Erik grumbled and winced as he arched his back "No. I'm not getting back in this cart. I've had enough of this running away. Father, would you mind saying a prayer for us? You know, just in case."
He cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers, conjuring a dagger and orb from seemingly nowhere, "Or rather, for this beast. I fear the poor dumb oaf is about to bite off far more than it can chew."
Tiger BurningDig if you will, the pictureRegistered User, SolidSaints Tuberegular
"Oh merciful Lord, let this trial we are about to endure.." Oh merciful Lord, let whatever this thing is not be as terrible as it smells. He straightens his robes and arranges his beard so that it falls correctly, before drawing his hammer and turning his attention to the coming sounds.
Varis drops all pretense of stealth and steps into the clearing, yelling an old elven Skyknight challenge at the troll.
"Astratholo Kann Yorthomite!" shouts the young elf as he clears the treeline at a run. He then takes up position between the two travelers and the lumbering figure.
"Fear not, good folks. We have already slain trolls this day. One more will be little challenge."
Hal had watched as two of his group disappeared into one direction, and two in the other. He made a soft clicking noise with his mouth, and his loyal horse, Gregor, appeared from the brush and plodded over to him.
"Blasted adventurers, Gregor. Two of 'em is too haughty for for the job, and the other two think it's some kind of damned crusade."
He grabbed two troll heads and tied their hair together, muttering to himself as he worked.
"Turning down good, clean gold like... bah. Should've found myself a band of honest, cut-throat mercenaries. S'what I get for going by way of Harlin's Crossing instead of a proper town."
Hal threw the heads over the back of his saddle, and climbed upon the horse. Strange as their ways might be, at least the Elves seemed willing and capable. The troll that had just appeared probably didn't stand a... oh blast, where had that come from?
Without another word, Hal spurred his horse toward the troll and drew his blade.
The battle cry of the elven Skyknight shocks Alinn and Dorrick for a moment, but they quickly steel themselves for the battle ahead, appreciative of any help that they can get. As though taking advantange of their surprise the troll lumbers forward, swinging a giant club covered in frost towards the caravan leader. Alinn barely ducks out of the way before nocking and letting loose another arrow, though it ends up being deflected.
The young elf wills himself into the air and, amazingly, it works. He flies, none to gracefully, through the open air between him and the dastardly troll, alighting within crowbar range with a crunch.
"Worry not, travelers! For you are under the protection of the Knights of Cam Ithel. No harm shall befall you this day!"
With that, the travelers see the obviously crazy flying elf hurl himself at a troll several times his own height bearing only a crowbar. It's fairly likely that the members of the caravan are suffering from collective hallucinations due to snow madness.
Move: Sudden Flight, flying 8 squares to the square directly North of the troll and 4 squares West of the wagon. Standard:Five Storms vs Reflex: 1d20+6191d8+510 That likely hits. Free Action: Centered Breath Flurry of Blows, dealing another 10 damage to the troll and sliding him one square straight West to hopefully take him out of range for meleeing the caravaneers. Minor: I got nothin'.
They tried to bury us. They didn't know that we were seeds.2018 Midterms. Get your shit together.
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INeedNoSaltwith blood on my teethRegistered Userregular
The troll, surprised (and a little bit annoyed) by the elf flying (and more surprised and annoyed about being hit with a crowbar), reacts as best it is able: it swings out with a massive, trollish fist, which catches Varis clean and clobbers him what good. With the moment of safety that comes from leaving the elven monk reeling from the blow, it takes a moment to examine the battlefield -- and realizes that it is heavily outnumbered. But it is big, and it is a troll -- and that's what counts.
An ice troll, being stupid, attacks Varis: 1d20+17=34, 2d6+6=11 and hits for 11 damage.
It regenerates 5 hp.
It can't really move without opening itself up further, so it doesn't.
Varis (17/28) - Ice Troll (54/69) - Erik - Father Zossima - Shyrilith
Erik rubs his chin as he notices the unusual flying elf.
"Great. We're about to be rescued by crazy flying elves. Don't see that every day, I suppose, eh, Father?"
With surprising agility, the wizard duck past his companion and just off the road. A flick of his wrist produced a decanter sizzling with alchemists acid.
"Fire works, don't see why this won't." He leans back and hurls the acid with all his might, watching the green vial sail through the snowy forest...
Moving diagonally five spaces northwest, 7 spaces above the trolls left half. 1d20+5 = 17 vs Reflex, 1d10 = 6 acid, plus 5 ongoing
Yeah, fuck you Ice Troll. Now you LOSE 5 damage rather than regenerating SHIT.
And a direct hit! Erik does his best to fight the urge to gloat just yet, as he watches the acid eat and burn at the flesh of the beast, burning with a sickening, putrid smoke. He, of course, fails and succumbs to that urge.
"Haha! Regenerate THAT wound, you hairy oaf!" He lets slip, contemplating reaching for another flask of acid.
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Tiger BurningDig if you will, the pictureRegistered User, SolidSaints Tuberegular
"O Wise and Puissant Master, Mender of plows and Crafter of sensible land use ordinances, succor us now in our time of peril, guide us in our time of need!"
The round dwarf steps forward, crook and hammer raised above his head as he beseeches the sky. As he speaks, the troll's every motion appears to slow, as if it's moving in syrup, making its movements easy to predict. And the seeming terrible blow by the troll now looks to have not done much damage at all to the elf.
