kerb at the floor. The water is rushing down into the opening, and, as Wik glances down he sees a swift flowing vortex funnelling the water and decides that is not a safe place to be. “Let’s keep moving before we become part of that!” The assumption that Benji may have jumped through this exit is confirmed as a tuft of his fur is spotted caught on the rough stones; they hope he is safe.

As they persist down the hall and nearly reach the end, a very LOUD CRUNCH assails their ears, and they unexpectedly find themselves off balance, and, as the floor tips and wobbles, only Wik is able to prevent himself from slamming into the spikes and avoiding injury. Struggling to the end of the corridor, they leap the one-foot gap onto a platform that opens into a dark cavernous room with a soaring ceiling beyond torch or lamplight range. As they enter, the door SLAMS shut.

The uneven stone floor crunches underfoot as they step across the rubble, stone dust and debris littering the horizontal surface. Tiny giggles can be 'heard' along with the distinct sound of flapping wings and air movement. They can see nothing save what the lantern reveals. Wik revolves it about.

As the lantern moves over the walls, carvings, describing various colourful scenes of an epic battle, are noticed. It tells an heroic story, if one should care to study the various glyphs and find the beginning. Attempts to unravel this mystery fail, at first.

An unheard voice booms into the room as the heroes try to puzzle out their next moves. While they do so, and as they are listening, the giggles become more pronounced and the heroes feel brushes that tickle various parts of their exposed flesh; air moving and wings flapping startling them abruptly.

A suggestion they run resolves itself as Ooma tries to open the sealed door, Amaril does not trust her attempt, and looks for a lock, unsuccessfully. The mirth the group hears, grows.

Ooma shouts, “What do you want from us?” Her words met with gleeful giggles. “Fu*k you too!” She mutters aloud. More laughter greets her.

Amaril questions, “Do we have the ingredients to blow the door up, opening it?”

As they discuss this possibility, Wik feels something brush the back of his neck. He swings the lantern around, looking into the shadows, spotting a flying dragon-like creature about a foot-and-a-half long.

“Oh sh*t! Dragon!” he shouts. Gales of laughter follow him.

Amaril pulls out his longbow, and nocks a poisoned arrow. He searches about, peering in the dark.

Ooma pulls out the pink potion she received from the Crayol’s. A prickling sensation accompanies the strong smell of mint as she spreads it over her exposed skin. Her body tingles, and she feels a soft, wet tongue flick over the back of her arm and she reflexively swings her axe widely, hitting air.

Morgan gawks, spying the flapping creature and staring in wonder. “What is that?” he questions.

Wik swings his short sword, hitting the amused creature, slashing a gash on its side. Immediately, as it draws back, the party hears in their head, “No more fun: attack!” and Wik feels a sting on his arm.

Ooma is aware of wings brushing against her. Amaril feels a pinprick on his shoulder, causing a small tear in his skin. Ooma swings her axe again, catching one of the creature’s wings, injuring it. Amaril, his bow nocked, lets his arrow loose, clattering it against the wall, falling to the floor. Ichabod swings her staff wildly, unable to see or hit anything.

Morgan, his wits fuzzy, attacks the creature that attacked Ooma, his scimitar swinging, hitting the dragon. Wik swings his short sword again, hurting the dragon badly.

The dragon, angry with Wik, strikes him, causing a sting on his arm. Another aims at Ooma and one at Morgan, and at Ichabod, missing them as they duck and wriggle. One swings its tail toward Amaril, catching his cheek, the poison sinking deeply, causing him to crumple to the floor in a slumber.

The group hears reverberating in their heads, “We were just PLAYING!”

Ooma takes a step back and says, “Haw-haw-haw!” She hears the whinny response, “You started it.”

Ichabod swings her staff blindly about, missing narrowly again.

Morgan peers around, unable to see anything, going into a defence position, ready to deflect.

Wik, sword ready, head weaving as the lantern light shifts violently, “Why didn’t you help us if you were just playing?”

“Help you?! You attacked us!”

“Yeh, you TOUCHED me, I don’t like being touched,” Wik grouses.

“Did we HURT you? Nooooo...” the dragon Farf mocks.

Ooma agrees. “Yah, nobody licks me without my permission.”

A giddy-voice happily exclaims, “You tasted good! It’s mint!”

