Palanan
2014-06-25, 05:54 PM
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Here follows a tale from Wirrapemioc, of an entanglement he chose of his own free will--partly from curiosity, partly from whispers he heard among the younger trees; and partly, I am sorry to say, from a flicker of greed, to which even a thoughtful heart is not entirely immune.
Session I: The Tower and the Ambush
Dawn at the Tower
It was an odd group that stood in a loose, uncertain semicircle at the base of the crumbling tower. That tower, having once commanded a strategic horizon during the Right War, had slowly shed fragments of itself during the following centuries, settling gradually into the sleepy comfort of rural legend, a slumped and almost homely ruin.
In the early morning light, with heavy dew bending the tall grasses among its halo of fallen stones, it still held some measure of shadowed dignity, bent and diminished yet standing on, keeping its ancient watch. Beyond the low ridge that supported it, the land swept broadly down and away, undulating gently beneath pale grey pennants of morning mist. The folk who lived in the wooded hollows and wide fields below, men and their ancient allies, knew the tower only as a minor landmark on a distant horizon; few now remembered it as an emblem of the pledge their ancestors had once made.
And likely fewer in that small group would have known the tower's tale, either; they barely knew each other, having come their separate ways in the damp chill before sunrise, each for his own reasons having answered a summons borne by no mortal hand.
Two arrived by different paths on horseback: one a slender young man in billowing robes, bearing a sunburst at his throat; the other taller, careless of style, rough-cut and hard-used by the profession of war. Two more had made the journey on foot: one a stocky mass of beard and muscle, a dwarf by build and glowering brow, but swathed in some foreign attire; and the other a mildly unkempt halfling, hair tousled as if just woken, with intricate curlicues of woad on his face and bare arms, a torc about his neck above his fine-worked leather vest, and a smallish fox nosing alongside.
And two others had appeared soon after: one a homely halfling, with a tattered common tunic and a long flopping hat, entirely unremarkable save for the greenish-grey thing of scales he rode, long and low, the halfling perched easily on a well-made saddle and harness; and the other the most peculiar of them all, some wild-haired gnomish creature, bearing a lance like a knight from the ancient wars and riding a beast the others could not name, something like a dragon the height of a tallish man.
That pair set the fox's nose to twitching, the compact riding-wyrm and its midget chevalier, both as taut as mandolin-strings and evidently as likely to snap. The halfling by the fox's side, young Wirrapemioc, held back a few paces as wary introductions were made: stiff and sparse of grace from the dwarf, downright curt from the mounted warrior, polished and urbane from the well-dressed young priest.
A more friendly, open greeting from the halfling astride the great lizard, a few words exchanged in their own language; and then the young priest named himself as Lucian, and displayed a finely-written letter, copies of which had drawn each of them to the tower this dawn, those copies having appeared where no hand could have placed them--and those copies apparently blank, with no message to be seen except by the bearer alone.
The dragon-steed snapped its apparently useless wings, venting the impatience of its mad-haired rider, who was saying something sharp and intense about dragons, or dragon-eggs, something Wirrapemioc didn't entirely follow; but of a sudden the gnomish figure urged his dragon-steed ahead, towards the dark hollow at the tower's weary base, and vanished beneath the lichen-crusted arch of stones.
There seemed little to do but follow.
The Table Above the Stair
Both from natural caution--and a nagging instinct to keep his distance from the rather volatile gnome--Wirrapemioc lagged well behind, joined in the afterguard by Lucian, likewise willing to allow the more heavily muscled to venture first into the rising dark. Enough of the greyish dawn filtered through eroded arrow-slits to show the remnants of a thick winding stair, spiraling around the tower's inner wall with some promise of solidity.
The tower had long since taken its place in local legend, but it was not dark legend; the wide land about was too long-settled, the ridge too well-traveled for anything unwholesome to make a go of tower-haunting.
The stone stair, at least, was firm enough to hold the determined gnome and his steed, and the others following more cautiously behind--who found, when they finally gained the first and only solid landing, a small round table placed neatly in the center of the white-streaked stone floor, generations of swallows having built their nests in the buttressed stonework above.
About the table were placed six chairs: all of them man-sized, Wirrapemioc noted with a touch of chagrin, and he elected to stand a little ways off instead. The other halfling, one Tailor by name and profession, helped himself to a chair and propped his feet on the next one over, straining a little across the gap. From the neck of his tunic, a small copper-eyed head rose up, a slender tongue flicking the cool dry air.
The others seated themselves--and hardly had they settled when a man appeared on the table itself, of indeterminate age and unremarkable height, sweeping his gaze across the upturned eyes below him.
--Harprin, he named himself, and no one needed to be told what he was. He had, he informed them, summoned each one in the expectation that together they would provide him a service: the return of a certain wooden box, forest-green and inscibed with runes, which had been taken from its place of hiding. He was unwilling or unable to retrieve it himself; he had hoped that together we might prove equal to the task. The service, of course, would not go unrewarded.
The sum of two hundred platinum was named, apiece, and that was enough to wake the glitter-lust of even a halfling who slept under leaf and star, and had thought himself free from common want. The price was a fortune, enough to buy a county's worth of prime farmland, or a minor lordship and all its trappings. Taken together, the price offered for this "service" could have bought a small squadron of warships to patrol the distant coastline.
The mad-haired gnome snapped out something impatient about a dragon's-egg. Harprin allowed that one was indeed available, and would serve as the gnome's reward.
The gnome demanded to see that egg immediately. Harprin, caught somewhat off-balance, replied that the egg would be given as promised only after the green box had been recovered and returned.
The gnome demanded to know how to find the box.
Harprin, unruffled again, explained that the box would be on a goblin caravan which he had learned would be passing along a certain road later that same day--a road only a few hours' travel away.
The gnome was ready to leave. That moment. Others, Wirrapemioc among them, had other questions--first and foremost, what exactly was in the box?
Harprin made it plain that this was for him to know, and for those he had called not to concern themselves with. The line between employer and employees thus underscored, and a few more details briefly discussed, Harprin vanished. The gnome was already halfway down the stairs.
Immediate Divisions
From the tower, a well-used track ran along the ridge to intercept the wagon-road where Harprin had claimed the goblin-caravan would be found. It took some hours to reach the spot--and immediately on departing, to Wirrapemioc's discomfort, a deep difference of opinion had already emerged on how the goblins should be dealt with.
The mission-focused gnome, riding point on his small dragon-steed and evidently obsessed with the promise of a true dragon's-egg, was already discussing plans for outright goblin-slaughter, with the tacit assent of Cain, the war-scarred horseman, and hard proclamations on "justice" from the dwarf, aptly named Thunderfist. To judge by the dwarf's repeated declarations, this involved his fist connecting with other faces, rapidly and often.
Privately Wirrapemioc felt this was bending the notion of justice rather too far; and as they set out, he spoke quietly with Lucian, voicing his misgivings. As traders and nomads, no longer with any homeland to call their own, goblins were natural middlemen, and they legitimately peddled all manner of goods. Harprin had been vague as to how the missing box had been stolen; he had certainly not claimed that the goblins themselves were responsible. Ambushing and killing a wagon-train was banditry and bald murder, and wouldn't it be better to at least try to talk first?
The young priest was receptive to this line of thought, and Wirrapemioc suggested Lucian should be the one to raise the question, since his voice might carry more weight as a representative of the divine.
