|
As always, Gheth's propensity for remaining low-key had allowed him to take a more leisurely look at their surroundings. But now, to work! Sure, varnish was good and all, but who could be immaculately absorbed in the detailing on that deck when there was do-gooding to do!
Gheth sidelines the girl, hoping to glean more information from her as to where they should be looking. "Excuse me, little gi- mayor. Since that play, have you heard any noises coming from a certain part of town, or seen any odd creatures coming from a specific place? Perhaps a cove or grotto somewhere nearby?" |
This is far too comfortable. Soon enough Gordok falls asleep in the mud. Dexter G strolls back and forth for a while looking pensive but before long he too flops down in the mud to rest. What a great town.
|
Forsooth. Perhaps I misjudged the poet. Despite her excessively large house, everything here simply indicates austerity.
Going by her bedroom, I espied stacks upon stacks of scrolls and paper. Might there not be any usable ritual scrolls among these? Take scrolls and paper. Here's hoping I get a free 50-gp ritual book. Are there drawers in this desk? Her excessively-large bed intrigues me. It must hide something mysterious, to be so excessively large. I investigate the mystery by carefully attacking it excessively. Rip 'er open! Careful Attack on bed with sword. But oh, the basement was where Sophia had kept her food. I am intrigued at the stacks of little white worms, and with great effort and risking my lumbago and a hernia dragged two back to my wagon. Two sacks of rice to wagon, please. Returning to the basement, I espied a handsome everburning torch mounted on the wall. Was it not the holy book that admonishes us to let our light so shine before men, that they may see our good works, and glorify the Traveler who is in the plane above? If so, it would be a sin to let such a bright light remain here. Let's steal that torch. I thought I've found something valuable at last. Alas, I was too late. Already the bullying warforged is all over the beautiful tome, caressing it as he would a lover. But perhaps the manor has a library which holds more of these handcrafted things. Thus doeth I go out in search of it. Go to library and look for shiny things. |
Glock hustles to the dining hall, suspicious of the chair atop the table there. Perhaps it was a clue to a secret passage! But in the end he discovers nothing and very nearly goes ass-over-teakettle trying to get his bulk atop the chair in the first place. It must have been put there for some less obvious reason.
That avenue of inquiry exhausted, Glock heads down to the basement to investigate the suspicious book. Immediately he understands why the changeling had been so taken in by it; it was surely the finest book he had ever seen. The binding is some kind of odd leather, and the symbol he'd seen outside on the curtain is inlaid in gold on the tome's front cover underneath a single word: "Carcosa". The book is massive, easily 500 pages or more: it would take days to read through the entire thing if he had a mind to. Not that he could, since a cursory examination of the first few pages reveals the book to be written entirely in some ancient dialect of Common that he can barely parse. It's all "thees" and "thous" and the occasional "ye" and beyond that he's lost. A few common words pop up in block capitals here and there: CARCOSA, HASTUR, HARBINGER, KING. Flicking through some more pages, Glock finds the book has a few illustrations: pg. 56: a blank, featureless mask like the Comedy and Tragedy masks of classic theatre, but this mask's expression is utterly neutral. pg. 149: A figure in flowing robes reclining on a throne. The robes are so voluminous that not even the hands or face of the robed figure can be seen. pg. 376: a cluster of tall, narrow structures not unlike termite mounds. Tiny humanoid figures are shown flinging themselves from the tops of the structures, while figures standing on the ground are clutching at their ears. pg. 445: The robed figure from page 149 is shown reaching through an archway, where he has grasped the arm of a man wearing one of the masks from page 56. The book seems completely useless, but Glock can't shake the notion that he should do whatever he has to do in order to understand it. He should probably read the whole thing as soon as he possibly can. It's so interesting! Meanwhile, Gheth and Garrmondo see to Maegan, inquiring as to a possible origin point for the strange forces that had wrecked the village. "Noises? Hell, the poor bastards never shut up until you lot showed up. Hissing and screeching and gobbling like a clutch of hens, all damned day. If there was anything else to hear, I wouldn't have been able to make it out over all the racket. As for your coves and grottos, nah. We're 50 miles inland, you silly! You want some water, get it out of the well like everybody else. And by everybody I mean, uh, me." That matter settled, she promptly passes out again. Gordok falls asleep in the mud It would certainly be tragic if he were to choke on the mud. If he were to choke and die. Or if a huge rock were to fall on him from the sky. That would be unfortunate. Cal rifles through Sophia's papers indiscriminately, looking for nothing in particular. So far as he can tell, it's mostly a bunch of rough drafts from various plays. Maybe Sophia held on to them for reference, maybe she was paranoid about her