Some days a bird crawls outta his next to find that somewhere 'tween closin' his eyes and peelin' them back open in the mornin' fate's decided to slip you a bad hand. Mayhaps it just hates you today, or mayhaps its tryin' to push a bird into sleepin' in his own rachetty castle.
Further inspection o' the Calaelen rock has confirmed what we all sadly knew- as it barely stands the place ain't fit for no one but kobolds and gnolls and other mudfuckers keen to roll around in their own fleas and piss. Personally I don't count myself amongst the piss-and-flea rollin' number, but after securin' the premises the new recruits and yours truly headed back to Bristleback's for the night.
By sun up the changeling sorceror had already left us- didn't even take its share o' the swag. Frankly given the trauma the thing suffered I don't blame her. Him. It, dangit.
But in its place we was greeted by two new flatfaces on the hunt for some Great Downward style adventure. I now have the services of a one Mortimer and Fizzbann under my employ. Mort's a mean-lookin' lug, solid and tall. An orc farmboy coloured some shades o' wrong and angsty by whatever happened to produce an orc farmboy out in the unprotected sticks. The mountain o' muscles wields a fuckin' huge scythe re-purposed for reapin' heads instead o' bales. Despite appearances I ain't convinced the lad's evil, but sometimes he looks at a bird as if he's wonderin' how you'd taste roasted.
Fizzbann ain't exactly the type I was expectin' the Great Downward to attract. A wizened old husk o' an elf who, I'd wager, hasn't seen light o' day or smelt a fresh breeze for a good decade or two. Well, until he decided to leave whatever hole he resided in to join the Company. Fizzbann says he's good with potions, poisons, brews and concoctions, either to drink or to chuck at people. A niche set o' talents I gotta say, but I'll take it.
Takin' the freshies under my wing proved to be a lucky decision too. We ain't even travelled a squirt away from Zelkor's Ferry we was hit by a goblin ambush. Fuckin' goblins, I know, where's the pride in that. But these weren't just any greenskins farted outta Mosswood or some stanky crack o' Rappun- they were organized. And we didn't see 'em comin'. They hit Shnookums with the first volley o' their crossbows, sittin' him outta the scrap before it really even started. Nasty green twits wanted to trade our gold for our lives. I was ready to cut my losses and flee, but there was a reasonable chance that we could take 'em now that their crossbows were empty. Some would say that it was a foolhardy gamble but we flogged the little anklebiters and scored some intel on Rappun to boot.
Upon our dogged return to the Castle we found that our literally hellish roostmate had also returned himself. I had the crew set up and positioned to blow the damned thing back to whatever fiery pit it came from, but Agamemnon suggested that perhaps we should try a more diplomatic approach first. I was happy to run with it as long as it was Agamemnon doin' the chinwaggin', the crazy fuck. And whaddya know the two o' them both speak the Infernal language. The demon bird's name is Afrit, and his only agenda right now is to keep nestin' in the tower and eatin' ponies. I don't have a real use for the tower right now, and we both got a mutual interest in keepin' intruders outta the premises, so I guess for now I'm leavin' him be. We just have to mark our horses from now on, 'cause apparently they make for delicious eatin'.
From the information we got beat outta the goblin ambushers, and from what I've been able to decipher from the slurry stories slippin' outta the ale-stained old fogies hauntin' Bristleback's Inn, the Mouth o' Doom is lookin' like the least terrible place to start a real expedition into the dungeon. But as it stands I really don't like the threat o' banditry. They got a good gig, swoopin' down on a band o' adventurers after Rappun's given them a royal chew over and hawkin' off with all their spoils. I don't take too kindly to such shameless vultures. Mayhaps a good bandit-kickin' is in order? They might be easier to deal with first, before whatever ass-faced monsters and evil-snortin' maniacs await in the giant dungeon. I'll pitch it to the recruits and see how them softshells feel about it- not that I particularly care but I gotta live with their whingin' now.
Further inspection o' the Calaelen rock has confirmed what we all sadly knew- as it barely stands the place ain't fit for no one but kobolds and gnolls and other mudfuckers keen to roll around in their own fleas and piss. Personally I don't count myself amongst the piss-and-flea rollin' number, but after securin' the premises the new recruits and yours truly headed back to Bristleback's for the night.
By sun up the changeling sorceror had already left us- didn't even take its share o' the swag. Frankly given the trauma the thing suffered I don't blame her. Him. It, dangit.
But in its place we was greeted by two new flatfaces on the hunt for some Great Downward style adventure. I now have the services of a one Mortimer and Fizzbann under my employ. Mort's a mean-lookin' lug, solid and tall. An orc farmboy coloured some shades o' wrong and angsty by whatever happened to produce an orc farmboy out in the unprotected sticks. The mountain o' muscles wields a fuckin' huge scythe re-purposed for reapin' heads instead o' bales. Despite appearances I ain't convinced the lad's evil, but sometimes he looks at a bird as if he's wonderin' how you'd taste roasted.
Fizzbann ain't exactly the type I was expectin' the Great Downward to attract. A wizened old husk o' an elf who, I'd wager, hasn't seen light o' day or smelt a fresh breeze for a good decade or two. Well, until he decided to leave whatever hole he resided in to join the Company. Fizzbann says he's good with potions, poisons, brews and concoctions, either to drink or to chuck at people. A niche set o' talents I gotta say, but I'll take it.
Takin' the freshies under my wing proved to be a lucky decision too. We ain't even travelled a squirt away from Zelkor's Ferry we was hit by a goblin ambush. Fuckin' goblins, I know, where's the pride in that. But these weren't just any greenskins farted outta Mosswood or some stanky crack o' Rappun- they were organized. And we didn't see 'em comin'. They hit Shnookums with the first volley o' their crossbows, sittin' him outta the scrap before it really even started. Nasty green twits wanted to trade our gold for our lives. I was ready to cut my losses and flee, but there was a reasonable chance that we could take 'em now that their crossbows were empty. Some would say that it was a foolhardy gamble but we flogged the little anklebiters and scored some intel on Rappun to boot.
Upon our dogged return to the Castle we found that our literally hellish roostmate had also returned himself. I had the crew set up and positioned to blow the damned thing back to whatever fiery pit it came from, but Agamemnon suggested that perhaps we should try a more diplomatic approach first. I was happy to run with it as long as it was Agamemnon doin' the chinwaggin', the crazy fuck. And whaddya know the two o' them both speak the Infernal language. The demon bird's name is Afrit, and his only agenda right now is to keep nestin' in the tower and eatin' ponies. I don't have a real use for the tower right now, and we both got a mutual interest in keepin' intruders outta the premises, so I guess for now I'm leavin' him be. We just have to mark our horses from now on, 'cause apparently they make for delicious eatin'.
From the information we got beat outta the goblin ambushers, and from what I've been able to decipher from the slurry stories slippin' outta the ale-stained old fogies hauntin' Bristleback's Inn, the Mouth o' Doom is lookin' like the least terrible place to start a real expedition into the dungeon. But as it stands I really don't like the threat o' banditry. They got a good gig, swoopin' down on a band o' adventurers after Rappun's given them a royal chew over and hawkin' off with all their spoils. I don't take too kindly to such shameless vultures. Mayhaps a good bandit-kickin' is in order? They might be easier to deal with first, before whatever ass-faced monsters and evil-snortin' maniacs await in the giant dungeon. I'll pitch it to the recruits and see how them softshells feel about it- not that I particularly care but I gotta live with their whingin' now.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.