rgoodbb
Adventurer
I think the story madness started on post 175 and has sporadically snowballed (Oxymoron?)
Last edited:
D&D 5E So long and thanks for all the fish!
- Thread starter Thedip
- Start date
I think the story madness started on post 175 and has sporadically snowballed (Oxymoron?)
BoldItalic
First Post
We''re aiming to keep this thread going with enough jokey posts until we get to 506 laughs. Please help, it's all in a good cause.
Bah! Aiming is overrated!
Gradine
The Elephant in the Room (she/her)
That seems like too much work. Why not wait until the night before the assignment is due and look up the Cliff's Notes?
L
lowkey13
Guest
*Deleted by user*
Gradine
The Elephant in the Room (she/her)
Just don't cite it.
rgoodbb
Adventurer
Well....You asked for this......And I don't know how to reduce it....so.....
Throg Throggsonn swaggered into the Painted Pumpkin and growled at the barkeeper. "Hey Jak, a quart of ale for me and ... a thimblefull for the little guy on the stool."
"Hey, big spender!" replied the brownie barfly. "for a Gnome I'm pretty big. I even get mistaken for a Dwarf, by people who haven't seen one before" The small form of Gildan Midas said "Anyway, how are the rest of your band of merry men?"
"If ye can lift this wee bar of soap up from the bar ladee, I'll see your drinks free for the night." replied the pumpkin-nosed barkeep. As he uttered those words, the crowded, bustling tavern sank to a hush. All eyes fixed upon Throggsonn, and as dumb as the seven-footer was, he knew this was some sort of set-up...He at times was an unstoppable force. Had he met his match in an immovable object?
Gildan giggled and swiftly downed his drink. He had made an Arcana check and he knew this was going to be interesting.
Throg look carefully at the bar of soap. He gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. He peered carefully under the bar. He looked at his quart of ale and noted that the suds floating on top had formed into a smiley face. He took this as a good omen. He looked the barkeeper squarely in the eye (did I mention Jak was a one-eyed barkeeper?), then, from his back, he unstrapped his Battleaxe of Meaningful Significance and muttered a prayer to the ancestors.
Several people who haven't hitherto been mentioned in the story, drew back. There was a whoom noise as the blade sliced the air. Then there was a slrrick! noise as the blade sliced through the wooden legs holding up the bar followed by a thudcrash as the entire bar dropped six inches before your very eyes, children.
The bar of soap ...
... Had not moved
In a moment of pure inspiration, Throg Throggsonn realised that the Fighter, Barbarian, Paladin, Life Cleric, Moon Druid, Abjurer Wizard and the Fiend Warlock were all naught in comparrison to this individual. If he could get this, at times, unmovable bar of soap to join the party. Well, they may have just unearthed the most perfect Tank that did ever exist.
This could also be why, Throggsonn - son of Throgg reasoned, the Fighter really just sucked, and the Warlord had become extinct.
Throg reasoned that he had never reasoned before and that this bar of soap was making him a deep-thinker, (In fact his Int and Wis stats had just skyrocketed by 6 points each giving him a now combined intelligence and wisdom of 18!)
I’m going to talk to it instead of falling for this trick
…….Uhm, y’know, uhm, like. I was last bar standing on the latest series of Survivor Soap: THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!!!! Man that was brutal man and uhm, y’know, won a holiday to here of all places man. Since then I have become uhm like y’know complacent man and kind of stuck. I’m uhm, y’know like really bored now… Y’know?
Just at that moment, Spiton-the Bard flamboyantly entered and floated accross the room, accompanied by flamboyant trumpets and just enough breeze to float his beautiful flamboyant golden hair. He flamboyantly Prestidigitationed his head and body to remove both the encrusted and recently depostsited saliva; an unfortunate but common side effect upon ever flamboyantly introducing himself. Some people would just never understand, he flamboyantly mused as he pulled up his flamboyantly coloured tarten briches and scratched his back with Titicaca, his flamboyant trombone.
"Oh, wow!" said the soap, having failed its saving throw against the bard's Charisma. "Take me, I am yours!"
The bard took the soap lovingly into his hands and sang all four verses of the love aria from a well-known soap opera. He was utterly smitten. Or was it smitted? No, I'm pretty sure 'smitten' is the correct usage here. There is a whole thread about it somewhere. But I digress.
