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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 5028566" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p>A vertiginous drop!</p><p></p><p>The ornithopter plummets like a stone, racing towards the distant ground. Torinn pumps his arms and legs frantically, and the machine responds, its wings starting to beat. </p><p></p><p>Leaning back in his seat, the dragonborn cleric grits his teeth. At the speed he is falling, a crash would probably be lethal. </p><p></p><p>The nose of the ornithopter edges up, and the ship starts to speed out away from the edge of the cliff as well as just down. <em>Come on, these are </em>levers!<em> If Lester’s blessings ever fall upon me, it should be now!</em> </p><p></p><p>The ornithopter’s fall continues to angle away from the cliff, further and further, until, only a few dozen yards above the ground, it levels off at last. Torinn whoops with pleasure, pumping his arms like mad, as he starts to ascend.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>“He made it!” exclaims Heimall.</p><p></p><p>“Hey, look at this,” Ligir calls from inside the hangar. “This one has room for two. Well, as long as the second person was a halfling or something.”</p><p></p><p>The party goes to look while the ornithopter bearing Torinn wobbles around the sky. Indeed, several of the ornithopters have a small compartment at the back, in which a smaller person could sit, albeit in a cramped position. “There’s no way any of us could fit in that little hole,” comments Hkatha. “Look at that hatch. I bet you could drop things out of here- maybe oil or acid or something. You could store small packages, or maybe bladders of liquid, in these little runnels here.”</p><p></p><p>The party goes back outside and watches Torinn’s ornithopter as it flies around. Torinn, in his cockpit, is taking in the view as best he can and trying to assess the tactical situation nearby, but from the distance he is at, it’s hard to tell much. Still, he can make out Lake Belwur to the south, and the smudge of a city along its nearest shore. Then he banks left and heads towards the nearest other plateau. </p><p></p><p>His arms are getting tired by the time he gets to it; but his suspicions are confirmed. At the top of the plateau is a flattened area long enough to launch (or, he presumes, land) an ornithopter squadron. “So,” he mutters to himself, and banks back around towards the plateau where the others are. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Meanwhile, both Vann-La and Shakgar have also taken flight. Each has a similar, harrowing experience as he or she plummets from the cliff; but each also quickly gets the hang of the vehicle’s operations. </p><p></p><p>When Torinn’s ornithopter flies back towards them and begins to descend towards the runway, Vann-La follows- and only then do any of the aloft heroes think about how one lands an ornithopter.</p><p></p><p>The answer, it turns out, is roughly; without skill; but well enough to walk away from. Both Torinn and Vann-La are bruised by their landings, and Torinn nearly crashes his ‘thopter into another of the airships in the hangar; but it is worth it. Flight! The power of flight!</p><p></p><p>“We definitely need to tell Colonel Jaxe that we found these,” says Heimall. “Let’s do a <em>sending.</em>”</p><p></p><p>“I’m on it,” replies Hkatha. The Ilmixie unpacks his spellbook and begins laying out the materials necessary. </p><p></p><p>“Where’s Shakgar?” asks Torinn. </p><p></p><p>“He’s still flying,” Iggy responds with a sigh, “buzzing overhead every minute or so.”</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Hkatha issues a <em>sending</em> updating Colonel Jaxe. The reply is immediate: <em>We know about the ornithopters. Send peasants here if possible. Proceed to Northshore. Scout. Sending force, should arrive in two weeks.</em></p><p></p><p>“Well, we have our orders,” says Hkatha afterward.</p><p></p><p>Shakgar buzzes overhead again.</p><p></p><p>”I guess we have to wait for Shakgar before we do anything. Do you think we should take the ornithopters?” queries Torinn.</p><p></p><p>“We’d be pretty visible,” muses Heimall. “It would be hard to escape notice. So much for a subtle approach.”</p><p></p><p>“We are known for our subtlety,” the dragonborn replies ironically.</p><p></p><p>“A half-dozen of us against a couple of hundred troops of the Six-Fingered Hand? No problem!” Summer snorts disdainfully. “Subtle might be better.”</p><p></p><p>“We’ll proceed on foot,” Heimall agrees with a nod. “We won’t do the slaves at Northshore any good if we’re attacked and killed before we even get there.”</p><p></p><p>Shakgar keeps buzzing them for hours.