work being stolen from the garbage and plagiarized — maybe she was just a packrat. Other than the reams and reams of abortive dialogue and stage direction, Cal finds one item of potential interest: an official census document for Hallowfeld, dated to two weeks ago. All 63 of Hallowfeld's former inhabitants are listed, and someone has scratched in check marks next to each name. On the bottom of the census tally, someone has added: "Likely not enough. No backing out now. How many eyes? Lamid?" You can't just "take" a disorganized heap of papers. Are you just going to wad them all up? Shrugging, Cal hacks open Sophia's mattress. Valuable chicken feathers are revealed! His investigations stymied again, Cal resorts to his specialty: petty theft. Swiping the everburning torch from its sconce even as Glock attempts to comprehend the book, Cal stuffs it in his pack and stumbles out of the basement in the dark. Finally, Cal wanders into Sophia's private library in search of more such rare and valuable tomes. Alas, nothing immediately catches his eye like the Carcosa tome had. Still, a few of the older-looking books might be worth something to collectors if he can get them back to Freeport in one piece. Ecology Of The Gnoll: A Study In Three Parts, Vol. 2 Whitecleaver's Lexicon of Dwarven Curses The Life Of Bombastus Hamfist, As Told By Himself The Monster At The End Of This Book Poore Xandowel's Almanack That's it in terms of rooms with anything interesting in them, just so as you don't sit here for weeks checking the Solarium and the Veranda and the Clock Tower |
Glock's put up with a lot from this Shapeshitter.
But this is the final straw. Here he was. Spending time with his new best friend, Betsy the book. Things were just about to get nice and intimate when this asshole shows up and jacks the light. Glock stows the book, stands up and goes upstairs. He also finds the chair from the table-chair shenanigans. He takes it. He then finds Cal. http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedi...-Chairshot.jpg |
Gordok awakes with a look of terror. In his dream he had become a pancake and not even a delicious pancake. The bread bunny judges gave him a 2 out of 10. Dexter squeezed by with a 4. In any case this was no time for sleeping in mud puddles. No! He must remove this strange terror from his mind. He must create art! The halfling scrambles inside and begins to knock anything off of the first wall he finds. Soon he had his canvas. Taking three steps back he rushes forth and delivers a nasty brown imprint.
http://www.thegond.com/gff/dnd/mudman.jpg Yeah, that would do just fine. Nodding approvingly Gordok turns to his companions while trying to maintain his balance and raises an inquisitive finger. "So what's going on?" |
Alas, poor Clock. Perusing the beautifully-illustrated tome hath addled his mind. Hath he forgotten his own torch which is still burning in his pack provideth him with illumination still? I would not be surprised if reading that book was what drove Sophia mad. This warforged needs watching, certainly.
Fortunately he has trained naught in chair proficiency, and thus I nimbly avoideth his improvised attack with my considerable gymnastic skill. It seems that the manor yielded everything that is of interest. Sophia Lasilaran was apparently up to the evil one's bidding. Whatever she was trying to accomplish, she didn't succeed simply because Hallowfield hath not enough residents. I shudder to think what might happen if she does succeed in a much bigger town. Worse, all indications point to Sophia and her three bardic compatriots journeying westward, to the town of Lamid. I tell the cleric my suspicions. Despite Avandra's admonishing for openness to change, surely he would find the villagers' mutations as something execrable. Leaving Maegan to her own devices will certainly result in her starvation. Although the bullying warforged may find it amusing, I think it best if we would take her with us to the nearest town. Though, I am slightly disturbed at having to make room in my rapidly-filling wagon for her. Swipe dem books and take 2 flaskfuls of chicken feathers; stow both in wagon. Also stow mundane torch in wagon. Just so I don't scare her, stow the heart in my pack. Cut a length of rope necessary to restrain Maegan. For her own safety, of course. THIS IS CLEARLY PLATONIC IN NATURE! If she acts up, give her the pipeweed to smoke. To Lamid, we shall go? Things to do while en route, order of priority: (1) forcefeed Maegan with trail ration (2) be on lookout for beehives to harvest beeswax (3) read up on the fascinating Hamfist story |
As ever, Cal crams every single thing that isn't nailed down into his pack. Having established to his satisfaction the the details of the situation, he declares his intend to depart for Lamid. The rest of G-Unit has little choice but to scramble aboard the wagon, lest they be left to trudge for several days back to Freeport on foot. For her part, Maegan passively ignores her own abduction; she neither actively resists nor makes any attempt to cooperate. Cal ties the intoxicated girl to the wagon's frames so she doesn't roll out on the road somewhere, and puts the reins to Denny (who has endured the strangeness of Hallowfeld quite stoically in his own right). While Cal can hardly watch the road and read at the same time, Gordok is more than enthusiastic about the chance to ride the pony (and, consequently, serve as lookout).