Morgan tilts his head in bewilderment. “It’s not nice to taste someone without their permission.” His eyes narrow slightly.

“We’re a group of people who are used to people attacking us around every corner, and it’s dark in here and you guys are... I mean, c’mon!” Ooma cranes her head about. A voice enters her head, “It’s not dark to us, what’s your problem? Can’t you see? Are you blind?”

A second voice forces its way into Oomas mind, “And besides, you still attacked us; we didn’t hurt you.”

“You scared the crap out of us!” In her head she is mocked, “Wear a diaper!”

Ichabod pipes in, “I’m, we’re, sorry. You startled us and scared us.”

Morgan nods, “I have a pretty bad scratch here. It’s painful.” He pouts.

Ooma concurs, “You put one of our friends to sleep here, so, uhh, can we call a truce?”

“Ooooo-kay,” a long-suffering sigh concedes. From the air, oiled-paper packets fall to the ground, one landing on Amaril’s forehead and bursting open, oozing a smooth, red paste on his skin.

The group looks at Amaril, and Morgan shakes him to see if he will awaken, but he slumbers on. A voice clatters in Morgan’s head, “Squeeze one in his mouth, he’ll be ok.”

Morgan nods, following orders slightly; he stuffs an entire packet, paper container and all, inside of Amaril’s mouth. The long suffering voice groans in his mind, “No, empty the contents out, silly!” Morgan withdraws the packet, squishing the contents into Amaril’s mouth, clamping his jaw shut and pinching his nose until he sees him swallow.

Ooma gathers the packets from the ground. Noticing, some of the packets have “heal poison” stamped on them in cursive, flowing handwriting. Some have "McCrunchie". Some have both.

“What does this one do, if I might ask?” Ooma boldly holds a packet up in the air. The voice reverberates in her mind, “It will heal him. It will give all of you healing.”

Amaril wakes sits up and looks around confused. He smacks his lips. “Tasty. Not bad.” He asks “What happened? Why am I on the ground?” coming to his feet.

“You got knocked the fu*k out,” Ooma answers pragmatically.

Ichabod adds, “Yah, one of those dragon-things stung you and you dropped like a kobold!” The voice corrects her, “Get it right. Pseudodragons!”

She looks around. “Fine, Pseudodragons,” she snips.

(Morgan sassily sneaks in, “McCrunch to the forehead; He’s lovin’ it!”)

The packets they retrieve are distributed among the heroes, Ichabod declines to take any.

Amaril, peering around in the shadows, spies a black leather pouch sitting tightly against the wall. Picking it up and looking inside, he discovers hundreds of the little packets, all stamped with 'McCrunchie', ‘heal poison’, or both.” He distributes them among his friends.

Morgan, regaining a little of his senses, is still disturbed by the voice inside his head, “Read the walls, dummy’s!” Ooma and Amaril also hear the voice and they walk closer to the carved glyphs and, Amaril, a light dawning, circles until he finds the beginning glyph, examining and deciphering their meaning and intent.

Tracing it along the four walls, the still brilliant, colourful carvings depict a mighty, epic battle.

A dragon clan fought and drove off invaders (depicted as large coiled reptiles with glowing red-eyes and forked tongues), though the clash was not without its toll and many dragons were felled.

A intricately carved glyph shows many dragons lying, rents in their shimmering scales, a fluid oozing from the holes; some with broken wings; some with fangs still piercing their hides.

The story continues, as Wik brings the lantern near. Amaril translates aloud. “Great fires, fanned by dragon breath, heating clay cauldrons into which oblong-shaped tubers, (“that grow in the upper caverns, supposedly,” he adds as a glyph shows a tunnel leading to the tubers and back to the hospital room), “are plunged. Spears at the end of the dragon tails retrieve the softened tuber. They are cooled then sliced into strips.”

“Nurse dragons, (They’re wearing hats with a red cross on them, that’s how I know,” Amaril retorts to the question how he knows they are nurses,) “carry trays of the strips, breathe fire onto them, while another nurse squeezes a packet of the red paste down the golden strips. Still another nurse carries them to the stricken dragons.”

