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

1 Die Roll Diplomacy

"How dwarf boss treat you? Treat bad? Sometimes murder? No work benefits? That unfair. What your pay? We work for boss who give pension. Who give sick days. Who give two week vacation and holiday bonus."

"Why work for dwarf? No proud orc work for dwarf. Dwarf worse than orc. Why you stand for this?"

"This dumb. You much smarter than this. Do not work with Dwarf. Do not work until demands are met. Rise up with orc brothers. Show orc brothers you are proud orc. Show proud by being better than this. Be true orc!"

Words of Friendship

"Strike! Orcs strong by self, but orcs really really strong as friends!"

Diplomacy (?) check
19+13+5 = 37. Hopefully enough to make them strike.

"We talk to dwarf man for you. Tell him demands. Tell him you not stand for poor treatment. We tell him what proud orc needs, proud orc gets!"

Regardless of success:

Glock leads the party to the dwarf's big house.

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Delic shoves Glock hard.

"STUPID ORC. Know nothing of Orcs. Beat flesh, eat meat raw, drink booze. Orc orc orc."

FELIPE NO

"Is true what you say, Secret Orc. We not stand any more for this shabby treatment. We has a dignity!"

The five orcs guarding the portcullis quickly work themselves into a raging frenzy, tearing apart the entry hall before rushing headlong into the fortress under Glock's urging. The orcs run screaming into a sweltering forge, with the Horde close behind them. Five grimy, soot-covered duergar are working grimly at their anvils, when the Revolutionary Guard marches in.

"DWARF MAN!" shouts the most talkative orc. "WE HAS A SEVERAL REASONABLE DEMANDS!"

He noisily clears his throat.

"Firstly, we demands a half-hour break for each 16-hour work day! Seconds, we demands snacks in the lobby! Thirdishly, we demands a comprehensive plan of medical treatment and prevention coverage! Fourwise, we demands a safety railing on the bridges!"

The eldest of the duergar wipes the sweat from his brow, and stares at the orcs for a long, long moment before burying his face in his hands and muttering to himself.

"Let's jes' go up to th' surface and get some slaves, I said. But nooo, why not hire cheap, local orcish labor? Save ourselves a trip, he said."

He glowers at the orcs, patting his red-hot forgehammer against his palm threateningly.

"Well now, let's negotiate on that, yeh? Here's my counter-offer. You feck off and get back t'work, and in return I won't have ye hanged on a noose of your own intestines. Frankly that's more than I owe ye."

Negotiations, as you might expect, break down rapidly, and Urwol and his cohorts resolve to engage in a bit of spirited union-busting.

We could actually play this one out, but there's no real need to. The orcs have a much better average damage-per-round than the duergar do, and that's not even factoring the Horde into matters. We can reasonably assume that the newly formed Orc Dungeon Workers Coalition wins this particular fight, minus a healing surge.

After a short and bloody scuffle, the duergar blacksmiths lay dying on the floor alongside two of the striking orcs. The orc spokesman seems a little troubled by this development.

"This problem always with middle management. Always they trying to be tough guys. I take this all the way to the top! I get justice!"

He claps Glock on the back.

"Friend secret orc, I not ask you to come with. Your mission of cow man is as important as my mission of quality working condition. But I do ask you! Keep eye out while you here. Stop scab moving in! Scab is enemy of every honest orc!

Shouting something loud and incoherent, the three surviving orcs charge out the door and across one of the bridges spanning the chasm. The Horde is left alone in the first stronghold with a pile of corpses. Urwol's dead as a doornail; any information about the location of cow-men is going to have to be assessed elsewhere.

Orc encounter successfully finessed: 875 XP (175 each)
Blacksmith battle: 900 XP (112 each, since it's split with the surviving orcs)

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

Delic does the Orc Dance Of Gormagga Kraal. (Staying in place, kneeling then standing quickly, pumping his shoulders up and down while grunting the word "Kraal" over and over)

Jam it back in, in the dark.

Glad to be able to use definite articles again, Glock nevertheless hopes that his door man friend becomes the Eva Peron of the orc unionized labour movement. Only without the cancer. He was pretty, as far as orcs go. Maybe someday soon, all orcs will have a photo of Door Man in their house, next to a painting of Our Lady of Orcalupe while they eat orc tacos and get earfuls from their orc wives.

Snapping out of his reverie, Glock figures he might as well loot the corpses, starting with the head gray midget, and proceeds to go through them all in turn. Even the poor orcs, although considering how much pay they got, these poor bastards probably don't have much outside of their rusty plate mail.

Lootin' lootin' lootin'

There's nowhere I can't reach.

Gheth blinked. He had been struggling to keep up with the orcs and the rest of his crew, so that when he arrived in the room, it appeared the damage had already been done. Pleased that things went over relatively bloodlessly, Gheth says a prayer to Avandra, for surely she had a hand in their good fortune.

