Surfaced: Heather and Gorse and No Remorse
After the claustrophobic confines of the UV-starved underdark, it felt refreshing to return to the surface, to the open, to air that was not stale or dank, but fresh and flowing. All but Slothrop realized their hackles had been raised for three straight weeks when the hair on the back of their neck relaxed and an anxious tension in their posture collapsed in relief.
The MisfitSix Eleven found themselves in what must have been the common room of a ruined inn, perhaps on some long forgotten caravan route. The roof had long since decayed but the mossy stones framing the structure remained, with a well-built hearth and chimney still standing against the elements. They had emerged from the root cellar at night, with that damned waning moon just passed full, and those familiar constellation—the heron, the stag, the dagger, the shepherd, the maiden, and the cross—setting in the east.
In the glow of the moon and the stars, they could make out a little of their surroundings. The “High Moor”, as Slothrop’s sister, Diazza, called it, looked like stunted highland: snow-covered grasses surrounded the ruined structure, with beds of heather and heath, and gorse shrubs spotting the landscape. The patches of earth they could see through the snow looked rocky. The snow-covered Greypeaks framed the view to the North and East.
Kargi set up camp as the exhausted lycanthropes collapsed in the nearest nooks while the rest of the group did their best make them comfortable before themselves bedding down for the night.
Prex and Kargi were too anxious about their Den to sleep and kept the first watch, while a withdrawn Rya cozied up in corner out of the wind. Muffled sobs and quiet shaking could be heard from her spot as the group drifted off to sleep.
Just as the weariness was really starting to leave their bones, the group was awakened by a stealthy Prex crouched over their bedroll.
“Two pieces of news to report. First, Mother is alive. Second, someone has been watching us since we arrived.”
Prex explained that Mother, who had not appeared to him in his dreams for many nights, was suddenly back. But it was strained. Prex was worried and wanted to high-tail it back to Mother.
Ironica slipped quietly around the inn where she had no trouble sneaking up on a large Orc who seemed to think his massive bulk was hidden by the crumbling exterior wall of the inn. Safad sent the creature a whispered message inquiring about his motives. The orc was so shocked he stumbled out of hiding and was also excited, exclaiming in a rough Common, “Wizard!” over and over again.
The orc emerged from hiding and introduced himself as Golun-dal. He explained that he was on the run from his tribe, the Red Tusks of the High Moor, who wouldn’t take his aspirations to study magic seriously. The last time Golun-dal killed a human he overheard the creature mutter a spell just before he buried his axe in the man’s skull, and ever since he’d been practicing. The Red Tusks bullied Golun-dal—a lowly offal pit mucker—over his foolish ideas and told him he was just a dumb brute. But Golun-dal disagreed, so he left, and he was currently on the lam, resting in hiding at the ruined inn. Except when he came back from foraging he found this whole mini-army camped in his spot!
As Golun-dal spoke, Nancy noticed his powerful build, expressive face, intelligent eyes, and she swore it wasn’t a trick of the moonlight: two red tusks tattooed on his neck; might as well be a bullseye, she thought. She introduced herself with a smooch on the lips and told this “Golun-dal” that kissing was the traditional Halfling greeting. He seemed surprised but he wasn’t offended.
Dala’gse came over and punched him in the face, explaining that this was the traditional island dwarf greeting. Golun-dal punched him back amicably. Safad and Zireael shook hands. Ironica said hello. Slothrop gave him a “sup” nod. The goblins were suspicious, having fought against orcs in the GGWotG; Dunny growled at him. Rya was in her shell.
Golun-dal explained that since the whole group seemed to be made up of powerful wizards, he could tag along and learn from them! He would pay for his tutelage by guiding them off the Moor. He knew the paths to avoid entering any tribal lands and would be a good scout, he promised. He was also anxious to get going since his tribe was after him.
The group agreed, and off they went. After dosing up Safad and Dunny, of course.