Sadly, this was rather naive on Wirrapemioc's part, and as soon as Lucian spoke up a vigorous debate broke out. The gnome was vehement in his desire to kill every goblin in his way--and if he had to go out of his way for them to be in his way, then so be it. The dwarf, invoking his god of justice, was certain that a few goblins one way or the other would hardly tip the cosmic scales; and from the back of his hardy war-horse, Cain seemed grimly pleased with the prospect for a few good swings, no matter the targets at hand.
Riding on his giant monitor lizard, Tailor at first was swept up in the general enthusiasm for ambush and goblin-disposal; but as a rather humble fellow himself, he began to wonder if these goblins might not be all that different, simply hired drivers trying to make a living, transporting something they knew nothing about. By the time the company of travelers reached the wagon-road, Tailor had come to agree with Lucian and Wirrapemioc that at the very least, common decency required some effort at talking--and Tailor had an idea for how to begin the conversation.
Unfortunately, two halflings and a rather slender young priest were the only voices for goblin tolerance. The battle-scarred horseman, the heavily muscled dwarf and the dragon-mounted gnome with a wicked lance were still bent on a swift goblin massacre.
Dialogue and Death
For better or for worse, the wagon-road offered plenty of opportunities for easy ambush. The bare grassy ridge had long since given way to wooded hills, and the track of the wagon-road followed a winding course between sloping hillsides, shaded by a high forest-canopy with ample undergrowth, especially along the sides of the open track itself.
Not yet accustomed to smooth cooperation--or indeed, any form of coordinated strategy--each of the company took up the position he thought best for his own version of the plan.* Tailor, now resolved to lead the dialogue, spoke in some serpent's-tongue to his monitor lizard ("Boots"), encouraging it to lumber off, up through the forest to a low hill-crest, keeping out of sight so as not to alarm the goblins. Doing his best to appear nonthreatening, Tailor stood squarely in the wagon-track, Lucian calm beside him.
Any attempt at appearing nonthreatening was ruined by the gnome right next to them, brandishing his lance astride his dragon-steed and looking eagerly down the track. In fact, those in favor of goblin-killing seemed to view the attempted parley as a mere tactical distraction; at the very least, their hearts weren't quite in it. The warrior Cain, evidently more used to fighting in open country, drew his horse off the track and into the lee of a nearby thicket, where it wasn't in the slighest camouflaged.
For his part, the dwarf Thunderfist ripped up a small sapling tree, standing by the side of the wagon-road roughly between the not-hidden Cain and the not-really-unthreatening trio ahead. Wirrapemioc would have objected to the ruin of the tree--done for no purpose that he could tell--but he was on the far side of the track, concealed behind a vine-draped thicket with an idea or two of his own.
Soon enough two covered wagons lumbered into view down the track, the first bearing a gaggle of goblins on its canvas roof and a husky hobgoblin gripping the reins; the second wagon was driven by another hobgoblin. ...Those hobgoblins changed the equation somewhat. Tough enforcers rather than vagabond traders, they might have been along to provide protection from bandits--or to guard something more valuable than crates of salted whitefish.
But Tailor was committed, and stood there in his floppy hat as the first wagon slowly bore down on him. The hobgoblins had already seen Cain, and rather than waste time they clearly wanted to move past this little gathering. "Out of the way!"
With a murmured word and a twist of his fingers, Tailor made eye contact with the first hobgoblin and gave him a broad, welcoming smile.
The hobgoblin felt a telltale whisper of arcane energy pulse across him--and he didn't like it. He spat something vile in his own language, glaring at the source of the failed enchantment, and made it plain he was coming through.
Caught, Tailor did his best. "...Okay, yeah, I probably shouldn't have done that--thing is, we're kind of stuck here, and yeah, I tried to massage the situation a little, and I'm sorry about that, I thought it would be for the best...."
Another murmur and twist of the fingers--and another angry obscenity from the looming hobgoblin, who failed to look remotely charmed. Tailor had to scuttle sideways to avoid being trampled. The next moment he was by the side of the track as the second wagon rolled up, and with a slightly strained smile he gave a murmur and twist to the solid horse pulling it.
The horse, at least, was thoroughly charmed.
Meanwhile, as the first wagon bore down on him, Lucian called out, "I have a question." The hobgoblin hardly looked in the answering mood--but his eyes widened when the young priest slipped a small, weighty purse from his robes, and continued, "I merely wish to converse with you."
The hobgoblin pulled at the reins, both intrigued and slightly confused by the invitation. As Tailor began tugging at the bridle of the second horse, trying to pull it off the track, Lucian politely asked the lead wagoneer if they were by any chance carrying a smallish green box.
As the gaggle of goblins jeered from above, the hobgoblin brusquely snapped that he knew nothing of any box.
"GIVE US THE BOX OR DIE!!" bellowed the dwarf unexpectedly, and threw the uprooted sapling with such force that it speared through the wagon's canvas side, its leaves fluttering sadly above a rear wheel.
This quickly led to an unfortunate breakdown in dialogue, which was especially regrettable for Wirrapemioc--that, and the fact that the gnome Blixi had pulled his dragon-steed across the wagon-track, not far from where Tailor was locked in a tug-of-war with the other hobgoblin for the second horse. (Only the horse's newfound affection made it a contest at all.) Wirrapemioc was doing his best to catch Blixi's attention and urge him a little further off the road--but Blixi, avidly watching for violence, had no interest in moving.
Later none of the survivors could recall the exact timing of what happened next; but Cain thundered in swinging from his horse, aiming for the goblins on the crest of the first wagon--and suddenly two bugbears had appeared from the second wagon, Tailor had lost the struggle for his new horse-friend, and Lucian wisely took several steps back.
*
For want of a better term.
The Gnomish Face of War
As Cain broke cover to the south of the track, Blixi charged in from the north, expertly lancing the first hobgoblin and nearly killing him in one savage strike. Abandoning all subtlety, Tailor cast another enchantment at the second wagoneer, again to no effect--and now that same hobgoblin was swinging angrily at the troublesome halfling below.
The gaggle of goblins piled off the first wagon, doing their best to pursue the gnome on his dragon-steed; and now that Blixi was further from the lead wagon, and Tailor scrambling back into the shrubs on the north side of the track, Wirrapemioc finally had everyone where he wanted them.
--A stirring of grasses all around, as if in a sudden gust none could feel, and then the grass-blades were whipping about, vines and runners reaching in from the thickets on either side, even the goldenrods and queen's-lace and the humbler herbs now snapping for something to grip onto--the horses' legs, the wagon-wheels, and most importantly the hobgoblin leaning over Tailor and the two bugbears lumbering up behind.
Then the dwarf waded into the fray, pummeling a goblin that had been flailing at Blixi and his dragon-mount. The hobgoblin wounded by the gnome's lance had barely regained his feet when Cain swung his way; the great sword missed, but the warhorse finished the job with a stroke of its hooves.
With an angry heave, the second hobgoblin pulled forward, trailing broken grasses still wrapped around his limbs, and smote a glancing blow down on the unfortunate Tailor--who spoke a desperate word and sent the hobgoblin's sword slipping out of his hand.