While the others mill about, he busies himself laying the orcs and duergar in repose. The orcs deserved that much, and the duergar, well, at least it made them easier to loot.

That done, he finds he is primarily interested in the the nature of the operation going on in this cavern. He inspects the forges proper and any crafted items the dwarves may have made.

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

Before he even had a chance to check out the goods, Glock had an idea he wanted to take care of first.

Thankfully the dragon had laid the bodies out nice and flat.

Made for easier beheadings.

Taking out his sword and hacking away at the neck of the lead dwarf, Glock slowly but surely worked the man's head free of his body.

Grabbing one of the fallen orc's spears, he quickly ran off to the fort's entrance.

He then proceeded to find a spot near the portcullis where he could stand the blunt end of the spear into the ground, wedging it between two floor stones. He then impaled the head on the other end.

Covering his fingers in blood draining from the head, he then began to write a message on the wall behind the door as large as he could. It would be almost childish fingerpainting if the red ochre hadn't been what it was.

SCAB GETS WHAT
SCAB DESERVES

Yeah, that should do it. Door Man would be happy with this.

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

Kraal Kraal Kraal

How ya doing, buddy?

Glock loots the corpses, because by god that's what you do. But he only finds completely mundane weapons and armor; chainmail, spears, warhammers — because that's all they have on them.

After laying out the dead respectfully, Gheth takes a closer look around the forge. While there are racks and racks of completed weapons, all of them look to be about the same quality you could get anywhere else. Tha barrels of mineral oil and stacks of iron ingots might have some resale value as well, but you'd need a wagon just to drag this stuff back to the Hall.

Though Garrmondo is last to seek out plunder (save Gordok, who busies himself nibbling on a dead forgehand's beard), he's the only one to find any loot worth a tinker's damn. The chest in the northern bedroom contains a sizeable treasure of 220 gold pieces, as well a hefty iron sceptre topped with a human skull. It's not apparently magical, but it might make an interesting curio for someone.

The papers on Urwol's desk are fairly uninteresting: mostly the normal documentation you'd find at any professional smithing operation. Supply requisition, payroll, shipping records... and a request from Urwol to the higher-ups that he be supplied with

"...some of the harder-working slaves from the dining hall, as the greenskins I'm paying to stand around and look scary are dumber than a sack of rocks. I work too damned hard to chit-chat with every half-clever idiot that waltzes in claiming to be an orc in disguise. It's only a matter of time until some young bravo with a shiny new sword wanders in and finds out more than he ought to."

The letter is heavily wrinkled and half-buried under the other papers - Urwol obviously never had the guts to actually make the request. Judging from the bulk of the orders, most of Urwol's products were shipped up to the Hall to be sold at the Grimmerzhul trading post — but when Glock stopped by the trading post earlier, the only metal on sale was the spoons packed in with the Menzoberranzan absinthe. Where are all these weapons going?

Garrmondo also rifles through the chests in the other bedroom, but finds nothing other than clothing and other personal effects.

Delic kraals amid the din. The minor wounds he suffered during the skirmish are not healing quickly enough for his satisfaction.

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

Glock nabs his share of the cash, 44 dollars, and figures that the skull on a stick would be useful for pranks or something else nefarious should it come to it, and grabs it along with the papers. He can use the papers to ask about at the shop later. Or, at the very least, he can write on the back of them as a map should he be stuck in this god forsaken maze much longer.

After all is collected, he then looks around for the room full of cow people skeletons. It can't be far from here.

Move to southwest door, open it, take a look inside

FELIPE NO

Gordok stashes what coins he can and a severed hand in the Glock bank. They'll be safe there.

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

The door opens into an open roofless corridor, at the end of which is another small fortress much like the one the Horde has just (ahem) cleaned out. Rather than a portcullis, this structure is sealed by a simple wooden door. The exterior wall of the structure is peppered with arrow slits, all of them directed toward the bridge to the north.

How ya doing, buddy?

Glock goes back a little bit and grabs one of the other dwarf bodies, and drags it to the opening that leads to the north bridge.

"Let's find out if that place is occupied."

He then lifts up the body and tosses it outward, as far down towards the center of the bridge as he possibly can, watching to see if any arrows are fired from the crenellations, and how many.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

There's no response to the dead duergar being flung onto the bridge. Either nobody's manning the post, or they're just occupied with putting down the orcish insurrecton.

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

The robot had given a dwarf flight. Gordok's eyes light up.

"Me! Me! Me!!"

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

1 Die Roll More skill checks than fightin

Glock considers for a moment tossing the small man off the side of the bridge, but decides against it after a little bit of thought.