"Oh, get a priest," groaned Throg.
Just then, Sister Hermione entered the Painted Pumpkin. Jak the barkeeper had diversified into selling embroidery cottons and she needed some three-ply turquoise for some new vestments she was making. "Blessings upon thee," she spake with a nod to Throg whom she last adventured with not a seven-night ago. "Doth someone hath need of a wedding, perchance? It is Ogbert's Day on the morrow and the auspices are favorable."
Upon further discussion, (and to satiate my need for crap humour), the group found out that the bar of soap’s full name was Bar De-Door
The party; now assembled and wed, through the cunning use of new UA spells, they left for their honeymoon, and what better than a honeymoon for adventurers than an adventure honeymoon.
After browsing for hours and cutting out the middleman, the party opted for an icy mountain campaign setting
Jak the Nothic barkeep wept out of his one eye and wished them well, as he started repairs on his recently cleaved bar.
The Party
Throg Throggsonn Barbarian Cleaver
Gildan Midas Teeny, Tiny (Brownie/Gnome snowflake mix) Wizard
Spiton-the Bard Flamboyant Bard
Bar De-Door Ultimate Tank
Sister Hermione Cleric of ye olde tongue
After a montage of preparation, The Party- as they would be known henceforth throughout history in tale and song- began their "adventure honeymoon" with all deliberate haste. No sooner had they begun, than:
A group of men headed by. They were not tarrying or running. Nor were they singing. They didn't seem to be making apple pies. As far as The Party could tell, they were not talking about sports. They neither had sombreros nor stilts. These men were not acrobats. They had no expression as they didn't dally to the west.
These quiet unhatted eastern non-descript drifters, or QUEN-Drifters doubled back and began to follow the party from an observable distance.
Throg, being the most nature-minded, led the troop into higher ground. They tracked and trailed in a beautifully orchestrated flamboyant montage performed by the flamboyant Spiton, until they eventually camped up for the night, the Quen-Drifters also camped, keeping the same distance as before: exactly 171 ft. away.
“Once Fireballed, Twice Shy, I guess” Gildan remarked. He didn’t like being out here in the wilderness. Especially now they were getting higher and into cooler terrain. The Wizard thought back fondly at their Session Zero in the Painted Pumpkin and sighed at the thought of that huge fiery hearth….
Sister Hermione and Bar De-Door RP'd their own whispered campfire conversation....
BDD: "Pull my finger."
SH: "What?"
BDD: "Pull my finger."
SH: "Why?"
BDD: "just do it- pull my finger."
SH: "OK."
*phhhhrrrrrAAAAAAAAPPP-P-P-P........P..... wheeeeeeeep*
SH: "EW!"
After retracting his now dry and flaky pseudopod, De-Door bubble-chuckled himself to sleep.
Throughout the night, both The Party and the Quen-Drifters abysmally failed all of their Perception Checks. And thus a convoluted set of scenarios (which must have been a nightmare/joy to DM) played out. Firstly, Spiton the Bard, garbed of course in his very best flamboyant smoking Jacket, went to relieve himself upon a snow topped pine tree.
That’s when it happened…..
The leader of the drifters, whose name was Edric son of Cedric, was an arable farmer by occupation and he had bushels. He was somewhat unnerved by the nearby adventurers who seemed to be, basically, a weird bunch of misfits and he thought it was uncanny the way that, however quickly or slowly he and his companions walked, the adventurers were always exactly thrice nineteen yards ahead. He turned to his friend Ernie and asked "What do we know that is exactly nineteen yards long?"
Ernie thought for a while and replied "Dunno. Let's ask the tiny wizard".
And so it was that Edric and Ernie came over and to ask Gildan that very question but they waited politely because he was obviously in the middle of casting a spell. There was a noiseless pop! and a tiny, rather gaudily-dressed female brownie-gnome appeared. "Hello, Dearie," she said to Gildan, "Looking for a good time?"
"What spell was that?" asked Edric, in case he ever wanted to know, which of course he didn't. Absolutely not. "Leomund's Tiny Slut" was the smug reply.