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Northshore, when the party reaches it a couple of days later, proves to be a large ruin with a section at the edge of town that is still in use. Our heroes make a concealed approach at first, scouting out the situation. A large walled enclosure is full of slaves tending crops and minding herds of animals, overseen by a variety of Hand guards. This is adjacent to a large fortress that looks like it has been converted to the use of the Six-Fingered Hand. </p><p></p><p>“This is very interesting,” notes Cook. “You see how the people are farming in the pen?”</p><p></p><p>“They have goblin overseers,” points out Summer.</p><p></p><p>“Look how inefficient the construction is. The barrier looks weak. There are few guards.” Cook snorts. “Goblin incompetence.”</p><p></p><p>“I’d guess there are a couple of thousand people here,” murmurs Heimall. “And maybe three, four hundred troops.”</p><p></p><p>“Still too many,” says Iggy, “for a frontal assault.”</p><p></p><p>Vann-La shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”</p><p></p><p>“It looks like the barracks are along the edge of that fortification, on the ruin’s edge. And there are towers along the edge of the enclosure- crude work, but no doubt the Hand mans them.” Heimall frowns. “And what’s that noise?”</p><p></p><p>The party pauses to listen. Distantly, they can hear the roar of a crowd. </p><p></p><p>“We’ll probably find out what that is once we’re inside. We might be able to sneak in,” suggests Iggy. “Look around, scout things out.”</p><p></p><p>The cook smiles. “Oi, that is my specialty!”</p><p></p><p>“And we can check in after a little while by <em>sending,</em>” Hkatha says.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Cook sneaks up to the enclosure. There seems to be a single main gate, at the far end of things from all the barracks. Scratching his head- this is an odd and inefficient arrangement for the troops- Cook walks the perimeter, looking for unguarded entries but seeing none. There are several other smaller gates, as well as one leading from the interior of the pen into the fortress. He returns to the main gate, trying to be sneaky. Unfortunately for him, one of the goblins on the wall spots him.</p><p></p><p>“Hey!” it yells in Common. “You there! Dwarf! Don’t move!”</p><p></p><p>Cook remains where he is. <em>Oi, I suppose this is as good of a way to get a look inside as any,</em> he thinks wryly. A few minutes later a squad of Hand troops has surrounded him.</p><p></p><p>”Who are you?” growls a kobold. </p><p></p><p>“He must be an escaped slave,” one of the goblins says, speaking in Goblin- which (thankfully) Cook knows. </p><p></p><p>“No!” Cook declares. “I am a flesh merchant. I trade in slaves. I saw your worthy effort here” –gesturing at the enclosure- “and thought to come see if you might be interested in making additional purchases from one such as myself.”</p><p></p><p>He’s a quick-thinking, smooth-tongued dwarf, and he thinks his story is believable. But the kobolds and goblins laugh harshly. </p><p></p><p>“Let’s take him to Sir Unleafe for questioning,” one of them sneers. “If there really are free dwarves in the area, he must be informed.”</p><p></p><p><em>Uh-oh,</em> thinks Cook. <em>I hope the party contacts me with that </em>sending<em> soon, or I may be in trouble!</em></p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The death knight- Sir Unleafe- is a chilling figure, with yellow-white flames dancing in the sockets of his eyes. He wears soiled robes, with a huge greataxe strapped to his back. He is at the edge of a high balcony above a large arena. The arena’s floor is littered with various dangers, including large bonfires, pits and bear traps. Suspended above it, a pair of platforms swing by each other. Several slaves are on them, and several more are down below; clearly, they are being forced to fight one another.</p><p>“He says that he is a slave trader,” says one of the goblins.</p><p></p><p>Sir Unleafe turns his burning gaze upon Cook. The dwarf gulps through a constricted throat. “Where are you from?” the death knight demands.</p><p></p><p>“Uh, I am from the far east,” Cook starts, “but I operate from a base, uh, under the mountains around here.”</p><p></p><p>“You are a liar,” the death knight pronounces. He reaches behind him and unlimbers his axe, which gives off black smoke. “How many of you are there? How many are here? And where are they?”</p><p></p><p>”I am alone,” Cook stammers, “and please do not kill me!” He starts to sob, putting on his best show- but the death knight is clearly unconvinced.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>After waiting an appropriate amount of time, the party stands guard while Hkatha conducts a <em>sending</em> ritual. The tiefling sends, <em>Cook: how is it going? Any luck?