He rejoins Garrmondo at the southern door, and slowly opens it, all stealth like, so that if anyone is in the room, they won't notice it.

Stealth check

Of course, being a god damn robot, being quiet when you're huge, metal, and make creaky gearing noises all the time is kinda difficult.

I was speaking idiomatically.

Though Glock's attempt to enter the second stronghold by stealth results largely in him tripping over his own feet, it turns out not to matter much. Nobody seems to be patrolling the entrance hall, and any noise Glock makes is drowned out by the sound of a furious voice shouting in Dwarven. Gordok makes a half-hearted attempt to translate, but is distracted by his desire to be tossed. Something about slaves, dinner, orcs. Probably not important really.

The hall splits off to the left and right, with wide double doors at each end. Smaller doors lead off from the left and right off the south corridor.

The doors aren't actually supposed to be ajar

What kind of toxic man-thing is happening now?

Garrmondo stealthily creeps up on the door, slowly nudging it open.

The cheese wheels, smoked hams, and ale kegs in the storage closet are taken completely by surprise. They surrender immediately.

How ya doing, buddy?

All the ham and swiss he could want, but no bread or sandwich sauce. 'Tis a cruel world.

While the humans could make their own mayo, the bread was another matter entirely. Unless he used slabs of leather, there was just not gonna be any getting around this.

Fuck it. No point in being civilized.

Glock punches one of the cheese wheels so hard it gibs into delicious bite sized pieces. He eats a shit tonne of it but stores some for snacks later.

Chow like a motherfucker
Save a pound of cheese for later

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

Kraal Kraal Kraal

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Glock exits the room of deliciousness and leads the party to the door where he believes the noise is coming from.

When he gets there, he listens and tries to determine what is being said by tehe angry bits of the dwarven population.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

Gheth eats some of the frightened provisions in the closet, and in what must have looked like a matter of minutes to everyone else, Gheth felt re-energized. It was as if he had spent a weekend at the Sulphur Spas of Frendragl, complete with sweet plum liquors and lots of hot, hot dragonborn cloaca.

Rejuvenated and eager to get the party moving again, Gheth gives Garrmondo a few light shoves towards the door and the audible conversation.

"Come on, friend, once more into the breach. And see if you can get this other motherkraller to break down some doors with you."

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

The team gorges themselves on some cheese they find lying on the floor in a closet two miles beneath sea level. Glock smuggles some cheese in his pants, and he and his dragonborn ally go to listen more cautiously to the conversation at the southern double doors. Sufficiently pacified by the ingestion of massive amounts of dairy goodness, Gordok is grudgingly coaxed into translating.

"Damn these humans! I've seen boulders move faster than this! And the boulders were smarter to boot! I've been waiting a good 15 minutes for my supper and I've not seen so much as a hank of bread!"

"Lord Rundarr, you cannot blame the slaves for that. Much of the kitchen staff is occupied in helping to put down the orcish rebellion. I ordered the thralls to fetch you a snack from the pantry, but he ran back saying dangerous-looking men were looting it — one of them matching the description of the so-called 'Secret Orc' that the greenskins are touting as their inspiration. With all due respect, Lord, there may be more important things to worry about than your hunger."

"Pah! Let them come. No orc will get past me. I won't be dragged from my mealtime by a bunch of upstarts and rabble-rousers!"

There is a loud crash, and the angry duergar issues several noisy grunts of effort.

"Sir! Please, don't stand on the table. I'm sure dinner will be served just as soon as order is restored!"

"DO YOU HEAR ME, WORMS? COME AND FACE ME! COME AND FACE RUNDARR! RUNDARR THE MIGHTY! RUNDARR THE FURIOUS! RUNDARR THE HUNGRY!

AND BRING ME A SANDWICH!"

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

1 Die Roll Always bluffin bluffin son

The robot has a quick idea. Shooing the rest of the party towards the north door so they're out of sight for a moment, he quickly scurries back to the pantry room and removes one of the poison glands he saved from his pocket.

Carefully poking a hole in the end of one of it, without touching the foul liquid inside, he used it like a cake decorating bag and piped out a bit of poison on all the food, letting it quickly be absorbed by the porous ham and cheeses inside.

He quickly slices up enough pieces to prepare a snack, and plates it.

Yelling out the door towards the room of doom, Glock disguises his voice to the best of his ability and says "This thrall has made your appetizers, sir. Please send in a member of your waiting staff to collect it."

Bluff check
Hope 18's enough

Before anything else happens, he quickly retreats out of sight with the rest of the group, and waits to see if it's taken to, and summarily digested by, the assholes inside.

I was speaking idiomatically.

Delic reaches out and grabs Garrmondo's collar firmly. Making like he's about to kick him in the ass and through the door, he pauses and waits to see what Glock does.

At the very least, Garrmondo will make a good battering ram.

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