Age of Giants- Live or Die Trying

[Farmerbink]

Sometimes, it's hard to tell night from day. Without the benefit of sunlight, and it's inexorable marking of the passage of time, it's easy for life to become one grand span of drudgery- a never-ceasing struggle for survival.

Of course, the Dwarves manage better than most, having spent millennia cultivating their subterranean empires. Even so, as the world above fell, the Dwarves' reliance on surface-based trade of both goods and information was exposed. Without human caravans to bring news and grains, the Dwarves have had to rely once more on the fungus, livestock, and strange stunted plants that manage to grow where the sun never shines.

Spoiler: The darkness below

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It's been harder still for most other races. Even the Goblins and Kobolds generally at home underground spent hundreds of years relying on raiding and surface-based agriculture for their subsistence. Meanwhile, most communities of Gnomes and Halflings lacked deep enough caves to avoid the maniacal onslaught of the oversized oppressors. Most of them were destroyed, alongside the strictly surface-level settlements of their Human and Elven neighbors. Some select few communities have been spared, and in the decades that passed have begun to navigate the new normal.

One such community has managed to retain ties to their neighbors, in spite of the ever-present dangers of overland travel. Aided in large part by a trio of twin crones, capable of reading signs and portents most overlook entirely, messages arrive by messenger pigeon, a handful of particularly tenacious explorers, and the occasional mystic, unexplained writing on the wall of common areas and living spaces, but messages arrive.

Spoiler: Scrying

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In the world after the fall, the vast majority of survivors clearly understand that you live together, or you die alone. When the Stepford-Hendersons call, there is reason. It is infrequently a pleasant reason, but it's always important. And those who value their lives and the community that enables it will answer.



The journey to Step Downsy Forynth was hard. Everything is hard now, though, so it didn't seem much worse than any other venture.

It's with no small trepidation that the Dwarves of Deephall take to the surface, accompanied by a small entourage of whiskerfolk. Squinting eyes turn uneasily skyward as the blazing orb commands attention. Even now, scant minutes before the sun sets behind the mountains you call home, its brilliance is overpowering. The vast openness of space sets even the most intrepid of Dwarves on edge. Keenly aware of how quickly the beasts with 10-foot legs can cover even such great distances, the scouts scatter, peering diligently to the horizon.

Dozens of miles away, Paranomasia and his kin plod sullenly through the darkness. It's not as uneasy as overland travel (yet), but there are still plenty of threats that go bump in the dark. After swarming an ugly aboleth (blessedly trying to navigate outside water itself) the day before, the Kobolds travel cautiously even only a day's march from the "safe" territories of home.

The Goldgathers blessedly travel primarily below ground as well. Only the last half-day requires overland march from the vast network of tunnels their home partially occupies. As they approach the Stepford-Hendersons' home, you stumble upon a troublesome scene: a narrow tendril of smoke in the distance streams through the forested canopy where your neighbor's home lies. Cautiously, expecting danger, your approach slows to an aggressive creeping. Several moments later you espy a pair of carts on fire. Small enough to traverse the narrow underground passages, you recognize both the vehicles and their drivers as the family you sought. Nearby, a pair of giants lies slain, half surrounded by Gnomish and Halfling casualties. As the survivors lick their wounds, you see them ransacking the Giants for valuables.

From the other side of the wreckage, the biggest Goblin you've ever seen strides boldly into the open. "Big Job handle third ugly," he calls in a halting, troubled Gnomish. A smaller, injured Goblin hobbles forward at his heels, glancing around in agitation. "Allofum?" he chirps, almost unrecognizable. With noteworthy relief, it quickly becomes apparent that 3 Giants was enough for them to range, and yet the Gnomes and their allies have killed all of them- this time.

One of the Gnomes steps forward, wearing armor and a few specific jewels and adornments. "This worries me. They're much too close to our hovels for my comfort." Scowling, he peers into what distance he can through the huge old-growth trunks. "We knew this day would come eventually," he spits, with surprising savagery. Turning to Snorri and the other Dwarves, his features soften. "Well met once more, Snorri Goldgather. Would that you and yours had arrived perhaps half an hour sooner, but alas it was surely not your intent to miss the excitement. If your men can carry more, we would be in your debt to return our goods and carts to the Downs."

Perhaps half a hour later, a motley assortment begins their descent, some more haggard than others, but all fatigued as even the Dwarves bow their heads below the frames of the Gnome-sized portals. By the end of the day, the Deephall Dwarves and Kobolds have also arrived.

For many it's a return to the unlikely community, for some their first venture. For all, it's a few moments reprieve, before death comes pounding on the door once more.

[BelGareth]

Heldrum awoke with a roaring headache, as was usual. He squinted, and patted down the immediate area with his hands, finally finding his spectacles, he placed them on his bulbous nose and frowned. The water clock had stopped working sometime while he was sleeping.

For Giant's sake! He thought to himself, as he heaved his bulk up from his straw cot, his back aching, he took a moment to let his body realize it didn't need to hurt so bad, and then attempted to stand, which took several attempts.

Scowling, he worked the coffee pot onto the fire, and began lighting it, using the bellows to tend to the flames while he began looking at the 3-time damned water clock that the crook Crazen sold him, he knew it wasn't in fully functional condition, but he had thought he had fixed it. Placing his hands upon it, he said a small prayer to the All-Father and tried to fix whatever small component he couldn't see....again.

After a little while, the little water clock began working again. Now he would have to find the actual time and adjust it.

Sighing, he clothed himself in his working garb while the water boiled, waiting patiently for his caff to truly start the day.

