Assault on Hark Keep

Meanwhile...

While their Sorcerer companions enjoyed the bucolic setting of Melarn's Door, the Hunters took stock of their resources. 

• They hadn't slept in days. 
• The full moon had come out and Slothrop had turned into a wererat. His companions knocked him unconscious during the ordeal so he was also badly injured. 
• They had waded through barrage after barrage of Hark arrows and javelins, leaving all of them badly battered. 
• They had exhausted precious resources shapeshifting and healing themselves.

As they crankily roused their weary bones from the fitful, vile, and sadistic nightmares, Dala'gse found a used waterskin in the dirt of the Moor. He poured out its contents--it was goatsmilk. The one he had picked up for Heathayla and the baby. He held it to his breast and sobbed, barely awake, running on fumes. 

The haggard dark elf, the bleeding lycanthrope, the arrow-ridden dwarf, and the smiling halfling looked at each other. 

Let's kill this witch. 

They knew the Hark were now fully aware of their presence. And with no plan, just sheer dumb determination, they picked themselves up, and steeled themselves for the journey towards the Hark's Keep. It was approaching dusk. 

After an hour of walking they encountered an outlying guard patrol. They slew the goblins, the Hark giving their lives in defense of their homeland as the invaders pressed on, stretching the limits of their exhaustion. 

Dala'gse found a golden plover cap on one of the goblins.

After another hour of walking they encountered a larger group of patrolmen. They slew the goblins, the Hark giving their lives in defense of their homeland as the invaders pressed on, stretching the limits of their exhaustion. 

Ironica practiced her illusions. 

After yet one more sleepless hour of trudging through gorse thickets, they encountered an outlying guard unit. They slew the goblins, the Hark giving their lives in defense of their homeland as the invaders pressed on, stretching the limits of their exhaustion. 

They found all sorts of clay statues erected haphazardly, but in homage to what must be the Hark herself. These goblins were fanatics. 

And then there it was, the Hark's Keep, looming menacingly in the darkness of the moor. Goblins littered the parapets as drums of war clanged in the night. They paused to recover and eat some dried rabbit as they talked strategy. They had something clever up their sleeves...

Ironica sneaked through the gloom to the edge of goblin vision, and crafted an illusory, ethereal Hark, who walked next to a slowly-approaching, solitary Slothrop. 

"Hail, there, er---Harkmen! I am come with grave tidings."

So far so good--they hadn't shot him yet as he appeared on the edge of the watchers' vision. 

"This, er--vision!--appeared to me, instructing me to tell you to go after some ne'er-do-wells who stole a cart full of babies. They went, thattaway!" He smiled nervously as 30 Hark goblins stared down at him from the walls. 

He heard a crank going from behind the wall and the portcullis slowly began to open. A couple straight-backed Hark barked out orders into the courtyard of the keep and a patrol unit of 8 goblins filed out to greet Slothrop and his ethereal guide, who pointed westward. 

"OK." The leader agreed. "Take us to babies!" 

At that point, a dashing Dala'gse and Falka jumped out of the dark of the Moor to say they too had seen a large caravan of baby-thieves, and that the Hark should go get even more numbers to raid the party. Ironica had the faux-Hark nod vigoursly. Slothrop smiled nervously. Did they take it too far?

The Hark looked at each other and said something that sounded like, "Theytried tojump theshark," in goblin but they then clarified, "No--you are who Hark say to kill. Red beard dwarf and elf girl!"

Shit. 

Slothrop slinked into the darkness. Ironica stayed hidden. Dala'gse and Falka drew their weapons and waded into the patrol of Hark as volleys of arrows were loosed from the walls. It was on. 

As Slothrop eyed his vulnerable companies, he spotted a fist-sized rock in the rubble of the battle. He let out a cry to Dala'gse, pointing at the stone, and cast his Drow darkness on it. Suddenly, the patrol outside the walls, Falka, and Dala'gse were covered in magical darkness. The Hark let out cries of alarm and started sprinting back toward the walls, where their comrades were cranking the portcullis shut. Dala'gse transformed into a tiger, bared his teeth, and picked up the stone to give chase.

After some failed attempts to grab hold of the tiger's back, the group all-out sprinted toward the portcullis, shrouded in darkness and preventing much of the flurry of arrows raining down on them from finding their mark. Dala'gse's Sign of the Heron blazed and despite the darkness, he swore he could almost see in his mind's eye where to run. He ran.

Falka had managed to slip under the portcullis before it shut. She charged the goblins cranking the winch and after a few twangs of her bow, they were no longer cranking the winch. Her companions slid under the gate, and like that, they were inside (except Slothrop who was terribly exhausted and managed to hide himself in a Gorse bush at the base of the wall).  

What awaited them was a horde of more than 75 goblin-wererats lining the walls, some of whom scurried into hidey holes in the walls designed for defense of the keep. More than 10 arrows per second flew in a thicket at the party, who had no choice but to bear the brunt of it, relying on the magical darkness to keep them concealed. 

At the center of the keep was a portico that covered a spiral stone staircase that could only lead down to the Dungeon of the Hark. A long chain hung from the portico down the center of the staircase.

Let's kill this witch. 

Falka transformed into hybrid wolf form as Ironica gripped Dala'gse's tiger fur. The arrows flew. They descended the staircase, letting the darkness of the stone subside as fatigue overtook Slothrop. 

But out of the darkness, Dala'gse could truly see. And as they descended the staircase what he saw haunted his dreams in a way the Hark could not. It was Heathayla, in the flesh, strung up on the chain. Dead. A bloated, mutilated, corpse. 

Falka tried to shield Dala'gse from the image, but the tiger saw, and let out a mournful roar. He barely noticed as he, Falka, and Ironica cut through half a dozen Hark as they descended the staircase to the basement of the keep, pin-cushioning a flurry of arrows the whole way down. The lighting was dim at the bottom. 

They were in the Dungeon of the Hark. 

As they caught their breath, they looked up to see a praetorian-like guard of Hark waiting for them. And behind them, was the hooded figure of a woman. The trio was bloodied, barely standing--more mangled fur and scrappy claw than stalwart adventurer. But they stood. 

Let's kill this witch.