The Lost Boys vs The Sunless Citadel

The Barmy Army joke was fun. Now I'm trying to think which monsters make good Brummies, Mancunians and what have you. ;-)

Orcs are Geordies, that much is certain. Gnolls are Brummies? I was playing a Derro (GMing) the other day- he was Welsh (look you), that worked, he apeared far more mysterious (& mad) in Welsh. Imagine Giants, Trolls and Ogres as cockneys- that might just work.

Anyway thanks again Corran, next session with the Lost Boys (GMing) is tomorrow night, so should have some new stuff by the weekend, or so.

Cheers.

LOL - Trolls and Ogres as cockneys. All they ever say is what they intend to ruture, smash, pulp or eat. I'll have to dig up a lot of the more 'obscure' rhyming slang - bash, skull, giblets, spleen...

"Would you adam 'n' eve it, oi've only gorn an' pebble-dashed 'is boat-race."

You guys are losing me with the slang - erm, vernacular, however, it's still a fun read, looking forward to more Epic Newbieness

Played this one earlier this evening, they're certainly unencumbered by such foolish concepts as logic, or in fact the rules of the game.

Look forward to an impromptu singing lesson, a hostage drama, a sudden tree, and all out war being declared. Keep your eye on Grand Alf and Dartamor again; they come up trumps, ahem, as it were.

Oh and there's one round when I go round the table asking for saving throws and the dice come up- "20", "19", "20", and "20". Then I get to roll for the NPC of the party, Meepo- "20", it was the only one I rolled all night. And they roll them on the table in front of me- no cheating. And... They’re my bloody dice.

Update by Saturday.

Goonalan said:

Oh and there's one round when I go round the table asking for saving throws and the dice come up- "20", "19", "20", and "20". Then I get to roll for the NPC of the party, Meepo- "20", it was the only one I rolled all night. And they roll them on the table in front of me- no cheating. And... They’re my bloody dice.

Update by Saturday.

Click to expand...

Yes, yes, this is sometimes the way of things, last session one of the PC's got into a Fair-Time exhibition brawling - no weapons. Against a series of...
well, I'll sblock it so as to not hijack your SH, I tend to rant on if left to my own lol
been enjoying the action so far, will see ya Monday for more fun!
[sblock=DM's lament]Anyways, Against a series of gradually tougher opponents he did fair, taking some tough shots but holding his own and giving better. Then round four comes along. His opponent seems to "magically" recover... so the party springs into action, providing their own magical support, bolstering their champion (a Half-Orc fighter with Int 13, Wis 13 yet Cha 5 and Com 4). After a Very Tough round four the local champion strides cockily up, revealing a body corded with muscles, he lithely steps into the ring... and proceeds to buff himself. Obvious things like barkskin and bulls strength . . . the party casters also observe cats grace, bears endurance and ... fox's cunning?! He then quaffs two potions, swells in size still further, seeming to be about to burst with violence... and walks to the center of the ring, hand extended like a gent!
Now, up to then, not one competitor had bothered with such niceties. It had been 'Roll Initiative!'
SO, Akinos, the PC, walks forward, somewhat dazedly moving to shake hands.

The brawny human drops into a forward roll, tumbling under the reach of the half-orc, and I ask the player to roll initiative. Now the NPC has Imp Init, magical boots which give a +5 to tumble and +2 to Init, and he's buffed to the point where he's looking at +11 to hit! Not only that, his AC is up to 18 unarmored with tumble!
Akinos beats the Init... by one, with a 20.
He chooses to grapple, and rolls a 20.

He chooses to use a feat of Strength, and rolling against his augmented STR of 22, he rolls a 1.
My super-villian smoothly rolls a 13 against his augmented STR of 20, then blows his escape artist roll... and then he is flying.
Akinos pivots on his hip, catching the guy by the shoulder and thigh, and throws the guy out of the ring, rolling a... no, not a 20, a mere 19, on his attack roll.
Dropping the local champ in the local mud hole.
End round one, fight over.
*grumble*
Just goes to show you, the best laid plans of DM's . . . [/sblock]

Turn 4.1


And here they come like some comedy conga-eel, snaking their way back to Isdrayl, the Kobold Queen, Dartamor balancing Cornflakes on his head all the way; Aleso carrying, the still unconscious, Meepo.

