Of Sound Mind the Halfling Way

[the Jester]

The Old Druid

The hut, when they finally find it, is small and unassuming. A small garden is outside, the flowers of spring starting to bloom. The hut looks just big enough to house a single room with no amenities. There are windows covered by woven shutters- no glass here! A few chickens wander about the area, and somewhere a dog barks. The wolves seem at ease.

A knock at the door elicits no response after a moment, so Captain Cavedwarf raps again. Finally, with a shrug, he opens the door and the group looks within.

The interior of the hut- maybe ten feet square- has a small fireplace and a bed. A dresser of shaped wood sits along the wall. There are no other furnishings. Wandering mumbling about the room is an old human. He wears a misbuttoned tunic of leather and leggings of wool. What sparse hair he has is grey. Deep wrinkles line his face and liver spots dot his hands. "Eh?" he cries, seeming to notice the group at last. "Intruders! Who dares?!" He starts tottering towards them, his hand groping for a weapon at his belt (there isn't anything there). "I'll smite you! Murderous ogres, how dare you invade my home?" His voice is aged and cracked, and he moves so slowly he's not reached the party yet.

"We're not ogres, sir," Trinia says, raising her empty hands. "I'm a druid."

"Eh?" The old man squints warily. "What'd ye say? Don't whisper, blast ye!"

"WE'RE NOT OGRES," Trinia yells. "I'M A DRUID!"

"Not ogres?" the old man exclaims, peering suspiciously at the group. His hand is still clutching blindly for a weapon. He totters closer, nostrils flaring. He thrusts his head to within inches of Trinia's face and his eyes seem to wander around for a moment; then he grunts. "Well, I don't have any food for ye, so ye can be going now!" He slowly starts to turn away and rotates about 45 degrees when he finally looks down at the hand that's reaching for his weapon. "Hamstring!" he exclaims. "Now why aren't I wearing it...?" Looking puzzled, the old man slowly swings his head up, muttering to himself. Catching sight of the party, he gives a great start.

"Intruders!" he yells. "How dare ye!" His hand's clutching for a weapon again, squirming blindly at his side. "I'll obliterate ye!"

"We're friends," Captain Cavedwarf says. "Druids. DRUIDS! TWO OF US ARE DRUIDS! WE WANT YOUR HELP!"

"Eh? My help? What for?" The old druid squints suspiciously at the dwarf and pokes a finger at his enormous beard. "Awful hairy there, buster!"

"Uh... right," Cavedwarf answers, nonplussed.

"We want your help to kill ogres," Trinia tries to explain.

"What?" the old man cries. "Ogres? Where?!" His hand is spasming all over his belt, groping for something that it just can't find, darn it.

"No, not here- not here... we want to borrow your rapier," Trinia sighs.

"What? You want to buy my rapier? It's not for sale," the old man states indignantly.

"No- WE WANT TO BORROW IT, NOT BUY IT," the young halfling druidess yells back.

"Borrow it?? Impossible," the old man says flatly.

With a groan, Trinia shouts, "WHY IS IT IMPOSSIBLE?"

"My goodness, you don't have to shout, young lady," the old man reprimands her. "If that's how you're going to behave..."

"Sorry," she says loudly, trying to find the right volume.

"Eh?" The old man frowns. "Now don't whisper, either!"

***

Those kids, Mama Flapjacks thinks direly. Her bare feet pass the miles as she walks after them. I just know they're going to get themselves in all kinds of trouble if I don't help them out.

She's been on their trail for a couple of days and is only a day or two behind them. They stopped for a while back near where the dead giant ticks were- the thought makes Mama grimace.

That damn dog better be looking after them.

***

It develops that the reason for the old man's refusal to lend them the weapon- though he volunteers to go with them, but it's clear that he would only burden the group unconscionably- is that he has an old enemy that lives somewhere in the area. "Bromworth," the old druid says venomously. "An enemy for all of my years." He shakes his head. "He might raid me at any time! No, I need Hamstring to defend myself should Bromworth come!"