Not knowing exactly the correct etiquette of how to reply in this specific scenario, Edric was left with "How do you cast that?"
"Well" replied Gildan who was secretly hoping he was asked. "First you gather all the Threads of magic. Even the abandoned Threads or the new Threads but most importantly the recently resurrected Threads. Even take The Best of the Forum Threads. Sling them together and act as if you know what you are doing. Do a little Fixing and HomeBrewing and add a little hitchhiker and there you have it. Capiche?
...."Urhm.....sure."
It's threadjack, said Sister Hermione, not threadjack.
A dragon roared it’s lonely gutter-lope beyond the icy peak.
Sister Hermione, of the Ye Olde Tongue Domain Started her War-Chant:
“Come thou mere lackbeards for thyne ist the time anon yay thrice of it and we would all but forsook that which be mightier than the woe of imperious expectations for all that hath dealt a blow. This very blow, this but the be all and end all of happenstance. Nay brothers, I should sound hornish of alarm do you say? the battle is afoot and all of every man and babe be relinquished in the light of but a forlorn hope ne’re do I subscribe to thyne heretical apostrophes, indeed I would very sneeze my vex yonder to thyne breast to confound your very scales with the scorn of a robber robbed, such ist the might of a woman watched and a woman wandered, such ist the cry of the watch-guard burdened with the hither and nither for those that would nay to yield, such ist the…..”
“Uhm Hermione?”
“And thou with hath wouldst surely…What?”
“It wasn’t a Dragon”
“What”
“It was an accident”
“What do you mean?”
“I pulled my own finger…”
Throg shook himself awake. It was morning and a thin grey mist lay over the land. The campfire had burned out and he felt a chill creeping into his bones. He looked around for the others. They were not there. He was alone.
A raven flew down, holding a scrap of parchment in its beak. Throg took the parchment and gave the raven a piece of mackerel in exchange. The raven did not wait but flew off, croaking "so long, and thanks for all the fish" as it departed.
Throg looked at the parchment. It seemed important. He shrugged, and put it into his belt pouch. One day, he thought, he would find someone who could read and they would tell him what it meant. For now, he would run swiftly south-east towards the rising sun. This was always a good thing to do, for it was pleasant to have the warmth of the sun on one's face.
Far above in the heavens, a god smote the table and raged. "You were supposed to read the note and get the next clue to the boss quest!" thundered the god. "I spent hours on this next encounter and I had all the tactics worked out for the mountain trolls!"
But Throg did not hear the angry god and went his way.
Meanwhile ...
No one told me there would be fish.
There had to be fish. It just took 200+ posts to get there.
Meanwhile……
Spiton/De-Door were faced with a conundrum. Before them was a mine entrance along with cart and rails and next to the entrance was a large crate. They chose to pry open the crate and look inside. Upon inspection it was full of packing sand. They swished their hands/pseudopods around in it but came up empty. At this time a great blizzard of a snowstorm was hitting their wayward side of the mountain. They had to quickly make an uncomfortable choice of shelter.
“Sandbox or Railroad?”………
No one told me there would be fish.
Yeah, no-one told me there would be thanks either.
“Sandbox or Railroad?………"
Spiton had to decide. It was time to man up and take responsibility for something. He quickly googled "sandbox lyrics" on his iLute.
In my sandbox
New adventures every day.
In my sandbox
There's no place I'd rather stay.
In my sandbox,
Won'tcha come out and play?
In my sandbox...my sandbox.
All you need's an empty pail, a shovel, and a cup
"Hey guys," he asked, "Did anyone bring a shovel?"
Hermione was unimpressed. "Forsooth, Bard, this be not time for ninny-nannying. Let the choice be mine."
"Okay, go ahead. Which will you choose?"
"I just said, cloth-ears. It's mine. We choose the mine."
"Oh, nice pun. Can I set it to music?"
"Why do you have to be so chaotic?"
"It's what my character would do. I'm playing to my flaw. Despite my best efforts, I am unreliable to my friends."
Spiton the Bard was in heaven. Not literally, but still. Whooshing at 62 MPH cornering down a mineshaft, his long blond sheemering hair flamboyantly flowing behind him. He could not be happier. His newlywed De-Door had soaped the wheels of the carts and now they were flamboyantly whizzing ahead and gaining speed. Unfortunately there was not enough room for Titicaca to be flamboyantly played, now that would have been fabulous. Spiton ventured a flamboyant glance back at the cart behind him.
