Falcon Point: Teeth of the Deep
PRP: Falcon Point - Teeth of the Deep
DM: Karl
Party (APL: 2)
Syrivan - Dawn Elf Wizard 2
Wilma - Storm Dwarf Fighter 2
Mogrinaar - Orc Fighter 2
Seanait - Eaglefolk Monk 2
Freya - Human Rogue 2 (Left Early)
First Encounter
2 Medium Giant crabs - CR 4
Second Encounter
Crab Swarm - CR 4
The surroundings for the encounter included lit torches, that I ruled would do 1d6 fire damage to a swarm when used as weapons. The party was also allowed to do double damage with this when grease was cast on the crabs, for one attack.
Chapter One: She Might Be A Witch!
Whether by word of mouth or advertisement, the adventurers have been drawn in to the employ of one 'Dirty' Richard, a man who runs a cheap eatery down by the docks predictably known as Dirty Richard's, frequented mostly by sailors and those who don't mind their seafood both cheap and slightly overcooked.
"So's after we got back from the misty place," Richard explained, the dangerously skinny and scarecrow-tall fellow wiping greasy fingers on his apron, "I sent George - you know George? No, 'course you wouldn't know George - down to this place we usually get our crabs from, you know, Falcon Point? It's down the coast. Anyway, George hasn't come back, and while I wouldn't think that's unusual, neither've the crew I sent with him. So's I'm wondering if there's anything weird going on, so I'd like you to go down there and get the crabs, and then I'll have your money."
"Uh, and George if it's not too much extra trouble."
A short trip down along the coastline in a small boat stopped not far outside Falcon Point, and they now stand outside the town's limits. If it can even be called a town. A winding foot-path of beaten earth leads up a steep hill towards the steeples and high peaks of a half-dozen clustered buildings, windows shuttered and nary a light to be seen in the grey twilight. Clouds stir overhead, threatening rain, while dark shapes wheel in the skies. Gulls, likely, but one can't really be certain.
Freya had kept her tools of her trade wrapped in oilskins during the trip, and was quiet, her bouts of speaking frightfully short, but she seemed to quick to sign responses, and before long, she'd start dicing it up with her peculiar Aesirian tainted speech of the mercenary persuasion, it's only when the party is thrust onto the shore line of this small 'town' that she'll begin speaking. "Five years is a long time, alot can change. There should be more lights, and a town guard, now more then ever." She says in her tainted tongue, starting to load her firearms as she looks up the foot path. "I will go ahead, and make sure we're even at the right proper place..then come back down." She offers. Mogrinaar stands tall looking around at the others gathered. His nose wrinkles a bit but the emerald skinned warrior merely snorts the waft of cool moist air. "So we are to get crabs and look for a crew eh? Seems simple enough." As Freya speaks he nods his head. "Sounds good to me. Shout if you need us to come on after ya." His arm rests on the hilt of his Falchion, as his black hair waves in the breeze. Wilma spends most of the trip down the coast very still, with hands gripping the boat, because after all, 'Dwarves don't swim!' - at least, according to her. Once they are back on terra firma, however, she's looking about, then up towards the building-covered hill. "... if you're likin', I suppose. Think they have any decent brew? After that trip, a bit'a warmin' up wouldn't be bad."
Wrinkling his nose, Syrivan looked around the place. It was ... not the most pleasant of establishments. But then, sometimes you need to experience discomfort to get what you need -- or want, as the case may be. After listening and following the others to the location at Falcon Point, he looks around, wrinkling his nose a moment, and then observes quietly, and asks Wilma, "Why do they not? Is it cultural, or due to their body composition?" That wasn't what she expected, most likely. Once on solid ground, he begins to look for people, helping the others, though he's not the best at it by any means.
GAME: Syrivan rolls Perception: (14)+4: 18 GAME: Freya rolls perception: (5)+5: 10 GAME: Mogrinaar rolls perception: (20)+1: 21
You paged Syrivan with 'There's faint traces of smoke rising from chimneys here and there, so it's easily assumed there's /someone/ in residence.'
You paged Mogrinaar with 'There's faint traces of smoke rising from chimneys here and there, so it's easily assumed there's /someone/ in residence. You also have the most unnerving feeling that you're being watched...'
"I see smoke," the slender elf observes, "So unless someone started a fire and left--which would be kind of stupid--there's some folks about," he says after a moment. He considers, "Might as well go and see, maybe it's something simple like they got drunk..."
GAME: Freya rolls stealth: (16)+9: 25
Mogrinaar notes, "Theres smoke so there are obviously people lining here." he approahes Freya "Careful. We are being watched as we speak, could be an ambush." Freya cocks the hammer back on her blunderbuss and begins to blend into the dying light, she seems very good at this, barely leaving a foot print behind as she begins to work her way towards the town..
"Well, one - I sink, an' that's without all the armor an' such," Wilma lightly pounds a fist on her armor. "Two, haven't ever learned how to not-sink." Wil pauses a moment, and looks from Mogrinaar to Freya. However, if she was going to say something, the dwarf took too long to say it, and instead puts herself to just keeping an eye on the town and the surrounding area, nervously fidgitting with a pair of new throwing hammers, looped into place at her waist.
"Watching us? Well, they could just be cautious." Syrivan likes to be positive-minded. Even when he probably shouldn't be. Then again, he's also cautious. He watches Freya slip off, and stands there, leaning on his staff and looking around with a slight frown of curiousity.
As the rest of the party lingers down at the foot of the path that winds up the steep hill, Freya continues on; keeping low and blending in admirably well with the dry, dead scrub bushes that scatter along the hillside, and soon she's slipped into the town of Falcon Point proper.
