HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
You know, it's a wonder you stay sane enough to actually write this stuff up ...
Sanity is over-rated.
Thanks as always for the comments.
Now back to the action-
Turn 8.3: Not so smart now are you Twiggy?
Jerky, who has up till now been loitering at the back of the pack, monitoring the snoozing Goblins, charges- straight through the assembled Lost Boys.
“For St. Cuthbert.” The Gnome cries and bundles into the mass of plants attacking Aleso, alas the Paladin is caught completely off guard and has nowhere to run, there’s nothing for it he’ll have to fight back.
Saradomin, Grand Alf and Dartamor do their best to swap glances- it takes a while, Saradomin glares at Grand Alf, who’s looking askance at the time, at Dartamor, who for his part is nodding and winking at Saradomin. It takes a while but the invisible message is passed.
They charge into the fray.
“For St.- what he said.” Saradomin barks and smashes.
“I hate nature- dirty.” Dartamor calls.
“Time for a FORKING, you little sods…” Its no use, Grand Alf pulls up short, holding his sides, “did you hear what I said, little sods, ha ha ha ooooo, my sides.”
SWISH
Aleso cuts down two of the creatures with a swing of his scimitar, there are however still over half-a-dozen of the things left.
Jerky is being menaced by two of the bushes; one of them is slightly taller than he is- which seems to him a good enough reason to…
SMUSH
Destroy the thing.
Saradomin is in the thick of it, his heavy mace smashing and crushing the plants in his path, Dartamor contents himself with hanging around at the back, on the very edges of the fracas, swinging and missing with amazing alacrity, and style.
Aleso is grabbed by the ankles, one plant on each leg trying to claw their way up, or else pull the Paladin over, he swishes ineffectively with his scimitar, being extra cautious so as not to hit himself, the plants grip tight to him, scratching and clawing still. There’s nothing for it, the Paladin dances himself out of the melee- a kind of slow waltz combined with an occasional pogo, it doesn’t help that he’s singing.
“Nut Bush Oh Nut Bush
Damn it Nut bush it’s the limit.”
He kicks one of the plants free, and out of lyrics resorts to-
“Sisters are doing it for themselves…”
And finally crushes the second plant with the help of gravity, he falls over, and onto the bush.
“Sisters…” he mumbles on face down in the dirt.
Jerky is clawed on his face, he feels a sudden burn, clasps his hand to the spot, poisoned.
“Aaaarghh.” The Gnome swats harder, another Twig Blight meets its maker, there are only five or so of them left.
One of which splits from the fight and skitters towards Grand Alf, who grimaces and back tracks into the previous chamber, the one with the snoozing Goblins.
“Come on.” The Sorcerer yells while running backwards, the three foot tall Twig Blight snarls and… well sort of snarls, looks snarly, who’s to say; it rakes at the air before Grand Alf, who redoubles his efforts, retreats at speed.
“Oooof.”
Into the wall, completely knocking the wind out of him, and his fork from his hands.
Grand Alf is paralyzed with fear, the plant swipes and slashes, its thorny protrusions, try saying that after a drink, tear holes in what’s left of all the clothing he’s ever owned.
“Yelp.” Grand Alf yelps, and leaps away like a sprightly Gazelle, with three broken legs, he trips on a sleeping Goblin, and…
THUMP
Lands amidst the bundle of snoozing humanoids.
Grand Alf turns to stare, the Twig Blight is fast approaching, he assess the situation- on the positive side his landing was cushioned by the three Goblins, on the negative side the Twig Blights is only moments away and… all three Goblins are waking up.
Scramble.
The Sorcerer is back on his feet in seconds, fortuitously delivering a knee to the unmentionables of one of the Goblins in the process, the other two rise and take in the situation.
Grand Alf backs himself into a corner and quick draws his Staff of Earth Moving; yes, it’s a spade.
The two risen Goblins look left, then right, a snarling, even they can see it, Twig Blight or a mad Sorcerer swishing a spade about his head and shouting something about…
“I am the Spade-inator.”
There’s a third option, the pair scarper through the open door and live unhappy lives elsewhere.
Back at the fracas.
Aleso is struggling to get up, his feet keep getting in the way, he manages to perform a trip attack on himself twice in a row, all without the necessary feat, the last of which coincides with his collision with a tree, he uses his face as a buffer to take the edge of the blow.
“Dirty banana sandwich”, he mutters and then passes out.
Jerky staggers and thrashes about him, all to no great effect. Dartamor is likewise tied up with not getting hurt and so is content to look like he’s doing something, eventually he slots away his rapier and backs off to get a shot at one of the combatants, preferably one of the plant-like ones.
