Session 2.1: Drunken Lullabies
After playing what would have been session 1.10, it was decided that to keep the numbering system rational, the previous 1.4 should really be the first session of the second arc. Hence this one has been renamed 2.1. Hope that's not been too confusing. Cheers,
I am sorry that this took so long to write up, but despite being so short, this session took an awfully long time to write up. Probably because the group spent more time actually playing rather than paying Dev out. So let's get to it.
Due to our new player, the party started out split. Oh no! But it's okay, cause I fully intended to have them join up shortly.
The party itself was heading south, back to Summer Hill, Maebh driving the wagon. It was decided that they would like to play out the afternoon again, something I was quite happy to do as it meant we could get Tremor into the action quicker in the long run. I know, you wouldn't think so, but unbelievably I think it did. [/color]
"So how do we want to approach firstly the matter of our payment and secondly the information we have gained?" - Harold, addressing the group from his seat in the back of the cart.
"Payment?" - Maebh.
"Yes, payment from the man who is essentially bankrolling us at the moment." - Harold.
"Perhaps you didn't understand me. I don't want to be in the room." - Kel'Serrar.
"I understand that. You can cover me. You could be across the street with an arrow ready. I'm sure it won't hit, but at least you might get close." - Harold.
"I guess I should find a blindfold." - Kel'Serrar.
Laughter."Maebh, I would like you there as my right hand." - Harold.
"And you would like me not to be there." - Breanna, pre-empting an assault on her capabilities.
"No, I would like you to be there and ready to slit some throats." - Harold.
"... I can't do that unless he's short enough for me to reach." - Breanna.
With that, they decided that they had sorted out how they would handle the collection of the money they were due.
Breanna continues her attempts at creeping out the prisoner as they make their way back to Summer Hill in the cart. The sunlight fades and they find themselves on the road at night. The decision is made to press on through the dark hours, to arrive in Summer Hill as soon as possible.
That night they hear a strange howling from the east. Alert for signs of danger, they press on, sharpening weapons and keeping watchful eyes on the tree line. Maebh contemplates casting a Magical Alarm on the road behind them to warn of anyone following, but they decide not to as she needs to drive the wagon forward and casting the spell would take time.
Harold considers relieving Breanna from her prisoner-watching duties but promptly forgets when they all notice the eerie sensation of being watched by something in the forest.
Meanwhile in Summer Hill, I had Wings take an Alcohol Consumption Check to signify how Tremor was spending his night. This was to make sure that he was doing something while the others were rolling their Perception Checks.
So therefore, for his first action in the story, Tremor Ironfist sits in The Iron Moon Inn, trying hard to drink himself into a coma. He is failing for now, but is certainly putting away a lot of alcohol. Meanwhile out on the road with the howling echoing in their ears, the group has an uncomfortable feeling they are being watched.
Kel'Serrar did exceptionally well on his Check, going into negatives and Harold tried to use his Invarrian nose to garner some more clues. On the very edge of his hearing, Kel'Serrar can hear what sounds like very soft footsteps. He's not sure if they're real, but he has learnt to trust his gut instinct by now and he thinks there is something there. The pattern with which they hit the ground seems vaguely familiar to him. His first thoughts are either Corpsewalker or marcwolf.
Harold takes another whiff of the air, but in all the smells he gets, he comes up with nothing out of the ordinary. He can smell horse, Leathe, Danann, Invarrian (drunken dog-man) and the various smells of the forest.
And then it hits him. A very faint whiff of decay.
The whole group starts to freak out and whinge about how it's a Corpsewalker and how mean I am to them. I was incredibly happy with this turn of events as that is precisely the attitude I want towards the Corpsewalkers. I think it means I have gotten just the right balance of fear, enough that they dread taking them on, not enough that they'll run out on the plot. Maebh drives the horse to a bit more speed now, taking the road a little quicker than perhaps is safe, but none of the others mind as the faster they travel, the further they are from any Corpsewalkers.
Now past midnight, Tremor takes another Check for the alcohol he is consuming. He is still barely affected. It has gotten so late that the barkeep himself has told the taciturn and alcoholic dwarf,
"Look it's getting late. Help yourself, I'm going to bed. Don't set yourself on fire. If you do, make sure it's in the fireplace." - Sleepy barkeep.
Quite a bit of laughter follows this because of the earlier joke regarding Harold setting himself on fire after a night in this same tavern.
Nodding to the barkeep, Tremor accepts the offered key to the cellar and proceeds to help himself.Back out on the road, it is now early morning and the pale light of the early sun is just breaking through the cloud cover. They have just reached the section of the road where the carriage careened through the undergrowth over a week before.
Perception Checks again.They can still feel the uncomfortable sensation of being watched and Breanna can hear both a soft padding from the road behind them and once the sound of scratching on the bark of a tree.
