Our ice goblin ally swoons after eating a black pudding. Not wanting to see unnecessary NPC death if I can help it, I pour the contents of my potion down his throat. Live, dammit, live!

Spend 1 healing surge

___


Still, anything that could make a magical creature faint after a swig might prove useful in the future. After gently laying the ice goblin on the ground, I go over to the immobile sludge and carefully scoop up a half-dozen flaskfuls of pudding. After stoppering all six flasks, I store them on my wagon. Experimentally, I drip a bit of gibbering mouther jelly on the dead pudding, and see what happens.

Stopping to retrieve my thieves' tools from the rogue, I walk over to the empty pieces of armor which comprise the Overlord's corpse, and examine them for anything salvageable.

Glenn leaned back against the wall, satisfied with how the fight had gone. He hadn't had a decent workout in a long time, and he could feel it. Glenn knew full well that it was usually possible to avoid a fight, and that this was almost always a better way of doing things, but sometimes he just felt like he had to hit something. This decision had usually earned him either an eye roll and a smirk, or a smack upside the head and a glare, depending on how his old partner had been feeling at the time.

1 healing surge to full hp

Now really wasn't the time for reflection on the past, however - the changeling had come over immediately following the battle and started going through his pockets, looking for something. Glenn figured it out and handed the changeling his tools back. He thought to himself that he should get himself a set of those the next time he saw civilization - presuming he ever did again.

Glenn decided to check the treasure chest that the black ooze had... oozed out of. If anything was in there, it would certainly be worth the effort of the battle. Perhaps the creature was a security measure. Perhaps the strongbox was simply the most convenient thing around at the time of the pudding's capture. No way to tell until one checked.

Knowing the usefulness of a good guide dog, Puyet breaks off a piece of rope from his pack long enough to subdue the remaining goblin minion like a mongrel.

"Good boy! Sit! Good! Now heel!"

Puyet gives him a Scooby Snack from his ration pack. He is not sure what a Scooby Snack is, but the merchant he bought his rations from a week ago said they were certain to energize even the most timid of cowards.

"Now show me the way out and you get another one."

Spend healing surge.
See where this dumbass goblin leads me.

Cal decides to save the life of the strange blue goblin, despite his general uselessness and penchant for bad puns. Perhaps the grim consequences of the events at the amphitheater had softened the changeling's heart somewhat. A significant amount of the magic tonic seemed to pour uselessly out of the gaping hole in the goblin's abdomen, but the fighter was standing by with another dose. It seemed that Cal wouldn't be harvesting any rare goblin parts today.

Cal carefully gathers up several flasks full of the pudding — as expected, the glass flasks held the toxic mess without any trouble. Judging by the goop still remaining on the floor, however, the pudding wouldn't retain its acidic properties long after death; the acrid vapors produced by the pudding eating away at the floor were already fading away to barely-detectable wisps. Still, it might have some use even if it couldn't serve as a universal solvent. Even dead the pudding was bound to be poisonous as all hell.

Cal cautiously drips a few drops of the rapidly-liquefying remains of the gibbering mouthers onto the pudding heap. The effect is as immediate as it is unpleasant: a tiny fanged mouth sprouts on the surface of the ooze and begins muttering vile curses. Cal listens carefully, but the gibbering pudding doesn't seem to say anything useful: just an endless stream of vile insinuations regarding his parentage, the circumstances of his birth, and his choice of bedfellows. A significant amount of these insinuations are fairly accurate, but Cal maintains his poker face. The screeching peters out after a minute or two,, and the mouth fades back into the shapeless blob as if it was never there.

The Overlord's former armor looks to be of a very high quality, but the heavy iron plate is far too bulky for any of the company to wear comfortably. Cal could probably stow it in his wagon, but there wouldn't be much room left to add anything more afterward.

http://www.ddwiki.saxypunch.com/imag...kironarmor.png

Glenn investigates the massive chest that had held the pudding, thinking it likely that the ooze had been placed there as a form of active defense. The entire interior surface of the box is coated with smooth glass, but lying at the bottom is a small pane of polished glass, perhaps 2 feet square. Glancing on it, Glenn experiences a moment of strange vertigo; he's looking down into the chest, but the glass pane seems to be a window into an entirely horizontal scene. Glenn stares through the window into a raucous tavern, and though no sound comes through he still hears the music in his memory: he's seen this before. The tavern, the mug in front of him, and her — her! — passing coins to the barmaid for another round...