Move: Walk south 2 squares to stand between the troll and the wagoneer. Standard:Prophetic Guidance on the troll - Auto hit; troll grants combat advantage to everyone and takes +4 damage from everyone (not on ongoing though, sadly); next person to miss the troll can reroll; lasts until my next EOT. Minor:Healing Word on Varis - Varis can spend a healing surge to regain surge+1d6+4 hp.
Varis (28/28)
Troll (48/69) - 5 acid ongoing, grants combat advantage, takes +4 additional damage,
Erik
Zossima (31/31) AC 18
Shyrilith up next!
Shy rushed forward, plodding through the snow, Vanquisher in hand. The irises of her eyes expanded, turning them into pools of molten gold as the runes on her blade sparked with holy fire.
Humans are fond of cavalry. Their orders of knighthood are known as "Cavaliers", or in the fancier dialects, "Chevaliers". One of the important things to remember about Cavalry is the importance at arriving in the nick of time. Thus, Hal arrived to the battle after his allies had gotten into it, but before it had been finished. The brutish lordling made a magnificent charge at the creature.
The troll found itself in the inexplicable position of being hounded by a man on horseback. It was one of the vagaries of being a monster. One day you're mauling travelers in the woods, the next some adventuring nobleman with a fancy suit of armor is managing, against all odds, to inexplicably entangle you despite being several sizes smaller and on top of a horse.
move: move (on horseback)
standard (also on horseback): Charge vs AC: 1d20+9121d10+414 and a miss
2nd turn because you lot skipped me and bleh
move: shift to a position of combat advantage... not sure where that is but i must be able to
standard: Bash and Pinion vs AC: 1d20+8201d10+47 and the troll is marked by Hal, grabbed by Hal, and takes a -2 to its attack rolls until the end of Hal's next turn.
As the brutish human needlessly complicates the fight with his simplistic tactics, Varis takes the opportunity to use the distraction and whop the troll but good. Unfortunately, his training never really covered fighting an ice troll in the snow while a human punches him from horseback and a heretofore unidentified party hurls acid from the sidelines. To say that the poor boy is out of his depth would be an understatement on the order of "perhaps Hal should avail himself of a bathhouse when we return to civilization."
Luckily, the squire manages to level his head enough to connect with one of his wild blows before retreating to something approximating a safe distance and readying some flame to deal with the regeneration that Sargent Hooloowan always told him that trolls possessed.
"Worry not, travelers. He may not look like much, but that human is pretty good at absorbing punishment."
Standard:Five Storms vs Reflex: 1d20+681d8+511 Free: Elven Accuracy; Five Storms Reroll vs Reflex: 1d20+614 for the same 11 crowbar damage. Free: Flurry for 10, slide him so that Shy can flank. Move: Five Storms Movement Technique to shift two squares away from the troll and Hal, between the melee and the travelers. Minor: Draw an Alchemist's Fire in my free hand.
Hal - Varis - Ice Troll - Erik - Father Zossima - Shyrilith
The Troll lets out a guttural snarl and a grunt as it claws at the burning flesh of its' shoulder, sloughing off skin and muscle in huge chunks. It made no difference, its' body would be regenerating once this stuff had been removed. As much as the horrid beast wanted to rip apart the pointy ear or the man, it was more concerned with the currently-attached human than anything else. It swung its' mace with all its' might, arcing too wide to hit the human. It let out a grunt of annoyance and glowered at the fighter and surveyed the surroundings.
Erik noticed his opportunity now. But that damned human was too close! "Bah, screw it. SORRY IN ADVANCE IF I HIT YOU, STRANGE HORSEBACK MAN!" He tried his best to diffuse a hopefully-not-disastrous situation before it happened, as orange flames began to crackle around his hands.
"Alchemists acids aren't cheap, y'know..." he complained to the Father, "Sometimes, I've gotta get my hands dirty the old fashioned way."
A searing burst of fire erupted from his fingertips, and then the ground beneath the troll. Thankfully, it's enormous size acted as a shield to Hal, even as he held the beast in place. A fitful sneeze wracks him, however, and the spell fizzles as its' controller lost concentration.
"OH, FOR THE LOVE OF..."
He hunkers down, concentrates, and channeling a more powerful spell in his hands, not about to be humiliated by the weather.
"Screw being careful. Now I REALLY apologize to the both of you." The green globe forms into a long, thing shaft, the head of the arrow becoming clear.
"Melf, guide this acid arrow straight through the beasts damnable heart. Or so help me I will find you."
The arrow soars through the air, no sneezes keeping it from it's target. The acid splashs and burns across the trolls skin, burning away chunks of flesh and armor. The troll stumbles forward, eyes rolling back into its' skull as it collapses forth, regeneration unable to knit its' wounds as the acid burns away too fast. Unfortunately, Hal, having grabbed the creature, was splashed by a bit of the acid, receiving severe burns over parts of his arm and shoulders.
"Er, uh. Sorry, strangers. My name is Erik. This fat little cleric who'll no doubt be tending to your acid burns is my compatriot, Father Zossima. We appreciate your assistance in handling the troll."