It's a very /quiet/ little village, although with so few buildings it can barely be called a village at all. The buildings are all made of weather-stained wood painted in dark hues of deep browns and midnight blues, the windows all shuttered - although here and there, one has come loose, and the wind makes them clap against the wood. As she lurks at the edge of the circle of buildings, she can see a scaffolding at the heart of the town where a large fish - a shark - has been suspended and is being bled into a heavy bucket, presumably before being butchered. Just when she's starting to wonder if there are any people in town at all, she sees a woman in a drab grey dress with a shawl wrapped about her head emerge from one of the houses, hustling across towards what looks to be the town's chapel - at least judging by its steeple and the stained glass window of blues and greens high above the front doors.
Freya will wait for the woman to get a bit of a lead before following after, making sure no doors are opening up behind her, planning to find out who all is in the chapel, though she's slowly getting a sinking feeling about the entire situation. Strange town, strange disappearing crews. It's like a bad silver coin novel is coming to life.
Wilma kicks at a lump of sand, then drops her hands to her side. "So... wonder what else they're sellin' here, 'sides crabs. How much do crabs go for, anyway? An' why does anyone even /want/ crabs?" As any five year old knows, without even tasting the veggies, so too does Wilma know she doesn't like crabs. Ignore any stews she may have eaten dockside.
"Crabs are used in a great deal of recipes. I doubt I'd want to eat anything at our /employer's/, mind you," Syrivan murmurs to Wilma, "But there are some rather flavorful dishes that can be served." Just don't ask him to make it. He eats it. He's no cook.
The chapel's windows are all shuttered, but just as the rest of the town is in poor repair, so too are these--one of them flapping in the wind, allowing the scout to sneak up upon them and peer through. The roughly-built temple has a score of pews within it, with three other folk within knelt and praying. Where an altar should be, a large font of water rests, and the woman that she'd watched enter into the chapel shuffles along towards the front and pulls out a small bowl from within her arms, tilting its contents - whatever they may be - into the font before kneeling, making an obscure blessing with one hand, and then rising to depart.
Freya will retreat from this chapel, to a darkened spot along the path the lady had taken before, going into hiding. Why? Prisoners are a good source of information, and she's fairly confident this old lady won't argue with a bayonet pressed to her throat.
It's not long before the shawl-draped woman makes her way back out of the chapel and starts to cross back to the house that she'd emerged from, head down and steps shuffling beneath the hem of her long grey skirts. And she begins to pass the space between two buildings where Freya is hidden...
Wilma waits, rather impatiently, down with the others. "Well, she hasn't started to scream yet. Is that a good sign, or a bad? An' if it's a good sign, who's it bein' good for. Huh. This is why I don't like skulkin' about. No patience for it t'all."
Mogrinaar paces alongside the others looking at the town and watching where Freya and the woman went to. A chapel. He shrugs, perhaps its some sort of special ceremony or some sort or they are keeping with some religious belief that has them so quiet. Stranger things have happened, but eh. The longer it takes the shorter his patience becomes. He snorts.
All unknowing that Freya is about to commit assault, Syrivan looks towards Wilma, "Good. Unless they're so good they surprised her, killed her, and are presently eating her alive." That was supposed to be a joke. Unfortunately, Syrivan has a rather dark sense of humor in these situations. He is way too creative for his own good.
Freya clicks the hammer back on her blunderbuss as she sweeps up on the woman. "Scream, and you become a casualty." She says in common, still being very quiet, but if the old lady does any thing foolish..well, things will get loud. "We're going to walk down to the beach, and talk with some friends of mine, then you can go home, and go to that nice warm bed." She promises.
A brief, startled sound escapes the woman's throat as she's suddenly ambushed by a woman with a very large gun--her hands flying up, thick fingers trembling, the shawl's edge slipping away from her face as she stares at Freya with big limpid eyes. Her mouth is thin and wide, lips barely existant, opening to scream and then closing again. "I... I.. don't's hurt me, missus..."
Freya begins to quietly march the old woman down to the beach, keeping her firearmed aimed at her back, and having no further discussions. "I brought a prisoner. Prisoners always have information." She says, clearly in the belief she did her part and got some thing useful and some one else can interrogate.
Syrivan blinks. He blinks again. Stares. "Wait. You took some poor little old woman /hostage/?" He asks. He's staring at Freya. "How could you -do- that?"
Wilma turns to face Freya and... the little...old... ugly... woman. "... she's a shifter of shapes, right? Eatin' leg of human, an' is just tryin' to pull our legs...er.. off... or somethin', right?" Because this, she wasn't expecting. "... an' if she wasn't, stop pointin' that damned gunblade at her spine."
A closer look suggests that she's not that old.. although she isn't exactly pretty, limp and washed-out blonde hair tucked under the shawl, her flat nose and wide mouth contributing to a relatively homely appearance. She wrings her hands as she looks around the group with those big, bulging eyes, "P-please don't hurt me, lairds, missus... I's didn't do nothing..."
Freya narrows her eyes a bit at Wilma and Syrivan. "They have a chapel I've never seen before, not that I've seen them all, but they were pouring things into a fountain of bubbling water. Sides, she might be a witch, or she might know what happened to the crew that came to pick up the crabs. Do you know where they are? They never came back, so where are they?" She snaps out.
A soft sigh escapes Syrivan's lips, "Still. Unless there's an obvious danger, you don't go around /taking people prisoner/," He says to Freya. Shaking his head, he murmurs to the young-old woman, "It's okay, miss. Can you tell us about the church and what you were doing? We won't let the woman hurt you, I promies."