Dusk is already falling as they move out, and it will take a good few hours to reach Lamid. Cal ties the magic torch to the wagon canopy with a bit of spare rope, and sets to killing time with a potentially good book. Despite several false alarms, Cal is quite unable to locate any convenient beehives in the encroaching darkness — and after the 3rd such sudden stop to investigate, he is disinclined to cause any further delays let his companions mutiny and seize his wagon from him. Discouraged, he settles down with the book. The Life and Adventures of Bombastus, called Hamfist As told by Himself to the most penitent scribe Samuel Bowman during Shieldmeet of 1237 The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of the baren land which dominates large portions of the Norgolian empire. Age worn hoof prints smothered by the sifting sands of time shone dully against the dust splattered crust of earth. The tireless sun cast its parching rays of incandescense from overhead, half way through its daily revolution. Small rodents scampered about, occupying themselves in the daily accomplishments of their dismal lives. Dust sprayed over three heaving mounts in linding clouds, while they bore the burdonsome cargoes of their struggling overseers. "Prepare to embrace your creators in the stygian haunts of hell, barbarian", gasped the first soldier. "Only after you have kissed the fleeting stead of death, wretch!" returned Bombastus. A sweeping blade of flashing steel riveted from the massive barbarians hide enameled shield as his rippling right arm thrust forth, sending a steel shod blade to the hilt into the soldiers vital organs. The disemboweled mercenary crumpled from his saddle and sank to the clouded sward, sprinkling the parched dust with crimson droplets of escaping life fluid. The enthused barbarian swilveled about, his shock of fiery red hair tossing robustly in the humid air currents as he faced the attack of the defeated soldier's fellow in arms. "Damn you, barbarian" Shrieked the soldier as he observed his comrade in death. It went on like this, with great lengthy digressions on mighty thews and heaving bosoms. It seems old Bombastus was quite the hero, even if he inexplicably spoke only in the third person. It's near midnight when G-Unit's wagon finally trundles into Lamid, only to find the town in total chaos. Men and women run screaming through the streets, attacking each other, destroying property — and occasionally turning their weapons on themselves. A few of them have suffered the same transfiguration as seen in Hallowfeld, but most seem merely to be caught up in a mass hysteria. In addition, several uncontrolled fires can be seen burning away in the town center. As the wagon slowly rolls into the town, Garrmondo spots an all-too-familiar symbol in the corner of his eye. Reaching out to a chanter's board as the wagon passes, he tears off an advertisement flyer. http://www.saxypunch.com/missile/flyer.png |
Yon Bombastus Hamfist was quite a fellow, such a dashing raging barbarian. Delicate creature as I am, I shudder to think of the prospect of even wading into melee combat. And here we have a hero who charges everyone and everything he sees. His legendary escapades were certainly a sight to behold, both in the field of battle and in bed. I thereby resolve to organize an orgy the first chance I returneth to Freeport.
Lamid appears to be undergoing the same chaos as Hallowfield, except that many people have not been transfigured. Unwilling to risk Denny, Maegan, or the considerable treasures that I have stored in the wagon to the tender mercies of a hysteric mob, I instruct the clever halfling to make haste to the nearest Watch Post. I wouldst have loved to take potshots at the transfigured civilians to rack up my kills, but thought the better of it. Better they attack each other than us. Still, any aberrant creature that approaches our wagon, with a clear intent to harm, will be getting a dose of Twin Strike in their nether regions. Turning an eye to the noble dragonborn, I smile wanly. "Time to fight again, it looks like. Perhaps thou wouldst equip Kohl's holy stone, as it sparkles even brighter than thy own implement?" |
It was a sure thing that people running in the opposite way couldn't have been affected by this malevolence. Gheth looked around for anyone (preferably with authority) that might be able to direct them to the source of the corruption.
