Shades 003: Enter the Softshells

An outsider would think that spendin' some time in a quaint boghole town within shittin' distance o' the most notorious o' adventurer-munchin' dungeons would have its excitement. Believe you me an outsider would be the deadest kind o' wrong. Ain't much to do but some target practice here and there, but even then you get beaky townfolk askin' a bird what the blazes he's doin' and why does it have to be so fuckin' loud.

Freydann watched my face curl when handin' over Bristleback his coin for a second night here in the Inn, and offered me a place to stay in her home temporarily. I know it's a kindness motivated by the gold she smells on the Great Downward's name. But it's a kindness I'll gladly take until I've reclaimed the old Calaelen rock- which might just happen first light tomorrow. It took a whole week, but finally a gaggle o' aspirin' adventurers heeded the Great Downward Engineering Company's gilded call.

And what a gaggle they are. I know I ain't have no right to judge, havin' not left the cold stone walls o' the monastery for that long myself, but my gizzard is screechin' the soft shell alarm. At least if they're fresh they won't be expectin' too high a pay for their work.

At first glance the most strikin' o' the bunch is Amerasu, on the account o' her bein' a bipedal cat person-thing. Call 'em catfolk in the common tongue I'd wager, the creative language that it is. She says she's hunter o' sorts- swift, sharp and stealthy. Good bow arm on her by the looks o' it too. Amerasu didn't quite specify whether she preferred stalkin' the four-legged beasts o' the wild or the two-legged beasts o' the urban sprawl, but in this line o' work either will have their uses.

Next in line is a tall tusked gent callin' himself Agamemnon. Long fancy name for what, believe it or don't, appears to have hatched from the unsightly union of orc and elf. I weren't even aware that the uglies from either species were compatible, but there you go. If a shoe fits, I guess some horny critter out there'll find a way to fuck it. Agamemnon says he's a cleric, but didn't care to mention the deity he serves. He doesn't wear the usual gaudy ecclesiastical fare neither, but he's certainly totin' a cleric's decorated sense o' self-importance. Unlike most he's also got the muscle to back up all his hot air- so as long as the pointy end o' his spear is facin' the monsters the guy's welcome in my employ.

The real brawn o' the party is a solid dwarven man with most bizarre name for a dwarf I ever did hear- Shnookums. His parents must have been drinkin' deeply o' that dwarven ale when they named him 'cause I ain't able to even begin decodin' what the hell kind o' language that name is in. In contrast to his name, Shnookums seems to be the dry serious type, a paladin sworn to the service o' Dwerfater. I'll gladly pay for him to swing that hammer o' his in a profitable direction- but I hope he knows that Dwerfater's law don't cover all the quandaries a bird might encounter in the adventurin' business. Wouldn't want a scuffle with the guy.

Then there's the sorcerors. Well I never I am literally up to my gods-forsaken beak in sorcerors. There's Kruin, a human woman who's all lightning and rage. Stormy eyes and a body as hard as thunder. She has to be the meanest lookin' spellcaster I ever did see. I swear I can hear her fishin' with lightning outside. Suirlang is the other human woman sorceror, and couldn't be more different to Kruin even if she tried. Specializes in throwin' fire and force around, and likely has enough crazy bottled up in there to make it work for her. Those kobolds and gnolls are up for a right flamin' shock, that's for sure.

We also got ourselves a changeling adept with illusions- but I ain't botherin' with its name or gender because those changed at least three times during the meet up tonight. I know how changelings are.

Last and least physically interestin' is a human man by the name o' Jax. He says he's good with traps and subterfuge, the kind o' specialty that'll save a bird's life a hundredfold in a dungeon like Rappun. Quick, smart, and loaded up to the ears with adventurin' gadgets. The man suspiciously fits the description o' the river bandits I've been told run rampant here, but if a man wants to point his daggers at things for pay, rather than have things cough their gold up for him to stop pointin' his daggers at 'em, then who am I to judge?

For better or worse we set out to Castle Calaelen first light tomorrow- if I don't write again it means one of these fresh hatchwits done fucked up good.