Saradomin smashes another of the creatures down, but is clawed by yet another, the Priest of St. Cuthbert is covered in a myriad scratches and nicks, he feels the sting of the plants poisonous sap and yet it has no effect upon him. The power of St. Cuthbert is strong in the Priest, that and half-a-pint of cheap whisky, he flails and slurs.
“For St. Bobbins.”
Smash, another Twig Blight comes to rest as kindling.
Only two of the scratchy buggers left.
Except for…
Grand Alf and the third Twig Blight circle each other.
DONG
The third Goblin, having just ceased rubbing his area of hurt, tries to get up- and is met with a spade to the back of the head, the Goblin crunches back down into the dirt.
“Oh yes, you want some of this?” Grand Alf proffers his fake beard at the Twig Blight.
“You want a piece of me, huh?” He swishes his spade.
“Well I wouldn’t be so quick if I was you…” He continues.
The combatants circle locked in their titanic death-match, man vs. pot-plant, the ultimate fighting championship.
“You’ve got to ask yourself, punk.” The last threat ending in a curled lip, a sneer.
“Yeah, punk.” Grand Alf sneers some more.
“This is the Grand Alf Staff of Earth Moving 3000, the most powerful Staff of Earth Moving in the world. It can take your head clean off. You’ve got to ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky?”
Grand Alf spits, most of it goes in on his beard.
“Well do ya, punk?”
“Aaaarrgghhhh.”
The Twig Blight leaps and is all over the Sorcerer like a rash, scratching and clawing, Grand Alf loses his fake beard in seconds, moments later he’s on the floor thrashing about and screaming like a little girl- his spade lying unused in the dirt.
“Nooooo. Heeeeelp. Photosynthesise. Photosynthesise- you don’t eat people.”
The man and plant wrestle, it’s a very one-sided affair, Grand Alf is crying for much of it.
And then fortune smiles.
The female of the species.
Miss Fortune.
The last Goblin rises, rubs head and unmentionables, woozily takes in his surroundings- staggers towards the exit.
And then spots Grand Alf being pinned down by the Twig Blight.
Staggers on.
Then spots Grand Alf’s Staff of… oh the bloody spade.
Staggers on.
Then stops.
And smiles.
The Goblin has had a thought.
It staggers back to the spade, picks it up, takes a few practice swipes for good measure.
Then grins again.
And staggers over to Grand Alf.
“Alright I’ll give you my sandwich, you can have it…” Grand Alf screams at the Twig Blight some more and is lacerated further, he can feel the Strength ebbing from him as the plants poisonous sap courses through his body.
The Goblin swings the spade high over his head, and brings it down with all its strength…
SWAP-ap-ap-ap.
The Goblin staggers backwards holding the still vibrating spade, shuddering uncontrollably as he retreats.
What happened?
At the last moment Grand Alf spies the Goblin and with the last of his strength rolls left, and out of the way, the Twig Blight is not as fortunate, smashed to splinters by Grand Alf’s Staff of… spade, which is little impeded by the frail bush and thwacks hard into the packed earthern floor- thus staggering, in the same instant, the Goblin attacker.
Grand Alf rolls back to spy the smashed Twig Blight.
“Not so smart now are you Twiggy?”
The Sorcerer hefts himself upright; it takes a good ten seconds and the help of a wall to lean on.
The last Goblin shuffles back into view, still clutching the spade, and every now and then its unmentionables.
Grand Alf sighs and waves his hands about a bit, the Goblin looks unsure.
The Sorcerer sighs again, straightens up so he’s standing without the aid of the wall.
Then coughs once or twice.
“Hang on.”
The Goblin, about to attack, stops as Grand Alf holds up his hand to signal a halt to the proceedings.
The Sorcerer takes a swig of water from his flask, rinses and swallows, pours a little more of the clear fluid on his hands and splashes his face, wipes the excess off with what’s left of his outer-garments.
“Right then.”
The Goblin hefts the spade and moves forward to attack.
Grand Alf waves his hands dramatically, arches an eyebrow and in a deep voice pronounces words of arcane… arcane something.
“Oh Demonic Servitor of the Eight Packed Lunches of Hell,
I summon thee great… great… BEEEE-CCCCEEEE-DEEEE-EEEEE-EF…”
THWOK
The Goblin thumps back into the dirt, courtesy of a heavy mace to the back of the head- that should about do it.
“What took you?” Grand Alf states and leans back against the wall.
“Were you summoning a demon then?” Saradomin asks.
“No, well. Yes- sort of.” Grand Alf fishes around in his backpack for his absolute last magic Smash sandwich.
Saradomin looks around.
“Did it appear; the demon?” He asks.
“Yes.” Grand Alf states and munches, pointedly looking at the snarling priest of St. Cuthbert, half-cut and swatting his heavy mace in the general direction of nobody and yet everything.
“Hey- I’ve found a chest.” Dartamor shouts.
Next Turn: Together we will rule the world.