Wine Cellars: Mysteries of Moldenwood part 3

The morning after...
Dawn came and I came with it. No, not in the way that you think I meant.

Jack

Pervert.

I mean that I was up with the dawn. Goodness, can’t a fellow manage a good turn of phrase without it being a double entendre?

Whatever.

I awoke to a beautiful woman, naked, standing waist deep in water and combing long flowing hair whose color I could not and cannot and will never be able to adequately describe. She turned and looked at me and spoke and I knew I was in love and I hoped she was too.

Brook

She disappeared from sight for a moment and I heard some splashing. She quickly returned though, bearing a platter of fruit and two plates. She sat down next to where I lay at the water’s edge.

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?” That was all, yet that was all I needed. To hell with the adventure, I thought as she handed me a plate full of food, I will stay here and see how long one can live in paradise.

The morning passed in idyllic fashion. After some time had passed, Brook (the chosen name of my lady nymph (oh yes, that is exactly what I had found out here, and more is my luck!)), having heard my tale over breakfast, suggested that we should dress and seek out the rest of my party. I agreed and went to get dressed. As I did, I heard a din moving toward us through the forest that surrounded the pond.

So a few words about life this morning, as you well know by now I woke up to the loving gaze and embrace of a beautiful woman. It was a transformative experience, to run from certain death into the lustful embrace of love. I felt like a new man. I was overjoyed to hear the familiar voices of my friends in the trees as they called out a greeting to my sweet Brook. I finished getting dressed and stepped out of the reeds, to the adulation of all.

They said some things that amounted to, we are glad you’re alive and now let’s get a move on. I noted the goblin was missing. When I asked about Grit’s absence, Icarus Archimedes Icarus slowly shook his head and said, “Our poor friend. We think he may have perished, and the more’s the pity for he had the key our brave paladin discovered in the cask. Come now though, we must depart.”
Corinth, moved by the spirit of his god no doubt, stood up from where he had been sitting reorganizing his pack.

The cursed tree

“ WE GO FORTH TO FIND THE AXE MAN AND BRING HIM TO JUSTICE,” he roared. We all stared at him for a moment, shrugged, and readied to leave. After a promise to return and a long lingering kiss, I was ready to go and let Corinth face his destiny. We struck out in the direction indicated by Brook and, using her detailed instructions, found ourselves emerging into a clearing that showed signs of recent habitation. Farther away and up atop a hill that started some short distance west of the clearing I saw a strange and twisted tree. Even at such a distance I could feel power whispering from it and  assumed that was where the wives were being kept, but before I could say so a commotion broke out at the far end of the field, with the brush and trees being pulled apart and a group of men stepping out into the clearing.


Rupert, an axe, a challenge.

The twisted tree in the distance emanated some kind of strange energy, true, but no less so than the hulking monstrosity---a massive man draped in furs and wearing worn leather armour and an assortment of mismatched jewelry---that stepped forth from the woods, easily swinging a massive broadaxe as if it were a hatchet. He looked at us, taking our measure, and then he threw his head back and began laughing, great guffaws that started deep inside him and rolled out like thunder. His face was florid and veins stood out on his neck as he laughed at us, his great girth heaving up and down in one piece with the ferocity of his mirth. The solidity of his bulk worried me, it indicated muscle and not fat and it further told me that he was more than capable of handling himself. He was flanked by several rough looking brigands.

Rupert the Axeman & his men

They strode into the clearing and spread out in a casual and predatory fashion. The man with the axe planted the head of the weapon on the ground and leaned into the handle, which groaned only slightly at having to support the man’s girth. A sturdy weapon to be sure. I took measure of the men gathered here and my hand found the hilt of a dagger and surreptitiously palmed it loose of its sheath, ready to be thrown. The man leaning on the axe was absolutely the hardest of them, all of whom looked dangerous. Though he was broad and wide, his arms and legs were strewn with thick corded stretches of muscle and sinew and scars. The scars told me his life was one of strife and his eyes—deep and empty from this distance—spoke of a careless acquaintance with the void, an intimacy with death that I found both compelling and repulsive. In that glance I knew this was ending with someone's blood cooling on the ground. The men behind him also radiated an empathy with and understanding, an intimate knowledge even, of death. They were equally armed to the teeth. I felt my pulse quicken as  Corinth stepped forward.

