Watch For Falling Meteors [4E KotS] Updated Weekdays!

[Xorn]

As Percy peeked out of the cave entrance just north of the waterfall, he smiled at the serene valley the rising sun was caressing. The grass was bent down with the morning dew, each blade twinkling with drops of water along the vibrant green they cast across the ground. The stream leading away from the falls was gurgling happily away to the southwest, splashing nonchalantly through the tumbled stones of the creek bed. As the sun’s rays crept over the valley, the warming splash of light tugged at a soft mist that was rising from the cool ground and water, urging the moisture into the air.

Nature was oblivious to the surreal carnage scattered about the clearing, as the mist tugged gently over the kobold corpses in the gentle morning flutters of wind. A pair of squirrels was stuffing their cheeks rampantly with odorous foodstuffs from one of the kobolds’ belt pouches, when they suddenly looked up in alarm and scrambled for the safety of the foliage deeper into the trees. Looking up Percy saw a hawk circling overhead, looking for a meal, preferably one that was still moving.

Not seeing any threats outside, Percy returned to the chamber they had camped in, deeper in the caves. “It’s a beautiful morning, actually. Should be a nice trip ba—wooooah!” Percy was stunned as he looked at Omar.

“Ye like it? Fits me perfectly!” The dwarf had just finished donning a suit of plate armor that had been in Irontooth’s chest of presumed belongings. The fighter said it was infused with dwarven magic, and as the armor gleamed across his blocky torso, it looked immaculate. “Musta been too tight fer that Irontooth fella ta where, but I feel like it was made fer me!” Omar was beaming quite proudly as he tested the fit by waving his arms and hoisting his legs up by the knees to feel out the joints.

“I gotta admit,” said the rogue, “that looks pretty good on you!” Percy continued to study the dwarf as he stuffed his helmet on proudly, and something caught his attention. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Daichot, standing behind Omar, trying to stop Percy from making his next observation.

“Except… the… uh… the helmet, I think. It looks…”

“Me ‘ead’s crooked, ya bastard half-wit halfling!” bellowed Omar with a tone of irritation before shouldering his pack abruptly and picking up his maul-turned-warhammer easily and waved it at the halfling. “Not another word about it, neither!”

Daichot shook his head silently at the pair and walked over to Oleaf. The warlord had cleaned the terrible puncture wound as best he could, but it looked infected now, and the bandage had been changed several times, sticky with pus and blood each time he removed it. Their last bandage put on that morning, Daichot helped her dress and wrapped her up in there blankets again, much to her protest.

“I will walk, I have held up our progress enough as it is.” She said weakly.

“Nonsense,” he half-scolded her. “How you even fought with this injury is a testament to your ability, but you need to move as little as possible. You need to rest, and a lot of it. I will carry you back to the town.”

Oleaf’s protest was interrupted by the tiefling, “You will only make yourself worse, if you exert yourself. The threat is gone, thanks in no small part to you—now just rest, we’ll carry you.”

Omar was testing the weight of one of the kobold’s dragon scale shields. The weight was more than it appeared, and the dwarf seemed pleased with the sturdiness of it. As he worked his off-hand into the straps he had retooled during the night, he spoke sternly to the elf.

“Dinnae think ye held us ta this cave, lass.” Omar finished mounting the shield onto his arm and pulled a leather strap tight with his teeth before continuing. “Tha letter we found in tha chest was proof enough; a spy waits fer us in Winterhaven, an’ we’ll be safer if we return by day. Yer wound only cinched what woulda been our choice anyway.”

She thought about what the dwarf had said, and nodded reluctantly. She would not be able to walk back to the town on her own, even if she had wanted to, realistically. Daichot picked her up easily, one arm cradling her legs beneath the knees, and the other carefully placed around her torso, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and neck. Her face flinched a little, but she made no sound.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, but wasn’t ready to test her voice. Fire was racing from her side down the length of her right leg, but Daichot was doing a good job of holding her still as he started to walk out of the chamber. The muscles in his neck and shoulders felt like steel cords as he easily carried her, and the tieflings arms were relaxed. “See,” he said as she settled into his arms, “I could carry three or four of you, it will be fine.”