Dala’gse and Golun-dal took up the lead, with Golun-dal showing the dwarf the signs of the moor: scratched bark meant Hark lands; a stray batwing meant Night Wing tribe; and bird feathers tied to scrub meant Mist Crows. He also taught him the names of gorse and heather and other plants. The pair would scout ahead a mile or so and then return to the group, where Zireael was tracking their direction. Sometimes Golun-dal would get excited and punch Dala’gse in the face.
After a day or two of brisk travel, constantly looking over their shoulder for the Red Tusk trackers, the group came to a steep gully. Dala’gse and Golun-dal scouted ahead, but as the larger group came through, they saw a crumbling bridge and two startled trolls. Trolls! They were large and green and nasty-looking. Safad got the drop on them, and from somewhere within him he felt he could draw upon a new power, something greater than he ever had before. He remembered what it felt like when magic first coursed through him and his first firebolt, and he recalled that similar feeling but this time it was bigger, much bigger, and harder to control. Just when he thought he’d burst from the strain, he channeled the weave through his blood and from his hands emerged not a firebolt, but a massive rolling ball of flamees. FIREBALL! It exploded on the trolls igniting their primitive clothing and singing all their oily hair. They screamed in pain and rage. Nancy, who had been picking a nice claw-hammer diddy on her banjo, saw the trolls and put all her power into hammering on the bass-string, sending a Shatter spell at the trolls, who soon had blood bursting from their ear canals. The trolls looked at each other, and turned tail, running up the gully. Zireael whipped out his bow and rapid-fired two arrows after them.
By this time, Golun-dal and Dala’gse had heard the fireball’s explosion, and came running down the gully, trapping the trolls in. Cornered, they lashed out viciously at Dala’gse and Golun-dal, raking deep gashes into their flesh with their scythe-like claws. Dala’gse smashed one to the ground and caved in its face with his magical warhammer. Golun-dal dug his battle axe into the chest of the second.
The group watched in horror as the smashed troll’s skull contorted grotesquely, regenerating back to a vaguely cranial shape. Now the beasts were mad. The trolls hit out again at the dwarf and the orc, but Safad and Zireael put two and two together—the creatures couldn’t regenerate with cauterized wounds. They kept blasting firebolts while the group, eleven, at this point, descended upon the cornered creatures, slaughtering them.
They then looted the troll’s cave, which they had made under the bridge. Ironica realized this must have been a mated pair, living a quiet existence in their gully, under the bridge, until their band passed through. Alas. She ripped off one of their faces for a souvenir.
The Misfit
In the glow of the moon and the stars, they could make out a little of their surroundings. The “High Moor”, as Slothrop’s sister, Diazza, called it, looked like stunted highland: snow-covered grasses surrounded the ruined structure, with beds of heather and heath, and gorse shrubs spotting the landscape. The patches of earth they could see through the snow looked rocky. The snow-covered Greypeaks framed the view to the North and East.
Kargi set up camp as the exhausted lycanthropes collapsed in the nearest nooks while the rest of the group did their best make them comfortable before themselves bedding down for the night.
Prex and Kargi were too anxious about their Den to sleep and kept the first watch, while a withdrawn Rya cozied up in corner out of the wind. Muffled sobs and quiet shaking could be heard from her spot as the group drifted off to sleep.
Just as the weariness was really starting to leave their bones, the group was awakened by a stealthy Prex crouched over their bedroll.
“Two pieces of news to report. First, Mother is alive. Second, someone has been watching us since we arrived.”
Prex explained that Mother, who had not appeared to him in his dreams for many nights, was suddenly back. But it was strained. Prex was worried and wanted to high-tail it back to Mother.
Ironica slipped quietly around the inn where she had no trouble sneaking up on a large Orc who seemed to think his massive bulk was hidden by the crumbling exterior wall of the inn. Safad sent the creature a whispered message inquiring about his motives. The orc was so shocked he stumbled out of hiding and was also excited, exclaiming in a rough Common, “Wizard!” over and over again.