Tremor's still drinking in the town, despite the sun coming up outside. Finally, he can feel the effects of all the alcohol, despite having spent at least six solid hours putting away various alcoholic beverages. At this time, some people are actually starting to awaken. Not the many who attempted to match the dwarf drink for drink last night, they're going to be out of it for a fair while yet, but despite this, some people are beginning to stir. Sitting up against the wall with two large tankards of ale, Tremor keeps gulping. Back on the road they discuss whether they should move past the carriage and back to Summer Hill or whether they should retrace their steps back to the now abandoned marcwolf cave and see if they can find the bandit camp. Kel'Serrar badly wants the brigands out of the way, however Maebh and Harold advise caution, particularly since Harold himself is still badly wounded. In fact the whole party is still a little worse for wear.
Despite all points to the contrary, Kel'Serrar heads out to go check out what he can find on his own while Maebh drives the cart with the others back to Summer Hill.
There is some discussion about whether they should stay to provide him with a quick getaway until it is pointed out that he can actually run faster than the cart would travel with five people in it, plus all of the equipment Harold insists they take with them.
OOC it is pointed out how slow it will be when the Dwergar joins them.
"That's it, I'm getting another horse to go with this one!" - Ladyhawk.
"You could pull me along in a little sled behind you." - Wings.Kel'Serrar follows the now almost non-existent trail they followed days before and comes across the ruined carriage. It has been completely wrecked by something with a not inconsiderable amount of strength. The girl's corpse, and those of the two horses, have mysteriously disappeared, leaving no discernable trace for the Danann ranger to follow.
Checking more closely, Kel'Serrar finds a small ring which he recognises as being worn by the girl when last he was here, lying upon the shredded remains of the richly upholstered seat. The ring itself is practically worthless, however its presence is unusual.
Looking closely at the scene and the tracks left behind, the ranger determines that the carriage must have been travelling very fast, probably trying to escape from something on the road. Now what could possibly be big enough, hungry enough and fierce enough to lead to that kind of reaction? Just outside a town in the Midlands of all places.
Kel'Serrar considers whether it is worth trying to find the old marcwolf cave they sheltered in several nights ago, and from there scouting out the bandit camp, but his ability to find both of these considering the cold trails he would be following is unknown. With this in mind, the Danann ranger turns and promptly lopes back onto the road, despite the light-headedness which still plagues him, hoping to catch up to the wagon before he faints. On the way he curses his weakness, wishing that he could deal with the bandits now and by himself, but he is smart enough to know that he's just not capable of that. Yet...
Maebh's wagon is only an hour at the most outside of Summer Hill when they recognise the running figure of Kel'Serrar approaching from the north. All of them are half dead from fatigue having spent the majority of the previous night in watchful fear.
Blinking her bleary eyes, Maebh drives her wagon through the western gate of Summer Hill at mid-morning.
"To the drinking hall!" - Harold, to stony silence. "No, okay then.""Alright let's go to the fountain. Breanna and Kel'Serrar, I want you two to cover us while we talk to this guy while you Maebh, I want you to just be your beautiful self, standing next to me." - Harold, getting the hang of using flattery to get his way.
"Thank you." - Maebh, in such a regal tone that everyone cracked up.
"Please don't eat me." - Harold in an undertone. And we all thought that perhaps he was starting to use his Charm Skill the way it should be used. For example, without punching people in the face.
Meanwhile Tremor is still sitting in a tavern, putting away ales because he enjoys his nights. And mornings.
"And all other times. Provided he's awake." - Ladyhawk.
There's a lot of talking about respective weights. Especially how Tremor is probably getting closer to a blob than a dwarf. Tremor is approached while sitting in the tavern by a short, slight, well-dressed man with a trimmed, pointed beard and short, dark hair. He is very pale, his skin clammy, but any illness he must be feeling he puts aside in his manner.
"You look like you're relatively experienced." - Rangard, with just a small amount of disdain towards the grizzled Dwergar.
"I need a hand. I wish you to join a group who is currently in my employ. They'll likely need someone of your abilities anyway. But in the meantime at least, I might be in danger from them as I don't know just how much danger I just put them in. So basically, I will pay you a
lot of money if you will make sure that they don't just kill me out of hand." - Rangard, looking slightly nervous.
Tremor staggers to his feet, looks up at the man, stares him directly in the eye and pauses for a moment, before nodding his agreement.
Harold leans back against the fountain, finishing off the last of the rum he bought last time he was in town. The rest of his group are waiting in readiness, half of them hidden in the trees and Maebh beside him remaining calm. Walking towards them they can see the figure of Rangard and a short, hairy Dwergar clad in leather and staggering with slight drunkenness.
Which after hearing how much he's had to drink over the last twelve hours, is quite an accomplishment. "I don't know what happened out there, but judging by the look on your faces, that was not what we expected." - A very pale Rangard to Maebh and Harold.
"Can you not tell by the rest of us?" - Maebh, pointing out that her clothing is singed and burnt and Harold himself is nursing several major injuries and is looking more battered than ever. Being savaged by a sword-wielding northerner will do that to you.