Amaril exclaims, “Oh, sometimes they mix the red paste into a liquid they heat first, giving it to smaller dragons; and, others get it spread directly onto an open wound.” He goes on, “It looks like they are healed completely after eating five or six of those strips, but it seems to take longer if it is drunk or eaten straight. Maybe the tubers have healing powers too?”

“Apparently the red paste leaves a stain that needs to be washed off using a strong soap,” he laughs and points to a particularly unhappy blue dragon with a red stain on his forehead.

“It seems to be a healing potion. What do you all think about that?”

Morgan wonders, aloud, “I think you all might want to hold off on any more of that McCrunchie stuff.” Morgan’s memory seems to be improving, knowing who he is, just not what-the-hell he’s doing in a dungeon, “I’m a Buccaneer for gawds sake!” McAcid; McCocaine; McHeroin; McEcstasy...

Ichabod grins, “Meddle not in the affairs of Dragons; for thou art crunchy and taste good with ketchup...” She moves off toward the exit. Knocking her staff against the face of the door forcing it to spring open with a screech.

The group moves out of the dragon room and file down the next corridor. Ichabod halts Morgan and in a low voice, knowing his memory is only just returning, she utters, "I sense a shift in the planes. Please, you have been chosen, though you don't trust me. Please keep this safe. Your life may depend on it." She hands Morgan her staff, the aura from it dimming as he takes it.

Morgan curiously wonders why he wouldn’t trust her. She smiles, “Keep it safe.”

The group next enters a room, and are about halfway across the floor, when the ground starts to mist, and a familiar whirring sound alerts that something is happening: four Obsidian skeletons pop up, Ooma immediately leaping and striking the first, collapsing its glass like frame, turning and striking a second, breaking its hip and shoulder.

Another flies at Ooma, his dagger plunging into her armour, cutting her and leaving a trickle of blood.

Wik steps up his short sword chopping off its other arm and other hip. Morgan puts his scimitar back in its scabbard and attempts to hit one of the creatures, swinging wildly. About this time the party notices that the roof of this room is rapidly lowering...

Amaril brandishes his scimitar, slicing the leg off one of the undamaged skeletons. The nearly-gone skeleton sends a slice into Ooma’s shoulder, and the one with only one leg hops to Amaril, dragging its dagger down his neck, doing minor damage just below his ear. The final one, (not being too bright) tries to kick Wik, falling and shattering his body into pieces.

Ooma swings and removes an arm from the final whole one. Morgan swings at the standing skeleton, slicing from the top of his head straight through his body, and it topples, glass shards flying everywhere, sticking in leather armour and slicing uncovered skin.

Wik lifts his leather covered boot and stomps on the remaining head; crushing the skull.

Looking around, Wik notices a glitter in the centre of the skeleton who still has most of a ribcage. He pulls the ribcage apart with his gloved hands and pulls out a gold-coloured key. Glancing at the ceiling and hustling over to the door, he quickly finds the keyhole. Inserting the key, he turns it and the door swings open. Wik removes the key, sliding it into one of his many pockets, before exiting the room.

The rest follow Wik out of the room, into another corridor, going south. They notice the floor is not crumbling behind them.

Suddenly a noise behind them garners their attention and they turn, Wik spinning the light revealing bouncing shadows. Morgan and Amaril spy a creature with mottled-grey flesh that blends seamlessly with the dark ceiling. Its arms, extremely long, wrap twice about Ichabod, and still it clings to the ceiling.

Morgan jumps, trying to haul either the creature or Ichabod back, missing and falling into Amaril. The creature attempts to scurry down the hall-ceiling with Ichabod.

Wik, drops the lantern, and his short sword, drawing his long bow, carefully aiming, his arrow nicking the creature slicing into its shoulder, forcing it to drop Ichabod, as it yelps and crawls back down the hall ceiling.

Ichabod is lifted by Morgan and Ooma, and set into the middle of the line. She seems shaken, but unhurt. Amaril takes up the rear. The creature scuttles further down the corridor, away from the party.

Advancing, the party enters a large, maybe 15x15 foot, junction with a hallway turning at right-angles to the one they are in. As they arrive, Wik, in the lead, spots something out of a nightmare; an oily black humanoid shape without features, flesh or face bristling with madness flits around. From the waist down it trails away into wisp, with a faint dirty-fog slinking along in its wake. It is floating toward the party.