Corinth

“We come to bring peace, justice and the word of the gods to this place!” said Corinth. “We ask that you and your men leave in peace and never darken this community again. Do this and we shall not have to force you to pay for your crimes and repent for your myriad sins.” Corinth’s voice boomed out, bold and convincing. Corinth’s bluster was undermined by the tremor in the mace he held pointed at the brigands, and the sweat that was pouring down his face, staining the neck of his jerkin and soaking into the vestments he wore over his armor.

The man threw his head back and guffawed.

“I am Rupert and these are my merriest men,” he said through tears of laughter. “I fear that you have no authority over us. However, your pluck and spirit amuses me and so I shall offer you a deal. One on one combat to decide the outcome of this encounter. If your warrior should slay mine, then we will leave this place and ne’er return. These lands are vast and our work can continue elsewhere, the word can find ears in other hamlets. If we win, we will kill you all and make what’s yours ours. Deal?”

To his credit, Corinth never hesitated. To be clear, it was a credit to his idiocy and fervent commitment to getting murdered and not his bravery. Rupert snorted and made a small motion with his hand "Kendrick, the boy is yours." There was a slithering sound as one of the men unsheathed his sword stepping forward into the clearing until he was a short distance from Corinth, in his right hand he held a vicious looking hand-axe.

"Don't worry lad, it won't hurt. Too much...."

Kendrick

The two men eyed one another for a moment.

Eyes locked.

Grips tightened. Muscles tense, nervously waiting.

The moment stretches out, far too long.

Now movement, now tumult.

Sparks of steel striking steel.

Chaos and blood followed.







Stay tuned for the exciting culmination of the story!

Wine Cellars: The Dwarf Quest - a journey into darkness...

the Elder

Wine Cellars: A journey into darkness...

The dwarf elder looked over the group of short-beards. "I suppose you'll have to do..." he pulled a low stool out from under a table and sat facing them.

"Long ago our Clan waged a battle with Old Crook-nose the Goblin King. We assaulted his lair, and he ours many times in those days, whittling down his warriors as well as our own. But then Crook-nose answered a summons of the darkest kind and moved his clutch off to the castle of Marqest. In a final attack the night before the goblins left, they raided by boat with the aid of evil men allied to the Duke himself."

Battle of Blood Fjord (Ralph Horsley)

The Elder closed his eyes and sighed heavily into his beard. "The battle at Blood Fjord, a humiliating and shameful defeat. It was that day they not only killed King Gravelshaft, but Crook-nose himself made off with the fabled Helm of Ever-full Tankards."


From his pocket the Elder revealed a crumpled letter, he looked at it then flung it into the fire where it flashed with a sharp blue light and the lingering scent of burnt blackberries. "I have recently become aware of a way that we can reclaim our honor, and Forge willing the fabled Helm as well. It is however a most dangerous and terrible quest.... lean close and I will tell you what you must do..."






The Helm of Ever-full Tankards:

This fabled relic is held in high regard by many Warrior-Kings and generals of dwarf armies. The identity of the original creator is lost in time, and many clans have claimed it was their ancestor while the Helm was in their possession. This has become sort of a game among the clans and is taken lightly as long as the Helm is within the hands of Dwarves. However, when the relic is in the hands of an enemy or lost due to unforeseen circumstance it becomes the sole responsibility of the clan that last claimed ownership to retrieve the Helm at any cost, no matter how long it takes even to the complete extinction of said clan.

Helm of Ever-full Tankards

more is coming soon....

Wine Cellars: Mysteries of Moldenwood part 2

Mysteries of Moldenwood Part 2

The Jumping bag:

As we walked down the path, the day dwindled further towards dusk and I was worried that we would never find the wives of wood or the wood wives or any sort of wife at all. Any quest that took more than a day needed to be worth the effort, and so far--leprechauns or not--this was a bust so far. I started to fantasize about throwing my knife so hard and far that it punctured the sun, and it went squealing off below the horizon only to rise straight back up, turning night right back into day. In my mind’s eye, the day would get brighter and brighter until KAPLOW! the sun exploded from the fatal wound I’d dealt it.

the path

“Jack?” The voice was Corinth’s. It cut through the spectacular fireworks display in my mind’s eye like a dull and dirty knife through fresh butter, slowly and leaving a stain as it went. The stain was boredom, whatever he wanted to talk about would be boring.