Rangard looks at them appraisingly before cracking a slight grin.
"I thought it would be impolite to mention it my lady. Now please tell me, what happened out there?" - Rangard
"Well the first night we came across some marcwolves which were trying to eat us. Then speaking of things which wanted to eat us, there were actual Corpsewalkers! And then even more Corpsewalkers." - Harold.
Rangard flinches at the mention of Corpsewalkers but does not react further.
"And then, when we actually find the group you sent before us, we found out they were all bitten!" - Harold, indignant.
"And now they're all dead." - Maebh, in a far too cheerful manner.
"Yes, cause we were
fortunate enough to be there on the day they started to turn." - Harold, sarcastic.
"How was that fortunate?" - Ladyhawk. Dev isn't the easiest person to determine levels of sarcasm in. As in, he always sounds vaguely sarcastic. There is silence for a short while before,
"I take it from what you say that you put them down?" - Rangard.
"Yes!" - Harold. Political intrigue is not something Harold will ever be good at.
"And there were no survivors?" - Rangard.
"None!" - Harold still frustrated.
"We survived..." - Maebh in the background.
"Except us!" - Harold to Rangard.
"Thank you Mar-ve" - Dev.
"MAY-VE!" - Everyone. Judging by the recording, even Wings.
"Mar-ve, May-ve. what's the difference?" - Dev.
"No because pronunciation doesn't matter does it Gyeorg?"
"Yes, thank you James." - Dev
There is silence....
"I expected Jar-mays."
The war on pronunciation begins anew, with Duke Dev at the forefront, spreading illiteracy wherever he goes. "I haven't been completely truthful with you-" - Rangard beginning.
"OH REALLY!?" - Harold.
"Yeah we kind of figured." - Maebh.
"I would like to share what I can with you now if that is okay." - Rangard.
"Yes that would be useful. Will it also be sprinkled with more hidden lies and slander?" - Harold.
"I haven't slandered you at all." - Rangard.
"Well not yet!" - Harold. He's a stubborn bastard and tends to get completely off-track in conversations.
A trait he shares with his player. In copious amounts. "I need help. I am for Summer Hill, that's all I care about. That doesn't necessarily make me a good person, but I'm a damn sight better than the alternatives. As you know, the queen of Elspeth has long wanted to claim Summer Hill as her own. Now what you don't know is that, as of these last few months, Queen Esmerelda has been trying to claim us through clandestine means. As you can imagine this is not good for Summer Hill at all. We value our independence, a long-standing gift from a good man and a great king.
I came by knowledge of these attempts and approached one of my friends here in the town in an attempt to put a halt to these events. Though it took us weeks and in some cases led us into extreme peril, we eventually found that there were some ancient artefacts that could give us the strength to fight back, Focus Stones. Imagine our surprise and joy when we found one may have been hidden in this very area! It became an obsession of ours, to find its location and obtain it, to use its power to crush the power of this cult.
My friend was a very powerful mage, easily the best magic user the town could lay claim to, capable of melting the very rock with the heat of his conjured flames, and having no experience in these matters myself I used what assets I could to engage some hirelings to accompany him into the ruins. We told them only that we wanted to explore the ruins and they were to accompany my friend.
I did not know, but at least one of them was in the employ of Elspeth simultaneously and betrayed us. My friend died down there, cut down from behind even as he sent a whisper to me.
Now my investigations have led me to believe that the cult has been using those very same ruins as some sort of headquarters where they come together to plan I imagine-" -Rangard, interrupted in the middle of his spiel.
This is about as close I have come to arrogant GM monologue. :smalltongue:"Ha, we killed them." - Maebh, triumphantly.
"Well , not all of them." - Harold in an undertone.
"You found the cult?" - Rangard, grave.
"Yes, we killed the head of the cult." - Harold.
Rangard stands in place, taking in this new information. Meanwhile, Tremor, to whom all of this is new, is just perplexed.
"Actually, we killed a really strong one, and there was also a short, old man. Oh and another one who's sitting in the cart whimpering I reckon." - Maebh, thoughtful.
"Have you managed to get anything out of him?" - Rangard, latching on to this new player in the game.
"We have two pieces of information, and we will share them with you. I think I will ask you to go get the prisoner Maebh." - Harold, probably thinking that Rangard and Tremor don't necessarily know that Kel'Serrar and Breanna are in hiding and are therefore unknown observers, elects to send his already revealed ally.
Probably the best choice he could make in the circumstances.
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"Well, before you send your mage away, I have a request I'm afraid I must ask of her." - Rangard, a small trace of desperation leaking into his usual calm voice.
"Only if you ask nicely." - Maebh, putting her 'haughty' on.
"I will ask nicely, as it pleases you my lady." - Rangard, bowing slightly. For an arrogant man, this is about as close to actual respect one could get from him. He continues.