Once he heard the telltale whistle, he jumped up with a start, having slightly dozed off again waiting for the water to boil. Huffing to himself, he poured out a cup from the carafe and stepped outside his little hobble, it sat right next to his forge and workshop, which sat cold and dark at the moment. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed again. Where was that little rat who was supposed to be apprenticing? The forges should have been red hot by now! Probably of looking for adventure, his father seemed to just shrug every time he asked where the little scamp had gone off to. Gnomes will be gnomes I guess. He sighed to himself.

Taking a long swig of his caff, he moved into the forge and began prepping the forge, bellows, and looking at the items he had on the docket for the day. It wasn't long before he had worked up a sweat, but his sister would tell you, it wasn't that hard for him to do so, he was out of shape, not like when he was younger! A sad smile crept over his face as he recalled his dear sister, it was a bitter sweet memory, and one that was disrupted by the clatter of new arrivals. They all seemed to be weary, and smelling of fire. Which of itself wasn't a surprise, most visitors to the Stepford-Hendersons were exactly that, but these all looked recent, and there were a lot of visitors.

He stepped out of his workshop in his apron, his undershirt already wet with sweat from his early morning-afternoon exertions.

Looking at the closest visitor, he asks "Ye ken what happened?"

[Palanan]

“—I’d’a shown ‘em,” Snethi insists yet again with a satisfied smirk, hands on his twin axes, eyeing the giants’ corpses as the Deephall dwaves pass by. “I’d’a shown ‘em if we’d been here. Just a little earlier an’ I’d’a shown Biggo-Gobbo there just how we do it.” He throws a sneer across his arm, down to where the whiskerfolk are padding along nearby. “Shakkin’ scouts took us the wrong way, or we’d’a been here earlier. I told ‘em—”

“Enough,” Beolfryth says quietly, at last, and the one word suffices. In a more dignified quiet, the Deephall dwarves and their whiskerfolk companions follow their hosts through the elegantly carved wooden frames leading into Step Downsy Forynth—comfortably sized for the whiskerfolk, but constricting for the dwarves.

Yet none complain, knowing that even a small measure of safety is better than the hazard of the open sky. They allow themselves to be led through the cobbled passages, beneath the multicolored beads and puffsprays of light that tint the stones all manner of strange shades, creating oddly multiplied shadows around the newcomers as they follow their hosts deeper into the curving under-streets.

For Perriket, the many-hued shadows are distracting, disorienting, and he trips more than once over his own paws, misjudging the cobble-steps designed for different legs and making an effort to ignore the smirk slipped his way by Snethi. Deep instinct warns him to keep alert in strange tunnels, to keep his whiskers flicking and his nose on point, layers and layers of scent rising in a noisy jumble all around him—strange spices and earthy roots, the damp tang of deep stone and the distant, sour fug of domestic beasts, all the while his nerves jangling and warning him to be wary.

But fatigue rises even higher than the wash of intricate new odors—a spine-aching weariness born of long days and interrupted nights in open country, unending stress at the prospect of ambush, discovery, unexpected calamity. Even as his nose struggles to make sense of the olfactory cacophony, the rest of Perriket’s body is moving through a numb and thickening haze of pure exhaustion, mingled with a quietly gnawing emptiness in the region of his belly.

[DarkOne-Rob]

"Ha! Hng! Nnnyah!" grunts Brankahm Runechanter as he loudly spins and lashes out with his three-sectioned staff as he flows through martial forms in the open cavern just off the main chamber of Step Downsy Forynth. Moving with familiar power but very un-dwarf-like speed, the lightly armored man strikes at the empty air demonstrating confidence and potentially lethal force. Tumbling away and rolling back to his feet he strikes again at very near the same spot several more times before mimicking a disarm-motion and suddenly stopping, his breath steady and even. "Not that I'd want to disarm a troll or ogre," he says into the darkness with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Would rather trip them with my flail...let's get to that, then," he says to himself as he turns and collects a different weapon and repeats many of the motions again.

From the main hall he hears some commotion and finds a stopping place, carefully returning his gear to their holders and wiping his brow - the only place where any sweat can be seen - and walking across the cave to the Commons. There he looks around and sees...a caravan? No, too small - it's probably that delegation from the surface. "Ah, to comfortably see the sun again..." he sighs, deep resonate voice carrying unintentionally and disturbing several dwarven elders nearby.

With a shrug he approaches the gathering, arriving just after the blacksmith asks, "Ye ken what happened?" Nodding, Brankahm steps up beside the other dwarf and nods, curious enough but not so rude as to repeat the question in a dialect the new arrivals might understand.

[tonberryking]

Big Job spat something out from between his teeth gracelessly and ambled into his palanquin, which elicited a collective groan from his porters. Still, they dutifully hefted the poles of the 'vehicle' and tromped off into Step Downsy Forynth without a second word. Most of the goblins who were coming to the conclave were, in fact, currently carrying their leader, but there were still a couple handfuls of sterner looking toughs and lean, large fingered archers who left on their own, silent as shadows.

And then there was one.

Slowing from a scamper out from the woods, for she was able to run on all fours, a long armed goblin girl skidded to a halt a few yards away from the departing crowd and stood upright. Quad runnin' was suitable for the wilds, or if you needed to haul it away from danger, but she was now a guest. And guests typically are frowned upon for running all pell mell and getting their hands filthy. But then as she stood she revealed that she was plenty filthy already; her dwarven leathers and sailcloth clothes underneath, all of which were dyed dark, still were stained with blood and viscera of a giant. As if just noticing this, she ponderously stared at her mitts and her clothes before looking around.

There was a pragmatic, yet polite way to deal with this.

