(G318 10/06/2017 via Roll20 - AP, JF(GM), MJ) WA6

(G318 10/06/2017 via Roll20 - AP, JF(GM), MJ) WA6
DAY 291 (26th Nightal)(December) cont ...

As the evening wore on, Fenrir, quietly pondering the mysteries of life (Arahel, being nine years old only, was not much use at tavern banter), was interrupted by a commotion at another table when a man came in and started shouting at another three men.

As it got out of hand, the landlord sent for the local 'Marshall' but apparently he was out of the village on another matter. At first Fenrir was happy to let things play out, but as trouble brewed he eventually decided to see what the matter was.

In short it was this;

The older man, the accuser, was a carpenter and owner of the local sawmill called Larode Wood. He was convinced one of the men had kidnapped 'His Daphne'.
The three others were all rough seasonal workers of the village known as Gronard Ruma, Hurado Misew and Irim Kredsar.

'All three of you have been watching her all summer! With your hungry eyes! Where is she? I'll murder all three of you. How could you kidnap my Daphne?' demanded Wood.

After asking a few questions and not really getting any answers that he liked Fenrir went over to the sawmill with Wood to take a look. Daphne's room seemed odd to him, there was a bed, but not much else.
There was a bowl of water on the floor.
'Is Daphne a pig?' he asked.
But Wood was not to be drawn on the subject and would only reply, 'She is the apple of me eye!'

Later Arahel took a look at the sawmill and room, and with a more expert eye could see the footprints left by the kidnapper in the soft sawdust of the mill and the smell of poultry in Daphne's room.

Back at the tavern, Fenrir took Arahel outside and said, 'I have a plan, turn into a chicken.' Arahel, always game (hoho!) for anything dutifully turned into a chicken.

At the table where Wood waited, Fenrir presented him with the chicken and said, 'Here she is!'
'That's not Daphne, its a chicken.' replied the carpenter.

'God's dam it all!' growled Fenrir. 'Wood, get over here!'
Then, 'You three!' (To the three suspects) 'Talk to the chicken.'

As Fenrir lost the plot at Wood, demanding to be told what Daphne was, Arahel strutted up and down on the table of the three suspects and began, 'So, one of you has Daphne...'

Of course, as you can imagine, a talking chicken caused quite a stir in the tavern and Fenrir had to calm things down again.

Finally, at long last, they stopped mucking about and started thinking. They looked at the boots of the three men and saw that only Hurado Misew had no sawdust on the soles.
'Get out of here!' he said and Misew left.
'Right, let's just check their houses then.'

They had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, but tried Gronard Ruma's abode first, where there was no sign of any shenanigans. Irim Kredsar's house was next and low and behold, there was his wife plucking the body of a dead duck, in preparation for a fine dinner the next day.
'Daphne!' cried Wood, inconsolable.

Well, the case was closed, more or less. If Fenrir or Arahel had thought to ask either of them for an alibi they would have learned that Ruma had been at a council meeting when the kidnapping took place. Perhaps then Daphne would have been found alive.
Neither were detectives (if only Harvel had been there!) and the most basic of questions (e.g. Where were you between five and ten o'clock) had gone unasked.

Partially successful though, they returned to the inn and discovered Cavu sitting patiently in the corner waiting for them.

They went up to his room and after going over the last few days they discussed the ongoing situation.

Among other things Cavu said:

(Referring to Gertrude the White)
''
Well, she rarely tells me everything and she may not know fully herself what is going on in Westgate. You have to understand, she uses her magic, her divination, her crystal ball and she sees things in the
future. She saw something really, really bad happening to Westgate. She wants, at the very least, an agent or two there to keep an eye on things.
She didn't specify what faction to join in the city, so I can only surmise that at this stage it doesn't matter. If I had to guess, it is merely to act as a cover, to give you some protection. Perhaps it is better to not be lone out of towners when whatever happens, actually happens?
''

And also:

''
I'm going to be away for a while. Things are heating up in the north and she is sending me on a mission to Neverwinter. I'll think of a way of getting a communication channel on the go, to offer you my sage wisdom if it is required. I'll make contact some time soon. Oh, here is some last minute advice.
From what I've heard from Weynay and from what you-know-who has divined I think you can trust Nebulus the Rascal. I mean, to a certain extent. Don't trust him with your valuables, but if you ask him a question you'll get an honest answer. He's on the team and knows the city well. Use him.
''

He then gave them two hundred gold each and bid them good night.