"Through some means, I know not how, the cult must be aware I am working against them. I have been cursed and I do not expect I have much life left in me. Unfortunately, since my friend died, I have no other mage in this town whom I trust." - Rangard. He pauses.
"I don't even trust
you that much, I am sorry. But you're the only hope I have." - Rangard.
The astute here might realise that his story here has some holes. Whether this is down to yet more untruths or perhaps just a gap of knowledge, who’s to say?
[/color]
"Ah, not til I get some answers." - Harold cuts in.
"I am sorry, but time is of the essence. Whatever questions you have, I swear I will answer to the best of my abilities once I am cured." - Rangard. Even in mortal peril, he can't help but strike a deal. Must be the merchant in him.
"Alright then." - Maebh, rolling up her sleeves and ignoring Harold as she prepares to cast the spell.
As Maebh observes the merchant closely, she can feel the darkness within him, slowly eating him away. He is likely in rather extreme agony and it's a miracle he's not catatonic with the pain. She can also see that his condition is will worsen within the hour.
Rangard was hit with the Black Death curse. It slowly but surely strangles every vein in his body with burning daemonic energy, causing a very painful death. Usually it takes less than a day to bring down the target, the effects increasing as time wears on.
Rangard's been dealing with the curse for over a day now, showing an extremely strong will, not only to have survived this long, but still be able to communicate and move. Of course, even he is not invincible, and without a cure, his time would be up.
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"Okay, looks like a dangerous one. I'm going to need some water someone." - Maebh, playing the doctor for once and holding out her drinking bowl.
Harold takes the bowl and dips it into the fountain, bringing up some water which he carefully carries over to the mage.
Maebh accepts the bowl of water without comment and holds it before her in both hands, channelling some of her power into the water contained in the vessel. A soft green-ish glow emanates from the liquid, which cannot truly be called water anymore. Dipping a dainty finger in it, Maebh draws a runic symbol of the Scribhinn
The Scribhinn is the Danann script. The language is called the Cainte.
[/color] on Rangard's forehead before offering the rest to the merchant to drink. He does so and gasps as the liquid instantly freezes his insides, burning out the dark magic with extreme, purifying chill.
In true Monty Python fashion, he got better.
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"Okay then, as you know the group I sent out betrayed us to Elspeth and killed my friend." - Rangard. He takes a deep breath.
"The Corpsewalkers are my doing. I set them upon the other group, hoping to destroy them in a way which would not be traced back to me in any way." - Rangard.
"Okay then, next question. What is it a cult
of?" - Harold.
"The destruction of what I hold dear. Failing that, they're trying to find a way to bind a daemon to bring us down from within. There is no religious purpose behind them. It is sheer acquisition of power and gold, nothing more." - Rangard.
"Right. Okay, 'Mar-ve,' could you please go get the prisoner." - Harold, once again mangling Maebh's name.
"First of all it's Maebh, and secondly okay, but only since you asked politely." - Maebh, primly.
Maebh heads off and swiftly returns with the struggling and bound prisoner slung over her shoulder. He must be rather heavy, but the tough Danann mage doesn't seem to notice his wriggling or his whimpers of fear.
Makes you wonder what she usually carries over her shoulder like that.... "I see. Hopefully you don't mind if we deliver him into the care of one of my associates. She should be able to wring some truth from him." - Rangard, with a hard glare at the bound prisoner.
"I want to be there." - Maebh, quick as a flash.
"That can be arranged." - Rangard, nodding.
"So do I." - Harold, with something approaching weighty finality.
There is silence for a moment, then....
"How many people do you wish to cram into this tiny little torture room?" - Rangard, eyebrow raised.
"Just two more than usual." - Harold.
"Right so four already, plus the one being cut up..." - Rangard. He looks at the Danann and Invarrian, sizing them up.
"Okay, I shall see what can be done." - Rangard.
"Good. There is also an issue regarding a bandit camp in the vicinity." - Harold, pulling forth the note given to them by a previous prisoner.
Their prisoners tend to meet damn sticky ends....."As you can see it's been signed by their leader, code-named, The Shadow. Any clues as to who that is?" - Harold.
"Unfortunately, I don't know, but I would bet it has something to do with Elspeth and their damned Queen." - Rangard, regretfully.
Harold sighs and nods his head resignedly.
"Well, I believe I owe you all a not inconsiderable amount of money." - Rangard.
"Yes, and you'd better pay up now." - Maebh.
"Okay then, let us go to my manor and we shall organise payment and the interrogation of your prisoner." - Rangard, turning to leave. Before he does so, he halts and turns back to the Invarrian and Dannan.
"I don't suppose you managed to find that Focus Stone while you were down there by any chance?" - Rangard, with just a little bit of hope.
"No." - Maebh, lying through her teeth.
"Well, we might have actually. We'll have to got the cart and check it out." - Harold, trying to get a bit of time alone to discuss it with the others.
"Well then, I guess I should give you your money first and we can sort that out later. I'd be very much obliged if you would come with me and I will introduce you to my associate while we're there." - Rangard, a little preoccupied with his own thoughts.