Mogrinaar looks down and he is an intimidating sight. "Ma'am. We just want some questions answered. Why is everyone holed up in town....where are the folks who were sent here to pick up some crabs....?"
Wilma peers at the woman. "She doesn't have any warts. Witches are havin' warts, y'know.." the squat dwarf says, as she peers up at the poor woman. "We're here to be findin' some dirty crabs. I mean Richard's crabs... wait - that's not soundin' right. Well, anyway, we're lookin' for a crew'a'folk with a fella named George who's lookin' for a load of crabs. They show up here?" Wilma starts to ask as Syrivan actually does a better job. Not that she doesn't still tack that on at the end of Mogrinaar's statement. Because having all three of them join in on the fun won't be confusing at /all/.
Despite the attempts to calm her down, it's clear the poor woman is absolutely terrified as she huddles still in her dress, wringing her fat-fingered hands together and glancing from one to the other - trying not to look at Freya, or the weapon at her back. "Church? Chapel of the Leviathan... wh-why? What is wrong with... the folkses looking for...? They went, went to's the crabs. The crabs." She points one thick finger back at town, "Other side of--of town, the beach. Please don'ts hurt."
GAME: Syrivan rolls Knowledge/Religion+1: (14)+10+1: 25
You paged Syrivan with 'Easy one. The Leviathan is one of the names of Rada, the sea god. Often followed by sailors, fisherfolk and others who live by the sea, placated to keep storms away, etc. He's a neutral god, neither benevolent nor malevolent.'
Mogrinaar waves a hand. "You arent going to get hurt. Though if you have any other information bout the folks who went crabbin, it would probably be in your best interest to let us know. We aren't here to cause trouble, just need to get them back home. You can understand that right?" Syrivan says dryly, "Leviathan is another name for Rada. He's not an evil god." He shakes his head with a slight sigh, adding, "Crabs? They went that way, miss?" He asks her. "Did anything happen to them, did they leave?" He wonders.
Freya doesn't seem to know who Rada is either, nor Leviathan. Fortunately, she isn't interested in learning either. "Ah, so it is wise I didn't bare the chapel's door and start it on fire?" She asks Syrivan.
"Ha. Ha." Syrivan says deadpan to Freya.
"They went down--went down to's the crabs, I told's you" the woman almost whimpers, glancing to the others, "Please don'ts hurt me. I's never did anything wrong..."
Wilma just stares at Freya. Then drops her head into her arm. "....bloody troll nuts." After a long moment of dwarven curses, Wil looks up. "Freya. Move the becursed blade from her back a'fore I'm tryin' to do it for you, so we can go an /do what we were paid for/. Which isn't tormentin' townfolk an' the like."
Freya seems to suddenly realize some thing they've all over looked as she steps past the group towards the ocean. "If this is the dock, where is their ship? We should have seen it on the way in, even if they docked on the far side, which would be considered suicidal for a ship of any size when the tide rolls heavily." She says, gesturing with her gun along the shore line. "No ship, no crew."
GAME: Syrivan rolls Sense Motive+1: (7)+4+1: 12
"She seems to be telling the truth," Syrivan says with a frown. He pauses, "She has a point though. Why would they dock over there, instead over here, where there's better access to the water?" He asks.
Mogrinaar says, "Somethings fishy"
GAME: Freya rolls Sense Motive: (19)+5: 24
You paged Freya with 'She's legitimately terrified at the moment! She also seems to be holding something back, but that may be because of the aforementioned 'terrified out of her wits' thing.'
"Here's bein' an idea," Wilma starts, "Why don't we go an' /look/." Apparently subtly went right out the door with the taking of a hostage. Also, that blade seems to be mighty attractive to dwarvenkind, what with the way that Wil just stares at it, hands clenching and releasing, repeatedly.
Freya cradles her blunderbuss in a neutral two handed grasp, letting her eyes drift towards Wilma. "Fine, you can lead us there, and wake up the whole town whilst we're at it." She says, watching their prisoner, Freya's eyes flash a bit, she doesn't seem inclined to believe or trust her yet. "I did say I'd let you go, now scamper off to your home, but cross us, and I will let you taste the fury of my kind." She says, that tone? It's not a threat, it's an Aesir winter's promise of the coming cold.
Shaking his head, Syrivan sighs slightly. "I agree with Wilma. Let's go and check." He gestures for the old-young woman to lead them, "Let's go."
A hesitant step back, a glance between the adventurers, and then with a wailing cry the woman turns and starts to run along up the path to Falcon Point - stumbling on rocks now and then as she flees up towards the village . Well, Freya did tell her to 'scamper off'.
Mogrinaar continues to grip his falchion hilt and then frowns. "Well so much for her leading us. She ran off like a bat out of hell." he snorts. "Lets move, I tire of this game. Lets meet whatever challenge head on." he begins to move.
A mutter under his breath, "Some humans..." Syrivan shakes his head with a sigh, simply walking with the others.
Wilma just continues to spew in dwarven, with the occasional goblin and jotun curse tossed in. And when Mogrinaar moves forward, she does too, towards that indicated side. Freya will step in behind Wilma and Moggie, why bother exposing her self to any thing that might be literally thrown at them?
By the time the adventurers reach Falcon Point, there's no sign of anyone at all--at least in the open. There's shutters cracked a bit and the feel of folk peering out at them, but all the doors are closed, and there's a hush across the town that isn't even broken by the cry of gulls.
As the old woman had said, though, there're some stairs down the other side of the village towards the rockier, shallower waters that presumably they do their crabbing and fishing in. The faint light of torches can be seen on the beach, although not clearly.
