(G587 22/03/2025 via Roll20 - JF, KT, AP(GM), AD) 5ED5 (CG 70%)
[This continues the story of Rogier the bard. He has been dumped by his previous partners in nonsense, Nestor Applebaum the cleric and Haggen Dashenford the fighter, but has made some new friends. A warforged called Gravedigger and a paladin known as Uthmar Shatterstone. They have been charged with rescuing a young chap from some rascally chicken people. This tale was told to me by my friend Random and as far as possible I will relate the story as it was told to me.]
The Tale of Rogier and the Temple of Fowl Delights
DAY 6 – continued
Having walloped the last of the chicken-men (or grosslins), and dispatched a rather unpleasant assortment of avian beasties, our heroes found young Kai trussed up like the village pig on Harvest Day, roasting gently over an open fire.
Gravedigger, ever the practical automaton, extinguished the flames and administered healing, while Uthmar did what Uthmar does best—blustered about the morality of fowl-worship and carried the lad like a sack of turnips back to Grebell. Rogier, I’m told, strummed a little ditty along the way, something in a minor key that may or may not have included a chicken pun.
Upon returning Kai to his mother Sylvia — who burst into a rather moving combination of sobs, praise, and unsolicited casserole — the party was rewarded the princely sum of 10 gold pieces.
DAY 7 – Fowl's Gold
Flush with courage (and perhaps slightly hungover), the trio returned to the temple, hoping to uncover more secrets.
Gravedigger led the way — his metallic gait surprisingly quiet — and into a room filled with warped furniture and enough dust to make a historian weep with joy. Rogier and Uthmar immediately began bickering like an old married couple.
In one room, amongst crates and casks of questionable legality, Gravedigger discovered magic messenger parchments — eight of them, no less! Capable of sending messages across realms and planes, or as Rogier dubbed them, "postcards for wizards with commitment issues."
Soon after, two rather robust spiders attempted to turn our heroes into a light snack. One bit Gravedigger rather rudely before being promptly turned into arachnid jam.
Further exploration led to a room with an ornate fountain. Uthmar, bafflingly, relieved himself in it. Gravedigger reached in and, with mechanical precision, retrieved five platinum pieces.
At one point Rogier made a joke about “the three seashells.” Nobody laughed. Except Gravedigger. This unsettled everyone.
They soon encountered another solitary grosslin in a chamber filled with crates and a precarious catwalk. After some light skirmishing, they found a nest chamber containing a single egg. Suspicious, but they left it alone. Perhaps breakfast for later?
In a nearby cell were two unconscious men — Bart and Terry — who had clearly had a dreadful time. Gravedigger administered food and water with the delicacy of a blacksmith performing dentistry, and Uthmar escorted them to the fountain for a bit of recuperative hydration.
The next chamber was dominated by a giant nest and a crooked wooden stage, presumably for chicken sermons. They unearthed two blue quartz gems worth 20 gold apiece.
Returning to a previously visited chamber, Rogier and Uthmar followed some goblin-like footprints, leading them to discover a cache of treasure.
They returned once again to Grebell, presented their findings, and were rewarded by the mayor with a few more coins and, perhaps more importantly, the warm fuzzies of public approval.
DAY 8 – Slimes and Semantics
Still not quite ready to retire to a life of tavern lounging, the trio checked the local job board. One notice, scrawled in shaky handwriting, read:
“Oozes coming out of a well in Elmbrook. Bright red. Bright blue. Causing problems. Reward: 200 gold.”
Naturally, they were intrigued.
Elmbrook was four hours’ walk, and when they arrived they were met by a weary old man who looked like he'd spent a week arguing with geese and losing. Uthmar, attempting banter, asked if the reward was "for eachs," which somehow became “four peaches,” which in turn evolved into a discussion about being paid in golden peaches. No one followed his train of thought.
Still, through sheer force of will (and perhaps pity), the elder agreed to 250 gold.
Uthmar immediately went to the general store and bought ten clubs, presumably in preparation for a game of undead cricket or an especially lively brawl.
The villagers directed the trio to a mine entrance — clearly the source of the ooze problem. Descending into a chamber, they found two red pools, two blue pools, and a pair of ominous double doors.
Before they could discuss colour theory, the oozes rose. Some red, some blue, all squishy and aggresive. A battle commenced.
Gravedigger wielded sacred flame with all the serenity of a church bell being hurled off a roof. Rogier’s lute spells turned the air into a cacophony of song and suffering. Uthmar, bless him, swung his sword like a windmill in a storm.
The tide turned, however, and they were forced to retreat up the staircase — dripping, singed, but still determined.