More to come very soon. :smallwink: Right here in fact.Told you so, here's part 2 of Session 1.4.The merchant heads off with Harold and Tremor in tow, leaving the Danann with the bound prisoner. Grinning maliciously, she takes the rope and pulls the man after the three men, oblivious to his feeble struggles. After they have left, Breanna and Kel'Serrar drop out of their respective trees and make their way back to the wagon, thinking to guard it while the others are otherwise engaged.
After leading his companions to his household, Rangard takes them to his study and starts the transaction, paying them from his own personal reserves.
Everyone gets their money and there is much rejoicing. Tremor gets a bit less than the rest as really all he's done is act as an intimidating, short, drunken bodyguard. "Now that is out of the way, I shall introduce you to my associate." - Rangard, rubbing his hands together. He's looking a bit livelier already, but it will take some time before the damage inflicted by the curse is fully reversed.
"Are you talking about the dwarf?" - Harold, pointing at Tremor.
"No." - Rangard, who nods his head towards the corner of the room.
Standing there in the corner, unobserved until now, is a short Selkye woman, clad in dark grey cloth, a deep cowl obscuring her facial features. She stalks over to the group, cold eyes appraising everyone individually before bowing respectfully to Rangard.
"Well met." - Selkye assassin, having straightened once more. At about the same height as Tremor, both Harold and Maebh tower over her, but she still holds herself with an easy confidence.
"Indeed." - Harold, with a raised eyebrow.
Maebh offers a respectful nod in greeting, while Tremor simply grunts.
Rangard addresses the group.
"With your permission, I would like to grant this woman access to your prisoner." - Rangard.
The prisoner starts to try and escape again, drawing only a very sharp pull on the rope from Maebh which promptly cuts into his windpipe. He starts whimpering some more.
"Shut up. Do you want something to complain about? Like my boot in your face?" - Harold.
"So, may I begin?" - Selkye assassin, quietly.
Maebh simply nods.
The small woman reaches down and picks the man up by the scruff of the neck, before physically hauling him out the door and down the hallway, ignoring his panicked struggles and screams. She is very strong for her size, ruthless, and focussed only on doing her job. The others follow her out.
She continues down a flight of stairs, dragging the prisoner as she goes, thinking to exploit the bruised flesh later, before turning right through another doorway. Inside the room are two tables, one bare stone, the other polished wood, strewn with various wicked looking knives.
The Selkye woman ties the man to the stone table while Maebh and Rangard look on and Harold and Tremor lean up against the doorway, getting to know each other through the universal language of betting.
"Three coppers says he lasts no more than three minutes." - Harold, rubbing two coppers together.
"You're on, he'll last longer than that, no matter how good the little lass is." - Tremor.
Ten seconds later....
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHH! DON'T HURT ME AGAIN!" - Cultist.
"I win?" - Harold, grinning.
Within ten minutes, the cultist has revealed everything he knows to the gathered torturers. The assassin gives him some time to talk without the attentions of the steel blades. Those wicked steel blades.
"We were hired to produce something which could be unleashed within the town so that the forces outside can strike while they are distracted. We’re looking to harness a daemon, bend it to our control completely without anchoring it to a physical target. One cannot use the power of the daemons without anchoring it to a physical object. When you use magic, you anchor a daemon within yourself. Necromancers anchor the daemon to a corpse, which is far less volatile than anchoring the daemon to a living being, especially one who is unwilling to be a receptacle. We seek to bind it within an aethyric box, and then turn it loose and although we would prefer to retain some control over it, that control is not necessary to our needs.” - Frantic and bleeding cultist.
"Do you mean that control is not necessary now, but your long term desire is to control it?" - Tremor, interposing himself in the conversation with typical gruffness.
The cultist trembles.
"Well..... AAAAARGH! More or less...." - Cultist, defeated after the assassin stabs him once again, thinking he has gone long enough with pain.
"Well then, that was informative. We will leave Meldith here to dispose of him, shall we?" - Rangard, unconsciously rubbing his hands together as if washing them.
"Fair enough. I'm not really into the disposal of bodies." - Dev.
"I noticed. Like the little girl's body you consigned to the wolves."
"Well.... It was good protein for them!" - Dev.The three companions follow Rangard back into his study, leaving the Selkye to her grisly task.
"As you can see, I did not lie to you about the cult within the town." - Rangard, grim.
"No you did not." - Harold, nodding in agreement, if perhaps a little grudgingly.
At this point Dev says, "But you did...." and makes a strange whining noise in the back of his throat. The weird thing? So does Wings. Everyone else laughs and ignores the important question.
"What?" - LD.
The fact is, none of us had a clue what the two of them were talking about in their own weird, spontaneously created whine-language.
"We obviously bonded over the gambling!" - Dev."Say hypothetically, we continued helping you...." - Harold, leaving the question open.
