Goodmonth 19, CY 593
61: Shopping and killing both come in sprees.
Cranzer of Riftcrag has had a rough couple of months. Like all the Iuzain rulers of the conquered lands, he enjoyed the heady days after the Greyhawk War and the bounty of gore, plunder and pain that came in its wake. Appointed by the Old One himself as the de-facto uber-boss for all of the Bandit Kingdoms, he found a nearly endless supply of informants willing to keep him informed of the slightest treachery or sedition. His agents were appropriately terrified, the better part of the land’s resources were funneled back to Dorraka, and the people were bled dry. Fear was in its home, and all was well.
But curiously, things got better in the Bandit Kingdoms. Through no fault of his own, the new generation of gang-bosses and guildmasters grew savvy, and learned how to give every appearance of compliance while steadily increasing their own autonomy. Cranzer’s hold on the region began to slip, and as pressure mounted from the Throne of Skulls, he soon found himself promising results he could not deliver. The fiasco with the Bleeding Stone was the final straw, and in Aletha’s eyes he read a grim promise: “The next time you fail, the Boneheart acquires an opening.”
She never would have dared torture him had his renders been there.
-----
Despite the warm midday sun, the streets of Riftcrag are strangely deserted. No face peers out from a window, no elders congregate on their stoops. There is no traffic of any kind, save for the Lord’s procession.
Cranzer is seen through Prisantha’s crystal ball to be a sturdy and short man, altogether too hairy to be fully human, but not feral enough to be named a beast. His eyes dart fearfully from side to side behind a mask of disdainful arrogance.
He is walking along one of Riftcrag’s main thoroughfares with his retinue in tow. A pair of hulking half-ogres dressed to the nines in fashionable adventuring gear (replete with plate armor and greatswords) move ahead of him, peering into alleyways and around corners. At his right-hand is a demonic orc wearing the vestments of Iuz’ clergy—grey-green scales speckle his fecal-hued skin, and a pair of large, vestigial tusks jut from his cheeks, curving around behind his head. The orc is jostled from time to time by one of a quartet of grey renders that follow Cranzer placidly and occasionally shuffle close to sniff at him. Cranzer has a market-day bushel in his well-manicured hands, and as he walks he plucks a ripe summer fruit from the basket and bites into it greedily, sucking at the juice like a vampire at his first debutante’s ball.
As the Liberators materialize around him in the empty street, Cranzer is suddenly seized by a spell-effect, and his form shivers for a moment, then transitions into an otherworldly state. The newly translucent wizard looks around himself, utterly surprised by the adventurers appearing in his midst.
As quickly as he materializes, Lucius is gone again, using the distraction and chaos of the fight’s opening moments to hide within a nearby opening. Regda appears with an arrow strung to her bow, and after taking a quick appraisal of her available targets, she buries her shaft into the orc.
In response, the fiendish orc gives her a feint, and then leaps around a corner, disappearing into the shadows. Lucius is not fooled, however, and tracks the creature with his eyes. The orc, confident in his skills, does not notice the hidden rogue watching his every move.
Heydricus leaps at Cranzer, but his blows whir through the air, passing harmlessly through the ghostly form of the mage. “Dispel Cranzer, and he’s dead!” he yells to his spellcasting companions.
Prisantha uses a mislead spell to distract the corporeal bodyguards surrounding her target, then utters a quickened suggestion; “You negotiate a deal, or you die.”
“You can’t make a threat and a suggestion at the same time!” Heydricus complains.
“Mind your business,” Pris says. “Do I tell you how to swing your sword?”
Cranzer’s only response is to point his finger and send a thin, grey ray beaming into the center of Heydricus’ chest, just before he goes invisible.
“See?” Heydricus says, as he ignores the ray.
“You dare assault Cranzer the Magnificent!” A thin, reedy voice emerges from the thin air. “Half-witted cretins! Do you not know who I am? You shall suffer the torments of the Abyss at my hands—you will beg me for death before the sun goes down.”
“I’m already begging you to shut the f-ck up!” Heydricus yells.
Dabus calls upon a holy smite, burning skin off the flesh of the renders and half-ogres, and filling their eyes with a celestial light.
Jespo sends a chained Tasha’s hideous laughter through the blinded bodyguards, and in an instant, all four renders and one of the half-ogres has begun to titter and giggle. The renders shake their ponderous heads from side to side, and exhale air in a low whistle through the gill-like nostrils running along their topsides. The half-ogre chuckles, then begins to slap his knee, his eyes watering. Get it? The third one ducks.
“Great job, Crim!” Heydricus yells as his blade whistles through Cranzer twice, and catches the ghost-like mage once, drawing translucent blood into the air, where it pools out, as if underwater.
Lucius fires three arrows from point-blank range into the hidden orcish cleric; whomp, thunt, pak, and the orc’s eyes begin to glaze over. The foul priest frantically finishes a spell, placing a field of silence directly in between Heydricus and the illusionary Prisantha, and backing away from the deadly assassin.
Of course, he backs away into Regda’s reach, and after a crushing overhand blow from her greatsword, lies still.
The real Prisantha is well outside of the silenced area, and sends a horrid wilting arcing through the fight, instantly turning all four grey renders into something resembling Large-sized prunes, and killing the laughing half-ogre as well.
Gwendolyn points her finger at the remaining half-ogre, and snuffs his life out in an instant. Or at least, he topples over and falls face-first into the dirt with a sound that a plate-armored sack of tubers might make if it were casually tossed off the turnip truck. I think they call that dead in Riftcrag.
Dabus concentrates on Tritherion’s righteous might and grows to the size of the dead render-prunes, then steps forward to menace the ghostly Cranzer, his steely gaze telling the mage that, you know and I know that ‘fifty-percent’ means half of them will hit.
And half of them is more than enough, as it turns out. In a matter of seconds, the largest difficulty facing the Liberators of Tenh is “how the hell do we get to the etheric plane to loot Cranzer’s body”?
-----
Aside: Perhaps an observant player can read the look of horror on a DMs face when his fearsome encounters are blithely brushed aside. Perhaps this, in itself, should be a form of foreshadowing for those who understand The Way Things Work Here in Wonderville.
I refuse to sit idly by while the smug PCs slaughter the carefully crafted villain NPCs. From now on, the following changes are in effect.
