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The Age of Worms - Morrus' Campaign - Finished 6th August!!
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<blockquote data-quote="Eccles" data-source="post: 3367310" data-attributes="member: 5675"><p>The crowd as a whole erupted into cheers as the chimera slumped to the ground unconscious. A heavy-set blonde woman rushed towards Flynne, screaming “my angel!” at the top of her lungs, before sweeping him and the small child he had rescued into a bone-crushing hug of gratitude. The owner of the creatures in the parade passed him a few gold pieces in gratitude for his foresight in not killing the beast.</p><p></p><p>Endo and Malachite joined in the renewed celebrations, whilst Evan surveyed the crowd, the lingering effects of the magical song still empowering and enthusing many of the people around him. Igmut, meanwhile, was patting madly at his pockets and dragging the pack of his shoulders. </p><p></p><p>“Scroll is gone,” he announced irritably to his companions. </p><p></p><p>The group discussed this loss, but realised swiftly that there was no way that they could trace the scroll in the middle of such a large crowd, and they set off to explore a little more of the Free City.</p><p></p><p>.oOo.</p><p></p><p>Having wandered aimlessly down a sequence of winding streets, they reached an open courtyard, at one end of which clustered a small knot of people. Standing atop a barrel was a man in a ratty robe, screaming and shouting at the crowd, who largely ignored him, being more interested in the wares being sold by a travelling salesman nearby. </p><p></p><p>“Listen,” shouted the man. “Listen to the tales of the doom which stands before your sightless eyes! Heed the dead dragon’s roar! Fear the Age of Worms, which fast approaches! Harken to the terror of the Worm that Walks, which brings rot to all that it touches!”</p><p></p><p>Igmut cheerfully wandered over to the man, and engaged him in a peculiar conversation, which saw the self-styled “Profit of Kord” try to interest an enfeebled madman calling himself “The Prophet of the Golden Eye” in the truth to be gained through strength at arms. Needless to say, neither of them learned much from the other.</p><p></p><p>.oOo.</p><p></p><p>Passing the guarded gates to the expensive-looking and well maintained ‘Garden District’, the adventurers followed the instructions of passers-by to the “Crooked House”, the inn recommended to them by the guardsmen. The building was a strange one to look at, being as it was at a distinct angle, without a single matching door or window. Every facet of the building was indeed crooked, but the outside of the building looked clean and well maintained, and a number of expensive horses could be seen in the place’s stables. The group headed in.</p><p></p><p>The inside of the inn was well lit, bustling and lively. Many people were standing around a low stage on the opposite side of the room to the bar, where a man was reading third rate poetry whilst another stood to one side nervously fingering a cheap wooden flute. Good natured abuse and encouragement came from the watching audience. Near the staircase leading up on the far side were a number of tables and booths, at which sat a variety of merchants, travellers and businessmen, whilst a massive horned minotaur sat alone in a corner of the room at a table littered with empty plates and drained flagons. Craning his neck, Igmut spotted a gnome behind the bar. He prodded Evan in the shoulder.</p><p></p><p>“’Ere,” he muttered in an orcish whisper which rattled the horse-brasses hanging from the far wall. “I don’t fancy this place. They let <em>gnomes</em> behind the bar and everything.”</p><p></p><p>“Pish tush,” replied the bard, reaching into his money pouch and heading for the bar. “Five ales, as many rooms, and meals for my friends and I, my good fellow!”</p><p></p><p>Within a few minutes, Evan and the innkeeper, Tarquin, were chatting like old friends. The two approached the table where the others were sitting, clutching a number of heavy tankards and several plates of food between them. They slapped them down on the table and Evan sat down, bringing him to eye level with the gnome.</p><p></p><p>“You going to join the performers later,” asked Tarquin, noting the workmanship of the lute which was hanging from Evan’s pack.</p><p></p><p>“Of course,” replied the bard. “Although I wish to spend some time with my companions first! What do you lads reckon? It’s been months since we had a good night together!” His mug clattered against Flynne’s and then the others clashed together. </p><p></p><p>“More ale, Tarquin, and keep them coming!”</p><p></p><p>.oOo.</p><p></p><p>After several drinks, the group had spread around the inn somewhat, and Malachite was engaged in an enthusiastic conversation about whether dwarven brandy was better than gnomish schnapps. This swiftly devolved into a drinking contest, which the rest of the party was more than happy to join in with (although without the 50 gold piece stake). </p><p></p><p>A vast quantity of schnapps, brandy, orcish stout and a variety of other liquors were consumed with great enthusiasm, and despite challenges from Flynne, Evan didn’t get to join the performers on the stage, as he was the first to slump drunkenly over the table, before being carried up to his room by a group of other revellers. </p><p></p><p>Although Endo and Flynne dropped out of the competition before they totally lost their composure, Igmut didn’t, and was carried up the stairs a few moments later. </p><p></p><p>Malachite, druidic fortitude stretched to the very limit, kept on drinking with the minotaur for perhaps another half an hour, before with a bellow of triumph, the horned creature saw Malachite slump down, and gracefully off his chair. The beast swept up the bag of coins on the table, and carried on drinking far into the night.