"Would we be paid more?" - Tremor, finishing it. Those two would become nigh inseparable as the night went on.
May all the Gods of men save us all."Of course." - Rangard, smoothly.
"Okay then, so in that hypothetical world, how much are we talking, and what would be our next step?" - Harold.
"To answer your first question, however much you feel you are worth. I am a wealthy and powerful merchant. Name a figure remotely reasonable and I shall see it fulfilled." - Rangard, somewhat smug.
"I want one hundred crowns." - Maebh, quietly leaning against the wall.
One hundred crowns is an awful lot. In modern day terms, what she did there was like trying to withdraw seven million dollars from the local supermarket."How about ten then?" - Maebh, smiling a little in the face of Rangard's incredulous look.
It's still a lot of money, but he's wealthy and he needs them. So he can afford it for now, but in the overall scheme of things, that is likely to break him when combined with the money he handed out earlier that day. "So two each then?" - Rangard, with a sinking feeling when he sees the Danann mage shake her head.
"No, just for me." - Maebh, cheerful.
Stunned silence. Then,
"Our mage regards herself very highly." - Harold, somewhat sarcastically.
Well we assumed so anyway. He might just be the master of understatement. You never can tell with Dev."I do. You would all be dead if it weren't for me." - Maebh, haughty, and a little affronted that Harold would take that tone regarding her.
"I am willing to negotiate with you all individually." - Rangard, heading off the argument. After all, he really doesn't want a mage to start flinging fire around inside his expensive manor house. Especially if he's going to have to hand over a significant portion of his money to said mage.
"Well anyway, from this point onward, I want you to be open and honest with all of us. Otherwise, I'm out and hanging you out to dry." - Harold, moving back to the task at hand.
Rangard nods, but crucially, doesn't commit to anything.
"What did you need the stone for exactly?" - Maebh, bringing up the one mystery she had left to her before Harold can demand a commitment from Rangard. The Focus Stone she found, while useful, doesn't exactly lend the wielder earth-shattering power by any stretch.
"Ah, well as you know my friend was a rather powerful mage, and that stone was to be the deciding factor in this struggle. But of course, if you haven't found it then we just need to rely on old fashioned force of arms to get this done." - Rangard, sadly.
"But even if we had it, you'd have no mage to use it." - Maebh, frowning.
"
If we had the stone, I might just trust you enough to be happy letting you use it." - Rangard, sighing.
"So what is our next step now?" - Harold, moving onwards.
"So wait, what's the time? In the game." - Wings.
"About eleven in the morning."
"Ah, time for a drink then?" - Wings, to much laughter."So would we look at taking out this bandit camp?" - Harold.
"Honestly, I don't think that's much of a problem compared to the cult within the town itself. Now I do have a lead for you if you are willing to investigate. I'd prefer you to do it than any of my other associates. Meldith is unfortunately, a little too well-known around here." - Rangard.
"She had a bit of a tight scrape while observing another person of interest and only escaped by assuming a fourth false identity during the chase." - Rangard, ignoring the raised eyebrows and disbelieving expressions. They all know that Breanna is not capable of anything like that, so it gives them all a bit of an idea regarding Meldith's abilities. That and the fact that whatever ran her off was powerful enough to do so.
"We'll have to get our own assassin to do this by the sounds of it." - Harold, in an undertone while stroking his chin.
"Anyway, there is a man in town, goes by the last name of Shylocke. He's a merchant, one of the more powerful ones in the area. Now I had him followed by Meldith and she found that he frequents the Harvest Wolf, Wilmund Brewer's tavern over on the west side of town. Unfortunately, access to the backroom was difficult for her to access and she was only just able to escape without being compromised." - Rangard, imparting as much information as possible.
"Okay, I take it the dwarf is joining us?" - Harold, referring to Tremor.
"Us and our little band of murder-hobos?" - Sins."I would be very much in your debt if you would join them." Rangard.
"Yes. Yes you would." - Tremor, gruff.
"Welcome. By the way we are called the Order of the Stick!" - Dev.
"No we are not!" - Ladyhawk, indignant that she didn't get to propose her name for the party.
"Order of the Beard?" - Dev.
"I don't like it cause I don't have one." - Ladyhawk.
"Order of the Beer?" - Dev. Strangely apt.
"....No." - Ladyhawk.
"Order of the Arrow?" - Wings, helpfully.
"We don't really know each other well enough to have an 'Order' yet." - Ladyhawk.
"How about we just stick with Murder-Hobos for the moment?" - Sins.
Silence.....
"Order of the Murder-Hobo?" - Ladyhawk, laughing.
"Wow.... How noble....""Well then, that's settled. Like to go drinking at the tavern?" - Harold to Tremor. New best buds they are.
"Yes!" - Tremor, gruffly.
"Okay then, well we'll do that and Maebh, perhaps you might want to.... um... well..." - Harold, thinking over the best way to use the prickly mage.
"Sneak in the back door?" - Tremor, helpful as ever.