“Why were you so unnerved in the clearing? Given the things we have faced together…”

He paused as we both shuddered, memories haunted by cyclopean monstrosities stirring dangerously between us, threatening to be fully remembered. There would be wine and women tonight, I thought. I don’t know how death would be a comfort to my friend, but I silently vowed I would not envy him from the warmth of my bed full of flesh this evening.

After some time had passed, I spoke.

“It came from a place full of the foulest evils imaginable. The wine cellars of the Duke of Marquest to be specific. I was there before I was here and I pray each night that I will not visit there in my dreams. The dreams would not be as bad, but still I would rather dream of anything else. Even Rodrick the Blue.”

At that confession,  Corinth’s eyes grew wide. Of all the odious things that befell us aboard the Darkstar, Rodrick the Blue (either of beard or balls, depending on his mood), caused us the most lasting damage. We both had scars, mental and physical, from our run-ins with the lout.

Before he could respond tearfully, the foliage above us exploded as something crashed down through. We scattered as a bag landed on the path. It bunched itself up and launched itself up into the air, a voice cried out for help from within.

Before any of us could react or caution against it, Grit leaped forward and grabbed the bag. It fired into the air and carried him with it up and through the foliage. There was crashing and swearing and shouting as the bag crashed back through the firmament of foliage. It crashed to the ground in a swirling, dusty haze that obscured the path before us. We looked at one another; Jack to paladin, paladin to owlman, owlman to Jack and without a word we raced together down the path towards the cloud of dust hiding our friend.

As we arrived I noticed that the goblin was attempting to talk to the bag, and without waiting, flipped the latch open. I gasped, not too audibly I hope, as a small devil popped out. There was no doubt it was a devil, there were claws and yellowed eyes and cloven hooves for feet. The face threw me though, for it was very innocent. In fact there was more than just a passing resemblance between the two if you understand my meaning and if you don’t...I’ve nothing further to add, just that I was suddenly worried.

Little Devil

“That awful man stuffed me in this bag,” the creature panted at us.

“And I’ve freed you, so now what?” Grit stood tall, a whole inch taller than the demon, in askance.

“A bargain we can strike, if you’ll let me go with no further bother. I’ve no wish to be here in this cold cold place and longer than necessary. Please tell me terms so that I may continue on my way, a free daemon.”

The devil shuffled anxiously back and forth. I thought perhaps he was worried about being shoved in that sack again. I chose not to engage however, and started looking down the path. I had heard stories growing up, that it was wise to never deal with a devil. That was in fact a tenet of the Jack training. Yes sir, you left them alone and they tended to leave you alone. I was told very clearly one day during my formative years (cue flash back: a younger me, still roguishly adorable sits before a naivish man. His blonde hair is slicked back and his pencil thin mustache is waxed to perfection. He is speaking to me, emphasizing his points with shadow play in the dimly lit room that we are sitting in. A small fire is before us and his shadow puppets tower on the wall above us):

“Never ever mess with a denizen of hell. Avoid their notice as much as possible.” The shadow thief hid from a shadow demon on the ceiling.

“Because if it does notice you…” And the demon discovered the man hidden in the shadows.

“They will not stop tormenting you until they are satisfied, and a demon thinks in centuries instead of days. A demon’s delight and satisfaction may take years to be complete.”

The demon on the ceiling laughed, deep belly laughs full of wickedness and evil intent.

I walked away then as the goblin and the daemon bantered and bartered and eventually terms were reached, but I was well down the road.

Some things are best left unheard, as ignorance is bliss, especially the words that drip from a daemon’s tongue and I was happy to leave them to their wheelings and dealings.

In the distance I could hear thunder. I looked to the horizon and saw not a cloud in the sky. Well, clouds yes. But big fluffy ones and no dark and threatening monstrosities in the distance.

The thunder came again, low and from the forest. Grit was finished, and walked over looking pleased. I did not see the daemon. The rest of the party headed down the path with me, towards the whip crack of thunder in the trees. 

Meboyoh and the great canoe in the sky:

The CRACK-SNAP  sound led us to our most peculiar sight yet, a flying gnome. 