Freya will diverge from the group once they spot this new beach, starting to ascend towards it in a sneaky manner, towards one of the torches, blunderbuss held in a ready position to deal with any surprises. Wilma just sort of glares at the shuttered buildings, her bad mood rather unfortunately communicated to those behind the dubious safety of the rickity buildings. And then, without bothering to wait for discussion, starts to go down the stairs towards the rockier beach. Theorectically.
Syrivan simply moves behind Wilma, following. He's still shaking his head. And he's letting her take the lead. Do you really think he's going to take the lead? Him? He'd break in half in a strong wind, right?
Chapter Two: A Crabby Night
When last we left our intrepid heroes, they had disembarked from their boat not far outside the small village of Falcon Point, perched atop a finger of hilly terrain stretching out into the waters of the sea, searching for the supply expedition that hadn't been heard of since it came here to pick up crabs. Freya had scouted out the strangely quiet town, and marched a homely woman back to the group at gunpoint - to the horror of the other adventurers - who told them between whimpers of fear that the others had gone to the crabs, on the other side of town, where the water was shallow and rocky.
But it wasn't possible to anchor a ship there, so where had it gone?
The town had grown disturbingly quiet after the woman fled back with word of her assailant, and Freya stayed behind to keep an eye on things as Seanait rejoined the group from her own scouting. Down, down the rocky stairs on the other side of town towards the beach they've gone, torches lit at the base of the stairs, and others sitting upon some sort of rickety watchtower on the beach proper. A man can be seen pacing back and forth on the tower's platform, reachable by a rope ladder that dangles past its wooden legs. Old crab traps and a couple of rowboards of dubious repair sit on the beach here and there.
"Well, there's someone up there," observes Syrivan to the others. "Perhaps we can ask him about the situation." A pause. "Without taking him hostage, please," he adds with a hint of dryness.
Wilma gets down the stairs, and looks about. Upon spotting the tower, the dwarf lets out an annoyed hrmph! then starts to trudge her way over the sand, her footing not allowing for her customary stomping. Once to the base, she leans back and peers up. Then looks at Syrivan, and gives a nod. "Hey! You! Fella on the tower! We wanna talk to you, if you're bein' George! An' even if you're not."
Mogrinaar follows along looking down the beach and keeping a wary eye back towards the small town just in case. He remains at the foot of the stairs as if standing guard, leaving the chatting to the others. Seanait glances at Wilma, then shrugs a bit, not particular with grounded diplomacy it seems. Her gaze cants upward towards the man in the tower, taking careful note of him there.
GAME: Seanait rolls Perception: (3)+11: 14 GAME: Wilma rolls perception: (13)+2: 15 GAME: Mogrinaar rolls perception: (1)+1: 2 GAME: Syrivan rolls Perception: (7)+4: 11 GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+1: (9)+1: 10
Seanait rolls initiative: Roll: 12 + Bonus: 4 = Total: 16 Wilma rolls initiative: Roll: 17 + Bonus: 1 = Total: 18 You roll initiative for Crab1: Roll: 16 + Bonus: 1 = Total: 17 You roll initiative for Crab2: Roll: 18 + Bonus: 1 = Total: 19 Mogrinaar rolls initiative: Roll: 15 + Bonus: 1 = Total: 16 Syrivan rolls initiative: Roll: 2 + Bonus: 4 = Total: 6
"Wh-- no! Look out! They're down there--" A startled, panicked shout from the man on the tower, who rushes to the edge and grasps the side, looking down with shaggy hair and an unshaven and scraggly beard, "They're all around you!"
What's all around them? Well, everyone except for Mogrinaar sees it as the sand begins to sift off of something emerging from the sand to either side of the tower... squat, dwarf sized monstrosities with broad shells, stalk-like eyes and massive, snapping pincers as they turn their attention towards the group.
Well, that explains why he's still in the tower.
GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+4: (7)+4: 11
One of the gigantic crabs shakes further sand off of its shell, trundling sideways in a scuttling pace in the direction of the nearest prey - Wilma - one big set of pincers snapping at her, just glancing off her armoured shoulder in a near-miss.
GAME: Wilma rolls 1d20+7: (9)+7: 16 GAME: Wilma rolls 2d6+4: (4)+4: 8
Wilma turns, as the crabs shake the sand off and trundles towards her. She pulls the greatsword free, an effort that takes more time then it should, but the effort is worth it! Whereas the crab fails to pinch, she manages a solid hit on the creature, cracking it's shell and having liquid ooze. ".... still not seein' the attraction of crabs," there's a pause, then she shoots a glare towards the tower. "You couldn't have warned us earlier?!" Never mind who charged forward without looking for issues.
GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+4: (16)+4: 20 GAME: Karl rolls 1d4+2: (2)+2: 4 GAME: Karl damaged Wilma for 4 points. 21 remaining.
"I didn't see you down-- look out!" A panicked shout from the tower, just before the other crab scuttles in and snaps out - grazing against Wilma's leg, crushing down against her calf in a painful squeeze before she manages to jerk away from its grip.
GAME: Seanait rolls 1d20+6: (1)+6: 7 GAME: Seanait rolls 1d20+6: (5)+6: 11
Seanait moves over to stand next to Wilma, her kama coming out and slashing rapidly at one of the crab-beasties. Unfortunately, both swings fall wide of their mark, as the egalrin looks rather surprised at the appearance of such things, "What /are/ these creatures?"
Mogrinaar is busy looking backwards towards the town to make sure the group doesn't get jumped by some kind of trap, when there is a big kerfuffle on the beach. He looks over and his eyes widen surprised. "Big crabs..." he states as he whips out a shiny Falchion.
