[DnD] Secret Cow Level (GFF D&D Adventure 6)

3 Dice Rolls *DAMAGE

Sea cucumber needs food badly. Dead hobgoblin on ground looks tasty. Om nom nom nom. Burp! The belch ushers forth an arctic blast reminiscent of the cold wind that howled against the high cliffs but a short while ago. The sea cucumber recalls his zombie friends and smiles a ghastly smile.

Move to J5
Consume dead hobgoblin
Tundra Wind

proof

The Hobgoblin Warcaster is pushed to G11, receives 11 cold damage and is knocked prone.
Hobgoblin D has a wall in the way and therefore is not pushed to anywhere in particular. However, he too receives 11 cold damage and is knocked prone.

The sea cucumber continues to pilfer through the bloody sediment for sustenance. Yum yum.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

6 Dice Rolls a fireball in the future!

Ray of Enfeeblement: 14 damage to Soldier B, weakened until end of Bob's next turn

Garrmondo saves vs Daze

Tundra Wind: 11 damage to Warcaster and Soldier D; Warcaster pushed to G11, Soldier D pushed to F8 (sorry, the language of the power indicates that you must push if at all possible) and bloodied

All dazed enemies recover

Motsognir drinks one Potion of Healing, since he's dazed and can only take one action; regains 10 HP.

Motsognir saves vs Daze

Soldier C's Formation Strike: 7 damage to Garrmondo

Delic's Insightful Strike is already used, let's.... hmmm. Rain of Steel? Yeah, any enemies who start their turn next to Delic get a beating. That sounds fun, and more importantly it's the only real option after you get down from the barrels.

Bob, Garrmondo, Gordok, Motsognir, Hobgoblin Soldiers, Delic, Hobgoblin Warcaster

Might fluff this up a bit later but for right now let's keep the game rollin'

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

3 Dice Rolls CUUUURSEE

Another hobgoblin had come for dinner. The sea cucumber serves up an appetizer of Warlock's Curse and a tasty course of Eldritch Blast.

Cast Warlock's Curse and Eldritch Blast on Hobgoblin B

Hobgoblin B takes 8 damage from the Eldritch Blast and 1 curse damage

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

1 Die Roll hit

move to H7
Second Wind
Viper's Strike to Hobgoblin D

I was speaking idiomatically.

4 Dice Rolls *Damage

Figuring that the general hobgoblin soldiery were battered enough and still keen to end this fight before we all got turned into slugs every full moon, I turned my attention to the mage. A strange feeling of meloncholy had fallen over me, as if I would not be seeing much of my new friends in the immediate future so I decided I might as well do something really impressive, just in case I never got another chance.

Gathering my will for a really impressive spell, I concentrated hard on my new staff, all thoughts of my big icy hand spell being immediatly dispelled and replaced by knowledge of my fuck off great big fireball spell. I edged forward to get a better view before launching a huge bastard fireball across the room, hoping to immolate the mage and half the remaining soldiers in the process.

Move to K5, use Mnemonic staff power to remember Fireball, Fireball at F8

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

1 Die Roll flail vs. garrmondo

Though the fight's going fairly well by Horde standards, Bob can't shake a sense of impending doom. It seems unlikely that the goblins could pose any real threat to him, but all the same he decides to speed the battle toward its natural conclusion. No use in dawdling.

A tiny ember bursts into life in Bob's open palm, and he flicks it toward the opposite end of the room. The fire grows as it flies through the chamber, and as it touches down it explodes into a truly massive conflagration.

A little something to remember him by.



Fireball: 18 damage to Warcaster (bloodied), 18 damage to Soldier B (killed), 9 damage to Soldier D

Garrmondo raises his blade against the soldier in front of him, only to watch the hobgoblin fall to the floor charred and smoldering. The fighter shrugs, and turns to smash open the jaw of the soldier behind him.

Crushing Surge: 11 damage to Soldier C (bloodied)

The sea cucumber continues its writhing and mysterious performance, drawing a luminous rod from — perhaps it is better not to think on it. Even as the soldier reaches up to clutch at his ruined face, the cucumber fires a jet of black fire into his open mouth. The hobgoblin screams in agony as his mouth ignites with a hateful fire which burns but does not consume.

Eldritch Blast: 10 damage to Soldier C, cursed (B was all kinds of dead so I just kinda nudged you over hope that's okay =/ )

Motsognir has had quite enough of things exploding in his face, and he scrambles atop the barrels for a breather.