Tiger BurningDig if you will, the pictureRegistered User, SolidSaints Tuberegular
edited July 2011
"Verily, verily are we blessed! To find such hale champions here in the darkest wilderness, and just in our time of need! Truly we are under the purview of divine Providence." Eyes closed and hands folded, the priest chants a quick prayer of gratitude under his breath, and the bullish human's wounds fade from sight. "But surely Providence had you doing more out here than waiting for us to happen by, however overwhelmingly grateful we are for your timely arrival?"
I'll sneak in a Healing Word here before the encounter ends, to top Hal off.. Minor: Healing Word on Hal: 1d6+410 + Hal's surge value HP regained.
Hal, eyes still fixed upon the fallen troll, held one of his large hands aloft.
"Shut up."
A small silence followed as Hal watched the monster carefully for any movement. Those who looked on may have pondered how the nobility of the human lineages had a certain way with words. Even a simple command to stay quiet carried with it -- simultaneously, i might add -- a certain amount of dignity and disdain. When the troll showed no sign of further animation, Hal Waxworth sheathed his sword, and then used his spear to heft the charred remains of its head. He examined it, as if in appraisal of its value, before continuing.
"Now then. Erik and Zossima, was it?" He did not wait for reply. "It seems that you are having some trouble with your wagon. Unfortunate."
Hal's firm grasp of the obvious had apparently not wavered. He secured the troll's head to his saddle and pulled a scroll from a nearby satchel. He began scrawling upon it with a piece of charcoal that seemed to have been cut for the purpose.
"Erik... and... Zossima..." he said, writing as he very slowly pronounced the names and committed them to paper, "Well, lads... it so happens that you are near West Garrison. It also happens that my companions and I are en route to that very place. If you wish to benefit from our protection, I am delightfully obligated to offer it. In exchange, I ask only that you show deference to my leadership. That will include stifling your tenuous grasp upon the Magics until otherwise notified, and not trying to convert me to your Religions. I assume, of course, that you have documents that permit you in the use of Magic and Religion in this province. Well... of course you do, right?"
Hal's smile, as one might expect, was a bit out of step with his speech. His words seemed to be walking a rope between extortion and generosity.
"No objections? Grand. Varis! Shy! See to it that these fellows are ready for the journey."
The young Lord Waxworth gave a soft kick at his horse's flank, and began to trot prettily in the direction of West Garrison.
He rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, although one who knew the wizard might assume he was challenging the man to defy him.
"Great, first human I meet that doesn't faint at the sight of blood and he's either an idiot or crazy," then, speaking quite clearly, "What do you mean YOUR protection? As I recall, I'm the one who kill the troll, kept it from regenerating, AND brought the guy who healed your acid burn!"
He paused a moment, as the statement sank in, and called out to Hal as he rode off "Documents? Are you daft!? I am a TRAINED PROFESSIONAL! Not some...Warlock! Oh, the hell with him. Now, which one of you is Varis and which one is Shy?" He asked, turning towards his new "companions", "And what the hell is that guys problem?"
Hal was either literally or figuratively deaf to criticism. Selective hearing and the ability to interpret criticism as praise were the sort of traits that armored a nobleman's ego. His horse continued to trot slowly toward their destination.
"Let us not tarry, good Zossima," he called over his shoulder to Erik, "the day grows short."
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Tiger BurningDig if you will, the pictureRegistered User, SolidSaints Tuberegular
"Ah.. yes. Yes, yes." Turning back to the wagon. "Well, come along goodman, fair Alinn. We'll have to load as much as we can onto the horses. You can return for the wagon itself once you've obtained a whole axle in town."
Calling out to the human, who seemed to be perfectly intent on trotting off by himself. "Oh good sir.. knight! We'll require just a few moments to see to our kind companions' needs. And indeed, "many hands make light work" as the prior used to say. Surely it wouldn't be so far beneath the dignity of House..ah.."
"There is little beneath Hal's dignity, it would seem," chimes in Varis as he does the best he can to help the newcomers piece their wagon back together to get moving. "Or rather, there is much that is so high above it as to be invisible from the ground."
"I am going to make a bet with you, Varis." He pointed at Hal, "That man? One of us is going to be dead by the end of the month. More than likely at the others hands.
Mark my words."
His tone made it clear this was no threat, as Erik set to work (or rather, set his Mage Hand to work) helping with repairs.
"He is a man of action," the small elf said as though this explained everything. She set to work helping lift parts of the wagon to their proper places.
Alinn gives a frown to Father Zossima as she listens to his advice, slinging her longbow back over her shoulder and shrugging off some of the snowfall. "The trip will be slow going, Father. Tasen is still injured, and we don't know how many more of those....things...are still out there." She spits the word out as though it were venom, but chooses not to dwell on it further, instead shifting her gaze to Dorrick while she awaits a response. "Load what you need to onto Faithful." With that quick command the half-elven woman moves quickly to the back of the cart, her gaze fixed on the work ahead.
The large and rough man nods in return, giving a frustrated sigh and chucking the wooden piece in his hands onto the ground. "Wagon's a bust. Have to come back for it." he remarks in a gruff tone to Varis, Shy and Erik as he moves to detach Faithful. His eyes follow Hal for a moment as he trots away, and eventually the man makes a decision. "Are you not going to pitch in, my lord?" he says, with more than a bit of spite in his voice.
Hylianbunny on
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Tiger BurningDig if you will, the pictureRegistered User, SolidSaints Tuberegular
"Yes, Alinn. Of course you are right." He frowns. "I shall try again to stabilize Tasen's condition. With the gods' favor I may be able to get him onto his feet and able to walk, at least."