GAME: Syrivan rolls Knowledge/Nature: (7)+10: 17
You paged Syrivan with 'They /are/ giant crabs! They are amphibious but will eventually need to go back into the water - but that probably won't be for hours, so isn't super useful at the moment. They've been known to pick up halflings, gnomes, and goblins and carry them off into the water. Fortunately you have none.'
"They're giant crabs, of a particular kingdom. I haven't seen one of this size before, but I've read something about them," Syrivan says to Seanait. He moves towards her and murmurs a few words. A barrier of force appears around her, fading from sight. "That should help at least," he murmurs to her. "Not much to worry about for us...if we were halflings, we might have some issues, they carry small prey to the water to drown."
GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+4: (7)+4: 11 GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+4: (20)+4: 24 GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+4: (18)+4: 22 GAME: Karl rolls 2d4+4: (3)+4: 7 GAME: Karl damaged Seanait for 7 points. 11 remaining.
Suddenly besieged from two sides, and with a rather impressive gash in its shell, the giant crab heaves-- snapping harmlessly out at Wilma with one of its pincers, the other one finding softer flesh as it snaps through an area not covered by the mystical armour granted Seanait, coming away bloodied.
GAME: Wilma rolls 1d20+6: (14)+6: 20 GAME: Wilma rolls 2d6+7: (6)+7: 13
Wilma isn't able to act when that claw heads towards Seanait - the abortive movement, however, may suggest that was her thought. The claw that snaps harmlessly, however, focuses her ire. "If he's wantin' crabs, by Angoron, I'll give him crabs!" And then she takes a step in and uses the momentum to swing the two-handed sword in a great, slightly uncontrolled arc. By the time the blade swings free, the crab's shell is smashed beyond redemption, and the insides taste of sand. "Are you bein' alright?" she asks, eyes moving towards the one still alive.
GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+4: (14)+4: 18 GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+4: (12)+4: 16 GAME: Karl rolls 1d4+2: (3)+2: 5 GAME: Karl damaged Wilma for 5 points. 16 remaining.
As the first crab's shell is sundered, there's an excited shout from up on the tower. "That's how you do it! Get those hors o'-- look out!" Again, dwarven blood stains the sands as the second crab's pincer snaps against Wilma's arm.
GAME: Seanait rolls 1d20+6: (12)+6: 18 GAME: Seanait rolls 1d20+6: (1)+6: 7 GAME: Seanait rolls 1d6+1: (5)+1: 6
Seanait doesn't wince at the strike, though she does gasp from the wound on her arm, "I'll be alright." She then spins and moves around Wilma, striking at the crease in the shell with her kama, cracking into the hard carapace as ichor burbles out of the crab. "Where will there be a pot large enough for these?"
GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d20+8+2-1: (16)+8+2+-1: 25 GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 2d4+8+3: (4)+8+3: 15
"If there were this many, there are likely more. Crabs live in colonies after all," murmurs Syrivan. "If so, I'd be careful. There's likely more." He looks around, keeping close to the others. He's fragile, after all! All elves are! Ahem.
Mogrinaar grips his Falchion in his hands and his brow furrows. The behemoth crouches down and then charges forward, the tip of his blade cutting a line in the sand as he stomps forward. "Dinner that can eat you.....a novel concept hah." When he reaches the crab, he lifts the sword up as if he is hitting a sand wedge and slices the crab in two. "Any more of the buggers?" he asks.
"Are they... are they gone?" George peeks down over the edge of the low wall around the platform of the watchtower, his wild gaze cutting to the water's edge in the deepening shadows of twilight, the torches smoking around him, "We need to-- need to get out of here, um, can someone-- can someone hold the ladder? I'm, I'm afraid of heights--"
GAME: Mogrinaar rolls perception: (1)+1: 2 GAME: Wilma rolls perception: (16)+2: 18 GAME: Syrivan rolls Perception: (4)+4: 8 GAME: Seanait rolls Perception: (20)+11: 31
'’You paged Wilma with 'Some of the coloration on the crabs' shells appears to be /artifical/, as if someone had smeared designs on them with some sort of natural dye.
'’You paged Seanait with 'Oh, yeah. Someone has been painting designs on these crabs' shells in natural dyes. Also... there's something stirring in the water, a frothing near the edge that doesn't seem to be from the crashing of waves.
Wilma slowly turns around, looking for more crabs, before she lowers the sword to rest the point in the sand, then looks at her arm. "Damn - those things tore through armor almost like it was bein' waste paper... Anyone else bein' up there with you? An' where's the cargo?" she tacks on as an afterthought, one foot going out the kick at the corpse, before she frowns. "Hey now. This ain't lookin' normal, and I knew Toulouse, so I'm known not-normal. Looks almost... painted on."
"Painted on?" Syrivan asks curiously. "Hmmm?"
Seanait frowns, "She is correct. Someone has been painting these designs on the shells." She pauses, glancing over towards the waves, "Watch the water, there's something stirring over that way!" Her eyes narrow as she drops to a guard stance, holding her kama at the ready.
"Okay, that's odd," Murmurs Syrivan. Or starts to. At Seanait's words, he turns towards the water, looking towards it curiously.
Mogrinaar looks around as if clueless. Must be sand getting in his eyes. "I hate the beach." he snorts as he raises his Falchion and looks in the direction Seanait points.
"Guys? Uh... girls? Whoever you are, do you think yo... oh, by the gods. Daeus preserve us, they're coming back!" The last a despairing call from George, "Run! Run while you still can!"
The frothing and foaming at the water's edge pours forwards until it hits the sands... and what emerges are crabs. Relatively small, palm sized crustaceans with tiny pincers, enough to hurt or draw blood but not actually cause any serious damage.