She tromps up to Brankham and the Blacksmith, though she stays outside the former's reach, having seen his display. To the blacksmith she politely implores, trying not to run her gore stained hands through her blond mane out of habit.

"We helped kill a few giants who got some gnomes up the way." apparently, she did so with her bare hands; even if she speaks rather fluent dwarven, she talks with a slightly childish tone and a hoarse yet light voice. "May I trouble you, good smith, for a bucket of water and a rag?" her large, leonine eyes blink once or twice, and then asynchronously.

[Triskavanski]

Paronomasia AC: 18 | HP: 16 | Current: 16 Fortitude: +2 | Reflex: +6| Will: +3 | Perception: +4 Active Effects: None. Conditions: None.

"Fools! these cretins have for far too long INTRUDED upon the land! Even as we flee, hide, COWER down here continue they do above the land ravaging it! There used to be Tall-men and Tree-men, but now there is only giant! And they are not satisfied with the above world.. They dig and work there way down to us, to eat our soft meats and boil our bones for their bread. Fe fi fo fum, I say we make their world undone! They will RUE the day they attempted to take over the world that RIGHTFULLY should be MINE!" Shouts out the Kobold. Of course it wasn't the first time he had given similar speeches, and wouldn't be the last.

The Kobold had made a bit of a name for himself for being something of a megalomanic, yet his words are often more of puff pieces. Spying the injured goblin.He pads up rather quickly and suddenly. "No no no! THIS won't do! I demand that you keep your goblin blood ON THE INSIDE WHERE IT BELONGS!" he reaches out a gloved hand casting a cure light wounds to remove the injury the best he can. "Now where we before... distractions where imposed upon us..."

Spoiler: Mechanics

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(1d8+2)[9] cure light wounds for the injured goblin

[Athaleon]

"Well met once more, Snorri Goldgather. Would that you and yours had arrived perhaps half an hour sooner, but alas it was surely not your intent to miss the excitement."

Urist, with effort, kept his face frozen in what he thought was a neutral expression. His uncle had warned him not to see slights where none existed, but after all that had happened over the decades, it was a difficult mindset to get out of—even if he had been glad for the rare opportunity to be under the sky, something most Dwarfs didn't appreciate even after life on the surface had become far more dangerous. Then again, he didn't relish the idea of keeping company with goblins and kobolds at this gathering. How had it come to this?

"This worries me. They're much too close to our hovels for my comfort."

"Close indeed. I hope this doesnae mean they've learned of our meeting, or that more will come looking once these were missed. Aye, we ought to get everything back underground, quicker the better."

[DarkOne-Rob]

Brankahm considers the newcomers thoroughly with one raised eyebrow at the kobolds. Turning to the arriving ratfolk first the dwarf nods his head in greeting. "Welcome, ysoki - do you hail from the surface or deeper below? Have you traveled far to get here?"

He nods in appreciation of the little goblin's bloodied hands as he rumbles, "Impressive little one - messy, but effective. Did you hamstring the giant first, bring it to the earth and then tear it open? Or did you use some other tactic?" He looks genuinely interested in Bushi's methods and smiles warmly to encourage her to tell him about it. "Heldrum may have water for you. There is also a pool we use for bathing in a nearby cavern - I can show you to it, but it is a bit cold..."

The dwarf seems less interested - or impressed - by the kobold megalomaniac. He seems to note the healing magic demonstrated but otherwise doesn't interact with him.

Finally Brankahm greets the dwarves, somewhat reservedly. "Well met, brethren. My name is Brankahm Runechanter, the last of our clan. Will you tell us of yourselves?"

[tonberryking]

The little goblin quickly grows confused, her mouth slightly agap at the kobold's benign antics; she briefly toys with a sheepish feeling at him having used his magic on her unnecessarily.

"Uhhh... All this blood," she continues speaking in dwarven, "Isn't mine; it's a giant's. I didn't get hurt, just messy because I got hit by an artery spray from his throat." Her mousey tail with a tuft of hair on it that matches her mane swishes in agitation.

"But to answer the questions, the other goblins ambushed a giant and shot him a lot while I was hiding in a tree I climbed and ambushed it again when it ran towards them. Can't say if the arrows or my cuts did the job, so I don't want credit..."

Now, with her so close (though she does seem to sway a bit and tries to stay out of reach if she can) it might become obvious that the goblin doesn't have much of an impressive armory. She also has a short bow and quiver, but on her belt there's a bolo knife with a bolted on wooden handle that serves as a machete for someone of her size. Meager giant slaying tools at best...

[BelGareth]

Nodding to Brankahm he watches the cavalcade of errant adventurers.

Heldrum smiles at the little feral goblin, "Oh course!" he bellows, pointing to the jug of cooled clear water, he grabs it and a cup, and pours her a drink, handing her the full cup when filled.

Following Brankahm, he adds "Indeed, I am Heldrum, last of my clan also, seems to be a common enough theme these solemn days."

[tonberryking]

The goblin blinks...and ponders for a moment if she used the wrong words in dwarven again. She still takes a *sip* of the drink and then tears off some of the canvas strips she wraps around her hands, dabs the balled up "sponge" into the glass and proceeds to wipe herself down, making due with what she has.

"I'm Bushi. I can hunt, hide and slay, but I don't know why the gnomes have called us all. Do any of you?"she asks while still going at it, ultimately upending what's left of the no longer clean water on herself and scrubbing.

[DarkOne-Rob]

Brankahm nods, impressed at the martial prowess of the little goblin, and sighs at the cup of water and her efforts to clean up using it. "Would you like me to show you that pool of water? It will be cold but will probably help you more than just a cup..." he asks her, trying to smooth over the faux pas and ensure everyone gets along. "I'm sure they are trying to keep going, manage resources, and gather more allies to the cause. It's been tough for everyone..."