Glenn reaches out toward the window instinctively, and raps his knuckles on the glass. The tavern scene vanishes in a twinkling, leaving behind nothing but the bare glass. Glenn takes a step back. It was just an illusion, surely... like the faint tang of ale he could feel on his tongue. Just the same, Glenn averts his gaze from the chest until he decided what to do about the window it housed.

http://www.ddwiki.saxypunch.com/imag...fdeception.png

Puyet bribes the last of the goblins Gheth had rallied to his cause with an iron ration. The dry wafers and salted beef were hardly gourmet fare, but the little goblin tears into them with enthusiasm. Sadly Puyet's attempt at bartering with the fellow doesn't get him anywhere.

"With all due respect, Mister... if I knew how to get out of here, why would I have stayed? The constant thread of strangulation wasn't exactly wine and roses for me, you know. Plenty of chances for us to run, I grant you, but nowhere to run to really. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate your generosity and if I can do anything else to help I — please don't kill me please don't kill me please don't kill me."

Gary collapses into a simpering heap of tears and cowardice, huddling into the corner and trying to make himself look as small as possible.

Garrmondo pours another potion down the ice goblin's throat, and the little blue guy seems to stabilize. In no condition to go anywhere or stand for interrogation, certainly, but he'd live. His elf companion peers around the corner curiously, and after seeing his partner neither dead nor embroiled in any immediate danger he just returns to his meal.

The halfling bards are no more helpful than Gary had been in ascertaining an escape route. The woman with the drums adopts a grim expression and passes on the bad news.

"Surface? By Yondalla's bountiful horn, are we underground? Friend, I know no more than you do, or likely even less. Those bastards in Lamid got the drop on us while we were celebrating our anniversary, and while we struggled there were too many for us. Harald and I were both clubbed over the head, and when we came to — why, we were as you see us now. The goblins had no special loyalty to him, and we were able to question them as he slumbered on his throne, but they knew nothing more than we did. Few of them seemed to survive under his employment for more than a day or two, but every day new goblins seemed to arrive to replace the dead — and they didn't know where they'd come from either. This has been going on for... well, weeks, probably. Can't say I've kept proper track of the time."

The halflings painfully rise to their feet, scattering a small mountain of musical instruments across the room.

"He just had all these things already, I guess," Harald volunteers. "I woke up with a xylophone digging into my ribs, and he just stares at me for a minute solid and says 'Play'. We're not even musicians by trade, you know, but we learn quick. Monsters in iron suits don't have a lot of use for fresh scones, so at least we got to keep what little food we had in our purses. I can't imagine we'd have lived much longer than the goblins without it."

He heaves a sigh, realizing that his rescuers haven't really brought him any closer to resuming his normal life.

"Not what you wanted to hear, I'm sure. Still, we've got some scones left if you like. They're only a little bit stale."

Other than the heap of musical doodads, the only other obvious thing of value in the throne room was — well, the throne. But Garrmondo didn't see any way to fit it through the doorway assuming he could drag it out of its place. How'd it even get there in the first place?

Puyet pats his new pet goblin on the head a few times to console him, then drags him along as he heads back towards the throne room. After a brief discussion with the human, concluded everybody was as clueless as the next.

He decided, before heading further into the dungeon, to investigate the throne itself. There was something nagging about it, and Garrmondo himself seemed to be fascinated with it's magnificence.

Glenn stopped and sat in the corner of the throne room to think. That scene... it had been so vivid. The last time he had seen Rose just over a year ago, in that tavern. Their usual place after they had finished a job. It had been raining that night, so they had been forced to take their rest inside the tavern, instead of their usual place on the roof.

Glenn fingered the bright sapphire he wore on a bracelet on his arm. It had been a parting gift, of sorts. It was half of a jewel that he and Rose had stolen. Their last one. It had appeared on his window sill one morning, sitting on top of a tiny scrap of parchment, bearing only one word. goodbye.

Glenn and Rose had never been romantically inclined, but they had become close friends over the few years they had know each other. They worked together to steal from the nobility of Valentia, each for their own reasons. Rose to support her family, Glenn for the excitement, and both to keep the nobility informed that they weren’t, in fact, invincible. Glenn may have been the son of a rich and prosperous merchant, but that didn’t mean he had ever liked it.

Glenn stood up with new resolve. The trick mirror had been eerie, but it had also reminded him of why he had disowned his family in the first place. Rose’s home may have been burned, but she had escaped. The sapphire was proof of that. Glenn had made his decision to try to find her. But first he had to get out of this hole.