“Percy, grab her weapons, it’s time to get out of here.” Omar called back to the halfling as he walked out of the chamber.

Percy blinked in astonishment. “What? Why do I have to carry her crap?”

“If you prefer, you can carry her, and I’ll carry her things. Omar already has her pack, so you carry her weapons. Let’s go.”

“Her bow is bigger than me! This is a pretty bum deal, if you ask me.” Percy was reluctantly picking up her longbow, her short swords, sheathed in their back harness of leather straps, and the bulky pack of quivers which were woven together and normally rested across her back. They weren’t terribly heavy, but remained completely awkward for the short halfling to manage while walking. “Would you look at me? I look like a stupid porter! Do you really expect me to walk all the way back to Winterhaven like this?”

Percy was greeted only by the echo of his own voice, as he realized he was the only person still in the cave.

 

[Xorn]

A blast of cold water crashed into the man’s face, an ecstasy of relief from the sweat and grime that had caked his skin for the last several hours, and an agony of panic as the water went up is mouth and nose as he thought he might drown, just trying to draw a breath. Coughing violently he strained to right himself, feeling the tight ropes cutting into the flesh of his wrists behind his back. Finally, after a few seconds of sputtering that felt like minutes, he managed to cough out enough water to draw a more or less clear breath.

As his blurry vision fought to blink away the grease and blood that had run up is face into his eyes, he could see his captor, setting down a wooden pail. No, actually it was the chamber pot of his room. He looked down, mentally noting that he was actually looking up, and was horrified at what he saw.

His position had not changed; he was still hanging from a rope secured to the heavy bed frame, trailing up to the thick central ceiling beam that extended from the center of the building to the walls, and down to his ankles. They were swollen and discolored, a hideous combination of purple and black, and in oddly thankful way, he couldn’t feel the pain that had been coming from his feet all night. His head was pounding, and he had trouble thinking clearly—his face felt like it was going to burst, and he had been hanging upside down since he had been drug out of bed up into the air.

The ropes didn’t stop at his blackened feet though. After the knots secured around his ankles, two taut pieces of rope trailed to his hands, wrapped tightly around his wrists, so they were supporting as much of his weight as his legs. He had no doubt the flesh on his hands was black as well, but he could still feel them, in the form of a vague, pounding thrum of pain. Then the ropes continued to his throat, choking him thoroughly whenever he struggled, or tried to move either of his limbs.

That hadn’t stopped him from moving throughout the night, as the cloaked figure that now floated across the floor on unseen legs had hurt him. They had been merciless, asked no questions, and never hesitated in their horrific deed, despite his muffled cries and weeping for mercy. That was when he noticed he didn’t have a gag in his mouth anymore.

Frantically he tried to scream, but didn’t even hear his own voice, despite his pain wracked effort to call for help. The form stopped, that hideous, terrible face he had envisioned each time he passed out hiding beneath the shadow of the cowl it wore. A slender, tiny gloved hand rose out of the cloak, carrying a gleaming stiletto, adorned with various precious stones. He felt a well of panic, which he thought had been exhausted by this hour of his torture, but as the tip neared his throat, he began to weep uncontrollably, not for the first time this night.

“Good morning,” hissed the cloak. “I’ve decided to remove your gag,” the tip of the dagger jiggled, pointing at what must have been the gag, below, or above, his chin, “since you’ve no doubt discovered you can’t do much more than whisper at this point.”

The cloak whirled away from him, and for a disturbing moment, he wanted to thank the evil shadow that had tortured him for hours he had lost track of. As the light of the morning crept into the window, he noticed that the shadow was rather short, for something he feared so greatly.

“I’m not terribly concerned if you know why I’ve tortured you all night. I do want you to know a few things about me though:” the cloaked devil spun about abruptly and began to pace over to him, wiggling the stiletto with each point for emphasis.

“I don’t know who you are, I don’t care about your life, I do enjoy inflicting pain on you, and I do know how to make it last for two more days, without killing you.”

He was trying not to sob, but the effort was mostly ineffective.