DAY 292 (27th Nightal)(December)

Before they left in the morning, Weynay sent word she would like to talk to them before they left. They tromped through the snow to the grove. The village pond was frozen over and already the children were out skating on it and having snowball fights.

Weynay said:

''
It was interesting to meet Cavu after hearing so much about him from my friend. Sounds like she had quite an adventure in Waterdeep with him. Still, from what I've heard recently, that was nothing compared to what she got up to later in the Plane of Shadows! Some people have exciting lives I suppose.
''

It dawned on Fenrir that Weynay's friend was none other than Sylvia! Once that connection was made he swapped some stories with her. Fenrir, of course, knew my 'big sister' from his adventures back in Waterdeep.

Just before they left, Weynay talked to Arahel privately and said:

''
You are going back to Westgate I suppose? Perhaps you could do me a small favour? There is... well, I suppose you don't have to know the details, but there is a statue in the gardens of Termadar. I pay a small amount to the gardener each year, ever year for the last three years, to keep it clean.  It's just a few gold, here, can you give it to him? It's overdue and I've got three family's with  fever in the village so I can't really leave.
''

Snow was on the ground, but it was a crisp and clear day. They made it back to Westgate quickly, Fenrir flying and invisible, Arahel in the shape of an eagle.

Arahel wasted no time and went to the gardens of Termadar. When she landed she changed into her regular form and spotting the gardener who was doing the winter work of tidying away old vegetation and clearing the paths of snow.

He took her, correctly, as a fey of nature and was very happy to see her in his garden, considering
it a great blessing. Arahel spotted the statue of a warrior off to one side and when she enquired after it the gardener said:

''
Oo-ar! Tis a terrible shame indeed. The statue is of Sir Radron De Bon. As true and a  noble knight you could not hope to meet. He has roamed far and wide through all of the Dragon Coast, writing wrongs and thwarting evil. Was engaged Weynay down in Ferbone, a lovely gel.
Well, all I know is that he roamed into Cheron forest on some quest and never came back. His family, assuming him dead, erected this statue in his honour. They were so sad though, that in the end they moved back to Cormyr. The lass sends me money, but in truth it is an honour to maintain the statue, I would do it without payment.
''

He did happily take the money however! He also went to his small house on the grounds and offered Arahel a saucer of milk. She drank his offering gladly.


Meanwhile. Fenrir landed somewhere quiet, then began walking back to the cottage. He passed a man whipping his cart horse to death, the poor thing breathing its last, lying in the slush and snow.
Fenrir stopped and talked some sense into the man, to just to send for the knacker's yard and have the poor beast put out of its misery. His silver tongue worked its magic and the man did so.

Back at the cottage he discovered it had been robbed! Two nights ago some thieves had come in the evening and tricked the housekeeper into letting them in. They locked her in her room and stole the magic food chest, Fenrir's new clothes and the expensive locks from the doors!

The back door was now nailed shut and the housekeeper used a rope to secure the front door. All this she told him and also that her brother-in-law was a watchman. When she had been freed from her room (she cried for help from the neighbours when she thought the thieves had gone) she had summoned him.

She sent for him again and on his arrival he said to Fenrir:

''
Sorry to say, my lord, but you have been the victim of a cunning burglar. Unfortunately for you a lock is only as good as the door it is on, or indeed as good as the person that keeps the door.
Well, I'm sure a lord of such fine character as yourself is not used to such things but sadly here in Westgate the only way to prevent yourself from being robbed in future, if you have the coin, is to pay off the Night Masks. It is a sad state of affairs I know, for me, a man of the law, to say such things, but none the less it is true.
''

Working his way up into a rage Fenrir flew over to the Cockatrice, but then remembered that this had just been his meeting point with the Night Masks, it was not their base of operations.

