This won't do. Who do these elves think they are anyway? And do they not have the memory of how there ancestors where once beaten down en masse by the Ancestral Iregard Tire Iron of Legend?

"Aye, we can take these turkeys if that's what you lot want, you'll get no protest from me!"

Stonum immediately begins packing his blunderbuss in anticipation of the coming conflict, lest his companions choose to try and parley with these most vile of all creatures. Even the scream of the bugbear is barely enough to get him to turn his head, deafening as it may be.

"Hop on furball, things are about to get rough. You'll cry us a river over your shit-shack once we've taken care of these pests!"

Prepare to terminate elves with EXTREME prejudice.

"Let's keep a level head about this," Skittles says reassuringly to Stonum, placing a calming hand on the dwarf's furry arm. The cockroach turns and addresses the elves.

"My elven breathren: I believe we can reach a compromise. What is it we can give you to earn safe passage? The secret of fire? The location of our buried treasure? Sexual favors from our ambidextrous blob friend? I could teach you ancient roach meditation techniques, guaranteed to make your carapace feel 20 years younger."

A terrible bellow grows in volume behind them as they ponder the matter of the obstinate elves.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH. Whew."

The elves chatter amongst themselves, discussing Skittles' various generous (and occasionally unwholesome) offers.

"Your willingness to parley is admirable. But such things are of no value to us. We require —"

(several elves on either side of the speaker slap their hands on the barricade in an ersatz drum roll)

"Sixteen hot apple pies. Restrain your pet dwarf, or the number of pies we require shall be tenfold. Tenfold!"

"Also make them get us some pasta sauce!" shouts an elf somewhere in the back. The negotiator nods. "Yes. You will bring us all the sauce, or on your heads be it."

The elves duck back into cover as Stonum points his blunderbuss unsteadily in their general direction. The giggling resumes immediately.

"This is ridiculous and a waste of time."

Doc leisurely turns the motorcycle off the road and begins driving in a 20 meter or so radius around the blockade.

"And everyone knows elves are the worst trolls anyway. You know what are the best trolls? Trolls. You idiots."

"what, you mean we're LETTING THEM LIVE!?!"

Stonum, though not too pleased with the turn of events, is not insane enough to take on a group of elves on their own turf alone. "In due time", he thinks to himself as he follows the rest of the crew.

"you sissy girly boys are lucky my friends are bleeding-heart pacifists, or you would have felt the cold of my iron upside your little braided heads!"

That's it, let them off with a warning.

Squeeze has a mental list of Things I Want To Ravish, but elves were rather low on that. Too flighty. One moment strokey lickey, next moment DO YOU LIKE RAT CAKE? I LIKE RAT CAKE. A RAT CAKE IS A CAKE MADE OF RATS. IN A CAKE.

Still, as scattered as elves could be, there's always the possibility of a freak elf that can concentrate on something for more than 45 seconds at a time. Squeeze follows behind the good doctor, but looks out for danger.

Perception: 13+4=17

"Lord Rockington! They're gone... off-road!"

"Off... the road? Impossible. If you went blind suddenly, just admit it. There's no shame in sudden inexplicable blindness. Remember Dink? He was blind for about six years until we got him that inflatable cowboy hat he kept asking for. We treated him with dignity and respect except for all those times we intentionally let him walk off the overpass."

"Regardless, Most Rocking One. They appear to be driving on the dirt rather than the sfalt."

"The fools. On their heads be it! A safe journey could have been theirs, for only the price of some pie! Oh, and that sauce Jubby wanted. Ooh, and maybe a nice potted plant for the booth, a poinsettia? What do you think? Possibly a fern or—"

The bickering voices of the elves fade into the the distance as the group gives the barricade a wide berth, turning back onto the highway only once out of range of the elvish bows. Caught unaware once again, Slim breaks into another sprint to catch up with Stonum's wagon and heave himself into the back.

(While it is true that trolls, particularly those from Urf-2272-Omega, are better at trolling than the high elves of Gaia-6-Lambda-Sigma-Delta, trolls are rare in Meriga. They are encountered almost exclusively in the southeast, though there are some reports that the aquatic trolls of Battin Ru have migrated as far west as Zandigo and as far north as Washing.)