Just ahead of the first wagon, Lucian, Blix and Thunderfist engaged the gaggle of goblins, while Cain spurred his horse to Tailor's rescue, plunging straight through the frenzied vegetation. With the second hobgoblin still grabbing for his glistening sword, only Tailor spotted one of the bugbears rip free of the tangling tendrils and struggle in the opposite direction, disappearing into the back of the second wagon.
With half the company engaged by goblins, Cain now attacking the second hobgoblin and Wirrapemioc weighing a risky crossbow shot, only Tailor was free to scuttle alongside the second wagon, waiting for what he was certain would be the appearance of that troublesome green box.
Now goblins began to flee the wrath of dwarf and gnome; one darted straight for Wirrapemioc, who made his own hasty attempt at a charm and failed just as badly. Thunderfist pounded up in hot pursuit, missing the goblin but at least distracting it; meanwhile Cain's horse was savaging the second hobgoblin, who had learned that prone was better and was doing his best to simply crawl away. One bugbear remained snared in the midst of a taller patch of grasses--and now a great cloaked figure erupted from the rear of the second wagon, thundering back down the wagon-track.
Tailor shouted an alarm and did his best to pursue, despite his wound; his hasty sling-shot had no effect. Blixi charged straight into the wide circle of still-whipping vegetation, and was immediately caught--and with the others distracted by other targets, Wirrapemioc leaped up into falcon-form and winged off after the escaping bugbear, carrying something bulky beneath its dark cloak.
Falcon's Pursuit
Between the wagons, Cain and the remaining bugbear faced off, while the surviving hobgoblin did his best to crawl quietly into the thickets beyond. Lucian and the dwarf were occupied with the final goblins, Blixi and his dragon-mount still struggling through the clawing grasses, and Tailor made his best effort to trot after the fleeing bugbear, before admitting each of its legs was longer than he was tall.
Those long legs now sent the cloaked bugbear pounding off the wagon-track, angling northeast into the wooded hills and taking a gentle slope with ground-eating strides. Wirrapemioc flew close behind in falcon-form, darting and weaving through branches just under the forest canopy and giving a series of falcon-shrieks all the while, hoping the others would be close behind.
Much later, he learned that as he was winging hard after the fleeing bugbear, two of the surviving goblins had surrendered--one of them not quickly enough to avoid being engulfed by a grappling dwarf--while Cain and the second bugbear remained locked in combat amid the reaching grasses. Lucian, meanwhile, mounted the rear-board into the back of the first wagon, searching through the crates and barrels for anything resembling the wooden box. Outside Tailor was calling at the top of his lungs in an unknown language, trying to catch his great lizard's attention on the other side of the hill.
A good deal closer in that direction, Wirrapemioc drove himself forward in a sudden burst, curving in a broad arc ahead of the massive cloaked form and seeing clearly that it carried a heavy, cloth-wrapped lump beneath one thick arm. The bugbear glanced up as the falcon swept around and resumed its pursuit; and a moment later Wirrapemioc banked hard as the cloaked form suddenly erupted in a dark cloud of expanding smoke. An instant later the bugbear emerged at a sharp new angle, and Wirrapemioc beat harder as the great shape below pounded uphill to the north. Surely, surely the others couldn't be far behind!
At this point, in fact, Blixi and his dragon-mount had pulled free of the tangling grasses and were charging after a fleeing goblin; with one stroke the gnome speared the unfortunate creature clean through, proudly hefting its impaled body high on his lance, grinning with blood-flecked glee. Cain had gained the upper hand on the remaning bugbear--his horse had bitten it savagely--and Tailor, inspired by a new thought, was now yelling northwards in the halfling-tongue, directing Wirrapemioc to steer the bugbear towards the next ridge, where Tailor hoped his monitor lizard might be lumbering in for an intercept.
In fact Wirrapemioc hadn't heard this last part at all, and was instead weighing another approach altogether. Again the falcon surged forward, outpacing the surprised bugbear and slipping low to the forest floor, cutting up into a sharp chandelle barely a hundred feet ahead, stalling and dropping lightly to the leaves on bare halfling-feet. One hand outstretched forbiddingly--or as forbidding as a slender three-foot halfling can manage against a hulking nine-foot bugbear--Wirrapemioc stared down the massive charging shape, and willed into being a globe of writhing flame.
Goodness Gracious...
The bugbear skidded and scrambled to one side, the burning-globe searing a path through the underbrush close behind, leaving a charred trail of coruscating leaves. Breathing hard, Wirrapemioc gathered himself and leaped into falcon-form again, pushing the mass of flames ahead of him in hot pursuit of the retreating bugbear. Once more as he flew he let out a staccato series of piercing falcon-cries, hoping that this and the rolling fiery globe might alert his companions to the chase underway.
Meanwhile, an ever-widening distance to the south, Lucian tended to Tailor's wound, Cain finally smote the remaining bugbear its fatal blow, and the dwarf--having thoroughly lashed down the remaining goblins--was now investigating the back of the second wagon, sorting through provisions and gear in faint hopes of finding, if not the coveted box, then perhaps some welcome ale.
Far to the north, in the wooded hills above them, a tiny cloaked shape churned its way along the distant ridge, followed by a flaming-bright spark leaving a long smudged tail of smoke, with a falcon crying rather piteously somewhere behind.
The dwarf, finding ale, decided it was only justice to sample the spoils of victory.
On that wooded ridge, the bugbear vanished in another wide burst of charcoal smoke, reappearing on another tangent heading north again. Wirrapemioc half-folded his wings through a tangle of branches and rolled down in renewed pursuit, the burning-globe now falling behind, trailing a long banner of flame and smoke that could hardly be missed.
Scenting trouble--or at least the opportunity to ride down another target--Blixi cast around, spotted a lingering trail of smoke to the north, and sent his dragon-steed crashing into the thickets and into the woods beyond. Tailor, for his part, continued calling out to his monitor lizard, yelling a description of the target that its dim mind could grasp and urging it to attack.
By now the cloaked bugbear, still tenaciously gripping his charge, had far outrun the burning-globe, and Wirrapemioc let it puff out in a final smouldering wheeze to better continue his low-level pursuit. To one side he caught sight of a long, low shape wending its way through the undergrowth, a fine saddle strapped to its back; then the falcon had swept ahead, leaving the monitor lizard to follow as best as it could.
Ahead, the bugbear charged through the thinning trees, and in moments broke out onto a broad grassy reach, miles of open country ahead. Still clutching his burden, the bugbear showed no signs of slowing--and he was heading directly for a cluster of tents not far away.
Field of Dreams
While Lucian, Cain and the dwarf remained at the wagons, Tailor began making his way north up the first forested hill. Several more hills away, Wirrapemioc continued his winged pursuit of the indefatigable bugbear, charging heavily through tall grasses and bellowing in its own harsh language. Further behind them, the riderless monitor lizard loped along through the grassy field, with the gnome on his dragon-steed crashing through the woods: still a ways to the south, but making good time.
And now two horsemen had set out from the cluster of tents, hooves pounding toward the approaching bugbear; and as Wirrapemioc circled above, they intercepted the bugbear and received that lumpish object wrapped in cloth, one of the horsemen wheeling and immediately setting off for the tents again. The second horseman, a hobgoblin, remained by the winded bugbear--just as the monitor lizard erupted from the grasses and clamped down on the bugbear's leg. No sooner had the mounted hobgoblin tried to intervene than he was charged by a shrieking gnome on a miniature dragon, and a vicious melee ensued.