An attempt to converse with it by Wik, in six different languages, “Listen, we just want to pass.” results in the creature babbling incoherently and agitatedly.

This babble infects the mind’s of the party as they stare unable to gather the brain power to budge, attack or move! Finally Ooma and Wik shake their heads as if to clear the cobwebs from their brains. They notice that the rest are still staring uncomprehending.

Wik turns to Ooma, “Let’s pull them this way; maybe it will snap them out of it.” He takes Amaril’s hand and hauls him aside. Ooma takes Morgan and Ichabod. The creature’s form continues to reach for them; the black wisps brushing threateningly near them, continuing its mutterings.

It touches Wik, who feels a drain of his abilities and can’t remember things he ought to.

Ooma sees the touch, pulls out her axe, and swings at the creature, who watches the blade float beneath it, the wisps of dirty-fog swirling as it blathers louder and, if possible, with less coherency!

Morgan, Amaril and Ooma again fall under the creature’s spell, ‘luvin’ it.

Wik decides to stab it with his short sword just above its waist, ripping a painful rent in its stomach. Wik pulls back, stabbing it yet again. The creature touches Wik, draining more of his thinking process. Wik mindlessly stabs again, his blade ripping another hole in the already decrepit featureless-body.

Amaril, coming out of his stupor, swings at the creature his scimitar hitting directly into the empty head. The oily black humanoid shape dissipates into a fine mist and falls to the ground, looking like peppered-ash.

The party, hungry, injured and exhausted, decides to rest in the large junction.

Ichabod, her hands raised as she concentrates, the group watches as she conjures a spell. “I summon potatoes.”

Several tubers drop unceremoniously to the tunnel floor. Recalling the colourful carvings, she reminds them, “Cooked strips of these will restore much of our health.”

They ponder how to cook them in this dark dungeon with dangers lurking around every corner. A thought is heard inside their heads, “You have oil and a lantern, you’ll figure it out...”

o0o

XP: 200XP each for Ooma, Wik, Morgan and Amaril, (and Ichabod). EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness) or an insight into their character’s backstory... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week...

o0o

mclovin’ it...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

BOOM!

We shall recall a quiet rest interrupted as it appears two of the party are suffering amnesia from ‘Firefly’ arrows. The morning light is growing, beginning to pierce the shadowy veil of overhanging branches. The fire is crackling; the embers still glowing reddish-grey. Birds chirping and bugs buzzing aimlessly along with a great roll of thunder, followed by a loud splash and, even deep in the knoll where you have spent the night, a fine mist slinks through the leaves and brush, a huge wind propelling it; followed by two more loud and thunderous cracks, and a breeze that bends the branches, snapping twigs. The birds in the area are silent; then begin squawking at once.

The party looks about, leaning into the wind as it slams through the forest, Amaril, standing in a less sheltered area is lifted up and knocked to his knees, slicing through his outer layer bloodying them.

The birds resume squawking noisily, and the party looks around, and at each other, Ooma suggesting that they “get the hell out of here!”

A discussion as to where to go and what to do ensues. Morgan, when asked and given a chance to respond, replies that, “Yes, he will follow the group.”

Jahlo and Tessalia have wandered off into the trees as Jhalo tries to figure out what is wrong with Tessalia. Benji, returns to the camp and is pacing about, eager to get on with his breakfast hunt. A noise catches his attention, and Jhalo waves him on, and he runs off toward the lake.

Ooma suggests they continue the way they were going, but Ichabod informs them she is curious about the booming noise; concerned, and starts toward the lake.

The group shrugs, packs up and follows along the trail behind Ichabod.

As they draw closer to the lake, they see that something isn’t right. It still shimmers an ordinary bluish colour from reflecting the sky’s colour, it appears to have something layered across the surface. Near the centre you see what appear to be fishing boats? The same ones as before?

Benji, being exuberant and excited runs out on the top of the water, going a long way chasing a bird, before stopping suddenly. All attempts to call him back fail. It also fails to sink in to any of them – Benji is not sinking...

The group stands at the edge of the lake, their perception not quite awake yet as suddenly, behind them, another thunderous noise and a loud CLANK! As they turn their heads their eyes perceive a tall, smooth Obsidian glass wall that has erected around the lake. It is about fifteen foot high, objects seen through its purplish-black colour appear blurry.