“If you would like it all to end, I need only one thing from you.” He mouthed the word please to the shadows of the cowl, wanting nothing more than to end his pain. “Percival Padfoot. Probably went by Percy.”

Shocked and eager to please his captor, the man shook his head to show he knew of the person the evil person behind the dagger was talking about. He roughly whispered the name he knew, though he thought he was shouting. “Percy… the dragon slayer.”

“Dragon slayer?” the form exclaimed with surprise. For a brief moment, the voice was not sinister, but that vanished. “Where did that stupid, stupid halfling go?”

He tried desperately to answer, and the form grew closer. It smelled of spice and whiskey. “Winter… haven.”

“Good. Was he alone?”

He shook his head, trying to say what he knew of the adventures the halfling had traveled with, but found himself crying again, instead.

“Now, now,” comforted the hooded figure, lowering the blade and putting a tiny, comforting hand to his cheek. The contact was oddly soothing, despite the open creases in his flesh burning at the small hand’s touch. A halfling hand.

“Slow down. Just describe those he is traveling with, and then I’ll kill you, quickly.”

The dark one continued to comfort the frantic human as he described the other travelers, telling him not to worry about dying, it wouldn’t be that bad.

Later that morning, Dorrin Feldroven, a Fallcrest gate guard stationed at the east most mornings, was found tortured to death in his private quarters.

 

[Xorn]

Wow. No new post yet, I just wanted to say, "Holy cow." We just finished our next session--and talk about fun. A whole lot of new developments, and healthy amount of butt-stomping, some amazing story opportunities, I can't wait to write this stuff. They're actually a long way ahead of the story right now though.

They took apart some nasty encounters like it was nothing, but wow is it ever going to be fun to write this!

 

[Xorn]

It was late morning as the gates of Winterhaven came into Daichot’s view; he had carried Oleaf for two miles through the gentle wooded slopes southwest of the town, and the rising heat of the morning combined with the added exertion of holding her had left a sheet of sweat across the ridges of his brow. Her angular, attractive face was marred with flashes of pain as they traveled. She had her arms wrapped tightly behind his neck, trying to keep from jostling as the tiefling did his best to walk steadily.

Percy had been surprisingly complacent about carrying her weapons after they had traveled no more than half a mile from the cliffs, most likely because the rogue quickly determined he had gotten the best part of the deal. Omar was buried under a mountain of equipment, with two full backpacks squeezed onto his frame, plus the ranger’s hide armor, as well as the scale armor that Omar had been wearing before finding the magical plate that now shown in the early golden cascade of sunlight that was washing over the climbing road. The dwarf didn’t slow at all under the massive weight, and Percy found himself wondering if Omar could carry pretty much any weight as long as you found a way to tie it down securely.

The little rogue caught himself admiring the fine craftsmanship of her longbow, but stuffed the ideas creeping into his head down—you don’t steal from friends, he reminded himself. Percy may have had questionable morals (a trait not wholly uncommon among his people) but what few he did keep about him he took seriously. His attention shifted quickly as a woman that was walking with them handed him a delicious looking green apple!

“You’re heroes!” she proclaimed to them all, “So brave to fight for us!”

The woman offered fruit to all of them, but only Percy accepted—though he accepted enough times to compensate for the others. She was the fourth person to fall into line with their march back to the gates, and word was quickly spreading of their victorious return. There had been several concerned faces among them, and one man even asked if Oleaf was alright.

She opened her wide eyes and looked over at the man reassuringly. There was a tense expression on her face, and Daichot could feel her trying to take shallow breaths, but she managed to nod to the man, but could not find enough air to speak. By the time they reached the gates, they had a company of ten men and women walking with them, and one of the guards at the gate sounded a loud horn repeatedly as soon as he recognized them.

“Heroes of Winterhaven!” he called down as soon as they were close enough to hear him. He pointed down at them and called the same proclamation behind him, into the town towards the inn. Echoes of his decree could be heard from what must have been a fairly large assembled crowd, and as they got close enough to see through the open gates, several dozens of people were at the inn, apparently ready to celebrate the return of the adventurers.

As they walked under the gate bridge, they were regaled heartily by the crowd, though their cheers started to falter as they realized one of them was being carried. Unable to tell how badly the elf was injured they started to fear the worst.