Altogether their fuel carries them about 25 klicks, not quite into the heart of Enver itself, but well past the infamous 470 (whose terrifying reputation had, it seemed, been somewhat overstated). I say 25, but Squeeze travels another 2 before realizing he'd left everyone behind and turning around. His mind had been occupied by other matters.

With 4 empty fuel tanks, they find themselves stranded on a small suburban street. Little detail is visible in the quickly-encroaching gloom (Stonum's headlights have been busted for a while, and the porkers, possessing excellent night vision, had replaced theirs with an assortment of grisly trophies).

To the left, a crete wall about 2 1/2 meters high extends as far as the eye can see to both the north and south. Forward and back is the seemingly endless length of the road (the signage charmingly called it "Service Road" though it was doing them no service whatsoever). To the right, Service Road intersects with another suburban street named Fair Ax. It's lined with dozens of small two-story Ancient homes, all painted in varieties of beige. Some of the houses were practically smothered by trees; the decorative saplings planted in Ancient days were a bit unruly now. A few of the houses have lights in the windows.

A little further ahead there's another intersection on the right, leading to a street called Elm.

"Perhaps we should consider finding shelter for the night," Skittles says to his traveling companions. "For now, one of those houses should do, and once we've rested, we can see what can be scavenged."

Move towards the most defensible house that also does not have lights in the windows.

Check for any signs of traps or occupancy. Perception (15+9=24)

"Wait, friends. I think I remember something about th-oh, hello there friendly bear. We're glad you could join us. Anyway, I definitely remember reading something about this area. It was something about..."

Do I know anything about anything? Maybe!
Conspiracy: 10 + 3 = 13.
Stupid brain! Think better!

"You will never know the sweet, sweet nectar of a midnight tryst if you think that way, friend Skittles. Observe, you must think of a palace as a forbidden lover, and think of the lover as a forbidden palace. Either way, your entry must be smooth, silent, and moist."


Move towards the least defensible house that also has lights in the windows.
Think translucent! Peek into a window.
Stealth check: 12+8=20

Though this looked nothing like the towering metropolis they'd heard about, this area was still presumably Enver territory. That is, it fell under the jurisdiction of Enver, the last dinosaur, after whom the city was purportedly named. A fearsome monster, a hundred times the size of a man, black-winged and terrible. Those who displeased him were flung into space. Or eaten whole. The legends were a bit inconsistent on that. Doc remembered the campfire songs of his youth with a shudder.

Enver, the last dinosaur
Showed me a world I never saw before

You could interpret that either way, really. Doc decides to hang back for a bit to see if either of his friends are devoured by a scaly nightmare.

Squeeze slithers up to a lit window. Inside is a fairly well-preserved (all things considered) Ancient kitchen, with one rather obvious inhabitant: a large, bipedal cockroach (not unlike Skittles, save for being not quite as tall and a bit stockier overall and not translucent and, Squeeze must be honest with himself, somewhat more handsome). Squeeze watches quietly as the big bug pulls a rusty can of butter beans ("Institutional Size") out of a cupboard and pries it open with a large knife that Squeeze might have found threatening if he had skin or any significant internal organs to speak of. The roach wanders out of sight, and Squeeze hears a conversation elsewhere in the house.

"Wait!"

"You better find someplace to hide and keep prayin' nobody ever finds you."

"Try these on."

"Look, you crazy mother..."

"Put these on."

"Hey! Stay away from me."

"I'm tellin' you, you dumb son of a bitch—"

The first voice is interrupted by a sound like raw beef falling onto concrete from a few stories up, a sound Squeeze is oddly familiar with (he was an easily bored child). Either the cockroach or his friend had a short temper.

Meanwhile, Skittles peers into one of the darkened homes, hoping to avoid just the sort of violent confrontation Squeeze was eavesdropping on. Judging from what he could see from the windows, this one looked reasonably safe. Hell, it looked pristine. The windows were all intact, and the paint looked like it might have been applied sometime in living memory. For all that the house was well-maintained there was no sign of any occupants. Hell, Skittles didn't even see any dust.

"IT'S SIX O'CLOCK!" announces a fish-shaped clock on a second-floor bedroom wall, wriggling in a grotesque imitation of life. It then demands to be taken to the river and dropped in the water.

"I don't know about the rest of you lot, but I'm tired, and this house looks nice and cozy. Do what you like, but I'm going to find some dinner, then I'm going to get a good night's sleep, and tomorrow we can meet the neighbors. Give me a holler if you go off and get yourselves in trouble."