Unless there's tens of thousands of them moving as one, swarming over one another like a moving carpet of chitin and claws and fury pouring across the beach towards the adventurers just as the sun sinks its last beneath the sea in the distance.
"The teeth of the deep are coming!"
Chapter Three: The Teeth of the Deep
Subtitle: The Martyrdom of the Demon Pony
Mogrinaar rolls initiative: Roll: 18 + Bonus: 1 = Total: 19 Wilma rolls initiative: Roll: 20 + Bonus: 1 = Total: 21 You roll initiative for Crabswarm: Roll: 3 + Bonus: 2 = Total: 5 You roll initiative for George: Roll: 13 + Bonus: 0 = Total: 13 Syrivan rolls initiative: Roll: 8 + Bonus: 4 = Total: 12 Seanait rolls initiative: Roll: 18 + Bonus: 4 = Total: 22
Seanait hrms, "Anyone have any oil...?" She then quickly ascends the rope ladder, her wings balancing her rather well as she goes towards the side of the tower, looking at the compact horde of crabs, then she looks at the various torches around the beach, and the tower.
"Might best be to stay up the..... damnit all. Why did it have to be bein' /crabs/." Wilma looks around, then up towards the tower. "Good idea! Grab torches an' toss 'em down! I bet that'd be roastin' them right proper!" Then the dwarf moves forward, halfway down the base of the tower, not /quite/ getting into the incoming tide's face.
Mogrinaar snorts looking at his weapon and the mass. "Might as well step on them if it werent for all this damn sand." He shrugs and yells "Hey George, toss me one of the bloody torches so I can at least try and fend them off a bit.
"The torches...?" George, huddling on the tower's platform in torn, wet clothes and looking half-maddened, peeks out from between his fingers, "Of course-- of course! The torches!" He all but leaps to the edge of the tower, jerking one of the oil-soaked torches from its mooring and leaning way over to hold it down to Mogrinaar, "Here! Burn them, yes, yes, burn the deeps!"
GAME: Syrivan casts grease. GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+4: (17)+4: 21
"Crap, they didn't fall. Oh well," Syrivan says. He then turns and climbs up the ladder. He's not as fast as some, but he's not staying on the ground!
GAME: Karl rolls 2d6: (8): 8 GAME: Karl damaged Wilma for 8 points. 8 remaining.
The writhing mass from the sea, shells now glistening with grease and leaving an iridescent trail over the sands, swarms over the sands and around the storm dwarf's feet and legs - shells clacking, pincers digging in, crabs burrowing into her boots and under her armour. Blood streaks the living swarm from the deep, pattering over the sand as sacrifices to whatever God is worshipped by crabs.
seanait's inititave total changed to '20'.
The plan! isn't exactly the plan that Wilma was thinking of. However, after her toes (and everything else) get well gnawed on, Wilma isn't yelling for a torch. Nope. "I /hate/ swarms!" And turns and runs towards the stairs heading up. Also, where there's more torches.
GAME: Seanait rolls 1d20+6: (12)+6: 18 GAME: Seanait rolls 2d6: (6): 6
Seanait grabs a torch, and waits for Wilma to get clear before she flips the torch down. It lands in the midst of the crabs, causing many of them to ignite and catch on fire. However... there's still a lot more swarming around, unfazed by their burning comrades as Seanait looks over at the wizard, "I don't suppose you know any explosive spells?"
GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d20+7: (16)+7: 23 GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d6: (5): 5
Mogrinaar grunts. "Come on lets get some more torches on these things!" He stomps forward and holds the torch in front of him clearing a swath of crabs who sizzle and pop like crab popcorn. "A little help here..." he states.
GAME: Syrivan casts grease. GAME: Karl rolls 1d20+4: (18)+4: 22
"Did it--did it get them?" George pulls back into the middle of the tower, crouching there and looking back and forth over the tower's top, "Are they gone?"
He's probably been up here for awhile.
"I'm afraid I don't have many spells that would work, but this might help again..." He trails off, and then Syrivan says to the others, "Light them on fire, again," as grease rains down upon the creatures!
GAME: Karl rolls 2d6: (8): 8 GAME: Karl damaged Mogrinaar for 8 points. 13 remaining.
The pinching pincers of the thousand crabs swarm up around Mogrinaar's feet and legs now, making him nearly vanish to the ankles, crawling his pants and biting, pinching and shedding blood as they go, tearing into flesh and muscle. The swarm is much smaller from when it emerged from the water, but still moving, soaked in grease.
Wilma isn't looking behind her. Nope. She's running as fast as her stumpy legs can take her, which isn't very. Also, her feet hurt. Go figure. Dwarven curses fill the air again.
seanait's inititave total changed to '18'.
GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d20+7: (5)+7: 12
Mogrinaar tries to shake off the bloody creatures from his boots and is surprised how they can even breach his armor. "Dag blasted..." he snorts and moves back trying to whiff fire at them. His whiff misses, but he is out of the swarm for now. "Need more fire down here...." he states the obvious.
GAME: Seanait rolls 1d20+6: (1)+6: 7 GAME: Seanait rolls 1d8: (2): 2 (‘’Scatter roll’’) GAME: Seanait rolls 2d6: (7): 7
Seanait shouts, "Get clear, otherwise the swarm will wear you down!" She then throws another torch into the midst of the swarm, frying more of the greased crabs... but the swarm is still far from done.
GAME: Syrivan rolls 1d20+4: (5)+4: 9
And so Syrivan shows how skilled he is at throwing things! He throws the torch. And almost hits Seanait's hair as the torch goes flying by. He mutters, "Oops."