“Put me down, Daichot.” She whispered into his ear.

The warlord faltered for a moment, silently asking if she was sure she wanted to stand with a concerned look. She blinked her eyes, and some brightness was flushing into her face as she smiled faintly. “They have to know that we’ve won, clearly,” she explained, and understanding he lowered her long, slender legs to the ground. She gripped at the back of his neck fiercely as a wedge of pain tore at her side, and she added another rushed whisper, “But don’t let go!”

Daichot kept his left arm wrapped about the small of her waist, and the elf maintained her hold at the base of this neck and shoulder, so Daichot was still supporting most of the elf’s weight. She managed a quick wave to the gathered people and matched Daichots slow stride.

Ahead of them Omar was not smiling, just impatiently working his way through the crowd of people who were reaching out to touch their procession. “Ah need ye to stand back, the kobolds’er gone from yer forest, an’ we need ta get Oleaf to yer healer.”

Some of the more timid folk quickly made room, while two of the city guard fell in step in front of Omar and started clearing a path for them, assuring the fighter they would take them to the temple, and then Lord Padraig was anxious to see them.

Percy seemed to be the only one genuinely interested in participating in the celebration of his return, and held up the iron mandible that he had retrieved from the giant goblin they had slain! “We have slain Irontooth!” he cheered, and the responding hurrah was equally enthused.

Encouraged by the excitement of the crowd, Percy felt the rush feeding him, “The Heroes of Winterhaven!” The crowd cheered even louder. He yelled out the title again and they began to chant as they worked their way past the inn.

Breaking through most of the assembled crowd into the bare market, Percy turned around and thrust his dagger into the air for added effect, “Percy the Dragonslayer!”

“Percy the… dra…?” the cheer faltered and ended oddly as the townsfolk began looking about in bewilderment at the mention of a dragon. Percy started to explain when Daichot called after him.

“Later Percy! Let’s go!”

Bowing low and tipping his hat, Percy spun about and trotted after the others.

 

[Dogreboy]

injuries

Maybe I missed something, but unless oleaf had no surges left why didn't the warlord just heal her after combat? I mean he has the same healing word that the cleric has.

Of course if it is for story reasons, as it does make it more dashing to carry in the wounded then thats another thing.

 

[ozziewolf]

Maybe I missed something, but unless oleaf had no surges left why didn't the warlord just heal her after combat? I mean he has the same healing word that the cleric has.

Of course if it is for story reasons, as it does make it more dashing to carry in the wounded then thats another thing.

It was originally intended as a character write out for Oleaf. It's her first foray into D&D and she wasn't sure it was for her.

Although my understanding now is that she's gotten hooked on the story... if that's enough for her to stay or not I guess we'll have to wait and see how the story unfolds. (I don't know how it's going to turn out.)

-Percival "Percy" Padfoot

 

[Xorn]

That's Percy there helping with the explanation by the way--he's about as annoying in real life as in the story. As far as Oleaf goes--I was writing her out of the story. Game mechanic-wise, her wound is terribly infected (she's contracted a disease) and she's unable to regain healing surges.

 

[ozziewolf]

That's Percy there helping with the explanation by the way--he's about as annoying in real life as in the story. As far as Oleaf goes--I was writing her out of the story. Game mechanic-wise, her wound is terribly infected (she's contracted a disease) and she's unable to regain healing surges.

If by annoying you mean made of awesomeness... then yes.. yes I am!

But enough about me.. on with the story and more about Percy! 8)

 

[Xorn]

Sister Linora frowned as she looked out the doors from her bedroom to the balcony and stairs that followed the east wall of the temple down to the congregation area and altars. Three men were walking away quickly with their heads stooped in embarrassment. The older woman shook her head at the spectacle and turned back to the wounded elf that was lying on her bed.

“One would think they’ve never seen a woman without clothes on, before.” She muttered to herself as the door slowly creaked shut behind her. Oleaf was lying on the bed, flat on her back, and already the linens on the bed were beginning to dampen where she was sweating profusely. Away from the looking eyes of the crowd now, the elven woman was breathing more raggedly, and seemed barely able to look straight ahead, as she fought a losing battle with consciousness.