The other mounted hobgoblin, bearing his precious cargo, covered the distance back to the field-camp in short order, dismounting and ducking into one of the tents. From two hundred feet above the plain, Wirrapemioc watched the swift denoument to the nearby melee: the dragon-mounted gnome making quick work of the unfortunate hobgoblin, and the monitor lizard seizing firm hold of the exhausted bugbear.
The last hobgoblin emerged from the tent, bearing a scroll which it was clearly attempting to read; and Wirrapemioc rolled into a power dive, talons ready to rip the scroll to ribbons before it could be cast--but the hobgoblin twisted away at the last instant, the falcon flapping frantically to avoid the onrushing earth. As the gnome charged in, the hobgoblin abruptly vanished--and reappeared several hundred yards away, already sprinting for another patch of woods with a heavy object clamped beneath one arm.
Beating for altitude, Wirrapemioc set out yet again after the well-wrapped box and its new bearer--and Blixi, having been foiled on his last charge, swung his dragon-steed about and went churning after the hobgoblin, the box, and that curiously persistent hawk.
Boxed In
As Cain, Lucian and the dwarf settled into the wagons, well to the north the last upright hobgoblin continued his mad dash across the grasses, followed by Wirrapemioc above and Blixi gaining not far behind. Tailor, for his part, continued jogging up to the crest of the first wooded hill. "I don't know where anything is," he said to the forest at large, "I just know my monitor lizard is there, and he's dumb."
The monitor lizard, in fact, was already settling down to a meal of bugbear with its intriguing blend of flavors, despite the fact that the meal was still struggling. Tailor needn't have worried: with both food and entertainment right under its nose, the monitor lizard was quite helpfully staying put.
Well beyond him, the sprinting hobgoblin was closing on a dense patch of woods, with an increasingly tired Wirrapemioc shadowing him not far above. Seeing his latest target about to disappear, the gnome cast a speed-charm on his dragon-mount, surging ahead with a velocity not yet seen and overtaking the hobgoblin beneath the heavy forest-eaves, lancing him down with a single mortal thrust.
As the falcon took up a perch in the branches above, panting heavily, the gnome triumphantly affixed the hobgoblin to the earth with his lance, slid off his dragon-mount, and quickly hefted the heavy object that had fallen in the leaves.
Wooden? Check. Green? Check. Runes? Check.
The gnome pulled his lance out of the fallen hobgoblin, remounted his dragon-steed, and Wirrapemioc spread his weary wings again.
Runes and Debate
The field-camp had been deserted, apart from a happily munching monitor lizard; but as they returned they spotted Tailor making his way towards them, and together the halfling and the gnome examined the troublesome box. Clearly magical; stubbornly locked; covered in mysterious runes. Blixi identified them as Draconic, together forming a peculiar phrase: "lightning over river's pass," though whether riddle or koan, he couldn't say.
By the time the halfling, his lizard, the falcon, and the dragon-mounted gnome made their way back through the hills to the wagons, it was mid-afternoon, and there was the question of the two captive goblins. Tailor, who had failed several times to make an impression on the hobgoblins, now managed to charm a goblin, who unfortunately knew very little about the box--the hobgoblins, it seemed, had been giving all the orders. Apparently the box had been loaded aboard at their clan's camp: and apparently it had been supplied by a drow. The goblin knew little else, apart from a vague destination: the "eastern clans," evidently another grouping of the nomadic goblin-tribes.
This information, or lack thereof, generated two more or less simultaneous lines of argument--the one revolving around what to do with the box, and the other involving the goblins. Blixi, despite having killed more goblins and hobgoblins than everyone else combined, was adamant that the two remaining goblins should be slain. He was furious when he learned that Tailor had quietly allowed the charmed goblin to leave, and the gnome refused to allow the second goblin to be freed; instead Blixi glared at the tightly bound creature for several hours, constantly sharpening his lance.
The matter of the box was more convoluted. Clearly, as certain members of the company had suggested earlier, the goblins themselves knew nothing about the box or its contents; whatever plot was afoot, they hardly seemed the driving force.
And yet, and yet--hobgoblins, hard enforcers and known to be well-organized; bugbears, heavy muscle in these settled lands; and <drow>, the name alone an ominous hint: and the question was whether, by blindly following Harprin's orders, the company might be doing more harm by handing over something of great importance, without making some effort to understand it first.
The only conclusion reached, after a long and wandering discussion, was to find an impartial opinion, someone skilled enough in the arcane to give some better idea of what the company might be dealing with. And now that evening was settling in, the choice of where to find this person was left to the morrow.
As for the final goblin, Blixi steadfastly refused to hear any talk of reprieve--the only questions were how and when. But even gnomes must sleep, and eventually Blixi nodded off, allowing the dwarf--the dwarf, of all unlikely saviors--to recover the goblin and let it scamper free.
Two Questions, and Two More
After an uneventful night in and about the wagons, the next morning found Lucian preparing one of his most potent spells; and once he was ready, one of the slain hobgoblins was manhandled (or rather, dwarf-handled) next to the wagons.
The wording of the questions had been carefully considered, and now Lucian embarked on a long, intricate ritual, at the end of which he spake thusly: Where had the hobgoblins obtained the rune-etched box?
The answer came with a sort of stiff defiance: "You will never stop the goblin nation from rising again!"
Unperturbed, Lucian then asked his second question: Who had the box been intended for?
"The leader of the eastern clans."
This was every bit as brief and cryptic as Lucian had expected, and it gave the company much to consider as they pulled their commandeered wagons around, heading back down the wagon-track towards the last town the goblins had passed through. Here the company expected to find a temple of the dwarf's faith--although "temple" was perhaps too grand a word for the structure they found, not to mention "town."
The goblin-wagons were recognized, although the locals chose not to comment on the change of ownership; and with practical folk all around, the contents of the wagons were soon sold off. (The dwarf, having belatedly come around to a different point of view, elected to donate his share of the proceeds to the local temple, as penance for having deprived the goblins of their property.)
And so, finding themselves in possession of something troublesome and deeply arcane, the company resolved to seek out someone who could tell them two things: what, exactly, they had on their hands--and what in the world they should do about it.
Player Notes
This was the first session of a new campaign, and it ended up being a lot of fun. We have half a dozen players, spanning a wide spectrum of gaming experience. Most of the group are old hands at Pathfinder and d20 in general, although we have one or two who are new to the Pathfinder rules, including your humble scribe.
Most campaign journals start out with a character lineup, with notes on class and basic backstory. Since our characters are strangers in the game, and most of us hadn't met before this first session, I figured I'd lead with the campaign intro and let readers work out which characters are what. I don't know the backstory for the other characters, and I'm not sure about some of their builds, so here's a basic rundown:
Blixi: gnome Summoner 5, possibly with something else in there. His dragon-steed is his eidolon. Played with relish as thoroughly nuts.
Cain: human Fighter 5 (maybe?) with a warhorse that's insane. Or at least has a disturbing taste for humanoid flesh.
Lucian: human Cleric 5 of Sarenrae. A voice of quiet reason.
Tailor: halfling Sorcerer 5, with a copperhead familiar and a giant monitor lizard for a mount. Evidently has a serpent-themed bloodline.
Thunderfist: dwarven Monk 5, I think. Very Beardfist.
Wirrapemioc: halfling Druid 3/Bard 2 with a fox animal companion.