And then they’re home, or at least back to the Kobolds.

Kobold guards cheer and shout, many have produced small flags on sticks for the occasion, they bear the resemblance- very crudely sketched you understand, of Isdrayl. The more observant onlookers however could perhaps also spot another, smaller, figure on the backside of each flag- Meepo.

And here he is, back amongst his brethren, and sisteren of course, and loving it, he’s smiling even as he snoozes- he must be happy, either that or he has wind.

“Meepo Meepo Meepo Meepo.”

The assembled Kobold masses chant.

Dartamor slaps Meepo, Grand Alf applies a half-full waterskin.

The thronged masses quieten, in awe.

It’s hazy as Meepo greets his adoring public.

“Berd and gentle-kobolds. Ay, Meepo, dat is me, am back… and victorious.”

Meepo points at Cornflakes who squawks and shuffles for a better perch on Dartamor’s head.

“MEE-PO MEE-PO MEE-PO MEE-PO.”

The crowd love him.

And then, in an instant, they fall silent, Isdrayl appears from thin air, her face a mask.

Silence.

Some more.

A while longer, it’s getting a bit edgy.

Then in a rush Isdrayl screams and charges at Meepo.

Meepo sets himself for the hit- covers his face with his hands, and half-crunches/crouches.

And then… nothing, except for something, or rather someone, pawing at his legs… thighs… hang-on, small hands are creeping up towards his unmentionables.

He looks down; it’s Isdrayl, at his feet, all erotic and alluring.

“Oh Meepo, you’re so strong, so bruv, so suuv, so sophisticated, so 'andsome, so… sexy.”

Meepo shivers with, amongst things, delight.

Hands on hips, Isdrayl clinging to his thigh, he stares hard at his now bowing and scraping congregation.

“Yous shall call me Lord Meepo.”

He opens his arms wide for his audience to better adore him.

SLAP-SPLOOSH

He wakes in an instant.

He’s on the floor, no harm in that- as good a place as any, staring up at Isdrayl, there are better floors to be on he thinks.

He looks left and right, there’s a circus in town, hang on, he focuses, Kobolds- why are they screaming so much.

He listens to the random shouts and yelps.

“De Goblins ay com'n, de Goblins ay com'n.”
“I’m tew young ter die.”
“Run ter de 'ills.”
“Avyer seun me cummerbund, ay feel undressed without it.”
“MEEPO YOU BLT.”
“Think o' de god-forbids.”
“Run, run fe yer lives.”
“Armageddon- repent your sins, for the day of judgement is nigh, that means on-hand… that means… oh, the day of judgement is soon. Now-ish.”

He recognises the last voice, doesn’t understand it, he only knows fragments of the Common tongue; the voice belongs to Grand Alf.

Sure enough the Sorcerer swings into sight, “Hey, hey. Nice one Meepo”, thumbs up to the Kobold then he runs back out of sight, embracing the chaos.

In the midst of the swirl Saradomin and Aleso stand, gesturing wildly.

“If you’d just…”
“… Calm down.”
“There’s no need to…”
“… Panic.”

Only one Kobold- Isdrayl, can understand the Common tongue however.

Kobolds coalesce into tight groups, and then turn twist and scatter, like some mad quantum theory played out, mapping Kobold terror. Grand Alf is chasing them, arms out, like a giant bird, except for the whooping and giggling. He has an excuse however, he’s clearly mad.

“Pelor says…”, starts up Aleso, a sea of calm, “he says ‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs’… then something about ‘you’ll be a man my son.’” Aleso stops to think about it.

Saradomin joins in. “St. Cuthbert say’s ‘Rise like lions after slumber, in unvanquishable number. Shake your chains to Oerth like dew, which in sleep have fallen on you. And this is the good bit… Ye are many- they are few.’”