Second Wind: Motsognir's HP +12

The soldier before Delic raises his flail to strike, but Delic is ready. With a flick of his wrist, his bastard sword slices like lightning through the hobgoblin's neck. The soldier topples to the floor, blood spouting from the ragged hole where his head used to be.

Beginning of Soldier D's turn: Rain of Steel does 6 damage at a minimum, killing Soldier D

Delic, Hobgoblin Warcaster, Bob, Garrmondo, Gordok, Motsognir, Hobgoblin Soldier

FELIPE NO

Overenthused with his quick, clean kill of the last hobgoblin, Delic's noble bearing cracks slightly and he runs straight at the table, grabbing it and driving it into the hobgoblin in an attemping to pin it to the wall.

"GAHHUHRUHFUHFU HUHURRRUHR TABLE!" he yells - though anyone can guess why.

Sprint to H5, drives self into table full-force, attempt to pin Hobgoblin C against the wall

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

6 Dice Rolls Soggy has acrobatics training!

Delic throws his weight behind the table, hoping to use it to smash the last of the soldiers against the wall. Sadly, the battered old table splinters immediately against the hobgoblin's raised shield.

The warcaster waves his staff at Motsognir, and the dwarf goes flying off the barrels toward Bob. Luckily his quick reflexes land him on his feet, but it's still hard on the ol' knees.

Force Lure: 12 damage, Falling (mitigated by Acrobatics Training): 3 damage. Motsognir bloodied.

Bob, Garrmondo, Gordok, Motsognir, Hobgoblin Soldiers, Delic, Hobgoblin Warcaster

Jam it back in, in the dark.

3 Dice Rolls Flame damage

Seeing the warcaster throwing around my dwarven love, I became extremely agitated and in my rage, couldnt' decide which of my two stock spells to throw at him. I garbled the words but to my astonishment, both activated at once, slamming the mage with a frosty beam and blast of fire at the same time!

Ray of Frost at Warcaster, spend action point, scorching burst at same

There's nowhere I can't reach.

2 Dice Rolls *bitch gonna get shook up

Munching on delicious hobgoblin carcass the sea cucumber catches scent of his earlier beckoner and provider of explody goods to the face. All this food gave the great worm quite the odd headache. He seemed to recall an odd memory of being told not to eat too much or too fast but he couldn't recall just what or who that might have been. The warcaster would be a good release. Yes, he would.

Diabolic Grasp

A dark talon of darkness forms around the Hobgoblin Warcaster tearing repeatedly at his flesh (for 13 damage) and as a farewell drags the cut and battered and burned flailing cretin over to the wall (E6) before dissipating into the shadows. Ahhh... that headache was gone now.

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

2 Dice Rolls *damages

Motsognir stands up and charges at the warcaster. He loved being on that barrel. Son of a bitch must pay.

As the dwarf ran towards the magician, something else killed it. Oh well. Making a swift left, he heads for the last thing alive.

move to F6
move to G4
bloody ending

20 damage to hobgoblin C

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

Delic walks to G3, and promptly urinates in the corner.

I was speaking idiomatically.

Scorching Burst: 9 damage to Warcaster

Diabolic Grasp: 13 damage to Warcaster; killed

Bloody Ending: 20 damage to Soldier C; killed

Victory! 1000 XP (200 XP each)

The halfling crawls out from underneath the table at the end of the room, smoke pouring off him in streams. Bob's Fireball evidently picked up an unintentional victim.

"By all the toads in Hommlet, I've not seen such a thorough arse-beating since my sainted Aunt Bee caught me stealing pipeweed from poor old Farmer Anders. Mind you, he was entirely senile by then and it made him no nevermind, but Bee was always one for sticking to the principle of the thing. Still got the scars!"

Brushing soot from his vest, he strolls up to Motsognir and sticks out his hand.

"Ignatius Conmara. Reckon I owe you my life, but for now I can offer you room and board at the finest—"

Iggy's eyes travel up the length of Soggy's beard and he realizes who it is he's introducing himself to.

"Well. That's once you've spared my life and once you've saved it. Probably I ought to go ahead and volunteer to be your pack mule if I didn't think I'd just get in the way. I'm glad to see you managed to hang on the tall girl. High maintenance usually, that kind. Can't say I think much of your other companions, though."

Iggy looks doubtfully around the room: Delic relieving himself in a corner, Garrmondo pummeling an already-dead hobgoblin with his shield, and Gordok noisily absorbing the Warcaster's leather boots.

"So, why'd you and Bee part ways? Those other two I imagine just walked straight into a dragon's mouth on account of somebody told them there was candy in there, so I won't even ask after them. The story'd just make my head hurt."

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

"I killed her. With spiders."