GAME: Karl rolls 2d6: (7): 7 GAME: Karl damaged Mogrinaar for 7 points. 6 remaining.
As the smoldering remnants of the swarm - almost a quarter of its original size - continue to wash over Mogrinaar's feet and legs, he's beginning to feel the effects of bloodloss and torn muscle, the crabs burrowing in under the plates of his armour and cutting away in a frenzy that seems almost unnatural.
Wilma skids to a stop in front of the torch-bracketted path up to the town. Spitting out something in goblin, the dwarf grabs the nearest torch, spins, and heads back towards the tower. And the swarm.
GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d20+7: (5)+7: 12
Seanait spreads her wings, eyeing the remaining torch, "Remind me to invest in some oil the next time I am in Alexandria." With that, she jumps off the edge of the tower, wings spread wide as they catch the wind. Though she can't actually /fly/, she does glide a fair distance, landing far closer to the remaining torch by the stairs than she did to the crabs, at least. And leaving Syrivan all alone in the tower with George.
Hopefully crabs don't know how to climb towers.
GAME: Syrivan casts summon monster I.
"I'm totally out of useful spells. Unless you want to talk to them, and I don't think crabs have anything interesting to say!" A pause. "Well. I have one idea. What with the height, it might do something. But it's mean." A pause. "Well." Syrivan frowns. He starts casting, pulling out a bell and a candle. He lights the candle, ringing the bell. A horned, fiery-looking pony appears. "I'm sorry about this, fellow," he mutters. He pushes the pony off the building, and it lands among the swarm. "Buys you some time at least," he calls as the crabs swarm the pony. He adds. "And I feel SO MEAN. At least it's evil." That makes it okay, right?
The pony looks at Syrivan with a confused expression for a moment before it's shoved /off/ the edge, letting out a whinneying neigh before hitting the ground with a sickening /crack/ of impact as a leg snaps in half. The crabs, suddenly presented with hot, warm flesh, swarm over the demonic pony in an orgy of snapping pincers and spidery legs, one maddened eye all that's visible before it's popped by a pincer's thrust.
GAME: Wilma rolls 1d20+9: (14)+9: 23 GAME: Wilma rolls 1d6: (1): 1
Wilma turns to watch the Pony get thrown under the tower. There's a swallow, as some things are too much for wards, before she lifts her torch like it was a mace, and charges across the sand. Apparently it gives her some speed, for she crashes right into the mass. Swinging for all her worth, a few handful of crabs die - but no where near the effect of flaming grease.
Mogrinaar moves backwards and heads towards the stairs. His movements are slightly wobbly. He doesn't say anything which isn't normal for the brute.
GAME: Syrivan casts Ghost Sound.
"You know, this is getting silly. It almost makes me wish I were into physical conflict," mutters Syrivan. He considers. Then casts one spell. And over to the side, away from the group, comes a horrible chittering-screech. As if some crab were being torn asunder. Who knows. If nothing else the sound might do something. But then again, they're dumb, it might not do a thing!
Once enough of the pony's flesh is devoured, the poor creature disappears back to its home plane; leaving a bunch of very confused, angry, hungry crabs that's looking for another prey. As that horrible clattering echoes through the air, the crabs don't seem to react much, but neither to they move just yet, trying to figure out where the pony went perhaps.
GAME: Wilma rolls 1d20+5: (8)+5: 13
Wilma tries to take advantage of the pony to strike more damage into the swarm. Alas, well.. the pony disappeared - and her swing swished air. Does she talk to her mum with that mouth?
Mogrinaar considers using his arrows by wrapping some cloth on the ends and lighting them on fire, but without any real fuel other than the cloth, its a tough sell. He grunts scratching his head.
GAME: Seanait rolls 1d20+2: (9)+2: 11
Seanait finally completes the circuit, having grabbed the torch from the stairs. She spins the torch down at the swarm, but fails to burn them at all with the weapon.
GAME: Syrivan rolls 1d20: (19): 19 (‘’Aid Another’’)
"I need to learn a few more spells," mutters Syrivan. "Maybe something to conjure..." He trails off, muttering. When he's five or so feet up, he dangles his leg down. Some crabs come chittering towards him, and the group follows. And then he climbs back up. "Using myself as ..." You don't want to know what that word means in Draconic. "...bait."
GAME: Karl rolls 2d6: (4): 4 GAME: Karl damaged Seanait for 4 points. 7 remaining.
The 'Teeth of the Deep' as they were called by the maddened crab procurer atop the tower surge forward once more--clattering and snapping around Seanait's feet as she sweeps the torch at them, plucking out feathers and cutting tiny slivers of flesh!
GAME: Wilma rolls 1d20+5: (2)+5: 7
Wilma watches as the wave of crabs goes for Seanait and Syrivan, and immediately steps and swings forward. "Hey now! They've no meat on them, skinny bastards that they are!" Unfortunately, her swing is about as effective as her words.
GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d20+9: (13)+9: 22 GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d6: (5): 5
Mogrinaar shakes his head looking around for an answer. "What the hell! FOR BLOOD AND HONOR!" he grits his teeth and wades into the fray, snarling with a charge that torches some more of them.
GAME: Seanait used a Potion of Cure Light Wounds. GAME: Seanait rolls 1d8+1: (7)+1: 8 GAME: Karl damaged Seanait for -8 points. 15 remaining.
Seanait leaps out of the swarm with the aid of her wings, tumbling free of the crabs as she moves a safe distance away. Once there, she reaches down with her free hand, pulling out a small vial which she drinks without much preamble. Her cuts and wounds seem to knit and heal rather rapidly, leaving her nearly at full strength.