"Yeah!" - Harold. Let's face it, he's probably already half drunk on the mere thought of alcohol.
"We'll cause the distraction lass, you go around the back." - Tremor.
"I've got it! We'll start a drinking competition with EVERYONE in the pub!" - Harold, excited at the glorious bingeing to come.
At some point Tremor did work out rates. The dwarf gets 20 sulvers a week for every full week he stays in service to Rangard. In addition to that he will get 2 crowns upon the cult's destruction.
The rest of the party will also get the 2 crowns each, however they have not come to any conclusion with Rangard with regards to other payment.
They head off in their separate directions after getting instructions from Rangard on how to get to the Harvest Wolf. Tremor and Harold walk directly to the tavern, happily getting to know each other, while Maebh strides back to the cart, a solitary, foreboding figure in the town. She's going to pick up Breanna and let Kel'Serrar what's going on. Hopefully by the time she and the Leathe make it to the tavern, the drinking games will have begun and no one will notice them. Hopefully.
Out on the street, Maebh changes her mind about going back all the way, sending her two companions news of the situation through a Whispering Wind.
Much like D&D’s Sending, Whispering Wind is a Weathermancy spell, very handy in the right circumstances.
“At Rangard’s house. Prisoner gave away everything, evil queen woman to invade. Going to a pub to find out more, need Breanna here.” – Maebh’s whispered message.
Kel’Serrar and Breanna, after initially freaking out at the noise, recognise Maebh’s voice. Kel’Serrar leans back against the edge of the cart, completely at ease. As far as he’s concerned, it’s not his problem and watching all their belongings is probably the best thing he could do at the moment.
Breanna meanwhile decides that she should go help, and accosts the first person she comes across, asking the townsman where she could find Rangard’s house. She obtains decent directions and knocks on the door of the house matching the description she was given.
A servant answers the knock.
“You’re with the group my master has hired, aren’t you?” – Servant.
“Yes, I am.” – Breanna.
“Would you like me to bring you to him?” – Servant.
“Yes. If you wouldn’t mind.” – Breanna.
The servant shows the Leathe into a sitting room and she waits for barely a minute before Rangard comes in, pale yet smiling.
“I take it you are looking for your friends?” – Rangard.
“They’re not my friends, they’re my cover, but yes I need to find them.” – Breanna.
“They’re at the Harvest Wolf, a tavern on the west side of town.” – Rangard.
“Thank you!” – Breanna, bubbly, trying to freak him out. It seems to have worked.
“Now get out of my house please.” – Rangard, looking worried at the assassin’s sudden and pronounced change in demeanour.
Breanna leaves the house, whistling cheerfully to herself, heading off the Harvest Wolf.
Meanwhile, Harold and Tremor have come to the modest tavern and have ordered a massive amount of alcohol.
“Can I expect that between the two of you, you will drink me out of house and home?” – Wilmund Brewer, owner and barman of the Harvest Wolf.
“We’re an Invarrian and a Dwergar…. What do you think?” – Harold.
“Okay, I’ll just be down in the cellar.” – Brewer, sighing with resignation.
“While you’re down there, make sure you bring enough up. We’re going to having a drinking competition.” – Tremor, gruff but happy.
“And who will your opponent be?” – Brewer, looking slightly happier. After all, someone’s going to have to pay for the beverages.
“EVERYONE!” – Harold and Tremor together. At this point, Brewer knew his doom was approaching.
“….. Let me go put up a sign.” – Brewer. He’s a shrewd businessman and knows that the more advertising he gets in, the better.
The sign reads as follows:
Come test your stomach against two of the world’s most seasoned drinkers! Harold Oakenshield and Tremor Ironfist have come down from the wild lands of the cold north, to partake of Summer Hill’s best ales. If you manage to outlast either of them over the course of the afternoon, you get half your money back!
Despite only being two in the afternoon at the latest, the drinking competition starts off huge, with at least forty of the locals trying their abilities against the Invarrian and the still hung-over and partially drunk Dwergar. The ale is quaffed easily and both Tremor and Harold share an approving glance. It’s good stuff.
Maebh stands and watches outside, eventually joined by Breanna, while round after round of ales come round the table for the next two hours. The two hour’s solid drinking has made the rest of the crowd considerably less enthusiastic, while Harold and Tremor are just getting warmed up.
Drew a comparison to the Legolas and Gimli drinking competition in The Lord of the Rings.More people are coming in, drawn by both the spectacle and the good mood pervading the tavern and surrounding area, one which makes passers-by really feel like a drink.
Tremor sits in his seat, still downing ales one after the other, with a blood-alcohol concentration swiftly approaching something in the range of 60%. It’s likely one could inject a donkey with that amount of alcohol and kill it outright.
“We’ll go another hour before giving Maebh and Breanna the signal to move in.” – Dev.
“Yeah, we’re trying to drink the whole town unconscious.” – Wings.