He then sought out Nebulus the Rascal.

He found him in his town house, a large and well appointed building. The doorman was not in the habit of letting people in without appointments but could see that Fenrir was a man of breeding and bid him wait in the hall while Nebulus prepared to receive him.

Fenrir noticed two children run past in the hallway behind the doorman, laughing as they went. He thought for a second, did one of those kids have horns or was it his imagination?

The fat jolly form of Nebulus greeted Fenrir and took him through to a pleasant sitting room where a fire roared away and mulled wine waited to be drunk.

They talked terms, Nebulus once again making his offer of 'protection' against the Night Masks. (Ten gold a day or ten percent of any 'business' conducted in the city)

Fenrir handed over ten gold, but issued a warning, 'If I find out you had anything to do with the break in, I'll come down on you so hard...'

Nebulus smiled, but for a moment the 'jolly merchant' act seemed to drop as he replied, 'I assure you I had nothing to do with it, and I don't take kindly to threats.'
Fenrir got a sense of something infernal from Nebulus and they seemed to understand each other.

Before he left, he told Nebulus of Harvel who said, 'That's a shame. I'll send someone for him though. Don't worry, I'll sort it out.'

As he walked back to the cottage though Fenrir wondered if Nebulus was on the side of the demons (Fenrir's side) or the side of the devils.

While all that was happening, Arahel had flown quickly back to Weynay and breathlessly told her of what she had worked out - Sir Radron De Bon was Mr Rattles!

'It was the same armour as the statue, the same sword...' she told the cleric.

Weynay was devastated, the thought of her fiance the undead slave of an evil druid necromancer.

'He was talking rationally though,' said Arahel offering some comfort, 'He treated us all well considering what happened.'

'Well, that is something. I should... I should pray for guidance. Perhaps I will contact you, or you can call again. I have much to think on. Thank you for coming back to tell me.'

Arahel arrived back at the cottage at about the same time Fenrir did. They talked over their days as Groza the housekeeper cooked them some lunch. It was strange foreign food to both of them and they did not like it much.

The Push

The Push

Two men are looking out of an open window in a tall office block in the City of London. One of them begins to talk,

'I decided I was going to murder someone. Then, if it felt good I would think about maybe doing it again. It wasn't because I'd rolled a dice like Luke Reinhardt or decided to commit the 'perfect crime' like Raskolnikov, I suppose it was something to do with how powerless I felt in my life. It started as a silly idea. Kill someone. Do it in such a way I would not be caught. I started to plan it, how to dispose of the body, what murder weapon to use, all the little details. I didn't have a victim at that stage but that didn't matter, my mind kept going back to it again and again.

I wouldn't use something as crude as an axe as Raskolnikov did, I knew I was averse to blood. It would be strangulation or asphyxiation, it didn't really matter, just as long as it was more involved than just "making it look like an accident."

For some reason this appalled me. It was just too easy. Whenever I read about a murder in the newspapers or saw it reported on the news I was always disgusted by the amateurishness of it. If you were going to kill someone, surely to god you should do them the common decency of planning it properly?

Take the case of the man that bludgeoned his wife to death and then blamed it on a fictional intruder. That story was proved false in days. I was annoyed for weeks by his utter lack of professionalism. The easiest people to kill in the world are the people that you live with.

The modern home is a death trap of electrical appliances and hard edges. Any house with a set of stairs is a murder weapon. A simple hand in the back will send them tumbling down to their deaths. Job done.

I was not married however, and lived alone, and besides a killing like that could only be done once. Even your average London Met detective would start to wonder at more than one fatal accident in the same house.

So, I dismissed the idea of simply pushing someone down the stairs as beneath me and went back to my intricate plots and plans.

This made what happened one day on the way to work as much of a surprise to me as the person I murdered. The underground is incredibly busy at rush hour with people crushing down to the edge of the platform. My stop has to be the busiest in all of London and people literally take their lives in their hands waiting for a train down there.