The orc emerged from hiding and introduced himself as Golun-dal. He explained that he was on the run from his tribe, the Red Tusks of the High Moor, who wouldn’t take his aspirations to study magic seriously. The last time Golun-dal killed a human he overheard the creature mutter a spell just before he buried his axe in the man’s skull, and ever since he’d been practicing. The Red Tusks bullied Golun-dal—a lowly offal pit mucker—over his foolish ideas and told him he was just a dumb brute. But Golun-dal disagreed, so he left, and he was currently on the lam, resting in hiding at the ruined inn. Except when he came back from foraging he found this whole mini-army camped in his spot!
As Golun-dal spoke, Nancy noticed his powerful build, expressive face, intelligent eyes, and she swore it wasn’t a trick of the moonlight: two red tusks tattooed on his neck; might as well be a bullseye, she thought. She introduced herself with a smooch on the lips and told this “Golun-dal” that kissing was the traditional Halfling greeting. He seemed surprised but he wasn’t offended.
Dala’gse came over and punched him in the face, explaining that this was the traditional island dwarf greeting. Golun-dal punched him back amicably. Safad and Zireael shook hands. Ironica said hello. Slothrop gave him a “sup” nod. The goblins were suspicious, having fought against orcs in the GGWotG; Dunny growled at him. Rya was in her shell.
Golun-dal explained that since the whole group seemed to be made up of powerful wizards, he could tag along and learn from them! He would pay for his tutelage by guiding them off the Moor. He knew the paths to avoid entering any tribal lands and would be a good scout, he promised. He was also anxious to get going since his tribe was after him.
The group agreed, and off they went. After dosing up Safad and Dunny, of course.
Dala’gse and Golun-dal took up the lead, with Golun-dal showing the dwarf the signs of the moor: scratched bark meant Hark lands; a stray batwing meant Night Wing tribe; and bird feathers tied to scrub meant Mist Crows. He also taught him the names of gorse and heather and other plants. The pair would scout ahead a mile or so and then return to the group, where Zireael was tracking their direction. Sometimes Golun-dal would get excited and punch Dala’gse in the face.
After a day or two of brisk travel, constantly looking over their shoulder for the Red Tusk trackers, the group came to a steep gully. Dala’gse and Golun-dal scouted ahead, but as the larger group came through, they saw a crumbling bridge and two startled trolls. Trolls! They were large and green and nasty-looking. Safad got the drop on them, and from somewhere within him he felt he could draw upon a new power, something greater than he ever had before. He remembered what it felt like when magic first coursed through him and his first firebolt, and he recalled that similar feeling but this time it was bigger, much bigger, and harder to control. Just when he thought he’d burst from the strain, he channeled the weave through his blood and from his hands emerged not a firebolt, but a massive rolling ball of flamees. FIREBALL! It exploded on the trolls igniting their primitive clothing and singing all their oily hair. They screamed in pain and rage. Nancy, who had been picking a nice claw-hammer diddy on her banjo, saw the trolls and put all her power into hammering on the bass-string, sending a Shatter spell at the trolls, who soon had blood bursting from their ear canals. The trolls looked at each other, and turned tail, running up the gully. Zireael whipped out his bow and rapid-fired two arrows after them.
By this time, Golun-dal and Dala’gse had heard the fireball’s explosion, and came running down the gully, trapping the trolls in. Cornered, they lashed out viciously at Dala’gse and Golun-dal, raking deep gashes into their flesh with their scythe-like claws. Dala’gse smashed one to the ground and caved in its face with his magical warhammer. Golun-dal dug his battle axe into the chest of the second.
The group watched in horror as the smashed troll’s skull contorted grotesquely, regenerating back to a vaguely cranial shape. Now the beasts were mad. The trolls hit out again at the dwarf and the orc, but Safad and Zireael put two and two together—the creatures couldn’t regenerate with cauterized wounds. They kept blasting firebolts while the group, eleven, at this point, descended upon the cornered creatures, slaughtering them.
They then looted the troll’s cave, which they had made under the bridge. Ironica realized this must have been a mated pair, living a quiet existence in their gully, under the bridge, until their band passed through. Alas. She ripped off one of their faces for a souvenir.
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