[Triskavanski]

Paronomasia AC: 18 | HP: 16 | Current: 16 Fortitude: +2 | Reflex: +6| Will: +3 | Perception: +4 Active Effects: None. Conditions: None.

"Well isn't that cute. cleaning up with a cup of water and a little scrap of cloth... BUT ITS WRONG! LIKE THIS!" He claps his hands together emanating a blast of magical power that cleans up grit and grime and blood with the utility of Prestidigitation. "Water is a precious resource! Who knows what filth and foul diseases that giant blood could bring with it! And you want to spread that around?! Not on my watch!"

Looking around at whoever else was around, "The rest of you! WHO ELSE IS FILTHY?! Vile germs and grime are NO Match against the power of PARONOMASIA! I Shall Eradicate it all! GET IN LINE! LETS GET THIS OVER QUICKLY!"

Spoiler: Mechanics

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Paranomasia starts flinging around Prestidigitation every six seconds to clean people and things.

[Palanan]

When Brankahm calls out to the new arrivals, he receives a quick and courteous answer—though not perhaps the one he was expecting.

“I thank you for your greeting,” comes a reply, “and I give you joy of our safe meeting, though we must beg you reconsider your choice of terms.”

Brankahm might be forgiven for looking about in search of the dwarf who spoke, for the reply is in fluent Dwarven, a voice rich and smooth as finely aged mead. But the voice flows a touch lighter, a touch more honeyed than those which ring from dwarven throats; and when Brankahm glances down he sees a sleek, furred form wrapped in robes and draped in a rugged, travelworn cloak.

“Ysoki was a term applied to some of us by the humanfolk of yore,” the voice goes on, giving a brief snout-wash with his forepaws in memory of the lost races, “—but it was not always used in the most complimentary fashion, and anyhow was more often applied to warrens within city walls. Whereas we, the wild-minded whiskerfolk—” a nod and whisker-flick encompassing the others behind him— “have always lived without the walls, and in recent years we have joined the fine folk of the Deephall as their arázhdukkûl. *

“And now we have come here in answer to urgent summons,” he glances about, “though we are only now arrived, weary and hungry from our journey. I hight Brathahul Earthtongue, and here are my kinsfolk and arázhdukkäwät. How shall we call you, and would you be able to guide us to our lodgings?”


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* An archaic Dwarven term, meaning roughly “cave-siblings,” describing close companions sharing an underground refuge without the bonds of blood relation.

Note that arázhdukkûl is in the aorist plural, while arázhdukkäwät is present plural indicative.

[tonberryking]

Bushi seems more confused by both the helpful kobold helping a SECOND goblin (IE, herself) and the diplomacy at hand trying to smooth things over.

"Well, if I'm going to be here for awhile, I imagine that I'll be fighting more giants or finding more ways to get dirty, so yes, I would still like to know where the pool is, thank you," she gives a sheepish grin towards Brankahm, Also, thank you, Piranha for cleaning my clothes."

...

...From the expression on her face, she's either a more brilliant actress than Paronomasia is a performer, or she's trying, bless her heart, to get his name right and isn't going to succeed on attempt #1.

[DarkOne-Rob]

Brankahm continues to observe the loud-mouthed kobold without directly interacting. Behind his beard and deep set eyes there is a hint of a smirk, but he doesn't let it show to openly.

At the correction by Brathahul Earthtongue the Runechanter bows his head respectfully. "I apologize for any offense and thank you for the correction. I thought...that word...was respectful. For what it is worth, I welcome you to this hame and hope your stay is peaceful. My name is Brankahm Runechanter and I will be glad to show you to a dry, empty cave where you can set up. There are some empty gnomish warrens, but they aren't mine, so..." he shrugs as he gestures for the ratfolk to follow.

Turning to Bushi he says, "The cave with the pool is this way too, would you like to see it now? Come along!"

[Palanan]

“No offense taken whatsoever,” Brathahul smoothly assures Brankahm, in the same golden tones of rippling Dwarven. “In these times there are far worse things to be concerned about. To those of us who survived the fall of men and elves, a stray word is but a trifle, no more.” He dismisses the matter with a flick of a slightly bedraggled paw.

“Quite so,” comments a taller form, a sturdy dwarf with a face both impassive and serene, framed by an intricately braided beard fastened with a long mosaic of inlaid tiles. The dwarf’s robes are in an older style, and he carries himself with a stoic gravitas. “But in matters of urgency and grave import, one wonders that our hosts are not yet to be seen—unless this is some gnomish trick,” he says with a trace of disapproval, as if their hosts might be hiding invisibly nearby, waiting for the perfect moment to spring out in a surprise appearance.

“And even in these times,” he continues, “the modes and forms of diplomacy should be acknowledged, if only to honor the ancient days in which they were more fully observed. This is to say nothing of akharäzhdûhawwa *, though perhaps some deep-halls view these customs differently.”

A ponderous breath, and a heavy hand smooths down the waterfall of finely-worked tiles keeping his beard in precise geometric order. “Forgive me, akka **; it is only my aching knees and surly belly that lead me into the rockfalls of rudeness. I hight Beolfryth Hymm-Hoarder, a lore-singer of Deephall and cavespeaker to other halls—though it is long since we have heard aught from many of them.”

As Brankahm leads them deeper into the gnomish burrows, Beolfryth strides alongside him, keeping pace despite his bulk and his evident weariness from the journey. “Runechanter, you say? A lore-singer yourself, or kin to one?”


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* Another archaic word, denoting hospitality between dwellers of different caves.