Here follows a tale from Wirrapemioc, of an entanglement he chose of his own free will--partly from curiosity, partly from whispers he heard among the younger trees; and partly, I am sorry to say, from a flicker of greed, to which even a thoughtful heart is not entirely immune.
Session I: The Tower and the Ambush
Dawn at the Tower
It was an odd group that stood in a loose, uncertain semicircle at the base of the crumbling tower. That tower, having once commanded a strategic horizon during the Right War, had slowly shed fragments of itself during the following centuries, settling gradually into the sleepy comfort of rural legend, a slumped and almost homely ruin.
In the early morning light, with heavy dew bending the tall grasses among its halo of fallen stones, it still held some measure of shadowed dignity, bent and diminished yet standing on, keeping its ancient watch. Beyond the low ridge that supported it, the land swept broadly down and away, undulating gently beneath pale grey pennants of morning mist. The folk who lived in the wooded hollows and wide fields below, men and their ancient allies, knew the tower only as a minor landmark on a distant horizon; few now remembered it as an emblem of the pledge their ancestors had once made.
And likely fewer in that small group would have known the tower's tale, either; they barely knew each other, having come their separate ways in the damp chill before sunrise, each for his own reasons having answered a summons borne by no mortal hand.
Two arrived by different paths on horseback: one a slender young man in billowing robes, bearing a sunburst at his throat; the other taller, careless of style, rough-cut and hard-used by the profession of war. Two more had made the journey on foot: one a stocky mass of beard and muscle, a dwarf by build and glowering brow, but swathed in some foreign attire; and the other a mildly unkempt halfling, hair tousled as if just woken, with intricate curlicues of woad on his face and bare arms, a torc about his neck above his fine-worked leather vest, and a smallish fox nosing alongside.
And two others had appeared soon after: one a homely halfling, with a tattered common tunic and a long flopping hat, entirely unremarkable save for the greenish-grey thing of scales he rode, long and low, the halfling perched easily on a well-made saddle and harness; and the other the most peculiar of them all, some wild-haired gnomish creature, bearing a lance like a knight from the ancient wars and riding a beast the others could not name, something like a dragon the height of a tallish man.
That pair set the fox's nose to twitching, the compact riding-wyrm and its midget chevalier, both as taut as mandolin-strings and evidently as likely to snap. The halfling by the fox's side, young Wirrapemioc, held back a few paces as wary introductions were made: stiff and sparse of grace from the dwarf, downright curt from the mounted warrior, polished and urbane from the well-dressed young priest.
A more friendly, open greeting from the halfling astride the great lizard, a few words exchanged in their own language; and then the young priest named himself as Lucian, and displayed a finely-written letter, copies of which had drawn each of them to the tower this dawn, those copies having appeared where no hand could have placed them--and those copies apparently blank, with no message to be seen except by the bearer alone.
The dragon-steed snapped its apparently useless wings, venting the impatience of its mad-haired rider, who was saying something sharp and intense about dragons, or dragon-eggs, something Wirrapemioc didn't entirely follow; but of a sudden the gnomish figure urged his dragon-steed ahead, towards the dark hollow at the tower's weary base, and vanished beneath the lichen-crusted arch of stones.
There seemed little to do but follow.
The Table Above the Stair
Both from natural caution--and a nagging instinct to keep his distance from the rather volatile gnome--Wirrapemioc lagged well behind, joined in the afterguard by Lucian, likewise willing to allow the more heavily muscled to venture first into the rising dark. Enough of the greyish dawn filtered through eroded arrow-slits to show the remnants of a thick winding stair, spiraling around the tower's inner wall with some promise of solidity.
The tower had long since taken its place in local legend, but it was not dark legend; the wide land about was too long-settled, the ridge too well-traveled for anything unwholesome to make a go of tower-haunting.
The stone stair, at least, was firm enough to hold the determined gnome and his steed, and the others following more cautiously behind--who found, when they finally gained the first and only solid landing, a small round table placed neatly in the center of the white-streaked stone floor, generations of swallows having built their nests in the buttressed stonework above.
About the table were placed six chairs: all of them man-sized, Wirrapemioc noted with a touch of chagrin, and he elected to stand a little ways off instead. The other halfling, one Tailor by name and profession, helped himself to a chair and propped his feet on the next one over, straining a little across the gap. From the neck of his tunic, a small copper-eyed head rose up, a slender tongue flicking the cool dry air.
The others seated themselves--and hardly had they settled when a man appeared on the table itself, of indeterminate age and unremarkable height, sweeping his gaze across the upturned eyes below him.
--Harprin, he named himself, and no one needed to be told what he was. He had, he informed them, summoned each one in the expectation that together they would provide him a service: the return of a certain wooden box, forest-green and inscibed with runes, which had been taken from its place of hiding. He was unwilling or unable to retrieve it himself; he had hoped that together we might prove equal to the task. The service, of course, would not go unrewarded.
The sum of two hundred platinum was named, apiece, and that was enough to wake the glitter-lust of even a halfling who slept under leaf and star, and had thought himself free from common want. The price was a fortune, enough to buy a county's worth of prime farmland, or a minor lordship and all its trappings. Taken together, the price offered for this "service" could have bought a small squadron of warships to patrol the distant coastline.
The mad-haired gnome snapped out something impatient about a dragon's-egg. Harprin allowed that one was indeed available, and would serve as the gnome's reward.
The gnome demanded to see that egg immediately. Harprin, caught somewhat off-balance, replied that the egg would be given as promised only after the green box had been recovered and returned.
The gnome demanded to know how to find the box.
Harprin, unruffled again, explained that the box would be on a goblin caravan which he had learned would be passing along a certain road later that same day--a road only a few hours' travel away.
The gnome was ready to leave. That moment. Others, Wirrapemioc among them, had other questions--first and foremost, what exactly was in the box?
Harprin made it plain that this was for him to know, and for those he had called not to concern themselves with. The line between employer and employees thus underscored, and a few more details briefly discussed, Harprin vanished. The gnome was already halfway down the stairs.
Immediate Divisions
From the tower, a well-used track ran along the ridge to intercept the wagon-road where Harprin had claimed the goblin-caravan would be found. It took some hours to reach the spot--and immediately on departing, to Wirrapemioc's discomfort, a deep difference of opinion had already emerged on how the goblins should be dealt with.
The mission-focused gnome, riding point on his small dragon-steed and evidently obsessed with the promise of a true dragon's-egg, was already discussing plans for outright goblin-slaughter, with the tacit assent of Cain, the war-scarred horseman, and hard proclamations on "justice" from the dwarf, aptly named Thunderfist. To judge by the dwarf's repeated declarations, this involved his fist connecting with other faces, rapidly and often.
Privately Wirrapemioc felt this was bending the notion of justice rather too far; and as they set out, he spoke quietly with Lucian, voicing his misgivings. As traders and nomads, no longer with any homeland to call their own, goblins were natural middlemen, and they legitimately peddled all manner of goods. Harprin had been vague as to how the missing box had been stolen; he had certainly not claimed that the goblins themselves were responsible. Ambushing and killing a wagon-train was banditry and bald murder, and wouldn't it be better to at least try to talk first?
The young priest was receptive to this line of thought, and Wirrapemioc suggested Lucian should be the one to raise the question, since his voice might carry more weight as a representative of the divine.
