Misty Mountain Hop

Where did this come from?

SoW e03

This episode is dedicated to The Goat, who didn't make it due to budget constraints (also, sense).

          The five met at the foot of the largest house in town. It had been built in stone, with the savings of the people of the land, many decades before. It was a great thing for a town so small. The youngsters always looked upon it in awe. The elderly called it their shame. The ruling council had lived and ruled from there ever since. And it was the council the five adventurers had come to meet.
          "The council, titles, titles, summons you, brave sorcerer, blah, blah, murdering goblins, etcetera, great service. Gold. Sounds about right?" Shedinn read aloud.
           "It checks with mine, ser." Claidheamh retrieved a folded piece of quality paper from his pocket. "Except for 'wild ranger'. They went to the trouble of checking us."
          "Heh," grunted Ugarth. "Ya not 'brave' like the mage. Well, mine says gold on it too, so Imma get it."
          The ranger thought wild was just as good, for someone who didn't know him. "Let Thoradin do the talking when we're in. They're like to listen to the good reputation."
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          "My name," began an old man in a richly decorated war room, "is Troyas. I preside over Brindol and the next few miles of the Elsir Vale." The war room hadn't been used in a long time, or so said the dirty chairs and dusty wall carpets. Noone knew what had gotten into these peaceful farming people to build such a display of power. Elder Troyas continued: "Yesterday, someone defending the North bridge found this." He snapped his fingers, and a man that had so far stood to the back opened a chest and retrieved something from it.

          "Do you know this banner?", he asked.
          Noone knew. "Two centuries ago, the Vale was raided by a warren called The Red Hand of Doom. They claimed freedom, conquest, and other such nonsense for a bunch of goblin. See a connection here?"
          It wasn't hard to see. "Are they back?"
          "We have to think so. We have found a letter in one of them. Allow me." The elder pulled a crumpled paper from his sleeve. In the broken goblin dialect, it was closer to a manifesto than a call to arms. It did incite a revolution, calling the Vale theirs and naming the human settlements "gold-centered swines", too big an expression for the limited goblins. The letter set Rivenroar as their home base, and was signed (!) Sinruth.
          "Rivenroar?", the ranger asked.
          "A castle, atop the mountains. Been empty until now. Something happened there, years ago. No survivors, and noone cared enough to investigate either."
          "And we are to clear the goblins and end this?" asked Thoradin, very tactfully.
          "It is said you were good enough for an ogre. Yes, I expect you to take on a goblin revolt. There will be gold, and fame."
          Brindol was in a part of the world were fame was as useful as nipples on a breastplate. A large expanse of corn and grazing fields, framed by a set of mountains on each side, fame wasn't like to go far. Coin, though, was coin.
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          The mountain road was tiring, but not as dangerous as one would expect from a revolting country. Having a ranger in the party helped a lot, as everyone would come to agree. East was always East, instead of circles. Wild animals were deftly avoided, except when the stomachs began growling. A seven-hour trek seemed almost short with all the stories. Thoradin turned out to have been a famous guard, until he took a wrong turn and fell from grace. After three years in jail, he took the vows, and said he was now a different dwarf. Claidheamh had never met his parents. Brought up by a mountain clan, he was great with the twin swords, so set out to make a name for himself. Shedinn liked fire. His egg had been bright red with orange streaks, even though his scales grew to be of a coppery shade. He also liked funny little poping goblins. Ugarth and Occam were not the chatty type, but still laughed when Thoradin would sporadically get a boot stuck under a root.
          It was without incident that the party got to the summit. It was a large plateau, big enough for a city, but the ground was barren. Dark grey earth spanned the lenght of the oval mesa. In the easternmost corner, a great shadow loomed over the mountain.

Why are they doing this again?                                          Whoa. Is it Rivenroar?

The Cask of Amontillado

Where did this come from?

SoW e02

          Outside, a ranger held on against two goblins. His two longswords, lightly curved at the tip, reflected the firelight at his stern face.
          Brindol burned. It seemed a whole warren of goblin was running around, in groups of two or three. Claidheamh, the ranger, picked off his foes from the mob with methodic cuts. When a black panther shot out of the inn and turned north, he too felt trouble was brewing in that direction. The bridge. Can't go now, he cursed to himself. Houses burn. Hope that one went to help..