That is correct, a flying gnome is what you just read. Upon further rumination, and a need for utter clarity, maybe flinging or falling gnome would be more accurate. Here’s what we witnessed:

A tree in the distance as we approached the source of the thunder suddenly appeared. There was no tree and then suddenly there was, whipping back and forth as if in a high wind. We looked on, enthralled by the sudden appearance of a tree.

None of us saw the landing, but we did hear it; a raucous crash behind us as something plummeted into the ground from on high. We rushed, as a group, to see what was going on.

There was lephre 1 gnome in the crater the impact had left. We stared in silence until the immobile figure slowly stood up and started dusting itself off. Great clouds of chalky detritus and soil formed a cloud bank around him.

“Whoa,” said Grit. “That was amazing!”

He spoke for us to a bird. The small person strode through the clouds swirling before it. It walked right up to us, clouds, eager to remain relevant, streaming after.

He stuck his hand out to Grit.

“Meboyoh’s me name, ‘n’ flying is me game,” he said proudly as Grit tacitly reached out and accepted his greeting.

“What do ye keen?” he asked, taking our measure one at a time. I took his measure in return.

He was a squat and hairy dwarf (yes, Corinth had to tell me to stop casting about for pots of gold.) and he reeked of sap and pollen and he was covered in both substances from head to toe which painted him with swirls of color over his rough leathery hide (Corinth’s description and not mine). His eyes were the same color as the sky and they were focused on the owlman. He grinned broadly and I saw that his smile was shattered by many many impacts and looked to be made of loose white pebbles all broken.

Meboyoh (by Brian Froud)

“You’re trying to fly,”  Icarus said meeting the gnome’s gaze.

“Aye, I am,” he spat the words more than spoke them. “Ken ye assist me in reaching the land in the sky aboove us?”

We all looked at one another, puzzled.

“It is the land above us. I know it is there, I just have to get high enough to reach it. Or you could give me a ride?” he asked looking  imploringly at Icarus. His plea was met with a slow head motion indicating that Icarus was in no mood to fly anyone anywhere.

“Then plan B me lads. Help me pull down this massive honker of a tree o’er here and I will grant you any favor I am able to before I ascend to the heavens!”

“We are on a quest,” said Corinth. “We seek the stolen woodwives and to rid this land of the axeman Rupert in the name of my lord God AJSKAHDKJA 2. Can you aide us?”

The gnome nodded. “Aye, I can. I know exactly where they are, I saw them the first time I had my hands on the Great Canoe in the sky. 3”

After we agreed to help him, Meboyoh spoke of an enchanted tree where the wives were being held.

“It lies a fair way away in that direction. I can see it from the air and I can say with certainty that ye lads will find it with nary a bit of  trouble. Now then...to the task at hand!”

With that he set about scouting the area and finding the biggest tree he could that met whatever conditions he was searching for.

“This one here’ll do the trick,” he said and started to climb a tall and bendy Over tree 4. When he got to the top he dropped the ends of a long rope down to us and tied the middle around the top.

“Now run, lads! Straight back until she’s touching the ground!”

So we started running and—lo and behold—the tree did in fact drop down to the path.

It was easy, so easy. And it was fun. I remembered being a boy, long before the days of conscription as a pleasure mate and longer still in the days before I donned the Jack mantle and struck out on my own. Instead I remember running through a field, my family there. We are trying and failing to fly a kite. I remember the pride I felt as it went airborne with my mom and dad and brother and I all running like mad in the shadow it created as it eclipsed a small part of the sun.

I felt that same pride now as the tree touched down and Meboyoh settled himself at the end of the bendy tree and waited.

It was not a hard thing to do, to let go and grant him his desires. He flew then and his shout of triumph and glee echoed down to us. That and only that.

Meboyoh never came back to earth.

Of night and goats and night flights:

Night fell quickly in the woods. One minute we were walking through twilight and the next I could not make out my hand in front of my face. We walked on in silence, each of us regretting our decision to press on. Each of us regretted our decision to not pack a torch. Now, about what comes next...I am nothing if not a faithful correspondent of the truth and as such I hope what I share will be met with understanding and not derision and judgement. Here goes:

In the duchy of the Duke there is a persistent rumor. One that, upon hearing for the first time,is easy to dismiss. “Watch out for it, there’s no telling what might happen if it gets a hold of ya!” and also:
“That fair bit of bleating might be the last sound you hear, well other than the sound of your soul crunching between its teeth as it eviscerates you, physically and spiritually.”