Sadly, this was rather naive on Wirrapemioc's part, and as soon as Lucian spoke up a vigorous debate broke out. The gnome was vehement in his desire to kill every goblin in his way--and if he had to go out of his way for them to be in his way, then so be it. The dwarf, invoking his god of justice, was certain that a few goblins one way or the other would hardly tip the cosmic scales; and from the back of his hardy war-horse, Cain seemed grimly pleased with the prospect for a few good swings, no matter the targets at hand.
Riding on his giant monitor lizard, Tailor at first was swept up in the general enthusiasm for ambush and goblin-disposal; but as a rather humble fellow himself, he began to wonder if these goblins might not be all that different, simply hired drivers trying to make a living, transporting something they knew nothing about. By the time the company of travelers reached the wagon-road, Tailor had come to agree with Lucian and Wirrapemioc that at the very least, common decency required some effort at talking--and Tailor had an idea for how to begin the conversation.
Unfortunately, two halflings and a rather slender young priest were the only voices for goblin tolerance. The battle-scarred horseman, the heavily muscled dwarf and the dragon-mounted gnome with a wicked lance were still bent on a swift goblin massacre.
Dialogue and Death
For better or for worse, the wagon-road offered plenty of opportunities for easy ambush. The bare grassy ridge had long since given way to wooded hills, and the track of the wagon-road followed a winding course between sloping hillsides, shaded by a high forest-canopy with ample undergrowth, especially along the sides of the open track itself.
Not yet accustomed to smooth cooperation--or indeed, any form of coordinated strategy--each of the company took up the position he thought best for his own version of the plan.* Tailor, now resolved to lead the dialogue, spoke in some serpent's-tongue to his monitor lizard ("Boots"), encouraging it to lumber off, up through the forest to a low hill-crest, keeping out of sight so as not to alarm the goblins. Doing his best to appear nonthreatening, Tailor stood squarely in the wagon-track, Lucian calm beside him.
Any attempt at appearing nonthreatening was ruined by the gnome right next to them, brandishing his lance astride his dragon-steed and looking eagerly down the track. In fact, those in favor of goblin-killing seemed to view the attempted parley as a mere tactical distraction; at the very least, their hearts weren't quite in it. The warrior Cain, evidently more used to fighting in open country, drew his horse off the track and into the lee of a nearby thicket, where it wasn't in the slighest camouflaged.
For his part, the dwarf Thunderfist ripped up a small sapling tree, standing by the side of the wagon-road roughly between the not-hidden Cain and the not-really-unthreatening trio ahead. Wirrapemioc would have objected to the ruin of the tree--done for no purpose that he could tell--but he was on the far side of the track, concealed behind a vine-draped thicket with an idea or two of his own.
Soon enough two covered wagons lumbered into view down the track, the first bearing a gaggle of goblins on its canvas roof and a husky hobgoblin gripping the reins; the second wagon was driven by another hobgoblin. ...Those hobgoblins changed the equation somewhat. Tough enforcers rather than vagabond traders, they might have been along to provide protection from bandits--or to guard something more valuable than crates of salted whitefish.
But Tailor was committed, and stood there in his floppy hat as the first wagon slowly bore down on him. The hobgoblins had already seen Cain, and rather than waste time they clearly wanted to move past this little gathering. "Out of the way!"
With a murmured word and a twist of his fingers, Tailor made eye contact with the first hobgoblin and gave him a broad, welcoming smile.
The hobgoblin felt a telltale whisper of arcane energy pulse across him--and he didn't like it. He spat something vile in his own language, glaring at the source of the failed enchantment, and made it plain he was coming through.
Caught, Tailor did his best. "...Okay, yeah, I probably shouldn't have done that--thing is, we're kind of stuck here, and yeah, I tried to massage the situation a little, and I'm sorry about that, I thought it would be for the best...."
Another murmur and twist of the fingers--and another angry obscenity from the looming hobgoblin, who failed to look remotely charmed. Tailor had to scuttle sideways to avoid being trampled. The next moment he was by the side of the track as the second wagon rolled up, and with a slightly strained smile he gave a murmur and twist to the solid horse pulling it.
The horse, at least, was thoroughly charmed.
Meanwhile, as the first wagon bore down on him, Lucian called out, "I have a question." The hobgoblin hardly looked in the answering mood--but his eyes widened when the young priest slipped a small, weighty purse from his robes, and continued, "I merely wish to converse with you."
The hobgoblin pulled at the reins, both intrigued and slightly confused by the invitation. As Tailor began tugging at the bridle of the second horse, trying to pull it off the track, Lucian politely asked the lead wagoneer if they were by any chance carrying a smallish green box.
As the gaggle of goblins jeered from above, the hobgoblin brusquely snapped that he knew nothing of any box.
"GIVE US THE BOX OR DIE!!" bellowed the dwarf unexpectedly, and threw the uprooted sapling with such force that it speared through the wagon's canvas side, its leaves fluttering sadly above a rear wheel.
This quickly led to an unfortunate breakdown in dialogue, which was especially regrettable for Wirrapemioc--that, and the fact that the gnome Blixi had pulled his dragon-steed across the wagon-track, not far from where Tailor was locked in a tug-of-war with the other hobgoblin for the second horse. (Only the horse's newfound affection made it a contest at all.) Wirrapemioc was doing his best to catch Blixi's attention and urge him a little further off the road--but Blixi, avidly watching for violence, had no interest in moving.
Later none of the survivors could recall the exact timing of what happened next; but Cain thundered in swinging from his horse, aiming for the goblins on the crest of the first wagon--and suddenly two bugbears had appeared from the second wagon, Tailor had lost the struggle for his new horse-friend, and Lucian wisely took several steps back.
*
For want of a better term.
The Gnomish Face of War
As Cain broke cover to the south of the track, Blixi charged in from the north, expertly lancing the first hobgoblin and nearly killing him in one savage strike. Abandoning all subtlety, Tailor cast another enchantment at the second wagoneer, again to no effect--and now that same hobgoblin was swinging angrily at the troublesome halfling below.
The gaggle of goblins piled off the first wagon, doing their best to pursue the gnome on his dragon-steed; and now that Blixi was further from the lead wagon, and Tailor scrambling back into the shrubs on the north side of the track, Wirrapemioc finally had everyone where he wanted them.
--A stirring of grasses all around, as if in a sudden gust none could feel, and then the grass-blades were whipping about, vines and runners reaching in from the thickets on either side, even the goldenrods and queen's-lace and the humbler herbs now snapping for something to grip onto--the horses' legs, the wagon-wheels, and most importantly the hobgoblin leaning over Tailor and the two bugbears lumbering up behind.
Then the dwarf waded into the fray, pummeling a goblin that had been flailing at Blixi and his dragon-mount. The hobgoblin wounded by the gnome's lance had barely regained his feet when Cain swung his way; the great sword missed, but the warhorse finished the job with a stroke of its hooves.
With an angry heave, the second hobgoblin pulled forward, trailing broken grasses still wrapped around his limbs, and smote a glancing blow down on the unfortunate Tailor--who spoke a desperate word and sent the hobgoblin's sword slipping out of his hand.