"Well, what if we slew him for you?"

The old man looks the group over dubiously. "You? I doubt whether you could. Why, even I dare not battle Bromworth these days!"

"But if we could?" Martini persists. "You'd let us borrow it then?"

"Perhaps," the druid allows, just as the door to the hut opens.

Peering in at the group is a fur-clad, wild-looking halfling. His eyes are wide and wary as he takes in the group. The rest of the group looks warily at the barbarian until finally the old man calls out, "Bytor! Is that you!"

The newcomer makes his way through the throng of strangers, eyeing them all with frank curiosity. Captain Cavedwarf nods at him and Bytor gives the dwarf a big smile. "I am Bytor," the barbarian announces to the group, then turns to confer with the old druid. Reassured that everything is okay, he turns to the party.

"What are you doing here? The aged master here is past his prime. Surely you mean him no ham?"

"Of course not!" exclaims Airhead Ed. "We seek his help." And the whole story comes tumbling out- the need for the blade, the need to defeat Bromworth in order to get the old druid to lend the sword.

"Well, if I may, I would join you," Bytor declares. "This ogre- if he is a threat to the aged master, should he not be destroyed?"

"Well, I suppose that's one way of looking at it," mutters Martini to himself.

"I guess the best bet we have is to wait in ambush near the ogre's watering hole," suggests Tholonious. "Then we he comes down to fill his jugs or whatever he uses, we'll jump him."

"Sounds good to Bytor," Bytor says with a smile.

So our heroes set out to ambush an ogre.


Next Time: Ambush of the Aged Ogre!

 

[Lela]

Eh, evil and senial be close enough.

Oh, and nice idea.

 

[the Jester]

Eh, evil and senial be close enough.

Oh, and nice idea.

Thanks, wait til you meet the ogre.

And btw, Lela, thank you so much for all the feedback you give! It's always nice to see that someone's reading...

 

[the Jester]

To Ambush an Ogre!

Our heroes spot a path opposite the druid’s hut, on the other side of the small lake on which it’s built. Following it with their eyes, they see that it leads to a small cave some distance off.

“We could just go attack it there,” Martini says.

“True,” agrees Captain Cavedwarf, “we could; but what if he’s got traps in his lair?”

“”It could be more trouble than it’s worth,” Airhead Ed nods.

“Bah!” Bytor snorts. “We should kill ogre now!”

“Oh, I think the Captain’s right,” whines Federico. “We should just wait for it by the lake and ambush it when it comes to get water.”

“Hmph, Bromworth does get water every day. Bytor has watched in the past.” Bytor scuffs his toe in the dirt and looks again at the cave in the distance. “Bah, we can take ogre.”

“Well, we aren’t getting anywhere arguing,” Trinia says. “Why don’t we break for a snack?”

The group builds a small fire and snacks on some berries and cookies that Mama packed with them. A spot of tea tops it all off nicely. With a happy, contented sigh, Ed says, “Sometimes I almost forget what civilized living is like when we’re traveling all the time! Why, we missed elevensies today!”

Satisfied with their freshly-filled bellies, our heroes move along the perimeter of the pond until they reach the path leading from the cave to the watering hole. A quick survey of the terrain turns up decent cover for everyone. The halflings and their allies secrete themselves along the trail and settle in to wait. From their perspective, they should have plenty of warning before the ogre actually arrives, unless he comes down some secret path or invisibly.

Bytor snorts at that notion. “Stupid ogre just walks,” he grunts.

Time passes.

Our heroes snack as they wait. Thelonious is very wary; he saw the ogre’s tracks all over, and even with some advance warning, he’s worried. It’s big. Federico’s nose quivers, constantly testing the air for fresh ogre spoor.