So while it's easy to dismiss, there starts to be a whispered pattern. A web of fear and awe of the Caprinae variety formed of myth and rumor. At least until you are there, in that haunted stretch of land that make up the grounds of the Duke’s complex. There, you believe anything is possible. I know, after seeing only a little of what lurks in that hellish place, that the rumors are more true than false. I know. I know that the goat, the one a masked man came to the Duchy seeking vengeance against and revenge on, is a demon of the highest caliber. Everyone knows.

I tell you this now not to excuse my behavior, but to give good reason for my actions.

The clearing was full of darkness and the sound of chewing when we entered it. A word from the Owlman and the clearing filled with a cold and silvery light that flickered gently. The goat stood there before us, chewing thoughtfully on something and regarding us not with eyes but with pits full of darkness and deceit, The strange silvery light highlighted the saliva dripping from its maw, and glinted off the dull ivory of its hooves and horns. It bleated. I saw another form in the gloom behind this first goat. Two silver eyes gazed into my soul from the darkness. Two. There were two goats, and the one that lived on the grounds of the Dukes manse was too much a demon for the rogues and wayward adventurers that came yearly to die or seek their fortunes.

THERE WERE TWO GOATS SO...I did what any sensible Jack would do. I blindly panicked and let my feet do the walking and the talking. I do not know for how long I ran, nor in what direction, but I did hear a voice, silvery and full of starlight, and I ran to it. I found arms waiting for me in the darkness.

First there was fear, there in the darkness.

Then there were soothing, comforting words.

Then lips.

Then love.

Part 3 coming soon......
____________________________________________________________________________
1 Full disclosure I thought he was also a leprechaun, but I heard Corinth call him a gnome. I will have my pot of gold, but it looks like it will have to wait a bit longer….
2 It’s his God, and it’s his business. So no I will not write out the name, it’s best never to mention the gods, lest they take notice in you.
3 Wink, wink.
4 I have no actual idea what sort of tree this was so that’s what you get. You can go now. Seriously that’s all I have to say. I am not here to amuse you with rich anecdotes at all times. Go. Away. Ugh. Fine. Here. Is this what you wanted? Is it?!?

GALACTA 25: Planetary Police squad 1

GALACTA 25: Planetary Police

Planetary Police Squad Type 1:

These peace-keeping forces can be found on all civilized planets throughout the quadrant. They are for the most part lightly armed though quite mobile due to their penchant for Grav-Scooters used to constantly patrol all areas under their authority.

The squad pictured is a common City Patrol type 1 and consists of the following:

3 Planetary Police troopers
Move: 7"
Save: 8+ light suits
Troopers are armed with the following:
Stunner pistols - 6+ to Hit, 6" range and Stun Batons - 8+ melee (targets that fail save lose next turn)

1 Planetary Police Sgt. on Grav-Scooter
Move: 7" / 14" on Scooter
Save: 8+ light suit
Armed with the following:
Stunner pistol - 6+ to Hit, 6" range and Stun Baton - 8+ melee (targets that fail save lose next turn)
Scooter - Stunner Rifle 7+ to Hit, 12" range

2 Planetary Police-bots
Move: 5
Save: 8+
Melee: 11+
Police-bots Armament:
Stunner Rifle 7+ to Hit
Stun Grenade Launcher 8+ to Hit, Range 12", blast radius 1"


More Planetary Police troop types will be coming, stay tuned!

Wine Cellars: Mysteries of Moldenwood - part 1

Mysteries of Moldenwood is the first on-line session of the Wine Cellars due to the Pandemic.

Our party consisted of:
Nate - Grit Lightningstruck, goblin sneak**
Joe A. - Brother Corinth, Acolyte of Sinakad
Sal - Jack Quick, a jack**
Joe P. - Icirus the Great, Owlman Magic-User**

Here is the first part of the tale -

 `An Introduction, though it may not be necessary...'

Once upon a time there was a brave and heroic... 