          An arrow landed at his feet, drawing his attention to the rooftops. Two particularly bright members of the horde had taken to high ground, and fired their short bows from opposing houses. For a ranger, Claidheamh was not the best mark in the land, but he knew his way around well enough. He stuck his swords on the ground and drew his longbow. He fired two arrows in quick succession, a wide overhead lob that would not hit either goblin if they were giants.
          It worked just right. The goblins stared in awe at their respective arrow until it was way past them. When they looked back, that puny human was gone.
          Covered by the low-hanging out ceiling of the inn, Claidheamh surveyed the tavern room from the outside. It was quite damaged, but the fires had been put out. Near a dozen goblin lay dead on the wooden floor and one roasted on the common hearth. To the back, someone gave divine rites to a patron that had died in the fire. Some of the survivors stood up when his head poked through the door frame. The ranger identified a dragonborn and a dwarf. The one saying words for the dead was human, some war priest in a stupid crown. City-born, he thought. And that - the hooded hulk with a tiny dagger in his hand - is a half-orc if I ever saw one. What a strange lot to assemble here today.
          "Wetch it lad. Thar coul be moar of these thengs." The dwarf seemed worried. He was leaning on his battleaxe and looked expectantly around him, as if a goblin were to jump on him at a moment's notice. He seemed quite nervous for a paladin.
          "There are plenty, ser. Outside." Claidheamh answered. "The town burns", he added eerily.
          "We'll kill'em all", grunted the half-orc under his cowl, not without excitement.
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          Shedinn slashed at the air with his knife. A loud crack, and two blades of lightning fried the goblin scouts. Two more came around the corner, wielding large kitchen knives. The paladin charged them shield first, driving them into the alley. The group quickly followed, and quickly wished they hadn't.

          An ogre pulled a cart filled to the brim with barrels. Two more goblins sat atop the barrels, waving torches and firing the occasional arrow at fleeing peasants. Claidheamh stopped in his tracks the moment he saw it, halting the rush of the sorcerer as well. The dwarf didn't even raise his head. He could see a leg, and that was very much enough. He rushed to the creature, standing just a little over knee height, and cleaved blindly. The dwarven battleaxe had trouble cutting through the thick giant skin, barely drawing blood. If it was hurting, one wouldn't know from the ogre's face.

          An ogre's face has a permanent angry, grinning, constipated scowl. Their eyes came in two varieties: the dull, glassy, stupid daze most had when they were not rampaging, and the vicious bloodshot rage all of them had when they were rampaging. This one was the latter. Goblins had tied him up to an oxcart, and would sting him with their little flying sticks if he didn't move. He wished he had eaten them. Now more little ones were hitting him with their sharp sticks. He might just eat these, if the goblin don't nag too much.
          The ogre turned his body with great effort and picked up a barrel. The smartest of the two goblin jumped on its arm and lit the rag coming out of the cask with his torch.
           The robed man paid no attention to the flaming cask flying over his head. In truth, he didn't see it, as the others saw it. His eyes, wide open, saw nothing of his world. When one speaks with a god to ask him for an angel, one looks him in the eye.
           The cask went up in blue flames the second it hit the ground. Claidheamh, five feet way from it, felt the heat in his face and the fire in his sleeve. He dove shoulder first into the nearby wall to put it out. Then rushed the ogre. He had expected to run beside the half-orc, who had struck him as some type of duelist, but he was nowhere to be found. If that coward ran on us, I'll hunt him down myself. The ranger maneuvered around the bulk of the ogre, taking advantage of the paladin's challenge: a yellow dragon had appeared above the ogre's heart, branding him an enemy of Bahamut. Were he not to live up to the challenge...
          Seeing a little one with two sharp sticks run by him, the ogre took his chance. He swung his enormous maul in a wide uppercut, hitting him above the stick holder. A moment later, his heart burned in pain, and the thought of the small little one appeared in his mind. He roared at him.
          Shedinn's flame whip had faded, so he turned to less artistic demonstrations of power. He inhaled deeply, fusing his innate magic and his inheritance inside his body. The fire that rushed from his mouth was a jet stream of cold winds and frozen water so powerful the goblin that received it to his face dropped without a word. Alright, one more. Leave more room for the big ones to fight in... A small sphere of light formed near the other goblin's face. Well that's new. Did I make the sun?, he thought.
          He hadn't. The "sun" exploded in a dozen smaller shards that pierced the two creatures, and his goggly-eyed friend's sudden intake of breath had Shedinn between relieved and disappointed that he hadn't made such sweet flame.
          Paladin and ranger had brought the ogre to its knees. Claidheamh had found a place in the wagon, right behind the ogre. A blind spot. Adjusting his grip, he sunk both longswords in the beast's back. It shook violently in pain, overturning the cart. In fear of being crushed, Claidheamh looked up just in  time to see two throwing knives sink into the ogre's neck.
          The ogre saw nothing when he looked up. No birds up there. Nothing on the roof either. Ugh. It nothing. Kill anyhoots.
          A shadow clouded Claidheamh for a second, and then it crashed into the ogre. The shadow then proceeded to slice dozens of cuts on the beast with a long dagger.
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          It wasn't hard to bring down. The five sat resting just as far from the cart as they could monitor the fire, and still not smell burnt ogre. The ranger spoke first.
          "Claidheamh", he said, "It's my name. I have been ranging for a while. We beat a powerful foe today."
          "Aye lad. Stone called me Thoradin, so I be that. Paladin of great Bahamut for as many years as ye been born."
          Shedinn's introduction was a revolving ball of fire hovering above his hand. "I'm Shedinn. I like goblins." Dramatic pause. "They make funny little pop -he clicked his tongue- noises when they die!"
          When it was the robed man's turn, he just said, "Occam. Hello". The paladin added to his story. "Lad say he be an invoker. That Pelor heself be talkin to him. Bah! Might as well be." He than laughed to a joke noone saw.
          The half-orc -it was indeed a half-orc, to Claidheamh's pride- turned out to be called Ugarth, and said he was great with knives. Although his prowess in that field was not in question, he also claimed to be like a ninja -and here he threw some punches at the air- striking from the shadows. Were that to be proved, it would be a feat of note, for someone whose shadow is larger than most.
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          All fires had been put out at the end of the same afternoon. The next morning, five people woke up to a note slid under their door.