Finally, after a few hour, Martini says sharply, “He’s coming,” and our heroes tense for action. As the ogre approaches they get a good look at him. He is indeed large, much bigger than our typical 3’-ish halflings; he looms about three times as tall and wide as most of the party. He has arms like gnarled tree limbs, legs as thick as a halfling. A long wild beard, soiled with mud and filth, scrabbles down his weathered face. Long tufts of grey and white hair emerge like fingers from his liver-spotted scalp.

“He’s old,” Martini whispers. Of course he’s old, the halfling ranger berates himself. Look at that druid!

Then-

“ATTACK!” cries Thelonious, and a hail of arrows and bolts whizzes out at the aged ogre.


Next Time: The Battle With Bromworth! Even if he is old, can our heroes take on an ogre???

 

[the Jester]

To Ambush an Ogre!

Edit: burp, double post.

Lela, those six emails are funny- I only got a double, but you got sextupled!

 

[Lela]

Wow Jester. I got 5 e-mails at once telling me you'd posted. Seemed showing up might be a good idea. [Edit: Make that 6 e-mails]

Okay, so we've met the ogre. I'm thinking that with you in charge, there's going to be something besides age that makes him different.

 

[the Jester]

Bromworth

Bromworth the ogre roars as an arrow sinks deep into his meaty pectoral. Swiveling his old head from side to side, he struggles to pull a javelin out and starts moving towards the source of his aggravation. “RRRAGH!” he roars, and hurls.

Martini squeaks and ducks, and the ogre’s javelin lances over his head. Then he draws his bowstring back and lets another arrow go. It sinks into the ogre’s belly. He can see Thelonious’ arrows striking true as well. There’s a burst of green radiance as Captain Cavedwarf’s shillelagh spell goes off, then the dwarf, Ed and Bytor are circling around to flank the monster.

Old Bromworth swings his greatclub as the small ones come in on him. He’s bleeding in several places and his old body can’t take punishment like it used to. His pot, used to gather water, has fallen on the ground behind him unnoticed; it isn’t important right now. What’s important right now is survival. With a huge roar, the faltering ogre swings at the little creatures stinging at him like insects, but his vision’s fading.

Trinia hurls her spear and it sticks deep in the ogre’s chest. Bromworth staggers back on one leg, shaking his head slowly back and forth. Blood is dripping from his mouth now; he can feel his lung collapse, pierced by the shaft. He groans. This isn’t going so well... and then the final insult: a crossbow bolt from a kobold! It sinks into Bromworth’s shoulder and the ogre thinks briefly about the irony- after all, as a lad he’d eaten many kobolds- and then closes his eyes. He’s almost done and he knows it.

Thelonious’ next arrow finds the ogre’s closed left eye and pierces it, ripping a hole right in the monster’s not-so-prodigious brain, and Bromworth the Ogre falls dead in the center of a circle of halflings.

“We did it!” Thelonious cries ecstatically.

“Whoo-hoo!” shouts Ed.

Our heroes celebrate joyously- they didn’t even suffer a scratch!*

After whooping it up for a few minutes, the adventurers settle down. “Well, we can get the weapon from the old druid now,” Trinia says, but Ed stops her.

“We should check the ogre’s lair for loot,” the Airhead suggests. “Maybe it had something cool.”

“Good idea,” Federico beams happily, his tail a blur it’s wagging so fast.

The group starts up the trail towards the ogre’s cave. It looks to be around a half mile away, so the ever-sensible Trinia suggests they stop for a snack. If they’d looked behind them they might have seen a lone form headed their way.

***

Behind them comes Mama Flapjacks, humming an old halfling folk song as she comes. She’s munching on a candied carrot, and boy is it good! Those Hodiddlys- they might be the newest clan, but they sure have some good recipes for treats! Why, sometime the Flapjacks and the Hodiddlys might just have to exchange some favored children for a few years.**

Well, that old druid’s hut has to be up here somewhere, and by the gods, if he’s hurt the kids he’ll learn all about rocks and sticks, that’s for sure!

Marching and munching on, Mama continues her steady pace after our heroes.