Ummm…

 Errr…

 Well there’s no way around it, I suppose…

Hero. There was a heroic hero or something, I don’t know. I mean, am I a hero though? Most people I meet certainly seem to think so. It’s probably my silver tongue and dashingly good looks that creates that illusion, though I am pretty handy in a tight spot (also, with a tight spot if you know what I mean…).  So some call me a hero, and some call me a knave but all call me Jack Quick! And whether you dub me a hero or a scoundrel, I call myself an adventurer! I travel wherever the whispers of Fortuna send me in search of new and exciting trials and tribulations to overcome, discoveries to make, and treasures to add to my collection. 

And so it was that Fortuna’s silky breath seductively whispered a name into my ear and I found myself in the duchy of the Duke known as Marqest. I spent some weeks there, lurking in the tavern and making myself at home among the villainous ruffians that populate the area outside the Duke’s homestead proper. After several days spent loitering, I managed to join a party of adventurers to journey into the Duke’s home. The things I saw there, I am not quite ready to speak of. Needless to say that I returned to the small village with the chill of that foreboding and grim place still upon my shadow and soul. Try as I might, for days I had dreams of the places we saw there. Of a well and tiny red capped shrews, of a shadow with burning eyes that I saw, half glimpsed, in the bowels of that benighted manse. For days after leaving that place, I felt drawn back. A pull that grew more insistent each day I was away. So I did what any self-respecting Jack would do. I pulled up stakes and went looking elsewhere for adventure, I needed to clear my head and soul before heading back to confront the Duke and his mysteries. One should never give in to obsession, that ceaseless taunt that drives so many men to their deaths. Oftentimes, those deaths could be avoided if a man were to approach life a little differently...with both eyes open rather than cyclopean myopia. So I left the town huddled in the shadow of the Duke’s home and traveled. East? West? North? South? It did not matter. Not to a Jack at least, we go where we are eventually needed and so I wandered and I wondered and eventually I came to the place where I was needed.   

Hemlock Hamlet

What do you mean there is no gold at the end of the rainbow?

The hamlet of... Mildew? Mullgrew? Piddllefoot?...we’ll check later but I’m going Mildew for now. The hamlet was a bit stagnant and moldy. All priest-run and holy-like. It was a total bore and I was going to leave right off. I really did have every intention to do so but wouldn’t you know? I saw my oldest friend and fellow pleasure-mate aboard the brigand warfreighter, SS Darkstar, that we were both enslaved to for a time. The indignities visited upon me  during that horrid time would have been insufferable, unbearable even, and I am certain I would have devised a way to kill myself or throw myself over the rails to drown in the sea if it had not been for the steadfast support and friendship of Cornith and here he was now, striding through the town square regal in priestly garb and moving with the purpose of the indoctrinated. The dull lockstep of the robot drone, it was pathetic really and I needed to address it right away. First, his dignity had to go. “What ho, young lad? Remember the days adrift at sea? And me as well?” I floated the question and he froze mid-stride. He turned and verily threw himself at me in joyous greeting, full of the love and affection one might bestow upon a family member. And why not? After what we’d seen, after what we’d done….well I suppose we’d been family of a sort a long while now. 

One brief explanation(*1) later, I found myself headed down a wooded road on the look out for axe bearing bandits (and unfaithful women and children or was it faithless? I don’t really remember, I wasn’t listening to Corinth. Everything he was saying reeked of responsibility and everyone including him knows I am tragically allergic to responsibility…) in the company of not only a cleric of some god that did not seem particularly terrible, a goblin named Grit, and an Owlman who called himself Icarus but who I thought looked a lot more like an Archimedes. 

It was an interesting group, though not the chattiest.The lack of quality communication was just fine by me though as the nature around us was quite the spectacle, a riot of greens dappled with more shade than sunshine.   

  So lost was I in the scene that I failed to see the little man in the path until I nearly tripped over him. 

“Watch yer self, wanderer,” spoke a voice far below my line of sight. I managed to spot the little fellow as he wandered back over to a small gathering of...I was not sure.There are many species of fay and little folk who roam the world, and I was terrible at keeping track of who was who and what was what. I wracked my brain to figure out what they could be. Dwarves? No. Gnomes? Not likely. 