“So….Betwixt and between. What’s the difference really? I mean c’mon.” Asked Gildan
“Abracadabra and Expelliarmus”
“Not the same. Not even the same context. Nope. Nowhere near. Not having that.”
“Whither or nither that be case…”
“Y’see. There you go again.”
“I understand thee less than might a snarking dog”
“Y’know what? Forget I said anything.”
“Forget and beget thyne follicle endings forthwith…”
“Oh boy...”
As they descended deeper and deeper, one thought came to Spiton:
*Can I set it to music?*
The question echoed around in his head like a shout in a large, open underground space...
*Can I set it to music? Can I set it to music? Of COURSE I can...but first, I need a title.*
"Hmmmm..."
*You Could Be Mine*
"Nope."
*90 Mine Problems*
"Nah."
*Red, Red Mine*
"Uh-uh. This could be tougher than I thought."
"What are you mumbling about, Spiton?"
"Oh nothing, just have something on my mine...errrr...mind."
It's all mine, my precious, said a voice from far below.
Nasssty fissshes!
Meanwhile...
Throg was hanging upside down looking at his own dripping blood painting pretty pictures in the snow below him. Ten feet away lay his Battleaxe of Meaningful Significance half buried in the white crust.
An arctic Owlbear had come at him leaping through the white mirk of the blizzard. It had gained a surprise round...
This placed Throg son of Throg in an existential quandary. Surely there was no longer a surprise round. But He’d been surprised and he felt that he couldn’t react yet…and this was not a round yet but initiative had been ….so…. uhm… Using his combined Wisdom and Intelligence of 6 (which had been lowered again since the departure of Bar De-Door), Throg’s nose bled a lot more. He knew this didn’t he?
The pain in his ankle by which he was being lifted up, jolted him back from his less than deep thinking.
“Whooooo”
“I am Throg Throggsonn, Son of Throg”
“Whooooo, whooooo……..”
It was Throg's turn. He used his bonus action to Rage and his action to make a Shove attack against the owlbear. The DM ruled that, because he was hanging upside down and pinned by his ankle, his attack was at disadvantage but Throg pointed out that Rage gave him advantage on Strength checks, so that cancelled out. He rolled 17+4=22 against the owlbear's Strength roll of 14+5=19. He knocked the owlbear prone, then used his own movement to stand up and move away. This provoked an AOO from the owlbear but at disadvantage because it was prone, and it missed.
Then it was the owlbear's turn ...
...The old cart hit a buffer and gracefully stopped. The second cart however crashed dramatically into the first and all four adventurers were violently flung into the air amongst a shower of dust and splinters. The huge cavern they were falling down into sported the sharpest of stalegm...no stalect...no...pointy rocks. Each adventurer in turn failed their Acrobatics saving throws. Luckily as a reaction The Ultimate Tank reached out with his Aura of Bubbles and graced them all with a soft and slidy landing.
"Where are we" Asked Sister Hermione, composing herself
"ENsider Forum arCave I think" Replied the Spiton the Bard of Flamboyance and Lore. "I think we're safe. I don't think anything hangs around this area anymore. Maybe just the odd Troll........"
…Throg had gleefully cleaved away 49 pairs and the Gargantuan Centipede was now finally, finally on its last legs…
Throg Throggsonn swaggered into the Painted Pumpkin and growled at the barkeeper. "Hey Jak, a quart of ale for me and ... a thimblefull for the little guy on the stool."
"Hey, big spender!" replied the brownie barfly. "for a Gnome I'm pretty big. I even get mistaken for a Dwarf, by people who haven't seen one before" The small form of Gildan Midas said "Anyway, how are the rest of your band of merry men?"
"If ye can lift this wee bar of soap up from the bar ladee, I'll see your drinks free for the night." replied the pumpkin-nosed barkeep. As he uttered those words, the crowded, bustling tavern sank to a hush. All eyes fixed upon Throggsonn, and as dumb as the seven-footer was, he knew this was some sort of set-up...He at times was an unstoppable force. Had he met his match in an immovable object?