“What the hell?” Ooma mutters. She irreverently suggests that they “Jesus” the lake, which the others, laughing, agree there doesn’t seem to be much choice. So, one at a time, a ten foot distance separating each, they file onto the lake.

Wik decides to examine the smooth surface. He taps it, touches it and peers at it. “It’s Obsidian,” he exclaims, tapping his dagger against the surface. No hollow sounds can be heard.

Those who are watching Benji see him begin to sniff, his head down as he tracks something, barking excitedly, he begins to paw at the smooth glass surface.

Wik draws closer to Benji and Ooma shouts, “What is it boy?”

As Wik leans over to look he can see a pale golden glow below the surface, similar to the Firefly creatures, maybe a little smaller.

Benji refuses to cease his interest.

Ooma suggests to Ichabod that she check for magic.

Ichabod nods and begins to concentrate, her senses picking up a faint aura of conjuration blended with touches of illusion; a faint golden glow hovers across the surface of the lake rising into the wall.

Ooma enquires, “Is there is any way to break Obsidian?”

Ichabod, a puzzled crease furrowing her brow, “My staff may be able to, but I’m concerned it may crack the entire surface, I don’t know what will happen.”

Ooma gives her the go-ahead, and Wik tries to call Benji back, but whatever has Benji’s attention is obsessing him and he doesn’t even glance at Wik.

Ichabod raises her staff, pauses looking at Benji, “Benji? Please back up.”

Benji looks at her sullenly. The eyes of the animals on her staff glow an electric-blue startling him and, with a whine, Benji backs away.

Ichabod pounds the staff down. For a second, nothing happens. Then the distinct crackling sounds of dropping an dry-ice cube into a beaker of water filters to their ears. Spider cracks; fine lines begin to creep outward, slowly at first, then with an increase in speed until BAM! The glass shatters and they are vortex’d downward, plunged into the frigid waters; swirling like the modern flush systems on a toilet.

The water, grabs at them, pushing. Forcing their lungs to hold past bursting; dashing them onto jagged rocks nearly a mile below the surface, the cushion of water protecting them from being gutted by the tall spires that rise from the floor and jut from the walls of this bowl. (No one questions why there is no fish flopping about...? Curious... especially with those fishermen above – and where did they go?)

The water continues to escape, flowing off to an unknown holding tank or ocean.

Our heroes cling, gasping, to the jagged spires, receiving cuts and bruises. Benji lands in a bowl still filled with water, protecting him well. He climbs out, shaking his body, water droplets flinging wildly.

As the excitement calms and our heroes draw their breath, they beginning to notice they are in a pyramid shaped room to the side of the main container for the lake. Water drips from the slimy Obsidian walls. The golden glow that captured Benji’s attention is now overhead. It appears to be increasing in size and as Wik steps over to examine why this is, he shouts suddenly, “RUN!” As fine glass dust begins to sprinkle downward, and he notices the walls are closing in.

There is one door to the south, and they tumble through it finding themselves in a dark hall, jagged spires sticking from between six-inches and three-feet making passage down the five-foot narrow hallway treacherous.

Rummaging through their equipment, Wik swiftly lights a lantern, momentarily blinding everyone. As the light flickers, the pyramid-room shatters, blasting glass-dust in its final collapse. Those nearest the door feel the sting of fine particles embedding themselves in exposed skin.

Shaking themselves Wik checks the lantern, closing three hoods and allowing one to shine forward; Benji has taken the lead and is out of sight. The gather themselves and begin to move forward when a noise behind Amaril, who is last in the line causes Wik to turn the lantern and they see the hallway floor crumbling away.

Wik, “Let’s move this way, fast.” Small rents in their armour and skin appear as they rub against the serrated, glass, ‘oriented’ stalactites, the floor continuing to crumble. The hall turns west, then north, then west before slopping downward south, and continuing downward for a short distance, east, opening to a large room with a rubble strewn floor, jutting spires from the walls, and, at the far end, four figures.

Training the light on the figures, our group spies four Kobolds that scramble for cover behind some large stalagmites. Wik continues into the room going toward the four Kobolds, his intention to speak with them thwarted as one of the Kobolds slings a stone at him, followed by another.

He holds up his hands. “Hey, I just want to talk!” he shouts in Kobold. Another stone is flung in his direction, missing again.