I was two ranks back from the edge and I saw a man, stupidly craning his neck down the tunnel, as if it mattered whether it arrived in one minute or two. He was jostled by someone behind him and his left foot momentarily dangled in mid air over the rails.

The train was about to arrive too and without any compunction on my part my arm shot out, through the throng of people and pushed him hard in the back. He plunged onto the tracks and was crushed by the train, dead in an instant. I turned and pushed through the crowds as the cry went up and everyone started to panic.

I was very edgy at work and could get nothing done. I sat at my desk and kept on clicking the refresh button on the news websites to see who it was I had just killed. Justin Green, Age 21. Banker.

I was disappointed with myself, that my first murder was something so simple. It had no meaning, it would never be found out and anyone could have done it. I suppose it said something about how far I had come from being anything remotely like a human being that I cared more about the method of the murder than the actual act.

A few weeks later I pushed an old lady under a bus. A month after that I pushed a careless tourist off the side of Tower Bridge. It was like I had become addicted to a drug. All I thought about now was pushing people to their deaths. I began to hang out in places like Vertigo, the champagne bar at the top of the Tower 42. I took regular turns on the London Eye. Tempting as they were they were too secure, too full of safety measures.

But I was determined. Somehow in my addled head I'd decided this was my thing. I didn't even care if I got caught any longer, I just had to keep pushing people to their deaths. I hit the underground again, the bus stops, all the bridges over the Thames, I was in a frenzy of plummet related fatality.

Eventually someone started putting it all together. It wasn't the police of course, they were too busy beating up rioters in Hackney. It was a journalist and a statistician, working out that the number of falling related deaths had gone up by 500% in the last year.

At first they thought it was a statistical anomaly, but then it went viral on the Internet and this mysterious rash of deaths by falling was attributed to a phantom called 'The Push'.

It seems ludicrous that while I was merrily slaying about two people every month, the first serious attempt to identify me was dismissed as nothing but panic-mongering on the Internet.

Incredibly there was still no official police investigation. New Scotland Yard were not interested in perusing bogey-men. That was the exact words used by the Met's Commissioner, you know.

I began to think they were not taking me seriously. I certainly was beginning to, I'd actually lost count of my victims, I knew I was somewhere in the mid-fifties though. How could the police not realise there was a deadly killer stalking their streets?

What did I have to do to make everyone know I was successful murderer? By now, I really didn't want to get caught. I had half an eye on Harold Shipman's record, although I considered him a bit of a cheat, and wanted to last as long as I could.

I fell into a depression. I was killing less and less, it just wasn't the same. A year or so went past. It was winter, the beginning of 2013 when I saw the headline of the newspaper they hand out free on the underground.

'Boris Johnson to unveil the open air viewing deck of the Shard on February the 1st.'

I was struck dumb. It was another day I couldn't get anything done at work. How could I possibly manage it? I only had a week to plan something. To push the mayor of London off the highest building in Europe! I'd be a sensation!

I nearly did it too. I managed to get right to him and get him halfway over the glass safety wall before his security guards got me. He was just too darn heavy. If I'd had more time to prepare I could have worked out at the gym until I was able to throw a 16 stone man over a six foot glass barrier, but it just wasn't to be.

The police questioned me of course and I even confessed to all my murders, but they called me a fantasist. They were only interested in finding out if I had any links to Al-Qaeda which I did not, of course. Once they were happy I was not a terrorist I was released into psychiatric care.

Due to cuts in the NHS though, unbelievably, I was evaluated as not being a risk to the public and released back into the community six weeks later.

Just when I thought my humiliation could not get any deeper I saw my first T-Shirt as I walked back to my flat. 'I AM THE PUSH' it said, with a photo-shopped picture of Boris falling comically off the top of the Shard.

I saw three more of them before I got inside, closing the door and leaning against it in a cold sweat. How dare they, I fumed. It was if it had all been for nothing.

No one would ever believe me, as I found out on my computer that night, there were a hundred people in London alone convinced they were 'The Push' and ten times as many of that shouting them down, that 'The Push' didn't exist, just a bunch of statistics and a single crazy failed attack on the mayor.