Gildan giggled and swiftly downed his drink. He had made an Arcana check and he knew this was going to be interesting.
Throg look carefully at the bar of soap. He gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. He peered carefully under the bar. He looked at his quart of ale and noted that the suds floating on top had formed into a smiley face. He took this as a good omen. He looked the barkeeper squarely in the eye (did I mention Jak was a one-eyed barkeeper?), then, from his back, he unstrapped his Battleaxe of Meaningful Significance and muttered a prayer to the ancestors.
Several people who haven't hitherto been mentioned in the story, drew back. There was a whoom noise as the blade sliced the air. Then there was a slrrick! noise as the blade sliced through the wooden legs holding up the bar followed by a thudcrash as the entire bar dropped six inches before your very eyes, children.
The bar of soap ...
... Had not moved
In a moment of pure inspiration, Throg Throggsonn realised that the Fighter, Barbarian, Paladin, Life Cleric, Moon Druid, Abjurer Wizard and the Fiend Warlock were all naught in comparrison to this individual. If he could get this, at times, unmovable bar of soap to join the party. Well, they may have just unearthed the most perfect Tank that did ever exist.
This could also be why, Throggsonn - son of Throgg reasoned, the Fighter really just sucked, and the Warlord had become extinct.
Throg reasoned that he had never reasoned before and that this bar of soap was making him a deep-thinker, (In fact his Int and Wis stats had just skyrocketed by 6 points each giving him a now combined intelligence and wisdom of 18!)
I’m going to talk to it instead of falling for this trick
…….Uhm, y’know, uhm, like. I was last bar standing on the latest series of Survivor Soap: THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!!!! Man that was brutal man and uhm, y’know, won a holiday to here of all places man. Since then I have become uhm like y’know complacent man and kind of stuck. I’m uhm, y’know like really bored now… Y’know?
Just at that moment, Spiton-the Bard flamboyantly entered and floated accross the room, accompanied by flamboyant trumpets and just enough breeze to float his beautiful flamboyant golden hair. He flamboyantly Prestidigitationed his head and body to remove both the encrusted and recently depostsited saliva; an unfortunate but common side effect upon ever flamboyantly introducing himself. Some people would just never understand, he flamboyantly mused as he pulled up his flamboyantly coloured tarten briches and scratched his back with Titicaca, his flamboyant trombone.
"Oh, wow!" said the soap, having failed its saving throw against the bard's Charisma. "Take me, I am yours!"
The bard took the soap lovingly into his hands and sang all four verses of the love aria from a well-known soap opera. He was utterly smitten. Or was it smitted? No, I'm pretty sure 'smitten' is the correct usage here. There is a whole thread about it somewhere. But I digress.
"Oh, get a priest," groaned Throg.
Just then, Sister Hermione entered the Painted Pumpkin. Jak the barkeeper had diversified into selling embroidery cottons and she needed some three-ply turquoise for some new vestments she was making. "Blessings upon thee," she spake with a nod to Throg whom she last adventured with not a seven-night ago. "Doth someone hath need of a wedding, perchance? It is Ogbert's Day on the morrow and the auspices are favorable."
Upon further discussion, (and to satiate my need for crap humour), the group found out that the bar of soap’s full name was Bar De-Door
The party; now assembled and wed, through the cunning use of new UA spells, they left for their honeymoon, and what better than a honeymoon for adventurers than an adventure honeymoon.
After browsing for hours and cutting out the middleman, the party opted for an icy mountain campaign setting
Jak the Nothic barkeep wept out of his one eye and wished them well, as he started repairs on his recently cleaved bar.
The Party
Throg Throggsonn Barbarian Cleaver
Gildan Midas Teeny, Tiny (Brownie/Gnome snowflake mix) Wizard
Spiton-the Bard Flamboyant Bard
Bar De-Door Ultimate Tank
Sister Hermione Cleric of ye olde tongue
After a montage of preparation, The Party- as they would be known henceforth throughout history in tale and song- began their "adventure honeymoon" with all deliberate haste. No sooner had they begun, than:
A group of men headed by. They were not tarrying or running. Nor were they singing. They didn't seem to be making apple pies. As far as The Party could tell, they were not talking about sports. They neither had sombreros nor stilts. These men were not acrobats. They had no expression as they didn't dally to the west.