FELIPE NO

Iggy's facade of jocularity crumbles immediately as Motsognir bluntly informs him of his aunt's unfortunate fate.

"You... you rotten..."

The halfling shoves his way out the door and down the corridor. The Horde will have to find their way deeper into Thunderspire without a guide.

A perfunctory search of the hobgoblin lair reveals nothing more valuable than some old rags. There's a half-finished game of Three-Dragon Ante on the table in back of the room, but it's not at all apparent what the hobgoblins were actually betting on.

Resigned to another long hike, The Horde shoulders their packs and resumes trudging down the seemingly-endless corridors of Thunderspire. After hours and hours of aimless wandering, they seemed to be getting no closer to either the ancient ruins or the rumored settlement. Motsognir calls a halt for the day; this far underground, only a dwarf has the faintest ability to keep track of the time. They make camp in a little room down a side corridor, just in case any belligerents come tromping up to see what happened to the slavers.

Bob offers to take the first watch, needing less sleep than the rest of them. The Horde sleeps, and The Horde dreams.

Motsognir drifts off, and it seems like only seconds later when his eyes snap open again. He looks around to see what could have disturbed his sleep, and finds that he's been abandoned. All the packs and bedrolls are still where they'd been when he laid down his head, but his companions have gone missing entirely. He cranes his neck around to look for his elven lass, but Bob is entirely absent from the chair he'd been resting in while studying his spellbooks. But the chair isn't empty.

"Don't look so surprised to see me, stone-son. I promised I'd have work for you, did I not?"

The Reaper leans forward, steepling his bony fingers.

"It took some time to think of how best to make use of the service you owe me. We don't get many dwarves on the workforce, you understand. Most of them refuse to deal with us, prattling on about their honor and their family. We have to be careful to use you to the best advantage. But as it happens, just today a... situation has come up that will make excellent use of your particular interests and talents."

A strange clicking sound becomes apparent, growing louder and louder. Motsognir hadn't heard so much clicking since he bribed the tap-dancing troupe at Goldquat's party to leave early. The noise seems to be coming from every direction.

"It is an unfortunate state of affairs that demons, as a rule, rarely get on well with one another. Every day is another series of little squabbles, power plays, turf wars.

Today, for example, the spider goddess Lolth has seen fit to irritate my particular employer with an incursion of her favorite little creatures. Now, it would be easy enough for any of us to mop up this little infestation, but we are all of us quite busy.

That's where you come in. I remembered where it was that we first contracted you, and I thought perhaps this would be an excellent personal-growth opportunity for you. To summon in supernatural aid for a few little arachnids? Obviously some kind of irrational phobia is at work. We can solve two problems at once here, I think."

The Reaper waves his hand idly, and the walls of the room dissolve into smoke. The underground tunnels of Thunderspire are entirely absent. The Reaper's little chair is the only sign of order in a seemingly endless plain of grey ash punctuated by pools of bubbling magma.

And as far as Motsognir's eyes can see — spiders. Big ones, and getting closer. The dwarf scrambles out of his bedroll, and he's on his feet with sword in hand in less than a heartbeat.

"You see, my friend? We can solve our pest problem, and you gain the benefit of... let's call it aversion therapy. Just tidy up the place and you're free to go. Just give me a shout once you've taken care of them, yes?"

The Reaper vanishes, leaving Soggy to his appointed task.

Motsognir hears, ever so faintly, an old woman's uncontrollable laughter.

For those of you going "what the fuck", knk alerted me by PM that he wished to retire Soggy. So.

————————————————————


Meanwhile, Bob is having an entirely different sort of conversation in an entirely different sort of room. The elf awakens suddenly in a pristine white office, looking across a desk at perhaps the strangest secretary he was likely ever to meet.

A luminous creature settles into the chair opposite Bob, roughly man-shaped but composed of a blazing white fire. Oddly enough, Bob doesn't perceive any warmth.

The creature heaves a massive ledger out of a drawer in the desk and spends a few moments flipping through until it finds the page it's looking for.

"Mr. Ilos Tiramnethon, correct?"

Bob frowns at the bizarre thing addressing him by his given name; no one had called him that since the unfortunate incident that drove him away from the family home. Better that no one be able to trace him back to those times; the people of his village, he had heard, had adopted the name "Tiramnethon" as a curse word which conveyed relatively complex ideas about the absurdity of living in trees while running a lumberyard but which could also be used simply to mean "idiot". He'd been driven out of more than a few towns by distant cousins recognizing him and getting inexplicable hostile over some things which were, really, ancient history.