In this temporary lull, Gheth also took the opportunity to retrieve the firebreathing flask from Glock's pack. Given that only one of them had a belt made specifically for potions, Gheth caught Garrmondo's eye and tossed it the fighter's way. "Here you go, chief." Gheth smirked a bit. "Maybe when we get done here we can form a band. Fire and Ice. We'll do ballads about dragon hoards and green fields and dark castles and such. You know, keep it real. What do you say, eh? Glock on vocals, us on electric lute, and shorty on drums." Gheth spared a dubious look at the shifter, who seemed ready to put quills into citizens both afflicted and non. He jerked a thumb in Cal's direction. "I guess we might be able to trust him with a tambourine." Perception check for guardsmen/officials Equip new holy symbol Move flask to Garr |
Tambourine? Really? Well, I never!
"Cleric, I'll have you know I play a mean Triangle! Yet thou wouldst relegate me to a tambourine? And what's an 'electric' lute, prithee?" Aggrieved, I attempt to regale the party with a war song. Get the Flash Player to play this audio file: ♫ Along the shore the cloud waves break ♪ ♫ The twin suns sink behind the lake ♪ ♫ Strange is the night where black stars rise ♪ ♫ And strange moons circle through the skies ♪ ♫ Song of my soul, my voice is dead ♪ ♫ Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed ♪ |
"Do that again and I'm burning this cart to the ground"
The robot is deadly serious. |
Despite Cal's awful warbling, a handful of frightened citizens do answer their doors as he and Garrmondo canvass the area for information. Few of them are willing to leave their doors open for more than a few moments, nervously directing the party in the direction of the fires.
"The watch posts are empty. They've got every man can hold a sword out there keeping the lunatics at bay. Well, mostly at bay." Carefully maneuvering the wagon toward the town center, they immediately discover what the old man meant: perhaps two dozen figures are forming a loose cordon around the burning amphitheater, with shattered carts and stacks of lumber filling the gaps. Trapped within is a swirling mob of over 100 deranged townsfolk, sometimes hurling themselves bodily at the cordon, sometimes turning on each other. While the unarmed horde is a relatively minor danger to the guardsmen, it's clear that bad luck has taken its toll here and there: Gheth spots at least three wounded guards leaning against walls. A weary middle-aged man spots the party as they approach, taking a moment to shove a screaming woman back with a pitchfork before coming to address them. "Look, I'll make this quick. I'm not one to judge, but by the look of you lot you're obviously sellswords. I don't know what's come over these people, but I do know they've got the Mayor in there with them. Only Pelor knows how he's survived, but he's in there. You can hear him screaming." Indeed, this close to the mob, one shrill voice rises over the general cacophony: the wavering voice of an old man shrieking at the top of his lungs. "THE HARBINGER HAS BROUGHT US GIFTS! COME AND SEE! SEE THE WISDOM OF CARCOSA! COME AND SEE! COME AND BE CHOSEN!" The guard captain grimaces. "Somebody needs to get him out of there. I can't spare any of mine to go in; I need all of them just to hold the line. If we let these maniacs loose, Lamid'll be naught but ashes by sunrise. Geoff's a wealthy man, I'm sure he'll be glad to reward you for your help — once we've calmed him down." Maegan pokes her head out of the front of the wagon, gazing bemusedly at the chaotic scene with a mixture of curiosity and bemusement. |
"Captain, as counter-intuitive as it may seem, this is perhaps the safest place to leave our young friend. Meet Madame Maegan, the Mayor of Hallowfield.
Which, incidentally, was the first victim of whatever enchantment yon Sophia Lasilaran and her mad allies hath wreaked." Depositing her with the constable, I gave him a friendly warning. "Careful. She's a bit unhinged after seeing every last member of her village killed or transmogrified." I have no connections to Lamid, and am not inclined to risk my hide for it. Tracking down and stopping the mad playwright is more important than saving a town from a hundred crazies. "We are here to apprehend Sophia Lasilaran and her conspirators, and time is of the essence. I'm really sorry for your town, but we have to stop her before she gets to a bigger city." I'm totally bluffing him so he'll offer more tangible rewards. (Greedy, coward, etc.) :) Bluff Check: 8 + 14 = 22. |
Putting 1 and 1 together, Glock senses there could be something amusing afoot if he leaves Betsy for the young'un to read and spread about the relatively sane part of town.