These quiet unhatted eastern non-descript drifters, or QUEN-Drifters doubled back and began to follow the party from an observable distance.
Throg, being the most nature-minded, led the troop into higher ground. They tracked and trailed in a beautifully orchestrated flamboyant montage performed by the flamboyant Spiton, until they eventually camped up for the night, the Quen-Drifters also camped, keeping the same distance as before: exactly 171 ft. away.
“Once Fireballed, Twice Shy, I guess” Gildan remarked. He didn’t like being out here in the wilderness. Especially now they were getting higher and into cooler terrain. The Wizard thought back fondly at their Session Zero in the Painted Pumpkin and sighed at the thought of that huge fiery hearth….
Sister Hermione and Bar De-Door RP'd their own whispered campfire conversation....
BDD: "Pull my finger."
SH: "What?"
BDD: "Pull my finger."
SH: "Why?"
BDD: "just do it- pull my finger."
SH: "OK."
*phhhhrrrrrAAAAAAAAPPP-P-P-P........P..... wheeeeeeeep*
SH: "EW!"
After retracting his now dry and flaky pseudopod, De-Door bubble-chuckled himself to sleep.
Throughout the night, both The Party and the Quen-Drifters abysmally failed all of their Perception Checks. And thus a convoluted set of scenarios (which must have been a nightmare/joy to DM) played out. Firstly, Spiton the Bard, garbed of course in his very best flamboyant smoking Jacket, went to relieve himself upon a snow topped pine tree.
That’s when it happened…..
The leader of the drifters, whose name was Edric son of Cedric, was an arable farmer by occupation and he had bushels. He was somewhat unnerved by the nearby adventurers who seemed to be, basically, a weird bunch of misfits and he thought it was uncanny the way that, however quickly or slowly he and his companions walked, the adventurers were always exactly thrice nineteen yards ahead. He turned to his friend Ernie and asked "What do we know that is exactly nineteen yards long?"
Ernie thought for a while and replied "Dunno. Let's ask the tiny wizard".
And so it was that Edric and Ernie came over and to ask Gildan that very question but they waited politely because he was obviously in the middle of casting a spell. There was a noiseless pop! and a tiny, rather gaudily-dressed female brownie-gnome appeared. "Hello, Dearie," she said to Gildan, "Looking for a good time?"
"What spell was that?" asked Edric, in case he ever wanted to know, which of course he didn't. Absolutely not. "Leomund's Tiny Slut" was the smug reply.
Not knowing exactly the correct etiquette of how to reply in this specific scenario, Edric was left with "How do you cast that?"
"Well" replied Gildan who was secretly hoping he was asked. "First you gather all the Threads of magic. Even the abandoned Threads or the new Threads but most importantly the recently resurrected Threads. Even take The Best of the Forum Threads. Sling them together and act as if you know what you are doing. Do a little Fixing and HomeBrewing and add a little hitchhiker and there you have it. Capiche?
...."Urhm.....sure."
It's threadjack, said Sister Hermione, not threadjack.
A dragon roared it’s lonely gutter-lope beyond the icy peak.
Sister Hermione, of the Ye Olde Tongue Domain Started her War-Chant:
“Come thou mere lackbeards for thyne ist the time anon yay thrice of it and we would all but forsook that which be mightier than the woe of imperious expectations for all that hath dealt a blow. This very blow, this but the be all and end all of happenstance. Nay brothers, I should sound hornish of alarm do you say? the battle is afoot and all of every man and babe be relinquished in the light of but a forlorn hope ne’re do I subscribe to thyne heretical apostrophes, indeed I would very sneeze my vex yonder to thyne breast to confound your very scales with the scorn of a robber robbed, such ist the might of a woman watched and a woman wandered, such ist the cry of the watch-guard burdened with the hither and nither for those that would nay to yield, such ist the…..”
“Uhm Hermione?”
“And thou with hath wouldst surely…What?”
“It wasn’t a Dragon”
“What”
“It was an accident”
“What do you mean?”
“I pulled my own finger…”
Throg shook himself awake. It was morning and a thin grey mist lay over the land. The campfire had burned out and he felt a chill creeping into his bones. He looked around for the others. They were not there. He was alone.