</em></p><p></p><p>Cook’s response is immediate and chilling: <em>Death knight is here. I am in the far side of the fortress. COME NOW!</em></p><p></p><p>“Uh oh,” says Hkatha. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The enclosure is wooden; once again, the lackluster quality of construction favors our heroes. They smash their way in quickly. Slaves on the inside stare at their arrival, but they don’t even slow down. A group of guards cries out, but Iggy and Hkatha destroy them in a coordinated pair of explosions. </p><p></p><p>“To the fortress!” cries Heimall. </p><p></p><p>Other Hand troops take note and start to intercept the party, but are hacked down by the heroes. </p><p></p><p>“Who are you?” cries one of the slaves. </p><p></p><p>”We’re the Heroes of Fandelose!” replies Torinn. “And I am the Dragon!”</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Sir Unleafe sneers again and draws his axe. “Show your neck,” he commands Cook.</p><p></p><p>”Oi, I am afraid not,” the dwarf replies. </p><p></p><p>The gig is up. He is alone, facing a death knight and his lackeys. The door behind him is shut, and guards crowd his retreat. Ahead (and some 50’ down) is a coliseum whose stands are crammed with hundreds of goblins, orcs, gnolls, kobolds, ogres and lizardfolk, and whose floor is littered with danger.</p><p></p><p>Cook does the only thing he can: he flings himself forward and over the edge.</p><p></p><p>He lands hard on the top wall of the stands of the coliseum above the mass of Hand soldiers, somersaults to give away some of his momentum and comes to his feet balanced on the wall in a single smooth motion. Then he turns and grins up at the death knight.</p><p></p><p>Who steps off the edge and falls after him. Landing less gracefully, but nonetheless on the wall not far from Cook.</p><p></p><p>“Eek!” cries the dwarf, and leaps further down- into the stands. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Vann-La hurls her javelin, and it smashes into the chest of an oncoming hobgoblin. The snarling goblinoid warrior is knocked back and off his feet into a pool of blood, and then the magical javelin rips itself free and rockets back to her hand. </p><p></p><p>“Forward!” cries Summer, ripping open the door to the fortress. The party storms in, surprising a half-asleep kobold guard. Heimall’s glaive rips his throat out. </p><p></p><p>They storm the fortress, slaughtering enemies left and right. An alarm is raised, but- at least so far- the local Six-Fingered Hand troops doesn’t seem to be able to muster a coordinated response. </p><p></p><p>“Ogres!” cries Summer, leaping forward and stabbing with her longspear. She and Heimall for a wall of long weapons, barring the lumbering brutes from a quick assault on the rest of the party, and then Shakgar and Vann-La close to the front. The ogres roar and swing their huge clubs, but by focusing their fire, our heroes swiftly slay them, then resume their march onward. </p><p></p><p>After a brief but decisive battle against some kobold archers backed by gnolls, our heroes find a stairway up. They move up it, cutting through more opposition on the way, and then burst into an opulent balcony overlooking a huge arena.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The crowd around Cook reacts to his presence in a predictable way, trying to cut him down or grab him. He tumbles away, leaping out of the middle of the seats and into the walkway between groups. </p><p></p><p>His hands flip beneath his vest, then back up. Something glitters between each pair of his fingers for an instant. His hands twitch, and shuriken fly out into the crowd, sinking into eye after eye after eye. Over a half-dozen of the Hand troops fall. Screams echo.</p><p></p><p>Cook glances up at the death knight, who tilts his head back and unleashes a shrieking call unlike anything the dwarf has ever heard before. A chill runs down his spine- as something answers. From the far side of the coliseum, where a path runs out, a pair of gates flies open and fire and smoke belch forth. An immolated horse rushes through with a terrifying, predacious-sounding neigh. </p><p></p><p><em>That’s his mount,</em> realizes Cook. </p><p></p><p>More Hand spectators- <em>troops, just off duty,</em> Cook reminds himself- rush at him. He whips his dagger out and parries a wickedly serrated scimitar blow, kicking his goblin attacker and fouling up those immediately behind him. </p><p></p><p>The death knight, he notes, is mounting up.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>“Is that a nightmare?” exclaims Iggy. “Holy hell, it is!”