** Cave-brother, a truly ancient term.

Spoiler

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Those few elven linguists with the patience and determination to study Dwarven have traced the term’s descent from Proto-Meso-Terran aklenannaka, “spawned of the same earth-chamber,” though the underlying connotation of hatching from an egg mass has been replaced with a reference to dwarven legends of divine twins born of the same colossal geode.

[Farmerbink]

"Close indeed. I hope this doesnae mean they've learned of our meeting, or that more will come looking once these were missed. Aye, we ought to get everything back underground, quicker the better."

The Gnome bows, grateful as many of the Goldgather Dwarves hop to to assist in picking up the slack presumably left by the fallen Gnomes. Without missing a beat, despite clearly being in charge of the caravan-outing, he too grabs a chest that seems much too big for him and hefts it along without complaint. Clearly, a world once marked by castes and servants has no room now for those unwilling to carry their own weight. "There's always more," he grunts out between steps. "Always closer. If they haven't found the entrance yet, they will someday. Perhaps we can burrow deeper and they'll decide we're not worth the effort?" Somehow, the Gnome doesn't sound as optimistic as his words would suggest.

Within about 15 minutes, you find yourselves in the entrance tunnels of Step Downsy Forynth (often called 'the Downs' for short). The entrance is well-hidden, and the first several dozen feet kept unlit to avoid announcing their presence. The hallway winds sharply downward, but the floor is kept impeccably smooth and clear of debris. Even for those without dark vision, it's a trivial matter to keep your footing as you make your initial descent despite the distracting echoes from several dozen marching Gnomes and Dwarves (and their unlikely companions). Notably, the taller Dwarves occasionally have to crouch to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling. This is no place for larger folk.

Perhaps 100 paces in (having made at least 2 full circles), you catch the glint of torchlight around the next curve. Passing a pair of bored-looking guards (who themselves immediately reach out to lighten the burdens on their friends), you find yourself in a strange room, full of fungus on nearly every surface. Save a once-more well-manicured walking path through the mushrooms, wide enough for perhaps three Gnomes abreast (or one particularly stocky Dwarf), the lead Gnome steps on without hesitation. "Oy, if you're new here- don't touch the shrooms. It'll get unpleasant real quick!" he calls, almost yelling. Perhaps surprisingly, the sound seems to not echo in the slightest, here.

Picking from 3 exits without thought, he leads you to another narrow hallway, beyond which you find yourselves in what appears to be a small open-air market. From all sides, the sounds of movement echo. Somewhere in the distance (in a direction it's impossible to discern), water is running. The forge master is at work in his smith, and the alchemists grind mortar against pestle with rough, steady strokes; there is simply nothing remotely like silence in the halls of the Downs. Lit by a curious mixture of torches, candles (often held behind colored glass), and even a handful of bioluminescent fungi, nearly nauseating shadows and figures dance across the mostly rough walls and ceilings.

It's here that you find Heldrum and Brankham, and introductions and explanations made. Many amusing intricacies of language are discovered, and a small company of Gnomish women approaches, fairly well adorned, though the eccentrics of their nature remain on full display.

"I'm Bushi. I can hunt, hide and slay, but I don't know why the gnomes have called us all. Do any of you?"she asks...

"I believe we can assist with that," one of the women interjects with a gesture of welcome. The Gnomish tongue cutting gently through the harsh utterances of Dwarven still echoing in the cavern. "I'm afraid lodging will be fairly bare-bones, but you will be kept safe, warm, and fed while within our walls. Where we are able to offer greater comforts, I assure you every effort will be made." She bows in greeting, and looks around. "If I may, I've been instructed to guide the emissaries to Father Handred Stepford. My sister Sally will be happy to begin tending your companies."

The speaker eagerly greets the elder statesmen, offering each a robe, equal parts elegance and simplicity, before ushering them away. Apparently her sister Sally then steps forward. If she's surprised to see so many left over, she hides it well, offering both a winsome smile and wide open arms. "I do have good news," she begins, almost so happily as to potentially annoy. "We anticipated your arrival, and have heated the baths well- don't worry for your masters, we may not be precisely luxurious, but they will each receive all the hospitality we can offer. If you'll follow me this way, I'll guide you to them. In a few minutes, my brother Hopton will be bringing fresh sliced chevon to help you relax from the journey." A handful of Halflings flit to and fro, eagerly relieving travelers and caravaners of an extraneous burdens, and helping to gesture in the direction indicated by Sally the Gnome.

Spoiler: OOC

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The locals immediately recognize the term 'chevon' as local goat meat. Not precisely rare, but something like the Stepford-Henderson's best fare. Goats are well prized for their milk, hardiness, and willingness to graze on just about anything. In the Downs, they are often released to the surface under watch of a trio of shepherds, for brief stints to graze on surface flora, but the quantity of livestock makes for a butchering to be a rare and typically celebrated event.

The cave warms noticeably as Sally ushers you through another low-roofed tunnel (it seems literally every passageway is designed to be an obstruction for anyone taller than 4'). About a minute later, you're unsure if you could re-navigate back to the marketplace, though Sally walks with confident purpose. She opens a well-mounted wooden door, releasing a full wall of actual steam, and steps inside. "Please feel free to make yourselves as comfortable as you like. As I mentioned, food will be delivered here as soon as the butchers are content with its presentation." A handful of Gnomes are already bathing- the keen-eyed among you recognize them as caravan guards that made the return trip/entry alongside the rest of the journeyers. The apparently didn't need directions. They make it clear that nudity and mixed-gender bathing is at least far from taboo in the Downs.