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Eccles, post: 3367310, member: 5675"] The crowd as a whole erupted into cheers as the chimera slumped to the ground unconscious. A heavy-set blonde woman rushed towards Flynne, screaming “my angel!” at the top of her lungs, before sweeping him and the small child he had rescued into a bone-crushing hug of gratitude. The owner of the creatures in the parade passed him a few gold pieces in gratitude for his foresight in not killing the beast. Endo and Malachite joined in the renewed celebrations, whilst Evan surveyed the crowd, the lingering effects of the magical song still empowering and enthusing many of the people around him. Igmut, meanwhile, was patting madly at his pockets and dragging the pack of his shoulders. “Scroll is gone,” he announced irritably to his companions. The group discussed this loss, but realised swiftly that there was no way that they could trace the scroll in the middle of such a large crowd, and they set off to explore a little more of the Free City. .oOo. Having wandered aimlessly down a sequence of winding streets, they reached an open courtyard, at one end of which clustered a small knot of people. Standing atop a barrel was a man in a ratty robe, screaming and shouting at the crowd, who largely ignored him, being more interested in the wares being sold by a travelling salesman nearby. “Listen,” shouted the man. “Listen to the tales of the doom which stands before your sightless eyes! Heed the dead dragon’s roar! Fear the Age of Worms, which fast approaches! Harken to the terror of the Worm that Walks, which brings rot to all that it touches!” Igmut cheerfully wandered over to the man, and engaged him in a peculiar conversation, which saw the self-styled “Profit of Kord” try to interest an enfeebled madman calling himself “The Prophet of the Golden Eye” in the truth to be gained through strength at arms. Needless to say, neither of them learned much from the other. .oOo. Passing the guarded gates to the expensive-looking and well maintained ‘Garden District’, the adventurers followed the instructions of passers-by to the “Crooked House”, the inn recommended to them by the guardsmen. The building was a strange one to look at, being as it was at a distinct angle, without a single matching door or window. Every facet of the building was indeed crooked, but the outside of the building looked clean and well maintained, and a number of expensive horses could be seen in the place’s stables. The group headed in. The inside of the inn was well lit, bustling and lively. Many people were standing around a low stage on the opposite side of the room to the bar, where a man was reading third rate poetry whilst another stood to one side nervously fingering a cheap wooden flute. Good natured abuse and encouragement came from the watching audience. Near the staircase leading up on the far side were a number of tables and booths, at which sat a variety of merchants, travellers and businessmen, whilst a massive horned minotaur sat alone in a corner of the room at a table littered with empty plates and drained flagons. Craning his neck, Igmut spotted a gnome behind the bar. He prodded Evan in the shoulder. “’Ere,” he muttered in an orcish whisper which rattled the horse-brasses hanging from the far wall. “I don’t fancy this place. They let [I]gnomes[/I] behind the bar and everything.” “Pish tush,” replied the bard, reaching into his money pouch and heading for the bar. “Five ales, as many rooms, and meals for my friends and I, my good fellow!” Within a few minutes, Evan and the innkeeper, Tarquin, were chatting like old friends. The two approached the table where the others were sitting, clutching a number of heavy tankards and several plates of food between them. They slapped them down on the table and Evan sat down, bringing him to eye level with the gnome. “You going to join the performers later,” asked Tarquin, noting the workmanship of the lute which was hanging from Evan’s pack. “Of course,” replied the bard. “Although I wish to spend some time with my companions first! What do you lads reckon? It’s been months since we had a good night together!” His mug clattered against Flynne’s and then the others clashed together. “More ale, Tarquin, and keep them coming!” .oOo. After several drinks, the group had spread around the inn somewhat, and Malachite was engaged in an enthusiastic conversation about whether dwarven brandy was better than gnomish schnapps. This swiftly devolved into a drinking contest, which the rest of the party was more than happy to join in with (although without the 50 gold piece stake). A vast quantity of schnapps, brandy, orcish stout and a variety of other liquors were consumed with great enthusiasm, and despite challenges from Flynne, Evan didn’t get to join the performers on the stage, as he was the first to slump drunkenly over the table, before being carried up to his room by a group of other revellers. Although Endo and Flynne dropped out of the competition before they totally lost their composure, Igmut didn’t, and was carried up the stairs a few moments later. Malachite, druidic fortitude stretched to the very limit, kept on drinking with the minotaur for perhaps another half an hour, before with a bellow of triumph, the horned creature saw Malachite slump down, and gracefully off his chair. The beast swept up the bag of coins on the table, and carried on drinking far into the night. [/QUOTE]
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