“There are hundreds of Goblins, tincan. We ARE the few.” Isdrayl growls at Saradomin.

“Oh.” Saradomin thinks, looks at Aleso, who looks back, the two shrug- then run off following Grand Alf flapping their arms heartily- some more chaos ensues.

Dartamor remains calm, drags Meepo to him, Isdrayl snarls. “You’ve done this with your tricksy ways. You have brought the Goblins down upon us. NOW YOU FIX IT.”

From within the folds of her robes she finds something, brings the something to her lips, and blows.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPp

It’s a whistle. Like eight year olds in a Physical Education class the Kobolds, and assorted party members, come to a sudden stop- Grand Alf with his arms still out.

“Give us six warriors and we’ll kill them all.” Dartamor seizes the moment.

A lone Kobold sprints into the chamber, “They’re on the way- lots of them Durnn’s with them, and Hobgoblins, and the priestess.”

“Six warriors?” Dartamor fills the silence.

Isdrayl nods.

A minute later the four adventurers, Meepo, and six Kobold guards await the Goblins arrival, all facing a dilapidated wooden door through which the Goblins will have to pass, they’re all out of breath.

The adventurers have each been assigned a Kobold guard.

Meepo has two; he’s in charge of the reinforcements.

DUR-UNN DUR-UNN DUR-UNN

They’re coming.

Dartamor quickly spills a bag of caltrops in front of the door, sneaks back into position.

Grand Alf pokes Aleso, “Give me the flask. The fire potion.”
“I don’t think that’s wise… Why?" Aleso replies.
“I have one spell left… I will incinerate them; send them all to burny hell.” Grand Alf breaks off for a cackle, he’s getting quite good at it.
“Ok, use it wisely.” Aleso nods and hands the flask over.

Then spins round, “Dartamor what are they called, the Kobold’s names- so that we may better direct them?”

A short mumbled conversation later, Dartamor looks crestfallen.

“Well?” Saradomin enquires.
“Freddie.” Dartamor sullenly replies.
“Which one?”
“All of them.”

Saradomin shakes his head. “St. Cuthbert, I hope you can hear me, that’s typical, bloody typical.”

“Everybody wa Kung Fu Fytin.
Fast as Light-ning.
Everybody wa…”

“Shut up Grand Alf.” Dartamor states with a stare.
“Sorry, nervous… They’re taking their time aren’t they… Perhaps they’ve decided against it.” Grand Alf offers.

“Shhhhh.” The collective response.

“I’m just saying we haven’t heard that- ‘DUR-UNN DUR-UNN’ for a while, what do you think they’re…”

SMASH

The door ahead comes away, two huge hits from towering Hobgoblins armed with axes. The Hobgoblins part, Goblins beyond, as far as the eye can see.

Dur-unn Dur-UNN DUR-UNN

They charge.

“Wait for my spell.” Grand Alf screams.

The other three sound their rallying calls-
“For Pelor, may the light of his beneficent er… light shine forth.”
“For St. Cuthbert, gis some change for a cuppa.”
“For money and power.”

Meepo takes the scene in, decides swiftly, and before a shot is fired retreats with the reinforcements, and for retreat read- runs.

Next Turn- Scrap, scrap, scrap, scrap (continues indefinitely).

Turn 4.2


Grand Alf steps up to the plate.

“Feel my power scurrilous feeblings… Snoooozo.”

A breeze of fluttering musical notes springs from Grand Alf’s hands and engulf the Goblins squeezing through the door.

“Ah think I’ll av eur lie daahn.”
“Just fo'ty winks.”
“Just close uz een.”
“Gunight.”
“Zzzzzzz.”

A miracle, the first wave of Goblins is swiftly halted; five of the six Goblins that have made it into the room are fast asleep.

“Freddie’s get dem.” Dartamor shouts.

The Kobold Freddie’s dart in and stab at the snoozing Goblins, three are killed in an instant, the Kobolds cheer.