The two potions appear to have an effect on the ice goblin's well-being. I check to see if he's all right, and ask him for his name. Surely, any NPCs who receive names survive longer than their unnamed counterparts! I read it somewhere, anyway.

------------------

The vile pudding that almost killed the ice goblin must be punished. I pour the contents of the flask that contained my urine on the dead acidic beast as payback.

------------------

The armor left by the Overlord is much too heavy for me to wear, or drag around for that matter. But my fighter friend - surely he has enough strength to wear Plate armor! Plus, it comes with a defensive upgrade.

Eyeing Mr. and Mrs. Harald Halfling, I ask them if they know, or have any "Transfer Enchantment" ritual scrolls lying around. If Garrmondo can't wear plate, then we can at least transfer it over to his current scale armor.

------------------

There is a pile of musical instruments unearthed by the uncouth half-orc, whose utter disregard for the welfare of NPCs I find reprehensible. I wonder for a moment if the cleric shares my feelings, but I digress. As an aspiring musician, i wonder if there are any violins in the pile. Or any wondrous intruments, for that matter.

The ice goblin remains unconscious despite the healing tonics, and no amount of poking seems to rouse him. Undeterred, Cal carefully checks the goblin's pockets for any sign of his identity and finds a single wadded-up sheet of parchment. The document is a little stained and the ink is smeared, but it's still mostly legible.

http://www.saxypunch.com/missile/isee.png

Reading over the tattered note, Cal casually pours his flask o' urine over the pudding's remains. No interesting chemical results occur, but it's still aesthetically pleasing.

Puyet pokes curiously at the throne, clumsily prodding at it with his thick fingers. Finding nothing, he slams his fist down on the throne's armrest. With a soft hum, the seat of the throne recedes into the back of the chair and reveals a dark vertical tunnel leading down to parts unknown. The tunnel is perhaps a foot and a half wide, far too narrow for anyone in G-Unit to descend even if they wanted to.

Harald and his wife are startled by the discovery, and then slowly begin to back away. Puyet had already made it clear that we was willing to throw people into danger for the sake of his own curiosity. Passing Garrmondo a small waxed-paper packet, Harald looks at the changeling with a dumbfounded expression.

"If Sheila or I had a bunch of magic scrolls, why would we be sitting around down here in the first place? Think, man."

A lute and a violin are indeed found within the heap of instruments, and Garrmondo begins to idly play a dissonant, nerve-jangling tune. Cal picks through the rest of the pile, finding examples of most instruments he'd heard of and a few he hadn't — but nothing magical-seeming.

"We appreciate your help, but we can't very well just sit here and wait to be rescued any longer," Sheila replies. "As long as we don't open every box we see or pick fights we don't need to, I think we'll get along all right by ourselves from here out. We'll just keep an eye on your blue friend here until he wakes up, and then we'll be on our way. Tell you what — why don't I keep one of these horns, and one of you lot keep one. Then we can split up and look for a way out much faster, and send out the alert when we do find something."

Ooh, ooh! A violin! I hope it's a valuable Stradivarius! I take this valuable instrument and stow it in my pack.

Glenn looked a bit rattled after looking in the locked chest. Intrigued, I poke inside and look at the window. It's a beautiful window, it will make a nice decoration to my little wagon if the rogue doesn't want it.

The half-orc apparently uncovered a water closet built into the throne. Just in time too - my intestines have started to rumble. I sit on the throne, and void the contents of my bowels into the marvelous indoor toilet.

Supremely irritated at the stench the little man had created, Puyet picked up one of the instruments left and heaved it towards his head. That should be enough to inform the man of his disdain for his action. Puyet was standing right there. What could he have been thinking?

Afterward, Puyet plugged his nose and offered another Scooby Snack to his goblin friend. He tied the longest remaining rope he had to the goblin and enticed him down the hole, using intimidation if necessary.

"There must be something dandy down there, monsieur. Perhaps some wine and cheese. Perhaps a way out of this hellish hole, in which case I will share with you the joy of brothels. Either way, you're going through there. Be positive. If you find something or need to come back up, just give a shout or a yank on the rope."

Puyet sweet talked the goblin to the best of his ignorant capability.

Glenn nodded his agreement to the packrat changeling's request to toss the eerie window into his wagon. If it turned out to be useless, they could always sell it in town and split the gold amongst the group. Magical objects were all well and good, but if you couldn't carry them in a pocket Glenn didn't usually find the effort of hauling them around to be worth it.