Daichot was leaning over the bed, tucking a blanket under the ranger’s arms and feeling the scorching heat seething from her flush forehead. Her hair was a slick and oily tangle of sweat-dampened strands, but still had a sheen to them that defined the term “elven” quite well. His stern look of dismay at the elf’s condition was either missed by the older priest, or ignored, but she abruptly walked over and yanked the blanket back to expose the right side of Oleaf’s body so she could resume inspecting the wound. As she did so the blast of cool air prickled her bare flesh from her neck down to her pelvis, and the tiefling cast his gaze across the room, his skin flushing a deeper red than it already was.

Sister Linora was clearly unimpressed. “You too?” She let out an exasperated sigh. “You’ve got mostly the same parts, big guy, stop acting like a child and get undressed.”

The priest didn’t look up from her inspection of the pus built up in the puncture wound, but was still aware of the expression on the tielfling’s face. “What for?” was all the warlord managed.

“You said you carried her for miles, right?”

“Yes, she couldn’t walk—“

“I didn’t ask why, all that matters to me is you’ve been carrying someone with chill-fever for hours, so I need to make sure you don’t have it.” Daichot started to unbuckle the straps on his chest piece, actually glad to feel the cool air of the room after the long walk back. “If you have any open wound, you could contract this infection—so I need to check you over.”

“Is she going to be alright?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes, she’ll recover, though the disease is very advanced—I have a ritual that will help, but it’s too dangerous to try in her condition, so I’ll have to heal her the old-fashioned way till she’s strong enough to withstand some purging magic.” Daichot was more or less ignorant of the process Linora was describing, but believed the priest.

“My, you do have a lot of muscles, don’t you?” she awkwardly observed as he was unbuckling his leggings, leaving only a loincloth. Not giving him a chance she circled him once and rubbed her fingers painfully across a gash on the back of his left arm which drew an unexpected yelp from Daichot. She sniffed the bit of blood that was on her fingers and nodded, appearing satisfied.

“You’re fine, you can get dressed and leave.”

Daichot stood calmly and looked at the elf on the bed. She was so fatigued she didn’t seem to be aware of anyone in the room. “How long?”

The sister wiped up the pus she had pressed out of the wound and laid a clean strip of cloth over the puncture, then pulled the blankets over the elf. She put her face very close to Oleaf’s and gently tapped her on the cheeks till her eyes found the old woman and focused. “Oleaf is your name, right?”

She shook her head, weakly.

“Oleaf, I’m going to get you a tea and some herbs to make a mudpack. We have to get the infection out of your wound.” The elf tried to nod again, but her strength only gave her a long blink of understanding. “I’m going to put these blankets on you, and you can’t take them off, no matter how hot you get—your body is freezing while you feel hot. Do you understand?” Another blink, and her head nodded once. “Good. Rest now, I’ll be back soon, and everything I give you will taste horrible, so you can prepare for that.”

If Oleaf could have chuckled she would have.

Sister Linora spun about and started for the door when she noticed the bulky tiefling standing in the middle of the room in his loincloth. “What are you still doing here? Shoo! Get your clothes and get out of here!”

Daichot was scooping up his undershirt and armor quickly and yielding his steps to the door as Linora forced him out of the room with her and closed the door behind them. “I said how long till she’s better?”

Linora started to scoff at the warlord, but caught a look in his eye and resigned the façade of doting mother hen. A frank tone came into her voice as she talked to him like an adult. “I’m not a cleric, Daichot. She’s bad with the fever, and it’s not your fault. She might live, she might not—the Raven Queen will decide that. What she really needs right now is some luck.” She started towards the stairs leading down to the altars and exit from the temple, leaving the tiefling standing half-naked on the balcony outside her room. She turned and added one more thing.

“But since I’m a priestess of Avandra, I like the think that maybe we can sway the Raven Queen’s decision a little.” She winked and walked down the steps out of sight, and Daichot sighed and resumed putting on his armor.

 

[Caldarion]

I had to laugh out loud at those last lines. Too funny!!