[This continues the story of Nestor Applebaum the cleric, Haggen Dashenford the fighter and Rogier the bard, as told to me from Random. As far as possible I will relate the story as it was told to me. Currently the lads are in the village of Greball.]
DAY 6
"In Which Our Band Acquires a Warforged, Debates Elocution, and Encounters Fowl Trouble"
Ah, Greball Village — a quaint little hamlet with more problems than livestock, and no shortage of curious characters. One imagines a more relaxing setting for a lute recital, but alas, destiny had other ideas.
Now, picture this: Nestor and Haggen, those paragons of subtlety, slipped out during the night like a pair of sneaky badgers, leaving our dear Rogier all alone in the tavern with naught but his melancholy chords for company.
Enter, stage left, two chaps of uncommon construction and clanky conviction: Gravedigger, a rather stern Warforged with the charm of a tombstone, and Uthmar Shatterstone, a paladin — or pala-din, depending on whom you ask. The pair immediately fell into a lively squabble over pronunciation which, frankly, would’ve made a linguist weep.
Despite appearances, both had once tilled the land and now shared a peculiar tendency to smite first and philosophize later.
Rogier, never one to wallow for long, struck up a tune on his lute. Gravedigger, not to be outdone, produced a set of bagpipes. The noise was... memorable.
Now then, just as the musical horrors peaked, in rushed a frantic woman, breathless and wide-eyed.
"My son Kai is missing! He went to gather wood and hasn’t returned! The constable won’t lift a finger!"
Gallant as ever (or perhaps bored), Rogier and Uthmar sprang into action and headed straight to the constable. Said constable, a man of such staggering indifference he might’ve been carved from old cheese, simply pointed toward the forest with all the urgency of a man swatting flies.
Into the woods they went. Uthmar, ever the tracker, spotted a child’s boot beside the path. Suspicion of foul play quickly ripened when a raven cawed overhead with the subtlety of a thunderclap.
Further along, they stumbled upon smoldering carts and, lo and behold, a gang of horrid Grosslins lurking in the underbrush. Ugly things. Like chickens that failed several quality checks.
The battle was swift, if a touch embarrassing. Gravedigger took a tumble and Rogier’s tactical flair left something to be desired, prompting Uthmar to give him a firm telling-off, the sort that implies parental disappointment.
Still, victory was achieved. Short rest commenced. They looted the miscreants and found a curious map scrawled on rabbit skin.
With map in hand and optimism in short supply, the trio marched on until they discovered a squat stone cube — clearly an entrance to a dungeon. Chicken tracks the size of dinner plates greeted them.
Descending into the dark, they encountered a sleeping chicken-man (a sentence I never expected to narrate), and later, a hallway fragrant with bacon. Tempting, but suspicious.
Further exploration revealed a room with a fire pit full of humanoid bones and chicken effigies. They were then assaulted by Grosslins, but Rogier put half of them to sleep with a spell before anyone could make a quiche.
After dispatching a couple of rather cheeky spiders and avoiding a nasty furnace, they heard chanting.
They burst into the next chamber and — well, picture this:
Four grotesque chicken-like creatures pranced about a fire chanting “Grakknovar” and “Plekknovar” like overzealous cultists at a poultry-themed séance. At the fire’s heart, a young lad — presumably Kai — tied to a stake and unconscious.
Beyond that, two small gray objects sat on matching podiums. One can only imagine they were the source of the chanting, or possibly some form of poultry-based home décor.
And that, dear Rollo, is where we left our noble band — standing in the glow of firelight, hearts pounding, feathers flying, and the odd cluck echoing down the corridors.
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