He proceeded to join the fighter at the door, just in case anything happened.

Harald nods in assent as Garrmondo lays out some details for the horn-based alert system, and he and Sheila carefully carry I.C.'s prone form into the throne room. It'd be a little more secure there, should they have to deal with the curiosity of his elvish friend.

Garrmondo finds the Overlord's former armor a little cumbersome, but the price is right. The sheer weight of the black iron is enough to slow down his sword arm and hamper his reflexes, but he reckons the tradeoff is worthwhile.

Since Glenn has dismissed the window as too cumbersome to bother with, Cal gladly takes it for himself. As soon as he lays hands on it, however, the glass shows him a lovely meadow. Several ponies are trotting around within, nibbling on clover and frolicking in the sun. The pastoral scene is ruined when a haggard, burnt ruin of a horse staggers into frame. Tatters of smoldering flesh dangle from the pony's decaying frame, and the head has nearly been reduced to bone by swarms of maggots. The rotting horse turns to look directly at Cal, and a horrid voice booms out of the skeletal jaws.

"YOUR FAU—"

Cal quickly turns his face away from the window and carefully packs it at the bottom of the wagon, where he won't look at it accidentally. Nauseated by the sight and half-insensible, the ranger carelessly uses the throne to void his bowels despite the immediate presence of his companions.

Disgusted, Puyet beans Cal in the forehead with an errant tambourine before carefully binding up Gary for his first rappelling experience. No need for threats; Gary is all too eager to keep his distance from the half-orc. The throne itself is more than secure enough , so with a sturdy knot tied round the back little Gary is sent plummeting into the depths.

"Don't see anything," Gary shouts up the tunnel after a few quiet moments. "Awfully dark down here. Pitch black. Do feel something, though. Kind of damp and squishy. Stepped on it. Starting to feel vaguely uncomfortable."

Doing his best to ignore the monologue from below, Garrmondo swings open the door on the east wall. An older-looking goblin in leather armor peers over a truly massive counter, such that he struggles to be seen behind it. With a grunt he rearranges some objects around himself and is soon sufficiently elevated to be seen from the neck up. Four other goblins putter around the room, seeming both purposeless and entirely content with their purposelessness.

"Welcome, friends!" shouts the older goblin. "Welcome one and all to P.Q. Skunkwhistle's Quality Goblin Goods. All of our merchandise is hand-made by the finest goblin artisans, and 60% of proceeds go back to those same artisans and their communities. When you buy a Skunkwhistle hammer, you're not just buying a weapon — you're buying a clean conscience. And everything you see here costs at least 10% less than you'd pay anywhere else. That's the Skunkwhistle guarantee. Bearing in mind, of course, that the marks of goblin craftsmanship tend to hurt the resale value anywhere else you may go. People are bigots that way."

Skunkwhistle shrugs at the small-mindedness of folks, heaving a variety of objects onto the countertop.

Stag Helm: 900 GP
Flaying Gloves: 756 GP
Jester Shoes: 468 GP
Phylactery of Action: 612 GP
Belt of Resilience: 324 GP
Potion of Clarity: 45 GP (3 in stock)
Inferno Oil: 45 GP (5 in stock)
Onslaught Arrow: 23 GP (6 in stock)

A door leads out of Skunkwhistle's to the north, assuming one could reach it without tripping over the goblins inbetween.

D-D-Denny....! No... after all this time, to be reminded of you again is too much to bear. I will the magic window to show a pasture with happy frolicking ponies, Denny in his living glory wagging his horsey tail. It won't fool me, but at least it won't affect my mental well-being!

The little goblin, apparently a plumber of sorts, needs illumination. To aid him, I ignite a sunrod. Hovering over the toilet, I shout:

Gary! Here's a sunrod, coming your way!

Then I drop the sunrod into the goblin's outstretched hand.

Better now?

_________

We seem to have stumbled upon a goblin store. I give the goblins a critical evaluation, trying to gauge their toughness. If they're as weak as the previous goblins, what's to stop us from doing a little murderous armed robbery? Certainly not I, who have already fulfillied his daily quota of being kind to NPCs.

Perception check.

"Better in the sense that getting a clear, unobstructed view of filth is 'better', yes. Nothin' down here but some fresh dung and a lot of rocks. Looks like some kind of cave down here. You got your... whatchacallit, stag-mites and stack-tights, you got your basic luminous fungal growths, you got your 8 angry gnomes advancing with pickaxes...