Well, I slid into a funk, the deepest of depressions, I didn't go to work again, I was evicted and ended up wandering the streets. Then it dawned on me what I had to do and here we both are.'

The second man gulped and shuffled his feet nervously. He turned momentarily away into the wind then said,

'I am here because I am the father of your first victim?'

'That's right Mr Green. One of us is going to step out of this window and fall twenty storeys to their death.'

The older man tried to bolt, but the younger one had a vice like grip on his wrist, his other hand an equally strong grip on the windowsill.

'Listen, what happened to Justin was an accident, just a tragic accident. You are not a murderer.' said the older man.

'I AM!', cried the younger man angrily, 'God dam it, I am! I was just too good at it.'

'Please don't kill me.' sobbed Mr Green.

The other smiled, 'You don't understand. I'm not going to kill you. I am a failure and I deserve to die. There is no better way than this and no better person than the father my first victim to be here.'

'Why am I here?'

'To bear witness, and well .. it shames me to admit my cowardice, but to give me a little .. push..'

(G317 03/06/2017 via Roll20 - AP, JF(GM), MJ, HK) WA5

(G317 03/06/2017 via Roll20 - AP, JF(GM), MJ, HK) WA5

DAY 290 (25th Nightal)(December) cont ...

The fighting continued and it was one they could not win. Dire wolves and giant bats swarmed out of the cave, enough to trouble a small army. Fenrir flew further back and started blasting from a safe distance. Harvel put up a brave defence but was overcome by the wolves. Arahel turned into a giant, but Mr Rattles knocked her unconscious with a blow from his great sword. The skeletal warrior then picked them both up and took them into the cave.

Fenrir, the last man standing, gave it a minute or two then, while invisible, flew back into the cave. Wolves, regular sized ones, could smell him, but could not see him.

He saw that the goblins were getting Harvel ready for the pot while Nexelmode had Arahel at the back of the cave. Nexelmode was taking care of Arahel in her own weird way so deciding Harvel was in more danger, Fenrir decided to rescue him first.

He started blasting at the goblins. They were not strong so the chief and his cohort all died instantly and then the shaman and any other goblin with a bow stupid enough to attack him. He may also have killed a female or youngling in the onslaught. He had not meant it deliberately, but in the milling confusion of the tribe it was difficult to pick out targets.

Mr Rattles came to the chasm and told Fenrir, 'That's enough!'
Fenrir called back, 'Call them off then, while I get Harvel.'
Rattlesa agreed, so Fenrir flew down, used his healing pine cone on Harvel and then helped him gather up his gear. He found everything except his pack.


Together they then crossed over to Nexelmode's side of the cavern, Fenrir turning on the charm again in a diplomatic offensive, apologising for the 'confusion'.

Harvel hung back, although at one point he did do a run along the walls of the cavern.
'Odd fellow,' remarked Mr Rattles.

Nexelmode then demanded that Fenrir gave her a kiss, as a means of apology. He did so, noting that while her lips were like regular lips, her tongue was longer than he was expecting.
She smelled of mushrooms and damp earth.
As she kissed him deeply he felt himself fall under her spell, a sensation he remember from just a few ten-days ago when Imaug the Aboleth had dominated him.

'Tell that man to leave,' she told Fenrir, pointing at Harvel. Harvel left without further  comment.

Nexelmode healed Arahel a little and she woke up. Arahel said that she wanted to leave.
'No no, stay here with me,' demanded Nexelmode.
'I cannot stay here any longer, I am leaving now,' said the Kiloren.
The two hag-like servants of Nexelmode went to block her from leaving the cavern.
'Please let me pass.'
'Now now, don't be naughty, little Arahel. Come back here or I will punish you.'
'Well, then your choice is clear, you can either kill me or let me go,' said Arahel foolishly putting her life on the line.
'I would prefer you alive, but you can serve my while dead as well.'
Arahel took a step away and a hag clawed at her, drawing blood.
'I see you have chosen to kill me,' said Arahel the master of the obvious.
The other hag clawed at her and she fell back to the floor.
Fenrir could do and say nothing until he was told to do so, so could only watch on in dismay.