Just ahead of the first wagon, Lucian, Blix and Thunderfist engaged the gaggle of goblins, while Cain spurred his horse to Tailor's rescue, plunging straight through the frenzied vegetation. With the second hobgoblin still grabbing for his glistening sword, only Tailor spotted one of the bugbears rip free of the tangling tendrils and struggle in the opposite direction, disappearing into the back of the second wagon.
With half the company engaged by goblins, Cain now attacking the second hobgoblin and Wirrapemioc weighing a risky crossbow shot, only Tailor was free to scuttle alongside the second wagon, waiting for what he was certain would be the appearance of that troublesome green box.
Now goblins began to flee the wrath of dwarf and gnome; one darted straight for Wirrapemioc, who made his own hasty attempt at a charm and failed just as badly. Thunderfist pounded up in hot pursuit, missing the goblin but at least distracting it; meanwhile Cain's horse was savaging the second hobgoblin, who had learned that prone was better and was doing his best to simply crawl away. One bugbear remained snared in the midst of a taller patch of grasses--and now a great cloaked figure erupted from the rear of the second wagon, thundering back down the wagon-track.
Tailor shouted an alarm and did his best to pursue, despite his wound; his hasty sling-shot had no effect. Blixi charged straight into the wide circle of still-whipping vegetation, and was immediately caught--and with the others distracted by other targets, Wirrapemioc leaped up into falcon-form and winged off after the escaping bugbear, carrying something bulky beneath its dark cloak.
Falcon's Pursuit
Between the wagons, Cain and the remaining bugbear faced off, while the surviving hobgoblin did his best to crawl quietly into the thickets beyond. Lucian and the dwarf were occupied with the final goblins, Blixi and his dragon-mount still struggling through the clawing grasses, and Tailor made his best effort to trot after the fleeing bugbear, before admitting each of its legs was longer than he was tall.
Those long legs now sent the cloaked bugbear pounding off the wagon-track, angling northeast into the wooded hills and taking a gentle slope with ground-eating strides. Wirrapemioc flew close behind in falcon-form, darting and weaving through branches just under the forest canopy and giving a series of falcon-shrieks all the while, hoping the others would be close behind.
Much later, he learned that as he was winging hard after the fleeing bugbear, two of the surviving goblins had surrendered--one of them not quickly enough to avoid being engulfed by a grappling dwarf--while Cain and the second bugbear remained locked in combat amid the reaching grasses. Lucian, meanwhile, mounted the rear-board into the back of the first wagon, searching through the crates and barrels for anything resembling the wooden box. Outside Tailor was calling at the top of his lungs in an unknown language, trying to catch his great lizard's attention on the other side of the hill.
A good deal closer in that direction, Wirrapemioc drove himself forward in a sudden burst, curving in a broad arc ahead of the massive cloaked form and seeing clearly that it carried a heavy, cloth-wrapped lump beneath one thick arm. The bugbear glanced up as the falcon swept around and resumed its pursuit; and a moment later Wirrapemioc banked hard as the cloaked form suddenly erupted in a dark cloud of expanding smoke. An instant later the bugbear emerged at a sharp new angle, and Wirrapemioc beat harder as the great shape below pounded uphill to the north. Surely, surely the others couldn't be far behind!
At this point, in fact, Blixi and his dragon-mount had pulled free of the tangling grasses and were charging after a fleeing goblin; with one stroke the gnome speared the unfortunate creature clean through, proudly hefting its impaled body high on his lance, grinning with blood-flecked glee. Cain had gained the upper hand on the remaning bugbear--his horse had bitten it savagely--and Tailor, inspired by a new thought, was now yelling northwards in the halfling-tongue, directing Wirrapemioc to steer the bugbear towards the next ridge, where Tailor hoped his monitor lizard might be lumbering in for an intercept.
In fact Wirrapemioc hadn't heard this last part at all, and was instead weighing another approach altogether. Again the falcon surged forward, outpacing the surprised bugbear and slipping low to the forest floor, cutting up into a sharp chandelle barely a hundred feet ahead, stalling and dropping lightly to the leaves on bare halfling-feet. One hand outstretched forbiddingly--or as forbidding as a slender three-foot halfling can manage against a hulking nine-foot bugbear--Wirrapemioc stared down the massive charging shape, and willed into being a globe of writhing flame.
Goodness Gracious...
The bugbear skidded and scrambled to one side, the burning-globe searing a path through the underbrush close behind, leaving a charred trail of coruscating leaves. Breathing hard, Wirrapemioc gathered himself and leaped into falcon-form again, pushing the mass of flames ahead of him in hot pursuit of the retreating bugbear. Once more as he flew he let out a staccato series of piercing falcon-cries, hoping that this and the rolling fiery globe might alert his companions to the chase underway.
Meanwhile, an ever-widening distance to the south, Lucian tended to Tailor's wound, Cain finally smote the remaining bugbear its fatal blow, and the dwarf--having thoroughly lashed down the remaining goblins--was now investigating the back of the second wagon, sorting through provisions and gear in faint hopes of finding, if not the coveted box, then perhaps some welcome ale.
Far to the north, in the wooded hills above them, a tiny cloaked shape churned its way along the distant ridge, followed by a flaming-bright spark leaving a long smudged tail of smoke, with a falcon crying rather piteously somewhere behind.
The dwarf, finding ale, decided it was only justice to sample the spoils of victory.
On that wooded ridge, the bugbear vanished in another wide burst of charcoal smoke, reappearing on another tangent heading north again. Wirrapemioc half-folded his wings through a tangle of branches and rolled down in renewed pursuit, the burning-globe now falling behind, trailing a long banner of flame and smoke that could hardly be missed.
Scenting trouble--or at least the opportunity to ride down another target--Blixi cast around, spotted a lingering trail of smoke to the north, and sent his dragon-steed crashing into the thickets and into the woods beyond. Tailor, for his part, continued calling out to his monitor lizard, yelling a description of the target that its dim mind could grasp and urging it to attack.
By now the cloaked bugbear, still tenaciously gripping his charge, had far outrun the burning-globe, and Wirrapemioc let it puff out in a final smouldering wheeze to better continue his low-level pursuit. To one side he caught sight of a long, low shape wending its way through the undergrowth, a fine saddle strapped to its back; then the falcon had swept ahead, leaving the monitor lizard to follow as best as it could.
Ahead, the bugbear charged through the thinning trees, and in moments broke out onto a broad grassy reach, miles of open country ahead. Still clutching his burden, the bugbear showed no signs of slowing--and he was heading directly for a cluster of tents not far away.
Field of Dreams
While Lucian, Cain and the dwarf remained at the wagons, Tailor began making his way north up the first forested hill. Several more hills away, Wirrapemioc continued his winged pursuit of the indefatigable bugbear, charging heavily through tall grasses and bellowing in its own harsh language. Further behind them, the riderless monitor lizard loped along through the grassy field, with the gnome on his dragon-steed crashing through the woods: still a ways to the south, but making good time.
And now two horsemen had set out from the cluster of tents, hooves pounding toward the approaching bugbear; and as Wirrapemioc circled above, they intercepted the bugbear and received that lumpish object wrapped in cloth, one of the horsemen wheeling and immediately setting off for the tents again. The second horseman, a hobgoblin, remained by the winded bugbear--just as the monitor lizard erupted from the grasses and clamped down on the bugbear's leg. No sooner had the mounted hobgoblin tried to intervene than he was charged by a shrieking gnome on a miniature dragon, and a vicious melee ensued.