“Into dem.”
“Huv it.”
“Calm down.”
“We ay de Scousers.”

The last Goblin into the room is spiked by the caltrops; he hops in- too close.

SLICE

And is cut to the bone by Aleso.

“By the might of Pelor- come on let’s have you.” He shouts beckoning the next wave in.

Six more Goblins rush over their fallen brethren. Two more of them are spiked on the way.

“Uz foot.”
“Bloody 'ell, that’s not jannock, thea cheyting.”

The two Goblins slump against a wall attempting desperately to pick caltrops out of their feet.

“Freddie’s attack dem.”

Dartamor screams, the Freddie’s leap in, buoyed by their earlier success.

SLICE
BONK
SMASH

And.

STAB

One Goblin squirms on the floor a while, blood gushing from his gut, then expires.

However Freddie, Freddie Snr. & Freddie Jnr. join the Goblin, clutching at terrible wounds, they’re soon no more. Only Freddie Snr. Snr. a sprightly 34 year old Kobold, a great-great-great-grandfather, remains alive.

He turns and runs back to Aleso.

“Bugger this. Ellp. 'Ide me tincan.”

Grand Alf steps forward.

“Wait for it”, to the other Lost Boys, and, “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough”, to the Goblins.

Two huge Hobgoblins drag dead Goblins out of the doorway, Saradomin sees an opportunity.

“St. Cuthbert make it clear,
We Are To Be FEARED.”

A black clouds whips from his hand and settles over a Hobgoblin, the creature stops what it’s doing, straightens up, goes all googly-eyed- shakes its head once or twice, then growls and gets back to work.

“St. Cuthbert, it seems, is not taking your calls priest.” Grand Alf winks.

Four more Goblins rush in, that makes nine in the chamber, although two of them are hobbling badly.

Durnn, the huge Hobgoblin chieftain stands in the doorway with Grenl the Goblin priestess.

“Kill 'em. Kill 'em orl. Kill 'em naw.” He screams.

WHOOOOOOOOOOsSSSH.

Flames fill the area.

Urp.

Grand Alf concludes and tucks the Fire Breath Potion back into his robes.

“Fire… ba ba ba ba baaaaaa. Something something to burn.”

He does a little dance.

The lead Goblin is incinerated in an instant, the other six caught in the blast bob, duck and weave; and remain standing, frazzled, but fit for war- just.

“Pelor guide my mighty scimitar so unto I may smite like fury… oh kick their bottoms.” Aleso charges in, with Freddie Snr. Snr. in tow.

“For St. Cuthbert, you’d better bloody be listening Lord.” Saradomin launches himself into the fray.

“Black Pudding.” Dartamor hisses and joins the attack.

“Retreat some more.” Meepo yells and falls back to the exit, taking the reinforcements further away from the fight.

Aleso cuts, an arms goes flying, a Goblin slumps to the floor. A second Goblin darts in, short sword slices, Aleso bleeds.

Dartamor stabs his rapier cutting open a Goblin’s hand, tearing tendons, blood gushes, and the creature falls. He avoids wild swings from two others.

Saradomin’s heavy mace rises and falls, another Goblin collapses, head and shoulder smashed. And yet not without cost, a Goblin scores a direct hit, Saradomin’s left thigh bleeds profusely.

Durnn fills the doorway.

“'Obgoblin warriors smash t' puny 'umans - CHARGE.”

Six hulking Hobgoblins charge into the room causing the Goblins to press even further in, which in turn causes the Lost Boys to give ground. Grand Alf and Saradomin are being backed into a dead end- no escape.

Freddie Snr. Snr. is smashed in the face; he tumbles to the floor- dead, dentures flying.

Aleso slices again, connects, cuts through a Goblin’s leg- the creature expires. However he’s hit again, a light hammer bounces of his chest- knocking the wind out of him, he gasps, and then screams.

“I HAVE SEEN THE LIGHT PELOR.
AND IT IS GLORIOUS.”

Positive energy pours into him as skin, bone and sinew are made whole again- he actually heals only two hit points but he’s a bit of a drama queen.