After such a lengthy trip, the spacious pools of water (varying warmth from almost boiling to just better than lukewarm) provide much appreciated relaxation for tight muscles and worried shoulders. As promised, a surprisingly skinny Gnome leads a trio of Halflings into the room almost 5 minutes later, bearing trays almost too big for them heavily laden with goat cheese, thin-sliced smoke meats, and sliced mushrooms of some sort. Before offering, the skinny Gnome makes an obvious display of partaking of each, and opens his arms wide. "Welcome, and we hope you enjoy these offerings of greeting. If you have any special needs, please ask any of my friends here. We'd be happy to do what we can to make your stay as comfortable as possible."

[DarkOne-Rob]

Brankahm looks at the new dwarven speaker with a mixture of emotions (likely only visible to dwarves or those who've spent many years with them). He's both impressed and a bit embarrassed as the man who is obviously an elder speaks and asks him questions. "The gnomes of the Downs will have to take the formal lead on welcoming all of you - I'm sure they will be here momentarily..." he begins as his words are shortly proven true.

On the way to the baths, of which he won't partake at this time, since he hasn't been traveling today, Brankahm tries to answer the question about his heritage. "My tribe is the 'Runechanter' tribe - I'm the last, unfortunately. Like so many, our home was overrun by the giants years ago...

We lived on the surface amongst the other races. I was training to become a lore-keeper, but was interrupted and never finished. Our family name comes from our practice of keeping the histories verbally. We had one large tome with the ancient geologies and histories. I finished memorizing that and had begun to work on the rest of our library..." his answer trails off as he seems visibly relieved that they've arrived at the baths. "I will let you clean off the dust of the road in peace...When you have time I would be honored to hear more from you."

Spoiler: Lore that other dwarves would immediately recognize

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According to Brankahm's description, the Runechanter clan was "nomadic" by dwarven standards - living in "temporary homes" and moving frequently, about once or twice a century. They enjoyed the open air, sunlight, and people. Their songs and history were kept in massive tomes of paper - paper, of all things! - and taught in oral tradition to the younger generations. Essentially the Runechanters were radically unusual for dwarves and generally considered scandalous and strange by their cousins.

Other dwarves likely immediately think Brankahm flighty and distracted, though the other races won't notice his distracted tendencies just by his appearance.

[Palanan]

As Brankahm touches on his family history, Beolfryth listens carefully, nodding judiciously with a hand on his beard-mosaic as they walk.

“Mm, indeed. I recognize the name now. Quite the unconventional approach in many ways. I once heard tell of a Runechanter who kept a storytelling house in a city of men, though this was long before your time. As I recall it was quite popular—he mostly told episodes from the Bruin’s-Hide Cycle, even if the sagas never could be properly translated into the tongues of men. But most translators were working with the older, unsyncopated versions, and I’ve always wondered….”

As Brankahm leads the Deephall contingent further into the gnomish warrens, an impromptu marching order develops: Brankahm and Beolfryth in the lead, followed by Brathahul attended by Narajhet and the remaining three dwarves behind them, with the two whiskerfolk scouts, Perriket and Ojjamit, padding unremarked and all but forgotten at the rear.

“Catch that?” Ojjamit murmurs, nostrils widening as he sniffs with interest at the air. “Some kind of deep-earthstar, it must be.”

“Maybe,” allows Perriket; “but there’s something else as well, some kind of mushrooms I wouldn’t want to try.”

“Those are the gutwrenchers,” Ojjamit says absently, still sniffing carefully. “They must grow them as a decoy, in case something gets in that’s just looking for food. —Ahh, and that’s got to be grey-sagebeard, gathered fresh.”

“Something else in there, too,” and Perriket pauses for a moment, eyes half-squinched as he teases out a trace of tempting scent. “There’s goat stew—”

“Keep your goat,” Ojjamit mutters gracelessly, “stringy tough tasteless stuff—”

“—Yeah, but there’s something else, too—”

“—leeks—”

“—Obviously, but something beneath that—”

“You two are shakkin’ pathetic,” Snethi throws back in a gravelly mutter, having paused to smirk at them from further ahead.

“Sst!” Gytha snaps over his shoulder, and Snethi gives a last sneer before disappearing after the others.

“—mm,” Perriket says abruptly, with real satisfaction: “Grubs, nice fat ones, with ground nuts. Fried and crispy.”

“With some sort of sauce,” Ojjamit says longingly; “spicy sauce, with a touch of wild garlic.”

And with a glance at each other they’re off down a side corridor, snouts high and breathing deeply as they follow the odors of glorious, freshly-fried grubs dusted with ground nuts.

[tonberryking]

While she needs an interpreter for the gnomish language, Bushi remains quiet and reserved once the guests are joined and she seems overwhelmed to a degree, over the generosity offer to them all. At least once she realizes it's being offer to her as well...

...AND that baths come hot instead of just cold.

The concept of a warm bath fascinates her as she crouches by the pools of water and sticks half her hand into them. Bushi tries not to make her shock that obvious but she does steal glances at everyone else who's a guest to see what they do, and gauge what would be considered rude or polite in this situation.

Ultimately she decides it's best to just ask.

"Not that I need much, but do you have any thin strips of sail cloth or heavy canvas you can part with? The ones I wrap my hands and feet with are getting old and worn out... If that's alright to ask for?"

By this point however she's stripped, clad only in chest bindings and a fundoshi style loincloth which she doesn't remove, the rest of her things being taken by one of the attendees. Other than, yes, her tail is real, the goblinette has curious pale yellowish stripes down the skin of her back and over her limbs, something close to tiger stripes. If anyone knew what a tiger was, that is. She may have been sheepish about asking for cloth, but Bushi is going to have a damn bath and she slowly slides into the hottest pool she can stand, letting out a sigh that suggest she's about to melt...