</p><p></p><p>“Guys,” Summer says, nudging Vann-La’s shoulder. “Up there.” </p><p></p><p>“Up...?” Following her ally’s gaze, the elf growls a curse in her throat. Giant skeletal bats are entering the area, coming (presumably) is response to the alarm. </p><p></p><p>A few arrows come their way, but for the moment, they are largely unnoticed. And from their vantage point, they can see Cook- running for his life, and leaping out across open space to land on one of the platforms, suspended by chains, over the floor of the coliseum.</p><p></p><p>“That must be Sharm the Terrible,” Heimall says, pointing at another balcony, where a kobold with two scimitars is preparing to pursue Cook.</p><p></p><p>“There are a lot of bad guys here,” notes Summer.</p><p></p><p>“Good,” replies Vann-La. “We won’t run out of targets.”</p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> Sir Unleafe and Sharm the Terrible!</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 5028566, member: 1210"] A vertiginous drop! The ornithopter plummets like a stone, racing towards the distant ground. Torinn pumps his arms and legs frantically, and the machine responds, its wings starting to beat. Leaning back in his seat, the dragonborn cleric grits his teeth. At the speed he is falling, a crash would probably be lethal. The nose of the ornithopter edges up, and the ship starts to speed out away from the edge of the cliff as well as just down. [i]Come on, these are [/i]levers![i] If Lester’s blessings ever fall upon me, it should be now![/i] The ornithopter’s fall continues to angle away from the cliff, further and further, until, only a few dozen yards above the ground, it levels off at last. Torinn whoops with pleasure, pumping his arms like mad, as he starts to ascend. *** “He made it!” exclaims Heimall. “Hey, look at this,” Ligir calls from inside the hangar. “This one has room for two. Well, as long as the second person was a halfling or something.” The party goes to look while the ornithopter bearing Torinn wobbles around the sky. Indeed, several of the ornithopters have a small compartment at the back, in which a smaller person could sit, albeit in a cramped position. “There’s no way any of us could fit in that little hole,” comments Hkatha. “Look at that hatch. I bet you could drop things out of here- maybe oil or acid or something. You could store small packages, or maybe bladders of liquid, in these little runnels here.” The party goes back outside and watches Torinn’s ornithopter as it flies around. Torinn, in his cockpit, is taking in the view as best he can and trying to assess the tactical situation nearby, but from the distance he is at, it’s hard to tell much. Still, he can make out Lake Belwur to the south, and the smudge of a city along its nearest shore. Then he banks left and heads towards the nearest other plateau. His arms are getting tired by the time he gets to it; but his suspicions are confirmed. At the top of the plateau is a flattened area long enough to launch (or, he presumes, land) an ornithopter squadron. “So,” he mutters to himself, and banks back around towards the plateau where the others are. *** Meanwhile, both Vann-La and Shakgar have also taken flight. Each has a similar, harrowing experience as he or she plummets from the cliff; but each also quickly gets the hang of the vehicle’s operations. When Torinn’s ornithopter flies back towards them and begins to descend towards the runway, Vann-La follows- and only then do any of the aloft heroes think about how one lands an ornithopter. The answer, it turns out, is roughly; without skill; but well enough to walk away from. Both Torinn and Vann-La are bruised by their landings, and Torinn nearly crashes his ‘thopter into another of the airships in the hangar; but it is worth it. Flight! The power of flight! “We definitely need to tell Colonel Jaxe that we found these,” says Heimall. “Let’s do a [i]sending.[/i]” “I’m on it,” replies Hkatha. The Ilmixie unpacks his spellbook and begins laying out the materials necessary. “Where’s Shakgar?” asks Torinn. “He’s still flying,” Iggy responds with a sigh, “buzzing overhead every minute or so.” *** Hkatha issues a [i]sending[/i] updating Colonel Jaxe. The reply is immediate: [i]We know about the ornithopters. Send peasants here if possible. Proceed to Northshore. Scout. Sending force, should arrive in two weeks.