Dartamor strikes again, his rapier pierces a Goblin’s armour, the creatures clutches at him, then falls; a second Goblin furiously hops towards him- he stabs out and kills it dead.

Saradomin’s mace swings again, straight into the side of another, the creature stumbles and falls. The floor is thick with the dead and dying.

A Hobgoblin breaks through the line, charges swinging its longsword at Grand Alf.

“Not likely for I am almost invisible and impervious to normal weap…”

SLICE

Grand Alf staggers, grabs a wall as blood courses down his robes.

“I’m dyin’. The end is nigh, that means soon- now-ish. Revenge me. Kill these creatures that have sought to discombobulate my utter being.”

He sinks to his knees, then pitches forward- dead.

No hang on, spasms wrack his body, his eyes blink open wide and with his last breath he utters…

“I’m on top o’the world… Ma.”

And with that the eldritch sorcerer, complete with stick on beard, closes his eyes.

“Noooooooooooooo.”

Aleso shrieks.

The last Goblin he killed has got sticky stuff on his once pristine armour.

He slices furiously, another Goblin bites the dust, alas this leaves himself off balance and unguarded.

SNICK

The Paladin stumbles backwards, finds a wall and collapses against it, blood flows, he breathes hard, grits his teeth and shoves off again- back into the thick of it.

“MeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeePO.”

Dartamor hollers.

To no effect.

Back at the exit Meepo dances from foot-to-foot, his fingers in his ears, the reinforcements follow suit.

Back in the action, Saradomin is faced by a single although two Hobgoblins are waiting, looking for space, to join the fray.

“St. Cuthbert ensure my aim is true.”

FLUNK

Saradomin draws back his hand, mace-less, it’s still shaking after the impact with the wall.

“Alright Lord, I get it, you’re testing me.”

He screams at the ceiling, then staggers back- into a wall, he’s standing next to the body of Grand Alf.

Grand Alf’s looking up at him, no really, eyes open.

“Shhhhh. I’m dead.”

Grand Alf winks then closes his eyes.

Saradomin, instead of grabbing for another weapon, reaches down and fires his last Healing spell into Grand Alf, whose eyes spring wide open.

“No, you’re not- now FIGHT BACK, you coward.”

The Goblinoids come on. Behind them Durnn enters the room grinning.

“DUR- UNN DUR- UNN DUR- UNN.”

He chants his own name. The Goblin priestess stares pointedly at Saradomin, makes a cutting motion across her throat.

“You’re fert pot- priest.”

Aleso is badly injured; Dartamor is fairly healthy but outclassed in the fight; Grand Alf has no spells left; Saradomin, is injured, has no spells left, and no weapon to hand. All of the Kobolds are dead, except for Meepo and the reinforcements, who are about to leave.

Facing them are one Goblin, and alas six Hobgoblins, all uninjured, followed by Durnn, the priestess Grenl- who’s making ready with a spell, and what looks to be a walking-pot-plant that has just entered the chamber.

“Finn' t' 'Alflings. Finn' t' 'Alflings.” Durnn screams, then, “Soz. Flashback.”

Next Turn: “One, Two…”

Oy, that's a lot of crap to handle, and either a nice cliffhanger before a glorious battle back to victory or a pause before the reading of the eulogy.

I'll look forward to finding out!

Good grief, Penfold!

Turn 4.3


Grand Alf leaps to his feet, and then has no idea where to go or what to do; he rattles his short spear at the oncoming Hobgoblin, he elects for a warcry.

“Buuuuuuu-Ggerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Dartamor thinks, reaches inside his leather jerkin, and finds something soft and tickly- the feather. Why not, what’s to lose- he thinks.

It floats out of his hand, slowly heading for the floor. He counts the zig-zag shifts of its descent.

The enemies close in.

Aleso exchanges blows with a fearsome looking Hobgoblin warrior, no hits.

“Pelor, damn your eyes you whelp spawn of the devil- scum.”

“ONE.” Dartamor counts hypnotised.

