Upgrade your account to a Community Supporter account and remove most of the site ads.

Reply to thread

Message: <blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 3550447" data-attributes="member: 1210">Dahlia shudders as she passes beneath the spoiled trees. She shivers when a droplet of some strange, greasy fluid falls on her from above. Her nostrils flare at the unnatural, strange odors emanating from the place. It is horribly unnatural. It is abnormal- in fact, it is an abomination.And yet, there is no choice.Her gorge rising, she reluctantly follows her friends beneath the pink and grey boughs of the warped wood. Neither the sights, nor the sounds, nor the smells of the place are right. To Dahlia, who is tightly tuned to the normal rhythms of nature, it is an experience both disgusting and terrifying. She glances at her companions; they are all plainly disturbed and unsettled by it, but they simply do not understand just how fundamentally wrong the forest is. She shudders again. After a moment’s thought, she turns into a bird and flies up, slightly above the canopy. To hell with being in this forest.***Pushing through a thick mass of pulsating growth, our heroes see a bizarre creature, like a rabbit but with a single twisted horn coming from its brow, sitting atop a greenish stump, covered in vines with flowers sprouting from the top.  It cocks its little bunny head, the sharp-looking horn swiveling around as it looks at them.“What,” Lord Cedric cries, “ith that??”“I believe,” Otis replies calmly, “that it is called an al-mi’raj. We should leave it be.”*“Very well, on your recommendathion,” Lord Cedric says. He glares at the al-mi’raj suspiciously for a moment.Suddenly, the stump erupts with tentacles that reach out, battering and grabbing- Goer! With a cry, Sir Fwaigo is torn from the saddle and ripped into the air! He yelps and tries to draw his sword as tentacles pummel him, but he is knocked unconscious before he can even finish pulling it from its sheath!“Goer!” cries Lord Cedric.Kyle and Otis both blast the weird creature with magic missiles, while Sir Percival- Me- moves forward. Cedric charges in on Thunderpuss, slamming his lance’s tip deep into the stump that the ‘al-mi’raj’ is sitting on. Weird, gravy-like fluid beings flowing sluggishly out of the wound. Thunderpuss slams a hoof down, pounding into one of the tentacles. The creature squeals in pain. Jorgen, meanwhile, pulls out his rope. It is already tied into a lariat, suitable for catching wrong-doers; as the sheriff, he never knows when he might need it. He whirls it above his head, spreading it open, and then flicks his wrist- and lassos Goer! He begins tugging at him, trying to pull him free of the weird plant-bunny-monster thing’s firm grip. Then Me charges into the fray. The monster is too distracted by its tug-of-war against Jorgen to land a blow on the pissblood as he rushes in; and then, in a single mighty stroke, Me finishes the thing off, hacking it nearly completely in two! Sick-smelling, gravy-like stuff spews all over. Me roars, Goer falls, released, to the ground, where Dahlia is flittering down to join the group (and thus is able to quickly stabilize his wounds), and everyone heaves a sigh of relief.“This place,” Sir Colder grimaces, “disturbs me greatly, mangle dangle.”“You’re not the only one,” Sheriff Jorgen nods with a hollow laugh.The party continues; what else can they do? The same thought goes through all of their minds: Harth. Must stop Harth. Catch him, stop him. Harth. Harth the traitor. Even simple Percival, who cannot say his own name due to its having three syllables, is on the same line of thought as his companions.After following a small creek for a moment, the party spies a strange hut sequestered amongst the weird trees of the wood.  It is a hovel, really; it looks to be of slipshod make, and that is assessing it generously. “Could there actually be someone living here? In this forest??” Kyle seems dumbfounded. “Probably just more corpses,” Sir Colder opines. The party moves up towards the hut and opens the door.An old, balding half-elf stands up within as the door swings open. He has a silver corona of hair dusting the top of his head, but that is all. Wire spectacles perch atop a crooked nose. His chin is prominent. He is thin but not scrawny, with a suit of armor made of the hide of some thick-skinned beast. He says something in a demanding tone of voice, but none of our heroes can understand it. “We mean you no harm,” Sir Jorgen says, hurriedly stepping forward before someone else opens their mouth and ruins all hope of making friends with this guy. “We’re hunting some powerful criminals. We need to stop them. Can you help us?”The half-elf stares at him.  “Who is this guy?” Goer demands. “What is he doing here? I don’t think we can trust him, not if he lives out here.”“We need to try to talk to him,” Jorgen insists. At his urging, the party tries all the languages that they know collectively. Unfortunately, the hermit doesn’t respond to any of them. “I don’t trust him,” Goer repeats. “Well, what do you suggest? We certainly can’t just kill him. For all we know, he is one of the last survivors of the entire kingdom here.” Jorgen shrugs.Sir Colder adds, “For all we know, he might be your ancestor.”“That’s a sobering thought,” Kyle says with a nervous chuckle. “We should be very careful about changing things back here, in case it messes up our time.” “‘Your time’? What do you mean, ‘your time’?” the hermit demands, in perfect Kamendan.Next Time: The twisted hermit!*In all fairness, Otis’ player instantly knew what this beastie was.</blockquote>

Verification