Hal circled his horse and trotted back a short distance so he could answer Varis' question without raising his voice. He liked Varis' direct and practical nature. It was the sort of thing that made one believe the legends about Elves. Perhaps the squire's lack of fascination with money could be forgiven.
"Life and limb take precedence. They who cannot walk must be carried. That horse will be well suited to that task. And those worldly things that cannot be carried must unfortunately be left behind. Quickly, now. We must not waste the daylight."
Though it seems to be missed by Varis, Shyrilith gets the distinct impression that Alinn is more aloof towards her and Varis in general than the others. The likely reason is not one of actions or words said, but actions or words which are feared - perhaps she's had a tough time with full-blooded elves in the past. It seems as though there are plenty of grudges to go about, as well; the rider, Dorrick, is more than a little wary of Hal, who he seems to have a passing familiarity with.
If there's one thing that can't be escaped, it's heritage.
"Is there a reason we let the blood thirsty noble get off the hook without packing supplies on his precious horse?" He shoots a glare at Hal, "It can't be because he's invaluable. So far all he did was piss off a troll and act entitled."
"Bah. He thinks because he's got a fancy title he has more clout. Well, where I come from, if you're a noble on the road, it means you're a SHAME to your family. So whadja do, Hal?" He shoots a glare at the fighter.
Hal scratched his horse behind the ears as he continued to watch their surroundings for movement.
"Do get ahold of yourself, man. We shall be safe soon enough."
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Tiger BurningDig if you will, the pictureRegistered User, SolidSaints Tuberegular
"I think that's it, then. Tasen will be well enough for now, strapped to the back of the horse. We've still several hours of light left, we should get a move on. I shall be happy to put this ill wood behind us." The fat priest hiked his robe up and bound it, to keep the hem above the snow, and set trudging off alongside the horse bearing the barely conscious young man.
The remaining hike towards West Garrison is rather peaceful, considering the situation. A few things sniff at the odd crew marching through the snowy forest trail, but keep their distance, choosing instead to circle about the edge. It is a good few hours of marching, and just when the wind begins to chill bones Hal spots their destination.
In the distance, the inviting looking buildings of the garrison look tempting for those of the group who are looking for a warm bed and meal - or at least they would, were they not nestled behind a tall stone wall, caked in ice and manned constantly. The guards patrolling don't waste too much time allowing them passage - after all, it is a chilly night and there are dangerous things lurking about.
Alinn consults with Dorrick for a brief moment before he departs, taking the injured Tasen away to patch him up and allow him some rest. The half-elven woman shifts her gaze to Hal after they leave, still doing her best to not meet Varis or Shyrilith's eyes. "We're in your debt - if there's something that we can do for any of you, please say the word."
"Remember the name of Hal Waxworth," he smiled, "and be safe in the Westlands. Off you go, now."
As the half-elf bowed and ran off after Dorrick, Hal wondered to himself where he had seen the man before. If he had a better eye for commoners, he might have remembered throwing Dorrick in the stocks a few weeks previously for elf-baiting. On Winterwelcome, no less. But such thoughts were far from Hal's mind. He turned his horse and gestured at the great walls of West Garrison.
"Here we are, lads.* Closest thing to honest civilization in these parts."
* this was not to exclude Shy, of course. the term is considered gender-neutral in the company of soldiers.
"Who do we see about off-loading the troll heads?" inquires Varis, hefting the bag which now had frozen gorecicles hanging from beneath it. "I'd rather be rid of them sooner than later."
Erik rolled his eyes, "Once again, I'm pretty sure Hal Waxworth does not come with Alchemical Fires or Acids, miss."
He decided it wasn't worth arguing over (which is very unusual for Erik, as he finds most things worth arguing over), as he decided it was more important to rest his wary bones at this point.
"Of course, Varis. We shall be rid of them presently. Follow me and you'll have no trouble at the gate."
Hal was, at least this time, correct. The rough reinforced gates of the garrison were guarded by rough-looking men. They seemed to know Hal, and vice versa. Most appeared to be merchant soldiers, with rough names (Bump, Gout, Bullcalf and Piles were four of them) and faces to match. They saluted Hal, though he seemed not to carry any official rank. It wasn't uncommon for the upper classes to hold military commissions, however temporary. One may have presumed Hal had known them from a prior engagement in the Westlands.
West Garrison had the look of a military fortification partially replaced with a hastily-erected town. Whatever the militant purpose of the place had been in its glory days, it had somehow evolved from a purely martial outpost to a hybrid of stronghold and frontier armpit infected with the appropriate civilian parasites. There were rows upon rows of tents, shacks, and a small number of honest buildings that contained all manner of enterprises. Some of them seemed like a parody of something one might find in a city, such as what appeared to be an improvised (and somehow constantly moving) Biergarten. Others seemed like an ingenious progeny of urban design and backwater impulse, such as the armor fitter who had barbers, bartenders and fortune-tellers to assist his waiting clients.
Lord Waxworth led those who followed through the improvised bazaar/marketplace/slum (along the way finding an establishment that was apparently a tavern as well as a stable to house Gregor) and deeper into the more organized and military section of the Garrison. Eventually he motioned for Varis to follow closer, and came up to a rough wooden desk with a sign upon it that proclaimed 'Payemester'.