A raven flew down, holding a scrap of parchment in its beak. Throg took the parchment and gave the raven a piece of mackerel in exchange. The raven did not wait but flew off, croaking "so long, and thanks for all the fish" as it departed.
Throg looked at the parchment. It seemed important. He shrugged, and put it into his belt pouch. One day, he thought, he would find someone who could read and they would tell him what it meant. For now, he would run swiftly south-east towards the rising sun. This was always a good thing to do, for it was pleasant to have the warmth of the sun on one's face.
Far above in the heavens, a god smote the table and raged. "You were supposed to read the note and get the next clue to the boss quest!" thundered the god. "I spent hours on this next encounter and I had all the tactics worked out for the mountain trolls!"
But Throg did not hear the angry god and went his way.
Meanwhile ...
No one told me there would be fish.
There had to be fish. It just took 200+ posts to get there.
Meanwhile……
Spiton/De-Door were faced with a conundrum. Before them was a mine entrance along with cart and rails and next to the entrance was a large crate. They chose to pry open the crate and look inside. Upon inspection it was full of packing sand. They swished their hands/pseudopods around in it but came up empty. At this time a great blizzard of a snowstorm was hitting their wayward side of the mountain. They had to quickly make an uncomfortable choice of shelter.
“Sandbox or Railroad?”………
No one told me there would be fish.
Yeah, no-one told me there would be thanks either.
“Sandbox or Railroad?………"
Spiton had to decide. It was time to man up and take responsibility for something. He quickly googled "sandbox lyrics" on his iLute.
In my sandbox
New adventures every day.
In my sandbox
There's no place I'd rather stay.
In my sandbox,
Won'tcha come out and play?
In my sandbox...my sandbox.
All you need's an empty pail, a shovel, and a cup
"Hey guys," he asked, "Did anyone bring a shovel?"
Hermione was unimpressed. "Forsooth, Bard, this be not time for ninny-nannying. Let the choice be mine."
"Okay, go ahead. Which will you choose?"
"I just said, cloth-ears. It's mine. We choose the mine."
"Oh, nice pun. Can I set it to music?"
"Why do you have to be so chaotic?"
"It's what my character would do. I'm playing to my flaw. Despite my best efforts, I am unreliable to my friends."
Spiton the Bard was in heaven. Not literally, but still. Whooshing at 62 MPH cornering down a mineshaft, his long blond sheemering hair flamboyantly flowing behind him. He could not be happier. His newlywed De-Door had soaped the wheels of the carts and now they were flamboyantly whizzing ahead and gaining speed. Unfortunately there was not enough room for Titicaca to be flamboyantly played, now that would have been fabulous. Spiton ventured a flamboyant glance back at the cart behind him.
“So….Betwixt and between. What’s the difference really? I mean c’mon.” Asked Gildan
“Abracadabra and Expelliarmus”
“Not the same. Not even the same context. Nope. Nowhere near. Not having that.”
“Whither or nither that be case…”
“Y’see. There you go again.”
“I understand thee less than might a snarking dog”
“Y’know what? Forget I said anything.”
“Forget and beget thyne follicle endings forthwith…”
“Oh boy...”
As they descended deeper and deeper, one thought came to Spiton:
*Can I set it to music?*
The question echoed around in his head like a shout in a large, open underground space...
*Can I set it to music? Can I set it to music? Of COURSE I can...but first, I need a title.*
"Hmmmm..."
*You Could Be Mine*
"Nope."
*90 Mine Problems*
"Nah."
*Red, Red Mine*
"Uh-uh. This could be tougher than I thought."
"What are you mumbling about, Spiton?"
"Oh nothing, just have something on my mine...errrr...mind."
It's all mine, my precious, said a voice from far below.
Nasssty fissshes!
Meanwhile...
Throg was hanging upside down looking at his own dripping blood painting pretty pictures in the snow below him. Ten feet away lay his Battleaxe of Meaningful Significance half buried in the white crust.
An arctic Owlbear had come at him leaping through the white mirk of the blizzard. It had gained a surprise round...