[/i] “Well, we have our orders,” says Hkatha afterward. Shakgar buzzes overhead again. ”I guess we have to wait for Shakgar before we do anything. Do you think we should take the ornithopters?” queries Torinn. “We’d be pretty visible,” muses Heimall. “It would be hard to escape notice. So much for a subtle approach.” “We are known for our subtlety,” the dragonborn replies ironically. “A half-dozen of us against a couple of hundred troops of the Six-Fingered Hand? No problem!” Summer snorts disdainfully. “Subtle might be better.” “We’ll proceed on foot,” Heimall agrees with a nod. “We won’t do the slaves at Northshore any good if we’re attacked and killed before we even get there.” Shakgar keeps buzzing them for hours. *** Northshore, when the party reaches it a couple of days later, proves to be a large ruin with a section at the edge of town that is still in use. Our heroes make a concealed approach at first, scouting out the situation. A large walled enclosure is full of slaves tending crops and minding herds of animals, overseen by a variety of Hand guards. This is adjacent to a large fortress that looks like it has been converted to the use of the Six-Fingered Hand. “This is very interesting,” notes Cook. “You see how the people are farming in the pen?” “They have goblin overseers,” points out Summer. “Look how inefficient the construction is. The barrier looks weak. There are few guards.” Cook snorts. “Goblin incompetence.” “I’d guess there are a couple of thousand people here,” murmurs Heimall. “And maybe three, four hundred troops.” “Still too many,” says Iggy, “for a frontal assault.” Vann-La shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.” “It looks like the barracks are along the edge of that fortification, on the ruin’s edge. And there are towers along the edge of the enclosure- crude work, but no doubt the Hand mans them.” Heimall frowns. “And what’s that noise?” The party pauses to listen. Distantly, they can hear the roar of a crowd. “We’ll probably find out what that is once we’re inside. We might be able to sneak in,” suggests Iggy. “Look around, scout things out.” The cook smiles. “Oi, that is my specialty!” “And we can check in after a little while by [i]sending,[/i]” Hkatha says. *** Cook sneaks up to the enclosure. There seems to be a single main gate, at the far end of things from all the barracks. Scratching his head- this is an odd and inefficient arrangement for the troops- Cook walks the perimeter, looking for unguarded entries but seeing none. There are several other smaller gates, as well as one leading from the interior of the pen into the fortress. He returns to the main gate, trying to be sneaky. Unfortunately for him, one of the goblins on the wall spots him. “Hey!” it yells in Common. “You there! Dwarf! Don’t move!” Cook remains where he is. [i]Oi, I suppose this is as good of a way to get a look inside as any,[/i] he thinks wryly. A few minutes later a squad of Hand troops has surrounded him. ”Who are you?” growls a kobold. “He must be an escaped slave,” one of the goblins says, speaking in Goblin- which (thankfully) Cook knows. “No!” Cook declares. “I am a flesh merchant. I trade in slaves. I saw your worthy effort here” –gesturing at the enclosure- “and thought to come see if you might be interested in making additional purchases from one such as myself.” He’s a quick-thinking, smooth-tongued dwarf, and he thinks his story is believable. But the kobolds and goblins laugh harshly. “Let’s take him to Sir Unleafe for questioning,” one of them sneers. “If there really are free dwarves in the area, he must be informed.” [i]Uh-oh,[/i] thinks Cook. [i]I hope the party contacts me with that [/i]sending[i] soon, or I may be in trouble![/i] *** The death knight- Sir Unleafe- is a chilling figure, with yellow-white flames dancing in the sockets of his eyes. He wears soiled robes, with a huge greataxe strapped to his back. He is at the edge of a high balcony above a large arena. The arena’s floor is littered with various dangers, including large bonfires, pits and bear traps. Suspended above it, a pair of platforms swing by each other. Several slaves are on them, and several more are down below; clearly, they are being forced to fight one another. “He says that he is a slave trader,” says one of the goblins. Sir Unleafe turns his burning gaze upon Cook. The dwarf gulps through a constricted throat. “Where are you from?” the death knight demands. “Uh, I am from the far east,” Cook starts, “but I operate from a base, uh, under the mountains around here.” “You are a liar,” the death knight pronounces. He reaches behind him and unlimbers his axe, which gives off black smoke. “How many of you are there? How many are here? And where are they?” ”I am alone,” Cook stammers, “and please do not kill me!” He starts to sob, putting on his best show- but the death knight is clearly unconvinced. *** After waiting an appropriate amount of time, the party stands guard while Hkatha conducts a [i]sending[/i] ritual. The tiefling sends, [i]Cook: how is it going? Any luck?