"Milord Waxworth," the piggish soldier behind it remarked, "how is it with you this evenin?"
"Well indeed, Paymaster Hogg. I've come with a Troll Bounty... as well as a few words for Major Pinkerton, if he's above."
Hogg nodded and surveyed the troll's heads and some inscrutable paperwork passed back and forth between he and Hal. After the matter of examining pages and exchanging signatures had been settled, the paymaster threw the heads into a nearby barrel and handed Hal a handful of coins. Hal turned and handed the money to Varis.
"Payment as promised, Varis. Divide them equally between yourself and Shy. I also have matters to discuss with the Major if you wish to attend me."
Shy had remained quiet; the entrance into West Garrison broke her silence. "You speak too much, say too little," she said to Erik, brushing past him to follow Varis and Hal.
"I also have matters to discuss with the Major if you wish to attend me," the small elf heard Waxworth say as she caught up to them. She pulled her hood down, seeming to remember that she was indoors. Varis passed along an equal share of the coins to her and she pocketed them, retrieving something else from a pouch. She placed it on the table next to the paperwork. It was the first time either Hal or Varis had seen it; Shy's hands were quick.
"I pulled this off the last one," said the Chosen.
It was a wooden sigil, an awkward looking trinket not at all pleasing to the eye, and carved into it was a symbol more familiar in the dustier, warmer southlands; two serpents consuming each other at the tail, circling a bloodshot eye.
"But I had heard the humans had pushed the Redcloaks back. How is it that they have made it this far northward?"
Shuffling his feet uncomfortably, Varis takes a moment to take in the ambiance of the garrison, as it was his first time in such an unabashedly human place.
"You heard correctly. In fact, I'd thought they were wiped out. My father fought in the campaigns against them as a young man. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen one of these in his trophy case. Damn."
Hal frowned and scratched at his stubbled pate for a moment, glancing up at the tower that held the Major's quarters. He'd been prepared to show up with a few skilled hands, accept another commission, and find himself another border dispute in the Westlands. Instead... he was getting something much less straightforward. No doubt the Major would reward him with some sort of dangerous expedition. Most likely it was how the man had gotten so old: he'd mastered the strategy of making sure those on the rise were cut short by their own success. He took a deep breath of the cold air around him.
"Nope, it doesn't always smell like this. Summer is much worse."
"The Redcloaks, eh? I had heard stories of them. Rumor has it they're bugbears in a man's skin; ruthless, bloodthirsty savages."
He furrowed his brow as a realization dawned "And, I suspect, young lady, that you wish for us to pursue the owner of this sigil? Or at least, his compatriots?"
He took a seat in an uncomfortable wooden chair, just happy to get off his feet for the moment, and looked to Shy, "Because if you say no, or try and deny me what little excitement I see in my twilight years, I will be most displeased."
His motives became clear. Erik had little want for money or fame. As a human amongst Eladrin and Elves at the tower, he was painfully aware of how mortal he was, wishing to live up every moment to the fullest long into his final days.
After a couple of minutes of discussion the sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs catches everyone's attention easily. It looks as though this Major Pinkerton is a real bear of a man despite his age - standing near seven feet tall and rather large around as well. He gives the visitors a quick glance before his deep blue eyes lock onto 'Milord' Waxworth and a grin spreads across his rather leathery face.
"Hal!" he shouts with a near roar, charging forward to sweep up the man in a strong bearhug. "Heard ye went out choppin' troll heads - s'good to see your wits haven't dulled - or at least your sword hasn't!" The man gives a laugh that fills the room, which seems to remind him that yes, there are other guests there, and it would be most polite to attend to them as well.
Running a hand through his now rather peppery hair, he nods politely to the others, though his gaze lingers on the two elves. "And who d'you have here?"
Posts
He cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers, conjuring a dagger and orb from seemingly nowhere, "Or rather, for this beast. I fear the poor dumb oaf is about to bite off far more than it can chew."
"Astratholo Kann Yorthomite!" shouts the young elf as he clears the treeline at a run. He then takes up position between the two travelers and the lumbering figure.
"Fear not, good folks. We have already slain trolls this day. One more will be little challenge."
They tried to bury us. They didn't know that we were seeds. 2018 Midterms. Get your shit together.
"Blasted adventurers, Gregor. Two of 'em is too haughty for for the job, and the other two think it's some kind of damned crusade."
He grabbed two troll heads and tied their hair together, muttering to himself as he worked.
"Turning down good, clean gold like... bah. Should've found myself a band of honest, cut-throat mercenaries. S'what I get for going by way of Harlin's Crossing instead of a proper town."
Hal threw the heads over the back of his saddle, and climbed upon the horse. Strange as their ways might be, at least the Elves seemed willing and capable. The troll that had just appeared probably didn't stand a... oh blast, where had that come from?
Without another word, Hal spurred his horse toward the troll and drew his blade.
Varis - Ice Troll - Erik - Father Zossima - Shyrilith
"Worry not, travelers! For you are under the protection of the Knights of Cam Ithel. No harm shall befall you this day!"
With that, the travelers see the obviously crazy flying elf hurl himself at a troll several times his own height bearing only a crowbar. It's fairly likely that the members of the caravan are suffering from collective hallucinations due to snow madness.
Standard: Five Storms vs Reflex: 1d20+6 19 1d8+5 10 That likely hits.