“Dirty humans; don’t care!” one hisses at Wik, another projectile flies at Wik, clattering to the floor.

Wik changes tactics, switching to Draconic, “I’m an Elf, not a bloody short-lived human!”

While the fourth Kobold jumps out and shouts, “Ha! Gotcha!” in Kobold, as his sharp-edged stone slices across Wik’s cheek, leaving a bloodied cut. The Kobold’s laugh uproariously.

Ooma reminds Wik, “You’ve got some flasks of oil; jus’ sayin’”

A voice from the walls reminds them of the folly of tossing a Molotov cocktail toward their only exit in a room with a crumbling floor...

 A voice from the discombobulated Morgan points out the folly of the distinct lack of oxygen in a cave...

Wik grumbles to his friends, “These guys don’t want to chat, shall we teach them the folly of their actions?” A stone slams against his butt.

“Now you die!” Wik snarls in Draconic, pulling out his short sword.

Ooma walks toward the Kobolds, swinging her axe, the Kobold’s head leaving his shoulders and joins the stones on the floor.

Amaril moves to the side, pulling his composite bow out shooting a poisoned arrow into the cave walls.

Wik moves close and stabs the closest Kobold, his lantern weaving wickedly, twisting his sword into the smiling Kobold’s gut muttering, “I just wanted to talk!”

“Talk! No!” the two living Kobold’s grunt, tossing stones and cutting Wik’s other cheek.

Ooma lunges, swinging her axe, dulling its blade as she clatters against the unforgiving stone, the Kobold side-stepping her blow, laughing and shoving her. She spits on him as she stumbles backward.

He runs his fingers through the saliva brings it to his lips, “Mmm, good!”

Amaril walks up to the Kobold nearest and slits his throat, blood spurting, the Kobold clutching his neck, gurgling and covering Amaril with hot, sticky blood before sliding to the floor, a surprised look on his face.

Wik moves forward, bloodied short-sword in hand and stabs the remaining Kobold, dropping him swiftly, the sling bullets in his bag clattering across the floor. Ooma swiftly moves to check the bodies along with Amaril, the others search for a doorway or exit, finding lots of rubble, but nothing else of interest. He does discover the exit beyond where the Kobold’s were.

Eight dirty copper coins and a handful of rusty metal pieces.

Wik tosses a stone down the exit hall, leading west, watching and listening as it clatters along the uneven surface. He takes a step, unsure if the floor is going to crumble – it doesn’t and they all head down the hall, Ooma suggesting that maybe Ichabod could do a check or something?

She does. Shaking her head, “Like I said before, just the faint aura of conjuration muddled and faintly mixed and swirling possibly an illusion aura as well; I’m sorry, it is muddled.”

“Okay,” Ooma says, “let’s go.”

Amaril brings up the rear, carefully checking the floor behind him. “Uhm, guys? Hurry up! The floor’s crumbling again!”

The group hurries its movement, taking scratches and scrapes as they do so, turning and following the hall as it turns and switches.

Suddenly Wik stops short, his eyes spying a thin string stretched across the hall about a foot off the ground. Unfortunately his sudden stop without warning causes Ooma to slam into his back, Ichabod catches Morgan’s shoulder and stops him in time. Amaril runs into Ichabod, but she holds her ground. Wik and Ooma tumble in a tangle as the rope is pulled out of the wall.

They scramble to their feet, the floor crumbling, hustling their movements. As they drag each other up from the floor, they snag their skin bloodying themselves.

A loud GONG reverberates through the hall, shaking the very rock. Ooma pushes Wik, “Keep moving! That floor ain’t slowing down!”

They run forward, entering a large dining hall, with a large chandelier swaying, unlit over a table with partially eaten rotting food upon the plates, cutlery dropped as if in a hurry. Chairs are overturned, and, as their light flickers about, a bunch of rats scuttle off into the cracks. A burning candle sits in an alcove on the south wall near an open door.

The group searches the room. As they near the centre of the room a cold mist seeps along the floor, rising and a strange whirring, digging noise reaches their ears. Abruptly, from out of the stone block floor rise four gleaming, Obsidian glass skeletons, their daggers raised. “Who dares disturb the night creatures?” a ghostly voice rumbles. (Ignore that wimpy one in the video...)