Try to open the front door.

18+?=? for lockpicking (not sure which category this is, but I think it's safe to say I picked it if it was locked.
9+0=0 (not so stealthy)
9+4=13 (check for food/bad guys)

Skittles opens the door and following his deep-rooted instincts, heads straight for the kitchen to check the cupboards.

Squeeze frowns. He was rather hoping for a less angry, more buxom and/or studly prospect - though that cockroach had a certain chitinous charm. Still, with something potentially more unpleasant than a waiting lover within, Squeeze decides not to force his way into the house. He was, after all, a lover, not a rapist. And like any true gentleman, Squeeze decides that perhaps this cockroach and whoever else is in there would be a little more pliable later on if he left some of his more potent pheromones behind.

He makes his way over to the nearest door and paints, in transparent goo, a big letter S on the door, then finishes by pasting the goo all over the doorknob. A nice, hormone-laden calling card for later, should the party linger in this neighborhood for more than a day. With that, Squeeze makes his way back to his companions. As he does so, he looks out for potential sources of fuel for the vehicles.

EDIT

looool, fine

As is inevitable in this cruel world, one day Squeeze would die, and Skittles knew exactly what would go on his tombstone.

http://i781.photobucket.com/albums/y...etombstone.jpg

EDIT: Damn it, you edited your post. Put it back :(
EDIT II: YAY

Against his better judgment, the doctor follows Skittles into what appears to be an almost-assuredly inhabited dwelling.

Skittles miraculously picks the lock with... a match, I guess. The door wasn't even locked but it's a useful skill to have. Regardless, he's not prepared for the door to pop open so easily, and tumbles forward onto the carpet with a dull thud.

Keeping an eye on the tacky (if well-maintained) furnishings, he makes his way to the kitchen cupboards. Doc is just behind him, seeming awfully nervous. Maybe he had a problem with talking fish. It was sort of weird when you thought about it. Alas, the cupboards are crammed full of cans of evaporated milk and not much else. Still no sign of any residents (excepting a tiny mouse startled when Skittles opens the cupboard doors).

The fish upstairs pipes up again, demanding that they not worry and recommending they should be happy instead.

Squeeze searches the various wagons around the neighborhood, but finds no fuel. He does find an unopened foil bag of Froditos ("The chip that bites back!"), however.

Stonum remains slumped over the steering wheel of his wagon, the aftereffects of his indulgence beginning to catch up with him. Slim slips into yet another catatonic trance, staring slackjawed at the sky. The sky is just so big.

A little disappointed at not finding fuel, Squeeze picks up the bag of Froditos, and then slips into the house that Skittles and the good doctor had wandered into. A cursory inspection of the kitchen yields cans of evaporated milk. Does a cat live here? Squeeze is tempted to take a can, but decides against it. It's odd that the door was unlocked, assuming that Skittles had not simply picked the door, but the owner may just come back...

Suddenly, an interesting thought. Skittles needs to get laid.... yesssss, he really needs to get laid. Mmmhmmm. And conveniently, there just so happens to be a handsome cockroach living in this town. With that thought in mind, Squeeze tracks down Skittles in the house.

"Friend Skittles.. I have found a lovely cockroach in one of the houses. Perhaps I would have seduced him or her or it. But you are my friend, and I will gladly stay out of your way if you want ..ah, someone for your bedroll tonight. Are you interested?"

Skittles ponders the question for a moment, and realizes he can't remember the last time he had a good roll in the dung with a supple female. "Do you have some kind of plan, Squeeze? Given the noises coming from that house, I don't think I can just walk up and ring the doorbell. Maybe she'd like some milk?"

The grog's hold on Stonum is starting to lighten a bit, and so he finally finds the energy to unstick his head from the steering wheel of the wagon. Not remembering much of what went down, Stonum is somewhat surprised that he is now in a completely different locale than what he last remembers, and quite amazed at the fact that his wagon isn't parked in a pole or some such other hard object. Drinking and driving had already had an unhappy ending for him in the past. More than once. He thinks he remembers something about elves, but he brushes the idea off, as he doesn't see any trophies from the battle lying around his wagon. It must have been a bad dream.