Leprechauns perhaps? My heart soared at the thought of capturing them and torturing them to find out where the end of the rainbow is.

I realized they were talking to us.

“And find our woodwives,” one of the adorable little fellows was saying. Wives? These little men could please a woman? I was intrigued as the gold in the  pot at the end of the rainbow morphed a little in my mind.

I glanced around, puzzled. I was about to ask what they wanted us to do with their wives, did they need us to please their wives for them? This day was looking up already. A delightful walk in the woods was about to get very interes…

“They were taken from us by a large man with a larger axe,” the tyke was saying. Dang, there went any hopes of this being a day of leisure and checking in on the neighbors but I did feel a thrill of excitement, a shiver and a sliver of interest, at the mention of the wives and the axeman. This was exactly what they’d sent Corinth out here to do, for here was mention of just what they’d tasked him with finding: faithless wives  of the woods and axemen with large axes! It was sounding very salacious and very promising. 

I stepped forward into the limelight.

“Gentlemen, we would be happy to be of service to you and your wooden wives,” I said, gracefully bowing to them. “I…”

“Woodwives.” came the interruption of my splendiferous and dulcet tones.

“What now?” I asked

“Woodwives,” came the response again. It seemed to come from all three of them and the distinction seemed important to them. So be it.

“Very well, we will return forthwith to you your woodwives and in exchange I ask that you share with us your finest spirits and food at the conclusion of this venture.” I spoke with great gravitas and presented my most sincere demeanor. 

They agreed to the terms, and I was pleased to find myself one quest and a night of debauchery away from discovering if there was in fact any gold at the end of the rainbow. 

Since it turned out that our new quest and our old one both led in the same direction (funny how that works out, innit?), we continued on, though now we sought the company of a person or creature named Meboyoh and the head of a wives-thieving bandit. We traveled on, ready for adventure.

Winding paths, lost in time and space

The path we were on seemed to wind forever to the left, and now it turned to the right, but seemingly never truly onward. 

“We are going in a giant circle,” I commented at one point. 

Corinth scowled. “This is the right way. It’s the way the path leads us.”

Grit froze. His ears moved and his pupils widened. He looked at us and motioned for us to be quiet.  He whispered, “I can hear someone just ahead of us, and also it sounds like we have a group of ne’er-do-wells attempting to sneak up on us as well!” 

I saw the owlman start making gestures...actually, before we get to what happened, I need to talk about this owlman. I’d never met a bird-person until recently and I have to say, the experience is odd. They don’t have wings like we think, but they do have feathers. They break through the skin of the birdman like the hair on the arms of a humanoid, but then these feathers also break through erratically in weird clumps. The flesh glimpsed between the feathers was a sickly grey-ish pink, and translucent at that. Their hands end not in falanges but in cruel talons.      

Icarus did not blink ever and his brow, such as it was, gave him a permanent disapproving look. All in all he was a disconcerting presence, despite having an excellent demeanor and sense of humor, and I found him to grow only more disconcerting when he suddenly lifted in the air and flew. Without wings. This birdman flew without wings and my grasp on reality shifted slightly to accommodate this new wrinkle. 

Yes, the birdman levitated right there in front of us. And before you ask, no it didn't occur to me that perhaps he used magic of some kind. He’s a giant walking and talking birdman, and I did not wonder if he was also a mage. As he floated above us, drifting lazily higher and higher. I raced forward and shouted at our pursuers in an attempt to throw them off our trail.

As a Jack, I am gifted with the gift of gab. This means that I am able to influence and intimidate folks at will with a word or a phrase if they are of the susceptible sort. I find that not many folks have the ability to fend off a well placed barb or jab. 

This time though the words I spoke not only had no effect, but the weight of the words seemed to come back on me. The words lifted me physically and emotionally and slammed down. They had a Jack in their party as well! I drew my dagger and struggled to my feet. The others looked at me, puzzled at my reaction. If they also had a Jack, we would have no choice but to fight to the bitter end. Two Jacks in opposing parties of adventurers have no choice, it’s in the pact we tacitly agree to upon accepting the title of Jack. I started forward even as Icarus said mildly, “ I see a clearing, off the path. There is something there. Path continues in a straight line on the far side of the clearing.”

