Logger's Peril

Log Info

• Title: Logger's Peril
• Emitter: Whirlpool
• Characters: Aimarra, Jozi, Randolf, Rumbo, Smuldur, Vespasian
• Place: Alexandros - Somewhere in Mythwood
• Time: Thursday, September 17th, 2020 11:00AM
• Summary: Hired by the Guild of Adventurers for some generic mercenary work the party has traveled out to a lumber mill to deal with numerous acts of sabotage.
• APL: 2-5
• Encounter 1: Sneaky forest elves.

-=-=-=-=-=-=  At a glance around Staff: Room of DoooOOooooOoom!  =-=-=-=-=-=-=
Aimarra      3s      5'1"     128 Lb     Half-Elf          Female    
    Brown hair and eyes, breastplate, leathers, pointed ears.                  
Jozi         1m      5'8"     148 Lb     Half-Orc          Female    
    A brunette half-orcess with a sunny disposition.                           
Randolf      7m      4'10"    280 Lb     Mountain Dwarf    Male      
    A burly, well-dressed Khazad in wizardly robes.                            
Rumbo        0s      3'2"     35 Lb      Goblin            Male      
    A gun-toting gobber with a wooden peg-leg.                                 
Smuldur      3m      3'4"     45 Lb      Goblin            Male      
    A gently used (cut, scraped, burnt, exploded) gobber.                      
Vespasian    4m      5'10"    165 Lb     Human             Male      
    Smells like leather, looks like hard-living                                
Whirlpool    1m                Lb        Otyugh                      
    I am stinky!                                                              
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

The Guild of Explorers of Alexandria, despite its name, frequently also allows for quite a bit of more generic mercenary work.

That's today. Apparently, a group of loggers working out of a lumber will west of Alexandria have encountered numerous acts of sabotage as of late. They're hoping you can help with that, though they are of course suspecting the Mythwood wood elves to be behind it, they have rights to this land by agreement, according to the treatise you read when accepting the job.

That's why, on this fine fall morning, you're in your way out west. The countryside is a bit windy and chill, but you're making good time and should be there within a few hours.

Sabotage! Tree removal! Smuldur got that much out of all the words. Which was enough for him to sign up and head out. West! No, his other west. There, much better.

Randolf lumbers along with the rest of the adventuring crew, whistling a cheerful tune as he goes. His robes furling in the chill breeze, his kilt swishing around his knees as he walks. He's a dwarf, so of course he finds the chill autumn air bracing. "Think i's much farther te go?" he asks nobody in particular. "I dinne ken 'bout the rest o' ye, but I could eat an ox! Hope we'll be able te get a bite o' brekkie afore we go gettin' things sorted."

Travel across the countryside is nothing new for the half-sil woman in brown leathers that travels with the group, a shortbow across her back and a longsword at her hip. Aimarra's braided her brown hair ruthlessly out of the way, and has come dressed in extra layers, her archer's bracers lash over long, green sleeves of a moderately heavy fabric, her hood up against the breeze. "You didn't bring some trail food with you?"

From a distance, it looks like Vespasian is babysitting. He trudges the trudge of a man who was probably annoyed with the gobbers within 30 seconds of accepting the contract, but there's a settled acceptance about him that this is life. This. Is. Life. Randolf's cheery breakfast talk has him slide his eyes over in the dwarf's direction and he quirks a hint of a grin. The half-sil gets a study, and her sword a longer look, and he quietly pulls out a flask and takes a swig of it. "Its not a bite, but I call it breakfast."

Generic Mercenary Work is Rumbo's raison d'être, or at least it has been since he was blown up in an airship high above the Sky Curtain Mountains. When hard working loggers reported sabotage and pesky elves how could a friendly Gunakhar-fearing Gobber not take a look... when there is mention of payment that is.

At talk of food, Smuldur reaches into his belt pouch (that also serves as loincloth) digs around a bit and pulls out something to reach up for the hungry folk. It is blackened and twisted and could be ... meat? leather? fruit? Whatever it is, there are no worries that it is still raw. "Eat! No burn with empty belly!"

Rumbo glances over to the wizardly dwarf and says "If we had an Ox we could be riding it instead of walking." A shrug is offered along with his words and the little Gobber keeps hobbling along on his wooden peg-leg. <khazdul>

Randolf glances over at Smuldur as the gobber goes digging for pants provisions. The burly dwarf actually turns a little green around the edges--and he's of a people who consider haggis a delicacy. "Er... n-no thank'ee," he grunts. "'s verra kind of ye, but... maybe I'm no as hungry as I thought I was." He glances towards Rumbo, shaking his head. "I'd prefer a ram, but... eh. Walkin's good fer ye. Reos knows I could use the exercise." He slaps his hefty middle with a chuckle. "Been spendin' too long studyin'. High time I got back out in the world fer awhile!"