Harvel went back to the campsite and waited a couple of hours then went back again. He saw Mr Rattles at the entrance watching the goblins as they burned their chief and other dead on a funeral pyre.
'Where are my companions?' asked Harvel.
'Not that it is any of your business,' replied the skeleton. 'But they are alive and inside.'

Harvel then returned again to the camp and waited for the remainder of the night.

Nexelmode had a nice dinner with her new friends. Arahel was still alive, just, and decided to keep quiet. Despite being dominated, Fenrir was making the most of things and tucking into what was a pretty decent spread of fresh fruit, vegetables and barbequed meat. When he asked for something to drink she got out a very pleasant bottle of dandelion wine.

With permission to talk freely he used every ounce of charm and cunning to persuade her to lift the spell from him and she eventually relented, making him promise to spend the night.

Later that evening Arahel 'was sent to bed' and Nexelmode and Fenrir sat by the fire, drank wine and talked late into the night.

Later still, needless to say, they made love in the druid's private chamber. She was youthful in  appearance, plain featured and smelled of caves, but the young warlock decided that he'd definitely had worse.

DAY 291 (26th Nightal)(December)

Harvel spent a really rough and lonely night in their first campsite. Lacking the skill to light a fire he shivered, wrapped in his cloak, his bedroll lost to the goblins the night before.

Fed up and angry he returned to the cave and yelled, 'Nexelmode you old hag, wake up!'

A few minutes later Mr Rattles appeared at the cave entrance, but by now Harvel was well hidden in the trees.

He waited another ten minutes and then had a notion to scout around the back of the cavern and try and find another way in. Poor Harvel though, was a gentleman of the city and while he was an expert at hiding and sneaking he still attracted the attention of two shambling mounds.
He was still weak from the battle yesterday and his rough night, so the were able to easily slam him to the ground. They are territorial creatures so may well have been happy with that, but unfortunately for Harvel one of them was hungry and started to eat him boots first.

Despite all his bad luck so far, fortune finally smiled on him when Fenrir suddenly arrived, having been sent out by Nexelmode to see what as going on. He blasted the Shambling Mound enough to make it spit out its breakfast and quickly applied a Blessed bandage to Harvel's legs, or at least what was left of them. Harvel was missing his left foot.

Fenrir persuaded Nexelmode to let them all go. She seemed sad but said,
'I suppose I must in the end. Arahel is a wilful child and I would have to kill her to keep her. You are too tricky and dangerous to keep around. Leave then. I am used to my solitude.'

She returned to the cave and before they left Mr Rattles offered them this advice;

''
Which one of you idiots attacked Nexelmode yesterday anyway? Lucky for you I was there to save your skin.
She's a lot tougher than you three put together, I can assure you of that, and killing her would only make her angry. She may live in the forest, but she has a long reach, you would do well to make peace with her some time soon. Perhaps bring her a present later once the dust has settled? I know there are many that would think the world would be better off without her, she is very evil after all, but just bear in mind that she holds down this area of the forest.
If she was gone, then something even nastier would take her place. She is reasonable to a certain degree, what lies further south is less so.
''

Fenrir grew his dark wings and as he took off, gave a wave and called, 'Cheerie-bye Boney!'

Arahel turned into a giant owl, Harvel clambered painfully onto her back and all together they flew back to Ferbone. It started to snow and this obscured their vision, but Arahel lead the way which was just as well for Fenrir otherwise he would have gotten hopelessly lost.

They arrived at Ferbone at lunchtime. Weynay took Harvel into her small hospital and listened to Fenrir report back. He spun it out to sound like everything had went well, but did admit there had been a fight and he'd killed a few goblins.
'Well,' said Weynay. 'I suppose with the chief dead, perhaps they will be preoccupied with choosing a
successor for a while. You did your best, thank you for that.'

Fenrir talked to Weynay privately and admitted he'd had relations with Nexelmode.
She examined his bits and not liking the look of them gave him some ointment and told him to apply it every day for the next month.

Fenrir and Arahel then went to the Badger Inn to sit out the storm.