Nice, but who are these guys?                      Ah, I bet it was the heroes. What's it say?

Fire! - p2

Where did this come from?

SoW e01

        A handfull of goblins rushed after the destroyed bits of the door as if they were gold. Once inside, one flung his torch at the table Shedinn had been sitting at the previous minute, which caught fire in a matter of seconds. Before Shedinn even had a dagger in his hand, another was charging the two people at the hearth with a puny hatchet.

        Shedinn felt a burst of energy behind him, and ducked so whatever the treeslinger was charging wouldn't hit him. A moment later he felt a slight gust of wind, and a moment after that a black gorilla with silver back landed just in front of him. So this is a druid, he thought. With another leap, the great ape crashed into a goblin and punched it in the face.

        The shield that appeared on the dwarf's hand showed the head of bahamut in deep blue. He had little trouble halting the hatchet, which nearly split on impact. Behind the dwarf, his monologue partner seemed to just now slip out of his comatose daze. His eyes became a nearly white shade of blue, and the gem on his staff flashed brightly. The closest goblin staggered.

        Shedinn's spell was ready just in time. His tremendous size and muscular build weren't enough to disencourage one of the more stout among the goblins to try and sharpen his shortsword in his scales. Shedinn drew his dagger in a flash. The air around it ignited, and a flaming whip sprouted from the blade. The goblin ducked at the last moment, though, and only his long ear was seared. Shedinn searched his body for the strenght to hold the spell. Walking forward, he waved the flame in large circles, snapping it at every step. He hit the dwarf once, and the druid too (he'd apologise later), as well as most of the goblin, until one decided he would stop the rampage. Taking advantage of the smoke that had been raised by then, he sneaked behind  Shedinn. The dragonborn never noticed the goblin's head split in two when a knife burst through his thin skull.
          The last of the wave gave up on the futile plan, and life altogether. While attacking the dwarf, a successful block threw the monster off-balance. With a little help from the dwarf's friend, such was his confusion that he perished in the pitiful flames of the hearth.

          When the fires were put down, the druid returned to his regular shape to rest. There was no time to talk before he turned into a great black cat, and bolted out of the door.

Where did this come from?                                                         Uh, then what?

Fire!

SoW e01

          The fires always burned at the Weary Horse. A small inn it was, with more space to drink than to sleep in. Brindol, the town where one could find the Weary Horse, didn't need a large place for tourists, because there were none. The few farmhands and helpers that came during the harvests would often build their own straw huts, and the rare group of rangers tracking a pack of evil creatures carried their tents and would seldom stay for more than a hot bowl of stew. So all in all, this was an odd day in the Weary Horse.

          In a table near the wall, Shedinn eyed the dancing flames housed in the center hearth. He wasn't cold, but he'd much rather be by the fire. Shedinn had some very strong opinions about the usage of fire, and personal warmth was not high on the list. The mantle was occupied, though.