***

Meanwhile, at the gathering, a sly little figure slips from shadow to shadow in the Bakeswell circle of wagons. The figure disappears under a wagon and enters it through a hidden trap door. Crawling up a small ladder, the figure emerges in a well-cushioned secret compartment and peers through a peephole. The wagon holds only members of the Bakeswell clan, so the figure slides the panel up and emerges.

“Any luck?” Fandrin Bakeswell asks instantly.

“No,” the figure answers, taking her hood down to reveal her face. It’s Chindra Bakeswell. She’s ugly by any standard, but she’s a Bakeswell; she knows she’ll have a good husband some day, because she’s learned to make over a hundred types of prize-winning quality pie, cake, biscuit and donut. Still, this ‘issue’ is depressing.

“What are we going to do?” moans Fandrin.

“Look, we know our jams are fantastic. Why, probably a tenth of the clan’s income is from them! Some upstart Peachtree lad winning a few contests is no threat to us.” This is from a figure sitting back in the corner, an aged fellow bound to be the next head of the clan names Aymand. Now he shifts forward. “And besides, if this kid is making some competition for us, maybe we’ve gotten complacent. We need to win in a fair contest and show ‘em the Bakeswells are the best.”

“But our jams are on the open market. He knows what they’re like! And we’ve never even gotten a whiff of his! How can we concoct the proper culinary countermeasures when we don’t even know what we’re trying to counter?!”

“A sample,” the ugly Chindra says, “would be an ideal solution. But they don’t have it here- I searched quite thoroughly- and so far the only people who’ve gotten to try it are the judges at the contests he’s entered so far.”

“Contests,” interjects Fandrin, “that he’s won handily.”

Aymand snorts. “That won’t last forever. The Peachtree lad hasn’t faced off with a Bakeswell jam yet. And it seems to me that there’s an obvious solution.”

“Nobody’s going to accept a Bakeswell as a judge in a contest that the clan has interest in,” objects Fandrin.

“Of course not,” Aymand says. “That’s why we have friends.” He smiles. “You know, contests always seem to get at least one local celebrity as a judge, and we did just make a good friend with one of these new Flapjack heroes...”

*Of the group present for this fight, only Thelonious and Cavedwarf were 2nd level- everyone else was 1st! Taking down an ogre was no mean feat. Of course, Bromworth had the ‘venerable’ penalties applied to him- which, of course, made the fight easier- but still, I was half-expecting at least one more pc fatality from this fight. Heck, they didn’t even take a wound!

**The halfling clans keep tight alliances by swapping children. When two clans cross paths they’ll often trade some kids so they can learn the other clan’s trades, recipes and tricks. Especially since some clans excel at certain crafts or professions, this helps insure no halfling lore will be permanently lost.

Sandy from our own group of adventurers is an example of this. His full name is actually Phenol Sandybanks and he’s technically a member of the Sandybanks clan, but he’s been adopted into the Flapjacks in one of these ‘cultural exchanges.’

Next Time: Our heroes investigate the ogre’s lair!

 

[the Jester]

Okay, so we've met the ogre. I'm thinking that with you in charge, there's going to be something besides age that makes him different.

As to this, I guess we'll never know...

Actually, to tell the truth, there were a few plot hooks in him had the players not killed him, but I mostly set him up as a way to experiment with how much of a difference age penalties would make. (Answer: lots.) (I'll prolly start a rogues gallery thread for this group sometime... you'll see him there, probably as the first or second post.)

However, had the party spoken with him, they might have been surprised at how genteel and reasonable he could've been. (I mean, his name was Bromworth, not Rughh or something.)

 

[Lela]

Bad, bad PCs. Killing poor aged ogres before their time. . .

 

[LightPhoenix]

Bah, death is the halfling way! Death I say, DEATH!!!

Actually, my first thought was they should try talking to the ogre first too... I mean, rampaging evil ogres generally don't grow old, they just get killed.