PULL UP! PULL UP!"

Cal gazes cynically upon Skunkwhistle and his entourage. While most of the goblins wandering the confines of the shop seem as dim and hapless as the fragile fellows Cal had encountered a few minutes earlier, Skunkwhistle himself seemed a different matter. In addition to wearing actual armor instead of the pilfered rags and pelts that goblins were wont to clothe themselves in, Skunkwhistle bore several visible scars. At the very least, this was a goblin that had been in a fight and lived — making him more fearsome than 95% of goblins as a race.

While Cal studies the goblin, he notices Skunkwhistle studying him just as closely. Maybe he wasn't the first customer to think he could rob ol' Skunky and get away clean.

Reluctantly, Puyet pulls his goblin out of the damp hole.

Drop the sunrod, Gary. I want a clear view of the gnomes!

I hover by the throne, ready to drop a flask of pudding on any gnome who tries to climb up.

Time appears to compress however, and everyone suddenly freezes in mid-air. I take the time to leisurely return to the fireplace room, carefully dodging the insidious trap, of course. Once there, I proceed to dismantle what's left of the fireplace, in a greedy hunt for treasure.

After my exertions, I stroll back into the throne room, and resume my position of dropping a flask of pudding on any gnome who tries to pursue poor Gary.

Glenn watches the changeling run back and forth, trying to do far too many things at the same time. He didn't much appreciate the idea of their small group being led around by one who seemed to be so easily distracted, but wasn't about to take charge anytime soon. Glenn still didn't really trust the other adventurers he had been lumped together with.

Glenn walks over to the shopkeep, silently hands the goblin some gold, and picks up the gloves off the table, putting them on. He then headed back into the throne room to see what the ruckus was all about.

Mr. Skunkwhistle! My pockets are rather empty for the moment. Would you agree to a little barter trade? I have here an absolutely vicious little shortsword that I would love to trade for that there phylactery of action!

Whaddayasay? I'll even throw in this bottle of raisinjack. Lamid vintage. Town's completely destroyed, so it's a true rarity.

Bluff to gain 'discount' - 14 + 13 = 27.

Much of the group engages in trade and barter, with Garrmondo picking up a fine new belt and Glenn slipping on a pair of gloves likely to aid in his swordsmanship. After dismantling much of the remaining fireplace in a search for additional loot, Cal comes up empty and attempts to fast-talk his way into a real bargain. In his enthusiasm, he confuses the facts. Skunkwhistle squints across the counter, and issues a short scornful laugh.

"Lamid destroyed? Not likely, by my reckoning, unless you lot want to claim to have thrown yourselves down the pit. More's the pity, but I expect the Lamidans are doing just as well for themselves as they were when you arrived. Besides, the bottle's got 'Hallowfeld' stamped right on it. I'm not sure when I was born, surfacer, but it wasn't yesterday. As for your sword, well. If I wanted a blade that would hurt anyone who tried to swing it I imagine that goblin craftsmanship is more than up to that task. Much as I'd like to close a deal with you, I'd be losin' money any way you tilt it."

Puyet hauls Gary out of the throne-pit, the terrified little goblin clinging to the rope for dear life. No gnomes seem to have pursued him upward, and when Cal leans over the throne and peers down he sees nothing below but the sunrod Gary dropped in terror. It looks to be only about 30 feet down, but Gary seems awfully unlikely to be willing to go and fetch it.

My face reddening with shame at my failure to bluff, I squeezed my way past Skunkwhistle's goblins, and test the door to the north.

Cal swings open the north door. In the room beyond stands a magnificent pedestal, nearly 8 feet high from top to bottom. Atop this great pedestal stands a breathtaking staff of the highest quality: finely polished rosewood inlaid with elaborate patterns of gold and festooned with precious gems. Based purely on the market value of the gems he can see, Cal estimates the staff to be worth at least 20,000 in gold coin — even presuming the faint white glow around the staff isn't evidence of some magical property, which seems unlikely. Between the impressive length of the staff and the height of the pedestal itself, the staff reaches from the top of the pedestal to the very ceiling.

A fine red rug is laid beneath the pedestal, and a small sign is posted just to the south of the rug. The sign reads:

"INDESTRUCTIBLE STAFF OF THE AVALANCHE! FREE TO GOOD HOME."

A broad pair of double doors lead west, and a stairwell leading downward is hewn roughly out of the north wall.