The other mounted hobgoblin, bearing his precious cargo, covered the distance back to the field-camp in short order, dismounting and ducking into one of the tents. From two hundred feet above the plain, Wirrapemioc watched the swift denoument to the nearby melee: the dragon-mounted gnome making quick work of the unfortunate hobgoblin, and the monitor lizard seizing firm hold of the exhausted bugbear.
The last hobgoblin emerged from the tent, bearing a scroll which it was clearly attempting to read; and Wirrapemioc rolled into a power dive, talons ready to rip the scroll to ribbons before it could be cast--but the hobgoblin twisted away at the last instant, the falcon flapping frantically to avoid the onrushing earth. As the gnome charged in, the hobgoblin abruptly vanished--and reappeared several hundred yards away, already sprinting for another patch of woods with a heavy object clamped beneath one arm.
Beating for altitude, Wirrapemioc set out yet again after the well-wrapped box and its new bearer--and Blixi, having been foiled on his last charge, swung his dragon-steed about and went churning after the hobgoblin, the box, and that curiously persistent hawk.
Boxed In
As Cain, Lucian and the dwarf settled into the wagons, well to the north the last upright hobgoblin continued his mad dash across the grasses, followed by Wirrapemioc above and Blixi gaining not far behind. Tailor, for his part, continued jogging up to the crest of the first wooded hill. "I don't know where anything is," he said to the forest at large, "I just know my monitor lizard is there, and he's dumb."
The monitor lizard, in fact, was already settling down to a meal of bugbear with its intriguing blend of flavors, despite the fact that the meal was still struggling. Tailor needn't have worried: with both food and entertainment right under its nose, the monitor lizard was quite helpfully staying put.
Well beyond him, the sprinting hobgoblin was closing on a dense patch of woods, with an increasingly tired Wirrapemioc shadowing him not far above. Seeing his latest target about to disappear, the gnome cast a speed-charm on his dragon-mount, surging ahead with a velocity not yet seen and overtaking the hobgoblin beneath the heavy forest-eaves, lancing him down with a single mortal thrust.
As the falcon took up a perch in the branches above, panting heavily, the gnome triumphantly affixed the hobgoblin to the earth with his lance, slid off his dragon-mount, and quickly hefted the heavy object that had fallen in the leaves.
Wooden? Check. Green? Check. Runes? Check.
The gnome pulled his lance out of the fallen hobgoblin, remounted his dragon-steed, and Wirrapemioc spread his weary wings again.
Runes and Debate
The field-camp had been deserted, apart from a happily munching monitor lizard; but as they returned they spotted Tailor making his way towards them, and together the halfling and the gnome examined the troublesome box. Clearly magical; stubbornly locked; covered in mysterious runes. Blixi identified them as Draconic, together forming a peculiar phrase: "lightning over river's pass," though whether riddle or koan, he couldn't say.
By the time the halfling, his lizard, the falcon, and the dragon-mounted gnome made their way back through the hills to the wagons, it was mid-afternoon, and there was the question of the two captive goblins. Tailor, who had failed several times to make an impression on the hobgoblins, now managed to charm a goblin, who unfortunately knew very little about the box--the hobgoblins, it seemed, had been giving all the orders. Apparently the box had been loaded aboard at their clan's camp: and apparently it had been supplied by a drow. The goblin knew little else, apart from a vague destination: the "eastern clans," evidently another grouping of the nomadic goblin-tribes.
This information, or lack thereof, generated two more or less simultaneous lines of argument--the one revolving around what to do with the box, and the other involving the goblins. Blixi, despite having killed more goblins and hobgoblins than everyone else combined, was adamant that the two remaining goblins should be slain. He was furious when he learned that Tailor had quietly allowed the charmed goblin to leave, and the gnome refused to allow the second goblin to be freed; instead Blixi glared at the tightly bound creature for several hours, constantly sharpening his lance.
The matter of the box was more convoluted. Clearly, as certain members of the company had suggested earlier, the goblins themselves knew nothing about the box or its contents; whatever plot was afoot, they hardly seemed the driving force.
And yet, and yet--hobgoblins, hard enforcers and known to be well-organized; bugbears, heavy muscle in these settled lands; and <drow>, the name alone an ominous hint: and the question was whether, by blindly following Harprin's orders, the company might be doing more harm by handing over something of great importance, without making some effort to understand it first.
The only conclusion reached, after a long and wandering discussion, was to find an impartial opinion, someone skilled enough in the arcane to give some better idea of what the company might be dealing with. And now that evening was settling in, the choice of where to find this person was left to the morrow.
As for the final goblin, Blixi steadfastly refused to hear any talk of reprieve--the only questions were how and when. But even gnomes must sleep, and eventually Blixi nodded off, allowing the dwarf--the dwarf, of all unlikely saviors--to recover the goblin and let it scamper free.
Two Questions, and Two More
After an uneventful night in and about the wagons, the next morning found Lucian preparing one of his most potent spells; and once he was ready, one of the slain hobgoblins was manhandled (or rather, dwarf-handled) next to the wagons.
The wording of the questions had been carefully considered, and now Lucian embarked on a long, intricate ritual, at the end of which he spake thusly: Where had the hobgoblins obtained the rune-etched box?
The answer came with a sort of stiff defiance: "You will never stop the goblin nation from rising again!"
Unperturbed, Lucian then asked his second question: Who had the box been intended for?
"The leader of the eastern clans."
This was every bit as brief and cryptic as Lucian had expected, and it gave the company much to consider as they pulled their commandeered wagons around, heading back down the wagon-track towards the last town the goblins had passed through. Here the company expected to find a temple of the dwarf's faith--although "temple" was perhaps too grand a word for the structure they found, not to mention "town."
The goblin-wagons were recognized, although the locals chose not to comment on the change of ownership; and with practical folk all around, the contents of the wagons were soon sold off. (The dwarf, having belatedly come around to a different point of view, elected to donate his share of the proceeds to the local temple, as penance for having deprived the goblins of their property.)
And so, finding themselves in possession of something troublesome and deeply arcane, the company resolved to seek out someone who could tell them two things: what, exactly, they had on their hands--and what in the world they should do about it.
Player Notes
This was the first session of a new campaign, and it ended up being a lot of fun. We have half a dozen players, spanning a wide spectrum of gaming experience. Most of the group are old hands at Pathfinder and d20 in general, although we have one or two who are new to the Pathfinder rules, including your humble scribe.
Most campaign journals start out with a character lineup, with notes on class and basic backstory. Since our characters are strangers in the game, and most of us hadn't met before this first session, I figured I'd lead with the campaign intro and let readers work out which characters are what. I don't know the backstory for the other characters, and I'm not sure about some of their builds, so here's a basic rundown:
Blixi: gnome Summoner 5, possibly with something else in there. His dragon-steed is his eidolon. Played with relish as thoroughly nuts.
Cain: human Fighter 5 (maybe?) with a warhorse that's insane. Or at least has a disturbing taste for humanoid flesh.
Lucian: human Cleric 5 of Sarenrae. A voice of quiet reason.
Tailor: halfling Sorcerer 5, with a copperhead familiar and a giant monitor lizard for a mount. Evidently has a serpent-themed bloodline.
Thunderfist: dwarven Monk 5, I think. Very Beardfist.
Wirrapemioc: halfling Druid 3/Bard 2 with a fox animal companion.