As he ponders fondly all the other vehicles he had driven and wrecked in the past, Stonum comes to the realization that it is now nighttime. He also notices that his companions seem to have wandered off. With his tire iron in hand, he somehow finds the energy to get out of the wagon and go look for them. After a small swig of the juice, of course.

Move towards and enter the house where Skittles and Squeeze are, take a few (5) cans of evaporated milk for later, and stand ready to crush some skulls.

"Give it a few hours, my friend. Then walk up to the door, and say that you're 'S'. It's all taken care of for you."

Slimey wink. Give directions to the house.
Does Squeeze notice the fish clock? If so, take a closer look at it. Prod it in the eye with the Saturday Night Cleaver.

Left exposed to the moonlight, Slim begins to melt slowly (as is the nature of bugbears). The smell of melting bugbear is often thought to attract yetis.

Though Squeeze knows precious little about the finer points of identifying gender, he does his best to arrange a midnight rendezvous for his high-strung friend. Then he sludges his way upstairs to take a closer look at the talkative fish clock, which is currently informing everyone in earshot that it left a good job in the city but people on the river are happy to give.

Alas, Squeeze's cleaver-based tampering damages the fish's beautiful singing voice.

Woooooooooorkiiiiiiiiiin foooooor theeeee maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan eeeeeveeeeery—

The story of "Proud Mary" (presumably an Ancient moral fable of some kind) grinds to a halt as Squeeze jams his cleaver into the gears. Now he may never know if she kept rollin' or not.

The broken fish tumbles off the wall, revealing a recessed metal panel hidden behind.

An abrupt smashing sound punctuates Skittles' continued examination of the milk cans. Peering around a corner, he sees a pile of fragmented wood where the front door had been. Stonum had entered the building in his usual way, and the dwarf quickly began hoarding the milk cans for himself.

As Squeeze peers at the odd panel, the fish issues a last, plaintive cry of sadness for its lost home, its tiny internal motors seizing up completely.

—rythiiiiiiiiing's beeetterrrrrrrrrrr doooooown wheeeere iiiiiiit's weeeeeeeeetteeeerrrr—

That was unexpected. Poking the fish was an act of idle curiosity, but it seems as though there was more to it than-

zxzft-LL CHECK. SHANGH-zzzzsffsmtt *BONG*

Squeeze staggers slightly. Blasted phantom letters and sounds in his head. They were showing up a little more often than before, but as usual, nobody else seems to have noticed. Not for the first time, Squeeze tells himself he needs to get his head checked.. someday, and then put that thought out of his mind. Much like how many Ancients treated their teeth doctors.

But this metal panel behind the fish.. this was intriguing. Certainly worth checking out. Squeeze splits a pseudopod into multiple probing feelers and begins investigating.

Mechanics: 10+7=17

Simple enough. The fish had served as a guardian for an ancient strongbox; the combination lock gives way easily under Squeeze's delicate feelers (he has a great expertise in tweaking small knobs). Inside is:

A bunch of green papers wrapped in rubber bands;

Some shrink-wrapped blocks of white powder;

and a list of about 30 names, each followed by a string of numbers. Ancients had such strange names. You never saw a single Jame, for examples. Only James. Did they always travel in pairs? Squeeze once saw an old newspaper clipping involving a "James James III"; the logistics haunted him for weeks. Worse was "Robert Robertson", which implied reproductive habits that — well, there were plenty of theories as to why the Ancients had died out.

Outside, the unbearable (ha!) moonlight continues to liquify Slim. He'll be nothing but a puddle in a nice suit in a minute or two. The howl of the yeti echoes in the darkness.

Skittles manages to get a few hours of shuteye, even with Stonum's drunken rummaging. He awakens several hours later feeling refreshed and ready for his rendevous with the voluptuous (if Squeeze was to be believed) cockroach next door. Ever mindful of making a good first impression, Skittles procures a brick of the white powder and several cans of milk. The post apocalypse is no time to beat around the bush; he'd skip straight to the erotic milk bath and body-powdering on the first date.

"Wish me luck," he calls to Squeeze, then heads over his date's house and knocks on the door.

Upon seeing the open safe, Stonum immediately grabs the papers, and heads off to attend to his bowel movements, but not before grabbing himself a brick of the white powder for later analysis.

He can understand why someone would want to stash poo wipes in a safe, what with the rarety of good, sturdy, and clean ones in these parts, but the powder on the other hand he could not explain. Surely it had some properties that could come in handy.