Still, the flaming shape could at least speak comprehensibly, which is far more than anyone else he'd met in the last few months could manage.

The elf nods his head resignedly.

"We apologize for the familiarity. You prefer 'Bob', yes? Fair enough. While we understand the rationale behind your decision to hide your identity, it has caused certain issues with our bookkeeping."

The flaming creature pushes its chair back and stands up, pacing the room.

"You may recall, Mr. Tir— Bob. You may recall, Bob, an incident approximately 10 weeks ago in which you were thrown down a well. You will remember waking up at the bottom of the well, at any rate. You were quite thoroughly intoxicated at the precise time at which the descent itself occurred.

Unfortunately, Bob, the fall killed you. Splintered a rib and punctured your heart. Under normal circumstances that would have been curtains for you right there.

However, we checked against all 1,735 volumes of the Book Of Lives and found not one instance of a person named 'Bob' possessing no surname. We surmised, therefore, that despite your elvish appearance you were either some variety of particularly inept extraplanar creature for which we had no record, or else a devil or demon of some sort.

The notion of you being a demon became very popular, actually. We very nearly sent an archangel to smite you. Nobody wants to smite anyone we don't have to, I assure you. It has the nasty effect of completely removing your very essence from the universe, which is why we reserve it for Abyssal types most of the time.

As a result of being unable to locate you in the Book Of Lives, we were quite unable to scratch you off. With no one able to figure out who the hell 'Bob' was, we were unable to send a retriever to fetch your soul. That being the case, you got up and walked around for the better part of three months. Perhaps you felt some occasional chest pain. You certainly don't seem to have noticed that your heart wasn't beating."

The angel sits back down at its desk, rifling through the drawers again before brandishing a slim volume embossed with what looks like a halfling skeleton on the front cover.

"Happily, you crossed paths with a cleric of our acquaintance, a Ms. Conmara, I believe. She was very enthusiastic about helping us solve the problem of your — shall we say, defective — afterlife. It wasn't long before we could confirm who the mysterious 'Bob' was, after which it was a simple matter to cross-reference against the genetic data — but I digress.

Here you are, safe and sound where you belong. Now, this entire conversation, strictly speaking, was unnecessary. It would have been simple enough to deposit you on some fluffy cloud while you slept and feed you a story about a goblin sneaking up on you if you happened to ask.

But in truth we're all a little embarrassed about how things happened for you, and we'd like to offer you a little something by way of an apology. Bob, we're very interested in exploiting the flaws in our system before the loyal opposition catches wind of the way it works. We may have a place for you in a little thing we call Project Revenant. If you'll step this way, please?"


————————————————————

The dreams of Garrmondo, Delic, and Gordok revolve primarily around wenches, ale, and rubber trees, although some dreams may have contained different proportions of rubber tree than others.

Garrmondo is the first to wake, discovering both Motsognir and Bob missing along with all their gear. Reckoning that they must have gone scouting ahead, he quickly rouses the other two so as to catch up.

Hours later, there's still no sign of the two anywhere and Garrmondo begins to think they've deliberately gone AWOL.

At long last the trio stumbles into a wide thoroughfare lined with lanterns, with a dim-looking ogre guarding the exit into a massive open cavern beyond.

The ogre eyes them suspiciously. "More visitors? Brugg has no time to play tour guide for every small one that wanders into the Seven-Pillared Hall. You go find other strangers. Rothar's. Ale house. Tiny dragon with wings missing and his friend what refuse to take his armor off. Very rude. Brugg not like either of them. You go bother them, Brugg not talk to you any more."

The three remnants of the Horde squeeze past Brugg to begin taking in the sights of the Seven-Pillared Hall when the ogre slaps a meaty hand on Garrmondo's shoulder.

"WAIT! Tiny man no take complimentary visitor's map! DO TINY MAN WANT TO GET LOST! PROBABLY! BECAUSE TINY MAN IS STUPID!"

Brugg glares at Garrmondo balefully, slapping a rolled parchment into his hand before turning back to his duty of standing and grunting at passers-by.



1. Road of Lanterns (exit to surface)
2. Custom House
3. Deepgem Company
4. Wainwright
5. Temple of Erathis
6. Residential Apartments
7. House Azaer
8. Pigeonholes
9. Deep Stair (Underdark access)
10. Halfmoon Inn
11. Waterfall
12. Grugg & Frugg Memorial Bridges
13. The Chute
14. 30' Tall Minotaur Statue (can't miss it)
15. Gendar's Curios
16. Provisioner
17. Rothar's Taproom
18. Road of Shadows
19. Grimmerzhul Trading Post
20. Dragon Door
21. Tower of Saruun
22. Shining Road

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

Without Mrs Brugg's Famous Dark Coffee to wake him up, Delic simply follows his team, yawning the whole way.