Saradomin fends off another.

“St Cuthbert, get him, go on… please.”

“TWO.” Dartamor continues.

Grand Alf hollers.

“We’re all going to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiie.”

The feather hits the floor, the rough stone flag breaks; a tiny seedling appears from the newly formed crack.

It grows…

Six inches tall it snakes around the leg of a slightly bemused Hobgoblin, who stares down at this strange phenomenon, my word- not his.

And grows…

Winding its way around the Hobgoblin, it’s got his full attention now, it snakes past his shoulders.

And grows…

It’s filling out as it reaches for the ceiling… and touches- spreads.

And grows…

Branches shoot off in every direction, and yet the thing still courses upwards, the stones overhead buckle, crack and split, sending showers of dirt, dust and pebbles down.

And grows…

It punches its way through the ceiling, scrapes and scratches its way through the rock above.

Larger stones rain down.

“Aaaaaarrrrggghhhh.”

A Hobgoblin screams as its body is crushed and broken.

“Aaaaaarrrrggghhhh.”

More screams, other Hobgoblins contend with the falling masonry.

Dartamor tumbles back out of the way, eyes wide open- saucers, staring at what he has wrought, he’s out of the hailstorm, as are all of the other Lost Boys, more by luck than judgement.

The Hobgoblins are far less fortunate.

Not a sound for a while save the noise of fresh falls of loose dirt, and the sometimes creek of the…

“TREE.” Dartamor finishes his count, he grins- feels himself to check he’s alive, and not dreaming.

“Well…”, Grand Alf starts, then has nowhere to go with the sentence, for a while. “Well that was unexpected.”

“Praise be to Pelor for the light of his… damn, light. He has brought forth…”, Aleso is on his knees, “a… tree.”

He gulps, unsure.

“Pelor… has… brought… the… tree… into existence as a symbol… of his power… to conjure, no that’s not it… to nurture nature, nope, to bring forth...”

He looks up stares at the tree.

“To bring forth… a… tree. He moves in mysterious ways.”

He crosses himself and gets back to his feet.

Saradomin has ago.

“Praise be to thee Lord St. Cuthbert who HATH”, he stares at Aleso, “brought forth a tree as a symbol of your MIGHT, POWER and STRENGTH.” The last words are shouted at Aleso, and anyone else that is listening.

“A representation of your EEEE-NOR-MUSS CUDGEL, ha ha, didn’t think of that did’ya?” He smirks at Aleso.

“In honour of this miracle I shall remove a holy bough, so that I too may smite your sovereign enemies in your name. Beat that.”

Saradomin is on his feet, grinning, he wanders over to the tree, while Aleso silently curses.

He grabs hold of a sturdy looking bough and wrenches it… no, hang on, the bough doesn’t move, leaving Saradomin, feet in the air, hanging from it- trying desperately to break it off to create a holy cudgel just like his deity.

This goes on for some time, Saradomin gets nowhere- he tries several branches, they’re solid, nothing doing.

He mooches about beneath the trees canopy looking for a weak spot.

THUNK.

A rock falls on his head; he goes down like a sack of spuds.

A grinning Aleso drags him out of harms way.

Religious squabbles over the silence returns, but not for long.

“Theur think dis is o'a? It’s onny just begun. T' Ahtcast is waitin for theur .”

Durnn’s voice carries from the other side of the tree, which is now blocking the doorway- that and several tons of smashed masonry.

“I’ll be waitin for you… bela.”

The sound of receding footsteps, two pairs, and a skittering-scratching sound, Durnn, Grenl and ‘Sprout’, the Twig Blight, head off.

“Who’s this Outcast?” Grand Alf asks?
Dartamor shrugs, eyes on the floor, looking for the feather… it couldn’t have… it didn’t create… this… tree.

He turns as Meepo and the other Kobold reinforcements arrive on the scene, they begin to scramble through the dirt, rifling the dead bodies strewn about.

“A blind bit late”, Dartamor states.
“Juss in time.” Meepo counters.

Next turn: To Koboldly go…