[Triskavanski]

Paronomasia AC: 18 | HP: 16 | Current: 16 Fortitude: +2 | Reflex: +6| Will: +3 | Perception: +4 Active Effects: None. Conditions: None.

The kobold continued to be bombastic, and a tad annoying at the very least as they led about. But once they were in the baths, and food was presented.. A most unusual thing had happened. He suddenly fell silent. Even as the other kobolds partook in the gifts and the baths, Paronomasia moved to sit off to the side only grabbing a handful of things from the food table. Rather than consume the right away, he pocketed them when people weren't looking, and began watching the skinny gnome with suspicion, as the gnome's efforts to reduce suspicion only triggered the kobolds own paranoia.

[Farmerbink]

As most of the non-political visitors bathe, enjoying the heated water and offered delicacies in varying degrees, Perriket and his troublemaking companion seek out... different fare. They easily navigate the narrow tunnels, being just a little slighter than their hosts, and if anything less accustomed to personal space. Thus, a few turns later, they pass what must be a school (if the wide range of young-to-adolsecent Gnomes are any indication) and find a portly matron plating (presumably food for the students). Though they make the effort to go unnoticed, she seems to have an almost providential sense of "someone's trying to steal my food," and she keenly spots the pair peeking over a short windowsill. "Oy there, lunch is in- ACK! WHO'RE YOU!?"

She jumps to the defensive immediately, brandishing a wooden spoon in a trembling hand. "Help! Help!" she calls, filling the cavern (and at least a few tunnels) with desperate cries.

The plates look delicious, expertly crafted. Perhaps less fancy than the hors d'oeuvers offered elsewhere, but no less savory. Their noses do not lie: carefully roasted grubs with a light garlic sauce drizzled atop.

[Palanan]

“Forgive us, kind ma’am,” Perriket says quickly in Gnomish, “we’re with the Deephall dwarves who have just arrived for the council. We’ve been traveling for days through the surface lands, and right when we got here we smelled your exquisite roast grubs—”

“—With that lovely fresh wild garlic,” Ojjamit adds.

“—and we couldn’t help ourselves, we just had to follow that marvelous fragrance and at least savor the scent closer to its source. Please forgive us, it’s simply that good. You must be a noble cook, ma’am, and in high esteem here in the Downs!”

[Farmerbink]

Spoiler: Perriket in the schoolhouse

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As you offer your apologies (and compliments), the matron stops screaming. She nervously lowers the spoon, as a surprisingly burly Gnome bursts in from another door (on the far side of the room from you). "Peace, Jeffrey," the matron calls, still obviously struggling to regain her breath. "These two gentlemen only startled me, that's all. You know I've been on edge recently..."

The muscle-bound Gnome rolls his eyes, with more than a little bit of good-natured jest in his expression. "You gotta learn to relax, Mildred. Nobody's gonna get you, not down here. You know how many-" "Yes, yes," she interrupts. "I know there's guards every tunnel from here, I just." She lets out a sigh, unable to finish the sentence. Looking back up to Perriket, she smiles warmly. "Besides, we have guests! Let's save the sour moods and worries for another time. Come in, come in! I was just about to say, lunch is in 10 minutes, yet. If you'll make yourselves useful putting out the table settings, I'll whip up an extra couple dishes!"

One of the rooms beyond this chamber is clearly a moderate-sized cafeteria. Three short tables span the hall, making room for some 25 or so place settings. Without being asked, Jeffrey brings a pair of chairs and adds them to the left-most table (where the keen-eyed will note the chairs are a bit larger). Stacks of plates and small bundles of utensils lie stacked on the same table, ready to be spread out among the rest of the seating. "Just like you'd think, one plate to a chair!" the matron calls, apparently convinced of your good intentions (and perhaps swayed by your honeyed words). She hums happily in the kitchen as you disperse the plates and utensils.

Almost as if on queue, another pair of doors open and you realize you must have stumbled upon what serves as the Downs' school. Young Gnomes gambol in, equal part eager to take a break in their studies and partake in Mistress Mildred's fare. The first couple all-but literally screech to a halt, bowled over by the 3rds and 4ths in line, when they notice Perriket and Ojjamit. Squeals of confusion are quickly squashed by Jeffrey, as the strong-armed headmaster calls out. "You'll notice we've got guests for lunch today! Make your way to your seats as normal. If they'd like, you may get to introduce yourselves after we eat. Hop to it, now!"

Jeffrey, for his part, seems less impressed by your compliments. He ushers you to the left-most table, indicating the seats he just retrieved. "She'll be right in."

Regardless, Mildred shortly pushes a narrow cart through the door, covered in savory-smelling food. She personally attends each child, starting with the youngest and working her way to the final table where a trio of older students sit with a pair of teachers. Two seats lie empty (presumably for Mildred and Jeffrey), and finally yourselves wrap up a crowded lead table. "Please, don't wait!" Mildred chimes over a growing din of whispers (and sometimes more than whispers). "It tastes better warm!" She opens a small chamber on the cart that apparently has been keeping the last plates warm, to deliver nearly piping-hot food to you and the elder Gnomes. "Welcome, and thanks!" she chirps. "Now, take turns eating so you can tell me all about this council and the Deephall Dwarves, you said? I've not heard of them, but I mostly keep my nose clean of the politics, if I can help it!"

