(G585 01/03/2025 via Roll20 - JF(GM), KT, AP, AD) 5ED4 (CG 90%)
[This continues the story of Nestor Applebaum the cleric, Haggen Dashenford the fighter
and Rogier the bard, as told to me from Random. As far as possible I will relate
the story as it was told to me. Currently the lads are in the village of Greball.]
DAY 6
"In Which Our Band Acquires a Warforged, Debates Elocution, and Encounters Fowl Trouble"
Ah, Greball Village — a quaint little hamlet with more problems than livestock, and no shortage of
curious characters. One imagines a more relaxing setting for a lute recital, but alas, destiny
had other ideas.
Now, picture this: Nestor and Haggen, those paragons of subtlety, slipped out during the night
like a pair of sneaky badgers, leaving our dear Rogier all alone in the tavern with naught but
his melancholy chords for company.
Enter, stage left, two chaps of uncommon construction and clanky conviction: Gravedigger, a
rather stern Warforged with the charm of a tombstone, and Uthmar Shatterstone, a paladin — or pala-din,
depending on whom you ask. The pair immediately fell into a lively squabble over pronunciation
which, frankly, would've made a linguist weep.
Despite appearances, both had once tilled the land and now shared a peculiar tendency to smite
first and philosophize later.
Rogier, never one to wallow for long, struck up a tune on his lute. Gravedigger, not to be
outdone, produced a set of bagpipes. The noise was... memorable.
Now then, just as the musical horrors peaked, in rushed a frantic woman, breathless and wide-eyed.
"My son Kai is missing! He went to gather wood and hasn't returned! The constable won't lift a finger!"
Gallant as ever (or perhaps bored), Rogier and Uthmar sprang into action and headed straight
to the constable. Said constable, a man of such staggering indifference he might've been carved
from old cheese, simply pointed toward the forest with all the urgency of a man swatting flies.
Into the woods they went. Uthmar, ever the tracker, spotted a child's boot beside the path. Suspicion
of foul play quickly ripened when a raven cawed overhead with the subtlety of a thunderclap.
Further along, they stumbled upon smoldering carts and, lo and behold, a gang of horrid Grosslins
lurking in the underbrush. Ugly things. Like chickens that failed several quality checks.
The battle was swift, if a touch embarrassing. Gravedigger took a tumble and Rogier's tactical
flair left something to be desired, prompting Uthmar to give him a firm telling-off, the sort
that implies parental disappointment.
Still, victory was achieved. Short rest commenced. They looted the miscreants and found a
curious map scrawled on rabbit skin.
With map in hand and optimism in short supply, the trio marched on until they discovered a
squat stone cube — clearly an entrance to a dungeon. Chicken tracks the size of dinner plates
greeted them.
Descending into the dark, they encountered a sleeping chicken-man (a sentence I never expected
to narrate), and later, a hallway fragrant with bacon. Tempting, but suspicious.
Further exploration revealed a room with a fire pit full of humanoid bones and
chicken effigies. They were then assaulted by Grosslins, but Rogier put half of them to sleep
with a spell before anyone could make a quiche.
After dispatching a couple of rather cheeky spiders and avoiding a nasty furnace, they heard
chanting.
They burst into the next chamber and — well, picture this:
Four grotesque chicken-like creatures pranced about a fire chanting "Grakknovar" and "Plekknovar" like
overzealous cultists at a poultry-themed séance. At the fire's heart, a young lad — presumably Kai — tied
to a stake and unconscious.
Beyond that, two small gray objects sat on matching podiums. One can only imagine they were the source
of the chanting, or possibly some form of poultry-based home décor.
And that, dear Rollo, is where we left our noble band — standing in the glow of firelight, hearts
pounding, feathers flying, and the odd cluck echoing down the corridors.