Free Action: Centered Breath Flurry of Blows, dealing another 10 damage to the troll and sliding him one square straight West to hopefully take him out of range for meleeing the caravaneers.
Minor: I got nothin'.
They tried to bury us. They didn't know that we were seeds. 2018 Midterms. Get your shit together.
Varis - Ice Troll - Erik - Father Zossima - Shyrilith
An ice troll, being stupid, attacks Varis: 1d20+17=34, 2d6+6=11 and hits for 11 damage.
It regenerates 5 hp.
It can't really move without opening itself up further, so it doesn't.
Varis (17/28) - Ice Troll (54/69) - Erik - Father Zossima - Shyrilith
"Great. We're about to be rescued by crazy flying elves. Don't see that every day, I suppose, eh, Father?"
With surprising agility, the wizard duck past his companion and just off the road. A flick of his wrist produced a decanter sizzling with alchemists acid.
"Fire works, don't see why this won't." He leans back and hurls the acid with all his might, watching the green vial sail through the snowy forest...
1d20+5 = 17 vs Reflex, 1d10 = 6 acid, plus 5 ongoing
Yeah, fuck you Ice Troll. Now you LOSE 5 damage rather than regenerating SHIT.
"Haha! Regenerate THAT wound, you hairy oaf!" He lets slip, contemplating reaching for another flask of acid.
The round dwarf steps forward, crook and hammer raised above his head as he beseeches the sky. As he speaks, the troll's every motion appears to slow, as if it's moving in syrup, making its movements easy to predict. And the seeming terrible blow by the troll now looks to have not done much damage at all to the elf.
Standard: Prophetic Guidance on the troll - Auto hit; troll grants combat advantage to everyone and takes +4 damage from everyone (not on ongoing though, sadly); next person to miss the troll can reroll; lasts until my next EOT.
Minor: Healing Word on Varis - Varis can spend a healing surge to regain surge+1d6+4 hp.
Varis (28/28)
Troll (48/69) - 5 acid ongoing, grants combat advantage, takes +4 additional damage,
Erik
Zossima (31/31) AC 18
Shyrilith up next!
minor: oath of enmity on the troll
The troll found itself in the inexplicable position of being hounded by a man on horseback. It was one of the vagaries of being a monster. One day you're mauling travelers in the woods, the next some adventuring nobleman with a fancy suit of armor is managing, against all odds, to inexplicably entangle you despite being several sizes smaller and on top of a horse.
standard (also on horseback): Charge vs AC: 1d20+9 12 1d10+4 14 and a miss
2nd turn because you lot skipped me and bleh
move: shift to a position of combat advantage... not sure where that is but i must be able to
standard: Bash and Pinion vs AC: 1d20+8 20 1d10+4 7 and the troll is marked by Hal, grabbed by Hal, and takes a -2 to its attack rolls until the end of Hal's next turn.
Luckily, the squire manages to level his head enough to connect with one of his wild blows before retreating to something approximating a safe distance and readying some flame to deal with the regeneration that Sargent Hooloowan always told him that trolls possessed.
"Worry not, travelers. He may not look like much, but that human is pretty good at absorbing punishment."
Free: Elven Accuracy; Five Storms Reroll vs Reflex: 1d20+6 14 for the same 11 crowbar damage.
Free: Flurry for 10, slide him so that Shy can flank.
Move: Five Storms Movement Technique to shift two squares away from the troll and Hal, between the melee and the travelers.
Minor: Draw an Alchemist's Fire in my free hand.
Hal - Varis - Ice Troll - Erik - Father Zossima - Shyrilith
They tried to bury us. They didn't know that we were seeds. 2018 Midterms. Get your shit together.
Erik noticed his opportunity now. But that damned human was too close! "Bah, screw it. SORRY IN ADVANCE IF I HIT YOU, STRANGE HORSEBACK MAN!" He tried his best to diffuse a hopefully-not-disastrous situation before it happened, as orange flames began to crackle around his hands.
"Alchemists acids aren't cheap, y'know..." he complained to the Father, "Sometimes, I've gotta get my hands dirty the old fashioned way."
A searing burst of fire erupted from his fingertips, and then the ground beneath the troll. Thankfully, it's enormous size acted as a shield to Hal, even as he held the beast in place. A fitful sneeze wracks him, however, and the spell fizzles as its' controller lost concentration.
"OH, FOR THE LOVE OF..."
He hunkers down, concentrates, and channeling a more powerful spell in his hands, not about to be humiliated by the weather.
"Screw being careful. Now I REALLY apologize to the both of you." The green globe forms into a long, thing shaft, the head of the arrow becoming clear.
"Melf, guide this acid arrow straight through the beasts damnable heart. Or so help me I will find you."
The arrow soars through the air, no sneezes keeping it from it's target. The acid splashs and burns across the trolls skin, burning away chunks of flesh and armor. The troll stumbles forward, eyes rolling back into its' skull as it collapses forth, regeneration unable to knit its' wounds as the acid burns away too fast. Unfortunately, Hal, having grabbed the creature, was splashed by a bit of the acid, receiving severe burns over parts of his arm and shoulders.
"Er, uh. Sorry, strangers. My name is Erik. This fat little cleric who'll no doubt be tending to your acid burns is my compatriot, Father Zossima. We appreciate your assistance in handling the troll."