GAME: Aimarra rolls perception: (20)+10: 30

GAME: Randolf rolls perception: (10)+2: 12

GAME: Rumbo rolls Perception: (1)+9: 10 (EPIC FAIL)

GAME: Vespasian rolls perception: (16)+9: 25

GAME: Smuldur rolls perception: (4)+8: 12

Aimarra returns Vespasian's inspection with a neutral gaze, especially the flask. "If it suits you, so long as you aren't sloshed when we get there. She turns her eyes back to the road they travel, scanning the hills and farmlands they cross for any sign of trouble.

Rumbo peers into the barrel of his dragonspitter as he hobbles along with the adventuring party, one eye closed and the other squinted to look down into the darkness of the iron tube.

Vespasian is far more alert that he seems like he is. These last years spent looking out the corner of his eyes has its payoff. He makes a grunting sound, after Aimarra's comment, and plods onwards, though...seeing Rumbo's current occupation...he glides out of the potential splash zone. "Ahm Ves..." he introduces to Randolf, taking a deep breath.

The good news is that the trip to the woods sawmill isn't terribly difficult. Sure, it's fall. It's wqindy. The trees are going to be losing their leaves, and what not. You reach the edge of the forested area and pass through it unmolested. All good so far. When you reach the sawmill, however, it appears to be quite ... quiet.

And immediate sort fo quiet has settled over it. There's no sign of *anyone*.

In an instant, Aimarra's bow is off of her back and the draw being tightened. She whisks an arrow from her quiver and sets it to the string, looking around her with sudden wariness. "None have been here since last night at least. Be wary, something may be afoot." Her hands now so occupied, she looks around her, looking for signs of tracks. What caused them to leave, and which way did they go?

"There!" Smuldur discovered it! He points at the big, lurking, stealthy mill. It thought it could hide from them!

Rumbo looks up suddenly from the dragonspitter as Aimarra nocks an arrow against the bow-string and frowns. "Myrrish Gnomes?!" He asks with a gobber-growl (some confuse it with a squeak) and begins loading the firearm he has in hand. Powder, patch, ball all rammed down with a short rod. <goblin-talk>

Randolf perks up as the sawmill comes into view. "Och, lookit there, friends! We made it!" he booms cheerfully. He gets a spring in his step as he lumbers forward, the prospect of breakfast lending speed to his steps. "Won't they be glad te see us? I've heard lumberjacks put on a -great spread! Jus' wait 'til they..." He slows, however, as the eerie silence descends. He looks around, eyes wide. "...see we're... here? Och, where -is- everyone?" As Aimarra arms her bow, the dwarf does likewise. Not with a bow, obviously. But he pulls his wand off his belt with one hand, and readies his battleaxe with the other. "What the hell is goin' on here?" he growls softly. His good mood has evaporated, his usually cheery expression darkening to a dour scowl.

Vespasian slides away his flask, and draws out a dagger from the same location. All the necessities, you know. He moves forward slowly, eyes scanning the ground and entrances for potential trip wires or suspicious leaf piles. His worn booted feet step lightly. "Its lumberjack wives that have the food..."

GAME: Aimarra rolls survival+1: (10)+11+1: 22

Smuldur looks around. What else is around? Trees. What would hate loggers? Trees. What must be the obvious culprits? Trees. What do trees also hate? Fire. What does Smuldur have alot of? Fire.

He pulls a couple vials of wonderfully inflammable stuff from his pouch: one for each hand. If he had more hands, he'd grab out more.

GAME: Vespasian rolls perception+1: (13)+9+1: 23

Jozi has arrived.

Jozi also turned up to help, as it could affect the community, or communities, depending on the scenario. She mostly kept out of the way, but as things get to the provisional side of things, she goes over her weaponry once again and eyes her companions. Along the route, she engaged readily enough, with a little smile, and/or the tendency to call people 'sugar', but largely tried to keep a lookout for observation or potential ambushes.

Bow in both hands, arrow nocked but not drawn, Aimarra is all business, examining the footprints running to and fro in the dust and sawdust of the mill with intent focus. "They went west," she tells the others finally. "Not all at once, and not with intent or purpose ... but one by one, and have not returned. Some trick draws them westward, and they aren't coming back." She looks westward, to see what might be there.

All else appears quiet here. You're not noticing anything unusual. It just looks empty. There's no signs of conflict, no damage to the saw mill whatsoever.

Randolf listens to Aimarra's estimation, his shaggy brows drooping low over his eyes as they knot together. "Beards o' me fathers," he mutters. "What could -do- sommat like that?" He looks around warily, drawing himself up to his full height. He makes a grandiose flourish with his wand, lifting his voice. "Re ex re su scutus!" He snaps the wand, and magic answers. A sphere of faintly glowing silver-blue hexagons whirls out around him, locking into place briefly before vanishing with a flash. "We're goin' te have us a scrap on our hands, I'll warrant. Best te be ready," he growls.