[/i] Cook’s response is immediate and chilling: [i]Death knight is here. I am in the far side of the fortress. COME NOW![/i] “Uh oh,” says Hkatha. *** The enclosure is wooden; once again, the lackluster quality of construction favors our heroes. They smash their way in quickly. Slaves on the inside stare at their arrival, but they don’t even slow down. A group of guards cries out, but Iggy and Hkatha destroy them in a coordinated pair of explosions. “To the fortress!” cries Heimall. Other Hand troops take note and start to intercept the party, but are hacked down by the heroes. “Who are you?” cries one of the slaves. ”We’re the Heroes of Fandelose!” replies Torinn. “And I am the Dragon!” *** Sir Unleafe sneers again and draws his axe. “Show your neck,” he commands Cook. ”Oi, I am afraid not,” the dwarf replies. The gig is up. He is alone, facing a death knight and his lackeys. The door behind him is shut, and guards crowd his retreat. Ahead (and some 50’ down) is a coliseum whose stands are crammed with hundreds of goblins, orcs, gnolls, kobolds, ogres and lizardfolk, and whose floor is littered with danger. Cook does the only thing he can: he flings himself forward and over the edge. He lands hard on the top wall of the stands of the coliseum above the mass of Hand soldiers, somersaults to give away some of his momentum and comes to his feet balanced on the wall in a single smooth motion. Then he turns and grins up at the death knight. Who steps off the edge and falls after him. Landing less gracefully, but nonetheless on the wall not far from Cook. “Eek!” cries the dwarf, and leaps further down- into the stands. *** Vann-La hurls her javelin, and it smashes into the chest of an oncoming hobgoblin. The snarling goblinoid warrior is knocked back and off his feet into a pool of blood, and then the magical javelin rips itself free and rockets back to her hand. “Forward!” cries Summer, ripping open the door to the fortress. The party storms in, surprising a half-asleep kobold guard. Heimall’s glaive rips his throat out. They storm the fortress, slaughtering enemies left and right. An alarm is raised, but- at least so far- the local Six-Fingered Hand troops doesn’t seem to be able to muster a coordinated response. “Ogres!” cries Summer, leaping forward and stabbing with her longspear. She and Heimall for a wall of long weapons, barring the lumbering brutes from a quick assault on the rest of the party, and then Shakgar and Vann-La close to the front. The ogres roar and swing their huge clubs, but by focusing their fire, our heroes swiftly slay them, then resume their march onward. After a brief but decisive battle against some kobold archers backed by gnolls, our heroes find a stairway up. They move up it, cutting through more opposition on the way, and then burst into an opulent balcony overlooking a huge arena. *** The crowd around Cook reacts to his presence in a predictable way, trying to cut him down or grab him. He tumbles away, leaping out of the middle of the seats and into the walkway between groups. His hands flip beneath his vest, then back up. Something glitters between each pair of his fingers for an instant. His hands twitch, and shuriken fly out into the crowd, sinking into eye after eye after eye. Over a half-dozen of the Hand troops fall. Screams echo. Cook glances up at the death knight, who tilts his head back and unleashes a shrieking call unlike anything the dwarf has ever heard before. A chill runs down his spine- as something answers. From the far side of the coliseum, where a path runs out, a pair of gates flies open and fire and smoke belch forth. An immolated horse rushes through with a terrifying, predacious-sounding neigh. [i]That’s his mount,[/i] realizes Cook. More Hand spectators- [i]troops, just off duty,[/i] Cook reminds himself- rush at him. He whips his dagger out and parries a wickedly serrated scimitar blow, kicking his goblin attacker and fouling up those immediately behind him. The death knight, he notes, is mounting up. *** “Is that a nightmare?” exclaims Iggy. “Holy hell, it is!” “Guys,” Summer says, nudging Vann-La’s shoulder. “Up there.” “Up...?” Following her ally’s gaze, the elf growls a curse in her throat. Giant skeletal bats are entering the area, coming (presumably) is response to the alarm. A few arrows come their way, but for the moment, they are largely unnoticed. And from their vantage point, they can see Cook- running for his life, and leaping out across open space to land on one of the platforms, suspended by chains, over the floor of the coliseum. “That must be Sharm the Terrible,” Heimall says, pointing at another balcony, where a kobold with two scimitars is preparing to pursue Cook. “There are a lot of bad guys here,” notes Summer. “Good,” replies Vann-La. “We won’t run out of targets.” [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] Sir Unleafe and Sharm the Terrible! [/QUOTE]
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