ON A GODDAMN ROLL WHERE I NEED 1-4 TO MISS.
SOMEONE WANNA DO THE MATH OF MY CHANCES TO FUCKING MISS VS HIT?
I'LL DO IT FOR YOU.
LIKE, 20 FUCKING PERCENT.
Standard: Scorching Burst
HORSE SHIT. 1d20+9=10, (Natural 1)
Spending Action Point:
Standard: Acid Arrow (daily)
Lemme parse this confusing shit.
1d20+9=20, 2d8+10=20
1d20+7=8 (Natural 1), 1d8+6=9, missing Varis
1d20+7=17, 1d8+6=12, hitting Hal
Troll is 0/69, Troll is dead.
Minor: Healing Word on Hal: 1d6+4 10 + Hal's surge value HP regained.
"Shut up."
A small silence followed as Hal watched the monster carefully for any movement. Those who looked on may have pondered how the nobility of the human lineages had a certain way with words. Even a simple command to stay quiet carried with it -- simultaneously, i might add -- a certain amount of dignity and disdain. When the troll showed no sign of further animation, Hal Waxworth sheathed his sword, and then used his spear to heft the charred remains of its head. He examined it, as if in appraisal of its value, before continuing.
"Now then. Erik and Zossima, was it?" He did not wait for reply. "It seems that you are having some trouble with your wagon. Unfortunate."
Hal's firm grasp of the obvious had apparently not wavered. He secured the troll's head to his saddle and pulled a scroll from a nearby satchel. He began scrawling upon it with a piece of charcoal that seemed to have been cut for the purpose.
"Erik... and... Zossima..." he said, writing as he very slowly pronounced the names and committed them to paper, "Well, lads... it so happens that you are near West Garrison. It also happens that my companions and I are en route to that very place. If you wish to benefit from our protection, I am delightfully obligated to offer it. In exchange, I ask only that you show deference to my leadership. That will include stifling your tenuous grasp upon the Magics until otherwise notified, and not trying to convert me to your Religions. I assume, of course, that you have documents that permit you in the use of Magic and Religion in this province. Well... of course you do, right?"
Hal's smile, as one might expect, was a bit out of step with his speech. His words seemed to be walking a rope between extortion and generosity.
"No objections? Grand. Varis! Shy! See to it that these fellows are ready for the journey."
The young Lord Waxworth gave a soft kick at his horse's flank, and began to trot prettily in the direction of West Garrison.
"Great, first human I meet that doesn't faint at the sight of blood and he's either an idiot or crazy," then, speaking quite clearly, "What do you mean YOUR protection? As I recall, I'm the one who kill the troll, kept it from regenerating, AND brought the guy who healed your acid burn!"
He paused a moment, as the statement sank in, and called out to Hal as he rode off "Documents? Are you daft!? I am a TRAINED PROFESSIONAL! Not some...Warlock! Oh, the hell with him. Now, which one of you is Varis and which one is Shy?" He asked, turning towards his new "companions", "And what the hell is that guys problem?"
"Let us not tarry, good Zossima," he called over his shoulder to Erik, "the day grows short."
Calling out to the human, who seemed to be perfectly intent on trotting off by himself. "Oh good sir.. knight! We'll require just a few moments to see to our kind companions' needs. And indeed, "many hands make light work" as the prior used to say. Surely it wouldn't be so far beneath the dignity of House..ah.."
They tried to bury us. They didn't know that we were seeds. 2018 Midterms. Get your shit together.
Mark my words."
His tone made it clear this was no threat, as Erik set to work (or rather, set his Mage Hand to work) helping with repairs.
The large and rough man nods in return, giving a frustrated sigh and chucking the wooden piece in his hands onto the ground. "Wagon's a bust. Have to come back for it." he remarks in a gruff tone to Varis, Shy and Erik as he moves to detach Faithful. His eyes follow Hal for a moment as he trots away, and eventually the man makes a decision. "Are you not going to pitch in, my lord?" he says, with more than a bit of spite in his voice.
Heal: 1d20+10 14
They tried to bury us. They didn't know that we were seeds. 2018 Midterms. Get your shit together.
"Life and limb take precedence. They who cannot walk must be carried. That horse will be well suited to that task. And those worldly things that cannot be carried must unfortunately be left behind. Quickly, now. We must not waste the daylight."
If there's one thing that can't be escaped, it's heritage.
"Bah. He thinks because he's got a fancy title he has more clout. Well, where I come from, if you're a noble on the road, it means you're a SHAME to your family. So whadja do, Hal?" He shoots a glare at the fighter.
"Do get ahold of yourself, man. We shall be safe soon enough."
In the distance, the inviting looking buildings of the garrison look tempting for those of the group who are looking for a warm bed and meal - or at least they would, were they not nestled behind a tall stone wall, caked in ice and manned constantly. The guards patrolling don't waste too much time allowing them passage - after all, it is a chilly night and there are dangerous things lurking about.
Alinn consults with Dorrick for a brief moment before he departs, taking the injured Tasen away to patch him up and allow him some rest. The half-elven woman shifts her gaze to Hal after they leave, still doing her best to not meet Varis or Shyrilith's eyes. "We're in your debt - if there's something that we can do for any of you, please say the word."