"Now girly, take this book, see. Show it to everyone you can. I will be back for it shortly, ok? It's my precious. So don't do anything to damage it's pretty binding or I'll skin you alive and hang you on meat hooks." "Yes, precious." as he wrings his hand after handing it to Maegan. "DON'T FUCK UP" Climbing out of the cart, he glances toward the noise. All this about a Harbinger. He wonders if there is any ASSUMING DIRECT CONTROL going on within. |
Gheth's forced joviality fades as they near the fires and the tumult within. He overhears that the amphitheater seems to be their next prospective lead, and thinks his time may be better spent tending to the guards ringing the mob.
As he does what he can for the wounded, he begins to wonder what will become of the people that have been driven mad by this twisted play. They can't very well simply kill them all, but a cure may be out of the question. Disturbed by this new notion, he returns to the captain. "Are you a religious man, captain?" He shakes his head, cutting himself short. "No, it doesn't really matter. I think you may have to make some hard choices before sunrise, however, and I do not envy you." "This might be of some help. If not to you, then perhaps one of your men." Gheth removes the leather thong holding the Symbol of Mortality from around his neck and places it in the captain's hand. "For now, simply consider it a loan. But based on what we've seen so far, this night will get worse before it gets better. Weather the storm." First aid/fist bump soldiers Give Symbol of Mortality to captain Ready for some FIGHTAN |
Gheth takes a moment to assist the guard's strained medics with their duty. The task ahead demanded that he marshal his resources carefully, but a few quick prayers and a tourniquet here and there surely wouldn't tire him. Murmuring a few words of encouragement, the cleric passes his old pendant to the captain. These men and women needed aid from any god that could grant it, and the gleaming stone he'd found in Hallowfeld was a stark reminder of precisely what was at stake.
Some of the less-battered guards get back to their feet, and the medics (relieved for a blessed moment) whisk the less promising patients away to relative safety. As Gheth nods solemnly to the captain and passes the holy symbol to him, the broken lines of the cordon seem almost to re-solidify — weary warriors shake off their bruises and scrapes, standing straight and linking shields once again. And out of the corner of his eye, Gordok sees what no one else seems to notice: the broken wagons blocking off the alleys and side streets quietly reconfigure themselves, the cracked timbers shaping themselves into proper fences in the blink of an eye. Nobody was getting out of Theater Square without a sledgehammer. Captain Radcliff helps Maegan down from the wagon, sending one of the wounded guards with her to find a bunk in the watch barracks until the overstretched medics have time to deal with her shell-shock. He takes no special notice of the book Glock puts in her hands as she turns to follow the guard. "He stole from the mayor", she mutters under her breath. "But on the other hand he did return our property without being asked. We will pardon him just this once. However, for the loss of our rice..." Radcliff looks on Cal fearfully. "Every... last..." The captain shakes his head forcefully, as if to shake out some ugly idea. "If the King's Players are at fault in this awful business, they must surely still be within the amphitheater. We had the place cordoned off within minutes of the explosion, and I doubt anyone in full costume could slip through the line without notice. Radcliff's brow furrows, lost in thought as he gazes absently toward the amphitheater. "I say explosion, but the fires all came after. All we saw from the outside was this flash of light, and then water started to down the amphitheater steps like a dam had burst. I thought perhaps there was an old reservoir under the place somehow, but... well, no matter. I won't ask for your help with the crowds. If young Maegan is any indication, those who haven't been changed will come back to their senses in due time. As for the rest, well..." The captain clears his throat, and shouts above the din. "WE'LL LET THEM OUT ONE BY ONE. I REPEAT, ONE BY ONE. ON MY SIGNAL." Radcliff turns to the recently-treated guards, many of them still favoring a leg or clutching a shoulder. "There's only one way to do this. One at a time. If it's still a person, we restrain them and haul them to the jail. If it's a... a thing..." Radcliff draws a shortsword from a scabbard on his belt. It looks like it's never been used. "If any of you had family visit the amphitheater tonight, you're now assigned to fire control. Go." A gangly lad in his late teens staggers away toward the nearest well, his eyes firmly locked on the ground. Radcliff turns to look at G-Unit, a hard grimace on his face. "Gods forgive us for what we do tonight, lads. Get in there if you're going, before they come out for an encore." |
Radcliffe taketh not my hint of asking for more concrete promises of reward. Oh well, t'was worth a shot.