This placed Throg son of Throg in an existential quandary. Surely there was no longer a surprise round. But He’d been surprised and he felt that he couldn’t react yet…and this was not a round yet but initiative had been ….so…. uhm… Using his combined Wisdom and Intelligence of 6 (which had been lowered again since the departure of Bar De-Door), Throg’s nose bled a lot more. He knew this didn’t he?
The pain in his ankle by which he was being lifted up, jolted him back from his less than deep thinking.
“Whooooo”
“I am Throg Throggsonn, Son of Throg”
“Whooooo, whooooo……..”
It was Throg's turn. He used his bonus action to Rage and his action to make a Shove attack against the owlbear. The DM ruled that, because he was hanging upside down and pinned by his ankle, his attack was at disadvantage but Throg pointed out that Rage gave him advantage on Strength checks, so that cancelled out. He rolled 17+4=22 against the owlbear's Strength roll of 14+5=19. He knocked the owlbear prone, then used his own movement to stand up and move away. This provoked an AOO from the owlbear but at disadvantage because it was prone, and it missed.
Then it was the owlbear's turn ...
...The old cart hit a buffer and gracefully stopped. The second cart however crashed dramatically into the first and all four adventurers were violently flung into the air amongst a shower of dust and splinters. The huge cavern they were falling down into sported the sharpest of stalegm...no stalect...no...pointy rocks. Each adventurer in turn failed their Acrobatics saving throws. Luckily as a reaction The Ultimate Tank reached out with his Aura of Bubbles and graced them all with a soft and slidy landing.
"Where are we" Asked Sister Hermione, composing herself
"ENsider Forum arCave I think" Replied the Spiton the Bard of Flamboyance and Lore. "I think we're safe. I don't think anything hangs around this area anymore. Maybe just the odd Troll........"
…Throg had gleefully cleaved away 49 pairs and the Gargantuan Centipede was now finally, finally on its last legs…
BoldItalic
First Post
Gildan got a Light cantrip going while Spiton composed himself. Hermione looked around, to see what kind of underground chamber they were in. "We're in a rocky chamber about 5 squares by 7," she announced, "there are exits North and East. The air is still and there is a smell of aniseed. In the northeast corner there is a table and two wooden benches. What will you do now?"
"I know where we are! I've been here before!" exclaimed Spiton, "We are in the Dungeons of Déjà vu!" and he played a riff on his trombone to show how smug he was feeling.
"I thought it seemed familiar. We have to go North, Northeast, West, Down, North again, cross the bridge, take the dusty anvil and open the grate," recalled Hermione.
"Bo-oring," said the sneaky goblin, who threw an axe and ran away.
"I know where we are! I've been here before!" exclaimed Spiton, "We are in the Dungeons of Déjà vu!" and he played a riff on his trombone to show how smug he was feeling.
"I thought it seemed familiar. We have to go North, Northeast, West, Down, North again, cross the bridge, take the dusty anvil and open the grate," recalled Hermione.
"Bo-oring," said the sneaky goblin, who threw an axe and ran away.
rgoodbb
Adventurer
Sister Hermione, in shock, suddenly stopped talking and clasped her hands over her mouth. Whilst giving directions, she had accidently just spoken out of character and in player's voice. How would she cover this gaff up?
"Errm....Well twer thy...uhm...verily I say thee nay...uhrm." She was losing it big time and desperately looked round for help....
Just then Throg crashed through the ceiling and fell 4000 feet. Good job he was raging for half damage.
"Fornicate One!" Whew! She was back.
"This calls for a celebration, a Do if you like" exclaimed Spiton, already setting out beer on the aforementioned provided table.
"We should push on and celebrate later" replied Throg
"You have your revels later then, I'm celebrating here."
Gildan: The voice of Wisdom entered the argument "You should never split the party"
"Errm....Well twer thy...uhm...verily I say thee nay...uhrm." She was losing it big time and desperately looked round for help....
Just then Throg crashed through the ceiling and fell 4000 feet. Good job he was raging for half damage.
"Fornicate One!" Whew! She was back.
"This calls for a celebration, a Do if you like" exclaimed Spiton, already setting out beer on the aforementioned provided table.
"We should push on and celebrate later" replied Throg
"You have your revels later then, I'm celebrating here."
Gildan: The voice of Wisdom entered the argument "You should never split the party"
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