As the half-elf bowed and ran off after Dorrick, Hal wondered to himself where he had seen the man before. If he had a better eye for commoners, he might have remembered throwing Dorrick in the stocks a few weeks previously for elf-baiting. On Winterwelcome, no less. But such thoughts were far from Hal's mind. He turned his horse and gestured at the great walls of West Garrison.
"Here we are, lads.* Closest thing to honest civilization in these parts."
* this was not to exclude Shy, of course. the term is considered gender-neutral in the company of soldiers.
They tried to bury us. They didn't know that we were seeds. 2018 Midterms. Get your shit together.
He decided it wasn't worth arguing over (which is very unusual for Erik, as he finds most things worth arguing over), as he decided it was more important to rest his wary bones at this point.
Hal was, at least this time, correct. The rough reinforced gates of the garrison were guarded by rough-looking men. They seemed to know Hal, and vice versa. Most appeared to be merchant soldiers, with rough names (Bump, Gout, Bullcalf and Piles were four of them) and faces to match. They saluted Hal, though he seemed not to carry any official rank. It wasn't uncommon for the upper classes to hold military commissions, however temporary. One may have presumed Hal had known them from a prior engagement in the Westlands.
West Garrison had the look of a military fortification partially replaced with a hastily-erected town. Whatever the militant purpose of the place had been in its glory days, it had somehow evolved from a purely martial outpost to a hybrid of stronghold and frontier armpit infected with the appropriate civilian parasites. There were rows upon rows of tents, shacks, and a small number of honest buildings that contained all manner of enterprises. Some of them seemed like a parody of something one might find in a city, such as what appeared to be an improvised (and somehow constantly moving) Biergarten. Others seemed like an ingenious progeny of urban design and backwater impulse, such as the armor fitter who had barbers, bartenders and fortune-tellers to assist his waiting clients.
Lord Waxworth led those who followed through the improvised bazaar/marketplace/slum (along the way finding an establishment that was apparently a tavern as well as a stable to house Gregor) and deeper into the more organized and military section of the Garrison. Eventually he motioned for Varis to follow closer, and came up to a rough wooden desk with a sign upon it that proclaimed 'Payemester'.
"Milord Waxworth," the piggish soldier behind it remarked, "how is it with you this evenin?"
"Well indeed, Paymaster Hogg. I've come with a Troll Bounty... as well as a few words for Major Pinkerton, if he's above."
Hogg nodded and surveyed the troll's heads and some inscrutable paperwork passed back and forth between he and Hal. After the matter of examining pages and exchanging signatures had been settled, the paymaster threw the heads into a nearby barrel and handed Hal a handful of coins. Hal turned and handed the money to Varis.
"Payment as promised, Varis. Divide them equally between yourself and Shy. I also have matters to discuss with the Major if you wish to attend me."
"I also have matters to discuss with the Major if you wish to attend me," the small elf heard Waxworth say as she caught up to them. She pulled her hood down, seeming to remember that she was indoors. Varis passed along an equal share of the coins to her and she pocketed them, retrieving something else from a pouch. She placed it on the table next to the paperwork. It was the first time either Hal or Varis had seen it; Shy's hands were quick.
"I pulled this off the last one," said the Chosen.
It was a wooden sigil, an awkward looking trinket not at all pleasing to the eye, and carved into it was a symbol more familiar in the dustier, warmer southlands; two serpents consuming each other at the tail, circling a bloodshot eye.
"The Man in Red's fingers reach north," Shy said.
"But I had heard the humans had pushed the Redcloaks back. How is it that they have made it this far northward?"
Shuffling his feet uncomfortably, Varis takes a moment to take in the ambiance of the garrison, as it was his first time in such an unabashedly human place.
"Does it always smell like this?"
They tried to bury us. They didn't know that we were seeds. 2018 Midterms. Get your shit together.
Hal frowned and scratched at his stubbled pate for a moment, glancing up at the tower that held the Major's quarters. He'd been prepared to show up with a few skilled hands, accept another commission, and find himself another border dispute in the Westlands. Instead... he was getting something much less straightforward. No doubt the Major would reward him with some sort of dangerous expedition. Most likely it was how the man had gotten so old: he'd mastered the strategy of making sure those on the rise were cut short by their own success. He took a deep breath of the cold air around him.
"Nope, it doesn't always smell like this. Summer is much worse."
He furrowed his brow as a realization dawned "And, I suspect, young lady, that you wish for us to pursue the owner of this sigil? Or at least, his compatriots?"
He took a seat in an uncomfortable wooden chair, just happy to get off his feet for the moment, and looked to Shy, "Because if you say no, or try and deny me what little excitement I see in my twilight years, I will be most displeased."
His motives became clear. Erik had little want for money or fame. As a human amongst Eladrin and Elves at the tower, he was painfully aware of how mortal he was, wishing to live up every moment to the fullest long into his final days.
Hal straightened his clothes and his cape in preparation of meeting with Major Pinkerton.
"And yes... my father swore the legends about them being half-giants were true. If they've returned, I'm sure your last days will be exciting indeed."
"Hal!" he shouts with a near roar, charging forward to sweep up the man in a strong bearhug. "Heard ye went out choppin' troll heads - s'good to see your wits haven't dulled - or at least your sword hasn't!" The man gives a laugh that fills the room, which seems to remind him that yes, there are other guests there, and it would be most polite to attend to them as well.
Running a hand through his now rather peppery hair, he nods politely to the others, though his gaze lingers on the two elves. "And who d'you have here?"