It clicked in my head then, the words I shouted were the ones that came back to my ears and knocked me down. There was only one Jack in this equation. There was witchery afoot and  I knew the temporal nature of it now.

“Yes, let’s get off this path before we run into ourselves from a few minutes ago or before we catch ourselves a few minutes in the future,” I muttered. A devious plot, and one that Corinth fell for. We were trapped on that path, caught in the moment and that moment stretched out along the path with the beginning chasing the end. One would never have found the other and we would have perished on that path.  

Thank goodness for the ability of birdmen to fly without wings.

We left the path and entered the clearing.

There was a cask here, it was massive and towered above us at least 10 feet tall and was at least 15 long and an additional five feet wide. Cool air poured from it in waves, chill and ominous in the summer heat. There was a mark I could make out even from this great distance and it caused my very blood to curdle.

A cask, out of place

The cask was enormous and very out of place, especially since I knew from whence it had come without even needing to see the crest prominently displayed on the cask’s side, burned into the wood. As we entered the clearing and drew nearer to the cask, the owlman began acting in a manner most peculiar and I knew then that he too had seen the foul, stygian depths of the Wine Cellars. He hurried past the cask without so much as a second glance and stopping only when he reached the edge of the clearing where he appeared to simply disappear into underbrush. As I walked into the clearing myself, Grit the goblin pushed by scampering across the clearing, while giving the cask a once over. I moved cautiously towards it, and, even at this distance, I could feel what I was sure had so unnerved the other members of the party; the cask emanated a sense of foreboding and...evil. It was more than just the pure otherness of the cask being out here in the field—a development that, on any other day and with any other cask, I would normally and immediately throw a bacchanal to celebrate the discovery of—and far from its rightful resting place. It was the chill that came from the cask, cold that came in waves that felt as if they were a pulse or the beating of Wendigo’s heart. It was the way the shadows deepened as you drew nearer to the cask, and I did draw nearer. In trepidation I reached out to touch the wood, seeing Grit join Archimedes Icarus in the distance and the hand smoothed and hand hewn oak of the cask filling my immediate foreground. A hammer crashed into the wood above my hand as Corinth—full of righteous fury and divine indignation at the presence of such an abomination—smote the cask, and nearly smote me as well. I dropped and launched myself away, a move that both moved me away from the rampaging paladin but also put me in a prime position to catch the waterfall of divine fermentation, the Duke’s Cellars were world famous for a reason after all, that never came.

I casually used my momentum to roll into a backwards somersault and spring to my feet. I whirled and watched Corinth go to work, slowly backing up to the menagerie gathered behind me under a tree at the end of the clearing who, if I had glimpsed right, were even now sipping tea and nibbling on crumpets as they watched Cornith unleash holy rage. His blows revealed an empty cask, save for a unicorn’s carcass. Corinth ghoulishly reached inside the corpse and pulled out a smaller, more humanoid figure. It was the taxidermied corpse of an infant giant, which,when Corinth coldly split it open, revealed an elderly kobold, which was torn asunder to reveal a bird of some kind, and then finally, a key. Yes, after picking through a variety of death, Corinth had found some sort of key. He joined us and traded Grit a crumpet for a look at the key, instructing the Goblin to hold on to it for the time being. Grit examined it closely and then quickly made the key into a necklace. He turned to Corinth to speculate as to the meaning and nature of the key. Icarus leaned in as well, all were interested in whatever the goblin had to say. 

Grit opened his mouth to speak, to drop a revelation, and…

 I farted loudly and started off down the trail.. 

Can’t have moments be too serious or dramatic, can I?  

footnote *1

Corinth regaled me with stories of how he came to his god’s service. It was not a rousing tale. In fact it left me feeling as though there was no such thing as happiness in the world. I resolved then to not torment him, instead I vowed (inaudibly) to help as much as possible while providing as much levity to this jaunt as I could.

** the Goblin sneak and Jack Quick are both classes from James V. West and you should check out all his awesome stuff here: http://doomslakers.blogspot.com/search/label/character%20class?updated-max=2015-05-17T15:00:00-04:00&max-results=20&start=30&by-date=false

**the Owlman is also from James and his awesome RPG - Rabbits & Rangers, here: 

https://www.drivethrurpg.com/product_info.php?products_id=191133&

SO ENDS, Part 1....