GAME: Randolf casts Mage Armor. Caster Level: 3 DC: 14

Vespasian presses his lips into a thin, grim line. He starts immediately towards the west though, and looks over at Rumbo. "Hey...come here...walk this way, just in front there." He gestures for the gobber to go in front of him.

Rumbo lowers the loaded dragonspitter slightly and, with his other hand, pulls a brass compass from one pocket to aim it towards the west. "West... west... let me see if I can remember..." He trails off as he takes a few hobbling steps to the west on his wooden leg before Vespasian. <goblin-talk>

"Trees got 'em!" Smuldur finally shares his expert deduction with the others. "What? Where?" His head darts to Vespasian's gesture, and the rest of him skitters to rapidly follow. Then both lead as he goes the way pointed.

GAME: Rumbo rolls Knowledge/Geography: (2)+9: 11

Jozi thumbs the catch on her odd pouch, withdrawing her shortbow before bending it with her knee to affix the string. There is a mighty crrreak to that bow. She nocks an arrow and settles in near the tracker, "How many ya figger, sugar?"

"Eight or nine, at least. Maybe more," Aimarra answers Jozi after another beat or two of study. "Whatever did it, it's most likely messing with minds. Maybe illusions. I can follow it, I think, but be ready for anything. The sylvanori were said to oppose the sawmill here." She shifts her bow so that both bow and arrow are held in her right hand, and uncomfortably flexes her left, looking at her sleeved forearm a little nervously.

Vespasian lingers his gaze on Aimarra, and her concern for her arm, but he's silent on whatever he's observed. He makes another groan though, unconsciously, as he settles his body into a stealthier posture, one he could, potentially, spring from. If he's got a spring in him this morning. Another grunt and he clearly takes a moment to stretch out his calves before resuming the posture. "Lets hope we find loggers and not bodies. Course, if they wanted the mill gone with violence, they might have destroyed it." He mutters then, under his breath, "probably lured them away to some fancy illusion foresty hill party to sign some..." and it trails off softer and softer until he just stops grousing and is back to being alert.

Rumbo looks over his shoulder for a moment, glancing at the adventuring party he is with today, and then looks back down to the compass in his hand and continues trudging along to the west. Perhaps, with only one leg, Rumbo feels he needs to keep walking or he'll be left behind by all those two-legged people. "Nothing for it but to keep going and find where they are in all these trees." He says with an edge of determination. <goblin-talk>

"Find guilty trees!" Smuldur keeps going into the woods. Because there are trees hiding there. It's just a matter of deducing the guilty party or parties!

Jozi continues moving alongside the tracker, noting the business with the arm and she asks very softly, "Something amiss with yer arm, sugar?" Best to know of potential problems before the shooting starts, after all. She frowns a bit, "I might be able ta do somethin' about compulsions, but it's best used on a cluster."

GAME: Vespasian rolls perception: (5)+9: 14

GAME: Randolf rolls perception: (11)+2: 13

GAME: Aimarra rolls perception: (17)+10: 27

GAME: Smuldur rolls perception: (20)+8: 28

GAME: Jozi rolls perception: (18)+8: 26

GAME: Rumbo rolls Perception: (3)+9: 12

Aimarra shakes her head at both Vespasian and Jozi. "Nah. It's all right. Let's go." Resuming the nocked and ready stance with both hands, she begins to follow the tracks westward towards the forest, and doesn't seem to have any trouble with the stance, although she hasn't pulled the bow yet.

All is going well, right? You've got tracks. You're following tracks.

The tracks are heading into the woods in relatively the same direction. So far, so good. All appears quiet but for the sounds of fall.

Vespasian continues on, but he does start using the trees and shadows to attempt to be more stealthy. Stealthy from the denizens of the forest, maybe not, but he gives it a shot right after a little sigh.

GAME: Vespasian rolls stealth: (4)+8: 12

"There!" Smuldur points again! This time, it should be no surprise that it's at a tree. Up high! "Guilty!"

Jozi catches sight of the figure in the treeline, "Elf, just behind them two elms, there!" she reports to the hunter, straightening slightly, but not going to a full draw, yet, "Don't speak elf, though. Wanna talk, now's tha time!"

Rumbo raising the dragonspitter up on an outstretched arm as he points it in the direction Smuldur indicated. "Where?!" He scowls. <goblin-talk>

Aimarra looks up into the trees, scanning them until she comes to rest on one in particular. "Hail, sentry. Though you hide well, I see you. These whose tracks we follow - where are they?" Direct and simple, that's her style. 'Hold up a minute, where there's one there's probably six,` she tells the others. <sildanyari>

Randolf frowns up towards where the elves lay in wait. "Shite. 'course it'd be elves," he grumbles under his breath. "Wha's their problem, anyroad? Are they -really- chuffed 'bout some lads loppin' down some trees? They grow -back-, don't they? Hrumph." And now others are speaking elvish. The burly dwarf is a learned wizard, just coming into his burgeoning power. But one of the things he does -not- know... is how to speak elvish. He plants his fists on his hips, harrumping softly as he taps his foot.