Ooma shouts to Morgan to pull out his sword and defend himself as she turns her attention to the skeletons.

Amaril pulls his scimitar out swinging it wildly, missing and spinning about. Wik pulls out from his rucksack a box of Alchemist’s Fire (128 – 3.5 PHB) and decides swiftly it will not harm them and chucks it back into his pack, choosing instead to shot at them with a longbow, his arrow flying into the chest cavity exploding the skeleton shooting glass shards outward narrowly missing the party.

The skeletons move forward, slicing at Wik, his thrown dagger missing. The second one tries to stab at Amaril, his dagger also clattering to the floor, as it bounces off Amaril’s armour. The third skeleton jumps for Ooma, his bony feet turning and tripping him to his knees, one of his fingers shattering.

Ooma swings her war axe, slicing the skeleton in half his upper half toppling to the ground shattering, his lower half remaining standing and she spins her axe smashing the third skeleton’s shoulders, sending shards of glass deeply into her armour and exposed skin.

Amaril swings his scimitar at the remaining Obsidian creature, chopping off an arm. Wik shoots his arrow, hitting and shattering his sternum, coating Amaril in glass, nicking his cheek.

The last skeleton tumbles to the ground, and a CRASH shakes the room. A large stone crosses the door they came in through. As they approach the door, they spy a lever.

Amaril and Wik begin to search for traps. Amaril senses and locates a trap along the north wall. The wall feels damp and spongy. The ‘oriented’ stalactites feel softish, and crumble when pressed.

They furrow their brow. The trap is connected to the lever. If the lever is pulled, the wall will come tumbling down. You reveal this to your party.

A plan is formed whereby the group will move to the hallway, and Ooma, using her shield will pull the lever, and Wik will step back into the room to see what occurs. Ichabod moves forward in the hall.

As the lever is pulled, the wall collapses so fast, Wik cannot re-enter the room, the wave of water floods out, pushing out the doorway, pushing the party down the hall in a tumble injuring them slightly. As they regain their footing, they feel the water rising and swirling. They quickly continue along the hall, twisting and curving, as the floor slopes downward.

They come to a domed room, as the last person enters; a gurgling sound alerts them to the water flooding the floor, swirling at their ankles rising at the rate of about a foot every twelve seconds.

A wall in front of them that they round, shows a dais in the centre of the room. Wik’s attempt to take the object fails, but he does note words written on the plaque upon the dais. He reads them aloud for everyone:

“What type of fish cannot swim?”

(The DM had a great chuckle here... as the first answer spouted was correct – and then they second guessed and made it far harder than it needed to be...)

Jelly fish; Seafood; (water rising); Starfish; Red Herring; Fish sticks; (water rising)

“Starfish, final answer!” (Although, not the answer rolled, I like it far better.)

“Red Herring, final answer.”

“Jelly fish, final answer.” Water rising...

“A dead fish, final answer!”

A doorway crumbles open and the water washes out into the hall, leaving only a foot or so about their ankles. Before they leave, they see water spouts spurting from a fist-sized hole in the wall, like a fountain.

Ooma pulls a piece of grey cloak to stuff the hole, but the water is freezing and pouring too swiftly to have anything stay. She decides to leave it, and suggests they exit. They move along the hall, and discover that the water is following them; and the floor is still disappearing...

The party is knee-deep in cold water, Ooma is thigh deep...

o0o

XP: Ooma 2000XP; Amaril 1200XP; Morgan and Wik 1000XP; Benji 250XP

o0o

drowning...?

fledgling dungeon mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

I'm sorry. Who are you?

“You are a murderer!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Crayol’s watch the group leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A smiling nod, “Yes, we know magic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These gnat-like creatures dart and dive relentlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

o0o

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

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

o0o

the boats captain, the boats...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~*~

With Crayol’s there are no rulez...

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

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

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

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

OKAY, BACK TO THE KNOLL...

Ooma ...rations, travel...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ooma shakes her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Adventurers Incorporated.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wounds. Slashing and piercing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My skin is fine,” he sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a good deal.”

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

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

“Seems reasonable.”

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

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

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

“How about something to deal with a lich?”

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

“Thanks, but, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

o0o

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

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

o0o

now, whom was he talking to...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

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