GAME: Syrivan rolls 1d20: (17): 17 (‘’Aid Another’’)
"Sure. You're a freaking set of bait," mutters Syrivan. "I swear, I need to get more alchemical supplies. Next time..." He trails off. Again, distracting the swarm.
GAME: Karl rolls 2d6: (11): 11 GAME: Karl damaged Mogrinaar for 11 points. -5 remaining.
Snapping and clawing, the crabs flow around Mogrinaar once more—and he starts to collapse beneath the severed muscles and torn flesh, armour slick with blood as only his orcish fury keeps him on his feet…
GAME: Wilma rolls 1d20+5: (5)+5: 10
The sounds of cursing is starting to be be as standard as the sound of the surf against the beach - especially as Wilma can't hit the crabs, just the same.
GAME: Mogrinaar used a Potion of Cure Light Wounds. GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d8+1: (6)+1: 7 GAME: Karl damaged Mogrinaar for -7 points. 2 remaining.
Mogrinaar is taken to the brink of death. Just then a surge of adrenaline hits his veins and he reaches down, pulling out a potion. He quaffs it and is renewed with vigor, just enough to have the sense to get the hell out of dodge. "Crabs...." he coughs moving away.
GAME: Seanait rolls 1d20+4: (18)+4: 22 GAME: Seanait rolls 1d6: (3): 3
Seanait twirls her torch as if it were a staff, then shouts... well, it's not so much a shout as it is the screech of an eagle. Then she charges in, and thrusts her torch into the midst of the swarm, burning quite a few of the crabs as the swarm looks significantly thinned out.
Syrivan. Professional bait. Let's hope this time, Seanait manages to kill the damn swarm.
GAME: Syrivan rolls 1d20: (7): 7 (‘’Aid Another’’)
GAME: Karl rolls 2d6: (8): 8 GAME: Karl damaged Wilma for 8 points. 0 remaining.
The crabs swarm up along Wilma's legs once more, deprived of their delicious orc flesh--and this time, Wilma's starting to stagger on her feet, more dwarven blood on the sands than is currently in her veins...
GAME: Wilma rolls 1d20+5: (20)+5: 25 GAME: Wilma rolls 1d6: (1): 1
Wilma staggers, but not away - no, this is a dwarf who doesn't know the meaning of caution! Well, not once her blood is spilled! Instead, she heads /into/ the swarm of crabs, and brings her torch down on a mass of crabs, hitting them square and washing them with flames! When the torch comes back up, to reveal most of the crabs still there, her curses sound almost more frustrated than angry. Dwarves don't have tantrums, damnit!
GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d20+3: (19)+3: 22 GAME: Mogrinaar rolls 1d6: (2): 2
Mogrinaar looks around as if for an idea. The normally headstrong Oruch is not stupid however and knows that brute force wont win this day. Looking down at his wounds and then at his comrades, he sighs as his body shudders in pain. He raises the torch up high waving it in the air and then hurls it like an olympian onto the last of the crabs, sending them burning and crackling. "............." he remains silent falling to one knee.
There are a few scattered crabs left alive and un-scorched, but they're no longer a coherent swarm; most of them burrow away into moist sand or scuttle across the beach in all directions, leaving the adventurers standing in the midst of a blood-splattered beach from fighting nothing more than palm-sized crustaceans.
George sobs audibly from atop the tower. "They're dead, they're all dead, I know it, I'll be up here forever..."
"Finally," mutters Syrivan. He drops to the ground, approaching the group, "Let me help," he says, "And good show," he adds. He digs into his bag, pulling out bandages. See, he's prepared. He just doesn't prepare for hordes of evil bity things. He will in the future!
Seanait climbs up the tower through the ladder, and ahems at George, "Not quite, though it was a close thing. You can come down now, if you like." She then drops back down, wings spreading to break her fall.
Wilma decides now is a good time to sit down. "... if I'm ever seein' another crab again, it'll be too soon." There's shock on George's face, and then a terrible relief--he's actually /weeping/ as he lunges for the ladder, clambering down with only a brief yelp from the height. He falls the last couple feet, landing on his ass in the sands.
Mogrinaar inhales tryingn to get his breath back from him. His wounds are great, much greater than he would have liked for such an adventure. He snarls, "We better be getting paid well for this fiasco!" he snorts through chortles of blood.
"I certainly hope so. I'm not exceptionally tailored to fight lots of tiny creatures," the young elf says dryly. He shakes his head, then chuckles, "If nothing else, it was a learning experience. I need to carry more alchemical mixtures."
"Fire, oil, and blasted potions... forgot how much those are comin' in handy..." Wilma groans, before looking at George. "Hope you have that cargo your boss was wantin'...." she grumbles, before looking at the mess. "... if any of this mess is bein' salvagable, we should be lettin' the old woman know 'bout it. Sorta compensation for gettin' kidnapped, or some such."
Seanait nods, "Some alchemist fire, yes... something I think I shall have to acquire." She looks at George, "I would hope that you have it as well, just so this excursion was not wasted."
"We... we... we can get out of here? We can get away from the-- from the crabs?" George straightens slowly, still trembling, and he waves a hand vaguely at the cut-up and burnt crabs. They /were/ sent here for the crabs, after all. And one of those big ones would provide a feast!
Then he /hugs/ Syrivan, as the closest person to him. "Thank you thank you oh gods bless you--"
"Oof," Syrivan says, "Careful, careful." He wrinkles his nose. The guy probably hasn't bathed in a while. "Relax." A pause, and he points at Wilma, "She likes hugs." Yes, he does have a sense of humor.
"You bastard."