"Captain, it seems our purposes converge tonight. Understand that we will need to cull the transformed villagers, with extreme prejudice, to protect ourselves." Radcliffe need not see Framarth's heart which I hath on display; verily didst I stow it in my pack lest he rummages through the wagon and thinks me a macabre serial killer. Not that I am not, of course, having killed Rundarr, 2 spined devils, a duergar recruit, 3 transformed villagers, 1 gibbering mouther, and knocked Erik (later disemboweled by the robot) unconscious. But know all that, Radcliffe needeth not. Take Framarth's heart and put it in pack. "Oh, and captain. Please keep an eye on yon wagon against any looters. Here, it isn't much, but with it may Pelor see thee through the night!" Toss Radcliff the Bloodclaw Short Sword. Unhitching Denny from the wagon, I clambered on him, battle-ready. We are going in through the barricade hole, and I shalt be taking the rear. "Come then, my fellows! The fugitive playwright is near!" Ready Twin Strike against transformed villagers that I see. |
Leaving his wagon behind in the reliable hands of despondent strangers and lunatics, Cal follows the rest of the party through the barricades atop his totally-inconspicuous pony. The guards reform their shield wall behind him, and he realizes something else that may aid Radcliff in his unpleasant duty.
"Catch!" Startled, the captain deftly snatches the sword from the air — gouging his palm on its spiked grip. "God's blood, that hurts. We'll see how he feels about throwing things once his little wagon is—" The crowd closes behind Cal, and the constant noise of the mob is too much to make out the rest of Radcliff's angry oath. Cal gazes over the square, taking in the amassed throng of maddened citizens. Unless G-Unit wanted to cut their way through to the amphitheater gates, they'd have to get through the crowd without attracting undue attention. Cal wasn't personally opposed to taking a few scalps, but the prospect of being in the middle of a swirling melee didn't exactly appeal — especially since he'd just given away his sword. Leaning down in his saddle, he quietly confers with the rest of the party. Skill Challenge: Pass Through The Crowd Undetected. 8 successes within 15 checks to succeed, DC 23. Three checks per PC. One check per skill, per player. (Ex: Cal may use Athletics, and so may Gheth, but Cal may not use it twice.) This is a primarily a physical challenge; each PC may only use one non-physical skill during the challenge. The physical skills are Acrobatics, Athletics, Endurance, Heal, Stealth, and Thievery. |
"Careful, Captain! The sword is sharp!"
Oh well, too late. At least I warned him. I abhor crowds. They rank of sweat, unwashed armpits, and unbrushed teeth. Add in a murderous maddened mob? Recipe for disaster for a cowardly ranged chameleon. THIEVERY! 5+8=13 is probably less than 23. Probably. |
Act natural. Right. Robots can act natural.
Then again, there are tonnes of screaming people being violent. Oh well, when in Rome, do what Romans do. And with that, he punches Cal RIGHT IN THE FACE Athletics Hopefully the punch looked authentic enough. Maybe if he fakes the windup on the combo! Bluff Maybe if he looks all tough and shit people won't want to mess. Come over here fuckers, I ain't done with any of you yet. I can do this all night. Endurance |
Clock's mock punch catches me off-guard. I instinctively put up my hands to shield my delicate jaw and perfectly-proportioned aquiline nose, completely forgetting to let go of the reins.
The sudden jerky movement causes Denny to rear up, front legs flailing and almost leaving a horseshoe imprint on the metal man. Upon which the faithful horse barreling full tilt into the crowd, charging full speed towards the auditorium. ATHLETICS with da horse CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGE Let's bust out of that thar mob's melee range cuz there's no way we're succeeding at this challenge. Fighting to regain control of my horse, I realized I needed to distract the crowd somehow, to convince them that I am their general, leading them to glory and honor. Shape-shifting into the best possible approximation of transformed Wallace Kohl, I shout out a modified battle cry that a fellow adventuring warlord used to yell as his Commander's Strike.
Imma sprout a tentacle or three. BLUFFIN': Argh. 2+5+14=21 <<< 23 |
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