“You know, if anyone can drink over two thousand people under the table, it would be you two. You’re sure you want to go another hour?”
“Yeah, we want the concentration to be on us.” – Dev.
“At the moment, the concentration is within you.”
“Alright well, we’ll give the signal to start to head around the side now.” – Wings.Tremor stands up, stretching his hands into the air, but in his drunken state he forgets about the matter of his height. So he stands on his seat, the crowd looking at him like he’s about to topple over and fall unconscious any second now. They’re to be disappointed.
“That’s the signal, let’s move.” – Maebh to Breanna. The two women start to walk surreptitiously around the edge of the building.
Tremor on the other hand sits down and starts chugging his ale again. Both of them are starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, but neither is looking like falling over yet.
Mechanically, Tremor is looking a lot worse than Harold is at the moment, but neither has suffered a failure by enough to cause unconsciousness. On the other hand, the negatives to their Alcohol Consumption Checks are really adding up, so it’s only a matter of time. Harold almost went down in this third hour, but expended a Luck Point to adjust the roll. Breanna approaches the backdoor of the tavern with Maebh covering her. The Leathe takes her thin dagger and with supreme skill, picks the padlock. With a small sound of delight, Breanna grabs the door with a small furry hand and swings it open towards herself and walks in.
The small, dark room was lit only by a single candle upon a wooden table, so when the door was opened, letting in the late afternoon sun, the group of men gathered around the table knew about it immediately, noticing the new light source along with the haplessly backlit Leathe assassin standing in the doorway, who is only now realising her mistake. All of them take a look at the diminutive Leathe-girl and bolt. Through her.
The men run out the door, leaving Breanna battered and bruised on the ground as she’s been trampled. Maebh is taken by surprise as well and with a split-second thought, she tackles one of them, slamming the man to the ground. But something feels wrong. She lifts herself off him and sees he is smiling before he just disappears into thin air before her eyes. Maebh scrabbles desperately but quickly comes to the conclusion that he is not invisible, but is in fact not even there anymore.
Breanna eventually picks herself up off the ground, with some difficulty while Maebh walks into the room, still troubled by her recent run-in with whatever she had a run-in with.
Harold and Tremor keep up the drinking, not knowing how things are progressing outside. Tremor finally has had enough and he sinks to the table in an alcoholic haze, probably with more alcohol in his system than any other bodily fluid.
And he’s not due to wake up until at least five tomorrow morning. Unaware of Tremor’s alcoholic collapse, Breanna and Maebh search the room for anything they can use as incriminating evidence. They find very little, a small black candle, lit on the middle of the table and some sheets of blank parchment and pens on a desk in the corner, along with some innocuous books in shelves along the eastern wall and a bottle of fairly expensive wine in a small box.
Leaving the candle where it lies, Maebh walks around the side and back out to the front, letting Harold know that it is time to go.
“Well, that’s it, I’m done. I’d better take my mate here to go get some sleep.” – Harold, swaying slightly as he gets up, before bending over to try and pick up the comatose dwarf.
As drunk and slightly crippled as he is, it’s unsurprising that this doesn’t work. Maebh comes over to help.
“I’ve got it lass.” – Harold, drunk and slurring.
“Fine. I could set you on fire you know.” – Maebh.
With difficulty, Harold manages to lift the dwarf over his shoulder, and manages, just, to carry Tremor to the wagon, throwing him down into it, disturbing Kel’Serrar.
“I’M SO HAMMERED!” – Harold, a drunken apology perhaps?
Maebh on the other hand hires two rooms at the Iron Moon Inn, one for herself and another for Breanna, in a rare show of camaraderie. Kel’Serrar? Sleeps in a tree in the courtyard again, having escaped from the cart and its alcoholic aroma.
Harold and Tremor lie in the cart in a drunken sleep.
Six in the evening and Maebh and Breanna eat together in the tavern, Harold and Tremor are still sleeping and Kel’Serrar sits in his tree, trying to ignore the stench wafting up from beneath him. The two poor marcwolf pups curl up at the base of Kel’Serrar’s tree.
They wake up with the worst hangovers they have ever experienced. Where most hangovers make the head hurt and everything else feel sort of fuzzy, for these two, everything hurts. They drank so much that their teeth will feel as if they are buzzing and every single one of their noise hairs will be burning with agony. They declare vengeance against the birds of the world, who sing as the sun comes up. This is, in fact, an act of vengeance in itself, an attack against those whose alcoholic fumes took the lives of several birds during the night. Harold and Tremor awaken almost simultaneously to the sound of a keening shriek, one which sets their teeth on edge and fills Harold with fear. Corpsewalker!
And we left it there.
As you can see, despite only playing for half as long as our previous sessions, they really did get through a lot dialogue. I think it was also a good first session for Wings and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.
Our next game is this coming Friday, hopefully with Wings, though he's quite difficult to get a hold of. But we shall see.
Hope you all enjoyed, sorry for the delay,
Cheers,