GAME: Aimarra rolls diplomacy+2: (16)+2+2: 20

The elf is startled on account of having been noticed, but once there are people with guns turning their way, they look ready to bolt. In fact, they're about to do so when the Sildanyari words reach their ears.

The elf pauses, then slowly turns back towards you. There's a nod. "Peace upon you, traveler. You havqe chosen a poor time to come to these woods. You seek the humans, then? We had warned them of the danger, sought to drive them out, but we were too late." <sildanyari>

"What's he saying?" Ves gestures with some frustration at not knowing if this is about to go down, or if he's going to make some money just leeching off Aimarra.

"Of what danger do you speak?" Aimarra lowers her bow, a clear hint to the others to do the same, looking up into the trees. "What calls the humans away?"

Jozi relaxes her bow a little bit, canting her head with Aimarra's Trade remark. She scans a bit around the treeline again, trusting by the tracker's impression is a valid one.

Rumbo continues to scowl and point with his dragonspitter as he looks up into the trees, doing his best to look menacing with an old brass compass held in his other hand. Who isn't afraid of an armed, one-legged gobber scowling with a confused look on their face.

"Tell your comrades to lower their weapons," says the elf, anxiously. "I am not alone in these woods. The loggers went west at the call of the Twisted One."

She bites her lip for a moment. "A broken thing of fey nightmare made flesh, leaving despair and rent flesh in its wake. We tried to warn the tree-men but they did not listen, chose their gold over the risk of running afoul of it. We tried to get them to leave but they did not, and now it has them." The elf slowly lowers themselves down from the tree, cautious, hands up. They don't want to get shot, heavily swaddled in the cloaks as they are. They blend into the backdrop.

THen in broken in common, it speaks. <sildanyari>

Immediately, Aimarra frees a hand to hold bow and arrow with only one, turning to the others and gesturing with a lowering palm. 'Lower your weapons, they are not our enemy. The loggers went west at the call of the Twisted One, a fey nightmare made flesh. They tried to warn the loggers and were ignored,' she translates for the others. "Will you suffer us to seek them out? For seeking the loggers is what we are asked to do. We intend your people no harm." <sildanyari>

Rumbo continues to scowl as the elf clambers down from the tree and keeps the dragonspitter pointed up on an outstretched arm. "What's it blabbering on about? Twisted One?" He asks cautiously, then adds hopefully, "Should I shoot it so it makes sense?" <goblin-talk>

GAME: Rumbo rolls Knowledge/Nature: (18)+9: 27

GAME: Aimarra rolls knowledge/nature: (18)+8: 26

Randolf glances between Aimarra and the elves. Slowly, he lowers his wand, straightening his spine. But the elf-talk continues to fly over his head (as so many other things often do, the poor dwarf). "Twisted One? A fey nightmare?" He shakes his head with a sigh. "Should've stuck te me studies," he grumbles. "But... we have te help those poor folk, afore this Twisted One does sommat to 'em." He looks back up at Aimarra. "Can they tell us how te find this thing?" he asks.

Jozi does similar, but doesn't unstring the bow, as it may be important soon. She nods to the tracker and looks to the elves around them, though she straightens up into a relaxed stance. There's a bit of thought as the others discuss the problem, and she nods, "Agreed."

Rumbo sighs and lifts the dragonspitter, keeping it out in his hand but up by his pointy ear and pointing straight up into treetops and not out at any elf in particular.

"The tracks'll probably take us right to it, whatever it is. Twisted One leaves a lot of room for translation, but it's foul by their standards, and that is about the only thing I'm sure of." Aimarra glares at Rumbo. "I'm trying to get them to let us pass."

Rumbo frowns as he says haltlingly in his broken tradespeak, "No shoot Sildaynar. No holster loaded dragonspitter. Bad idea. Shoot Rumbo's best friend holster loaded Dragonspitter. Tell them just shoot Twisted One... Also gnomes maybe.. not Sildaynar." <tradespeak>

The elf seems pleased when the guns are lowered. A nod.

"Thank you," they offer, quietly. They pull down their hood, finally, to show their face.

...and they can't beq any older than ... than ...

Okay, it's hard to tell wit helves, but you'd be fair in saying them *seem* like a youth.

She climbs down from the tree.

"Thank you," she offers in heavily accented, broken trade herself. "I am not good with your words yet. I have had no reason to speak them. The ... twisted ... ones. The stories say they live in the trees, hollow them out like they do the men they wear as suits, to prey on other men."