Jam it back in, in the dark.

Gordok suddenly throws up.

A lot.

It's gross.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

The trio tromp across the Hall to Rothar's. Even if the lovebirds weren't around, a taproom is always a good place to find someone willing to get the shit kicked out of them for money.

Rothar's itself is... well, it's difficult to say. The room is so poorly-lit and smoke-filled that it's hard to get much of an impression beyond the general din and the unpleasant mossy odor. Delic puts his hand on several unpleasantly damp objects and Gordok is very nearly trampled on.

Garrmondo staggers forward until he collides with something solid at chest level and reckons that it must be the bar. Pulling a few coins out of his pouch, he waves them across in the air until a calloused hand snatches them away.

When three tankards of ale come skidding over the counter directly into his chest, he tries not to take it personally.

Garrmondo staggers from table to table looking for a place to sit, but the only free chairs are at a table occupied by an unfriendly-looking pair of ne'er-do-wells squabbling amongst themselves.

"That's the problem with you", one shouts over the din. "Always the wallflower. We're never going to pick up the fly honeys if you can't loosen up a little." It looks a lot like one of the armored fellows Garrmondo met atop the Fang, but this one's wearing chainmail on top of his plate. Seems a little redundant.

A pale green dragonborn across the table from the iron man takes a hesitant sip out of his mug, winces, and buries his snout back in Edwin Palborter's Encyclopaedium of Various Peats.

"Flies don't produce honey, last I checked. You must be thinking of bees."

"Bee honeys? No, man, that's stupid. I want to catch them, not be them."

The dragonborn slams his book shut with a thud and glowers incredulously at his companion.

"We're in a taphouse 3 miles underground and you want to catch bees? We're a stone's throw from the Underdark, any bee you might find would be a 10' tall albino covered in spikes."

"Bees? The hells are you babblin' about now, scaly? I'm talkin' about ladies, not bees! How do you even get those mixed up? They got nothin' in common!"

The iron man downs the rest of his tankard in one long draught and slams in on the table.

"Although I guess bees do have those narrow waists. That's kind of womanly."

The dragonborn buries his face in his hands, exasperated. "You don't even have genitalia", he mutters.

"WHAT'S THAT?" shouts the warforged.

"I SAID, WHY DON'T YOU SING US A GENTLE ARIA!"

Most amazing jew boots

"Well now, why didn't you just say so, home dawg?"

Reaching out behind him and pulling out his lute, Glock began to play a tune.

Get the Flash Player to play this audio file:

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

Gordok and a line of rats are drawn to this mysterious, beautiful sound.

I was speaking idiomatically.

Seeing as how he's got a small audience, it dawns on Glock that he might be able to take advantage of this situation.

"You, General Tom Thumb. Eat one of those rats and I'll buy you another beer."

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

Having emptied his stomach earlier Gordok was more than happy to comply, and besides, rat was delicious. Another beer please! Gordy smiles brightly at yet another wonderful man made of metal as he slurps down a tail and gropes around for another squeaky morsel.

FELIPE NO

Disturbed and delighted by the man's (or so he thinks. It might just be a child. It smells like it was just burped recently, at the very least) willingness to go along with what he says, Glock gets up and goes to order another jug of ale.

"Well, that was the best 2 gold I've spent in some time" he thought to himself in delicious beeping binary.

As he gives the little thing his reward, Glock realizes he's made a new friend. At the worst, all he's doing is providing copious amounts of alcohol to a minor. At best, he's got a new toy he can probably influence for the worst.

And should he ever get bored of it, at least it's small enough to punt a great distance.

"Hello small one. I am Glockenspiel McSteelchest. But you can call me Glock. [and if you do not, I will tear you in half]. Who are you?"

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

Gheth winces at the sound of gears grinding as his friend's jaw works in solemn melody.

"Look, dogs or bees, you're going to have some trouble with results. If you can ever afford an...upgrade...I may have a tincture for that. Let's see, it was gallbladder of lemur, jellyfish venom, shaved human horn..."

Gheth trails off and grimaces, realizing that not only has he missed another conversation in progress, but that it looked as if a newcomer to the conversation had just eaten a rat.

Well, more power to him. He's building a better immune system, he muses.

Jam it back in, in the dark.

Glancing back at his scaled friend, Glock just mutters "Or I could weld on a 10 inch steel pipe down there, I ain't paying you for shit. I've seen how you operate."

There's nowhere I can't reach.