Once the serving men realize Bushi can speak Dwarven, one of the Halflings (apparently a linguist) is called over to speak with her. Between the two high-pitched speakers, the guttural tongue of the undergrounds' oldest race sounds especially unusual, but it gets the job done. Ironically, the details of her need prove more problematic than the brief language barrier, but after bringing two garments that were wholly unsuitable, they manage to provide a satisfactory alternative: "it's technically a very thin leather," the Halfling quips, more than a little relieved to see Bushi wrapping her hands appreciatively. "It's fairly rare, but we don't usually use it for much. Not strong enough for most leather applications, of course. I understand the gardeners occasionally use it to divide the beds? Something about the grubs not liking the smell, as I recall...."

Some time later, and notably better-smelling, Sally returns to usher the guests to their 'quarters.' For better or worse, there are no hotels in Step Downsy Forynth, and not nearly enough private homes volunteered to account for the full compliments of the political contingents. As you walk (a much shorter distance this time- so it won't be too onerous to return to the baths), she explains some of the challenges.

"I'm deeply sorry we don't have a better solution," Sally explains with a bit of a grimace. Gesturing to a large cavern, still nestled securely in the Downs and more than a few tunnels from anything that might pose immediate threat, she invites you to where you'll be staying until- well, until the elders and statesmen finish talking. It's essentially a battle camp, complete with a few well-tended cook fires. Already, a pair of deer that must have been hunted in the woods far overhead spin on spits for the evening meal- manned by Stepford Gnomes bearing as much of a uniform as you've yet seen- a brown cloak over their everyday clothes, held together with a small, ornate brooch.

Several essentially uniform tents line the space, with ample privacy for changing or sleeping, but little else. The most unusual divergence is the well-appointed camping chairs and cots. The Gnomes seem to harvested or scavenged more than enough solid wood for chairs and tables, and produced enough fabric for more than a handful of admittedly thin cushions. Still, it will be a strange arrangement, with people of all different races and cultures largely crammed together by simple necessity. "We felt it most suitable to let you all take it from here," she comments with a slight bow. "Please, again, if we can help make your stay more comfortable, we will."

Again, with your representatives (and often elder family members) off doing 'official business,' you're left to spend this bit of time how you will.

[Athaleon]

Urist's expression lightened tremendously as the food was brought. "Ah, a rare luxury indeed in these times, to partake of a beast that yet grazed under the sky. Reminds me of my youth, you know, we did a lot o' trade with ranchers." One more reason to curse the giants, he didn't add. "I'm glad the knowledge and tradition's being kept alive. Ah, and here's a luxury no Dwarf can go long without!" He indicated the hot baths. After his long and dangerous journey he was ready to relax, not inclined to go wandering just yet. He decided he'd be more talkative once he'd slept, but from the look of the living quarters he'd be socializing with members of the other retinues soon.

Spoiler

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Sorry for the long time between posts. I should be able to be more active until just before Christmas.

[DarkOne-Rob]

Brankahm follows the group to the camp sites, quietly listening and observing. The observant members of the group may notice a low, rumbling hum - an unsightly, private action for a dwarf to do in public! - but he doesn’t seem to realize he’s even doing it. Once he has seen everyone settled the Runechanter steps forward again. "I’m not important enough to be part of the official party, so I’m free to show you around if you’d like. There is a small, gnome-sized bar in one of the chambers. The proprietor is a friendly man and he does have acceptable dwarves ale, at least by my standards.

I camp and practice in a cave near here, if anyone wishes to drill or spar. I would be glad to have company - my family passed along many tactics to use against giants. If anyone wishes to share their tricks of the trade I’d be happy for the company."

It appears the dwarf is something of a “nerd” for his chosen activities (fighting giants and studying lore, especially dwarven, anti-giant lore) and isn’t good at social activities. It bears observing if he’s any good at the rest…

[Athaleon]

"Aye, I suppose some practice with the old hammer could be in order. It's been too long, anyway. Then I daresay I'll be putting the acceptability of your Dwarven ale to the test!" Urist said with a wink of joviality, such as it was.

[tonberryking]

To the others it may seem Spartan, but poor Bushi finds the accommodations (and especially the leather strap gifts) to be downright opulent.

She arrives at the 'campground' fresh and clean and still hungry, but also eager to test the wraps around her limbs with a couple hand stands and standings on one foot, even a cartwheel. It almost looks like some sort of absurdist performance mixed in with legitimate exercises, but she hastily cleans her hands off again. These would do far more nicely than threadbare canvas...

Bushi picks a tent out of the way of the others and puts most of her gear in a neat little pile, though she keeps her bolo knife on hand. And from there...she tries to remain on good behavior and simply takes a seat near the cooking fires waiting for whatever venison platter they're preparing, watching the flames flicker. By now it's become apparent to the little goblin that the gnomes are entirely gracious hosts and it's not very hard to respond in kind towards them...

As for the others? The fanciful kobold is also generously affable, but she still isn't sure if the dwarves will let their guards down in front of her and it would be best not to given them a reason to rouse their ire... Also because she has no earthly idea where Big Job's men went, or what they are doing. Probably best she just stays out in the open, minding her own business in case the other goblins simply don't. ...It does not occur to her, however, that she may unwittingly be a distraction at this point.

[Triskavanski]

Paronomasia AC: 18 | HP: 16 | Current: 16 Fortitude: +2 | Reflex: +6| Will: +3 | Perception: +4 Active Effects: None. Conditions: None.

The loud bombastic kobold still remains oddly silent, now moving away a slight bit from the others, putting his back near a wall so no one could sneak up on him. There was fewer and fewer people here, and he found less of a reason to put up a villainous performance, especially since for the moment, the others were leaving him alone. Instead he sat there, analyzing each of them in turn. How easy the Dwarves turn to combat as a form of entertainment. Of course there was Smoke, the sniper kobold who has constantly been almost a ghost through the whole event.