4. Adventure Time!
The road led them through deep forests and shadowed meadows full of plants they’d never seen before – well, maybe except of Araralei the Sour Elf, who was more in touch with nature. Tall, impassable mountains surrounded the valley, still bathed in the grim, overwhelming shadow of the tall, dark spire. Nevertheless, the valley was full of life; bees were buzzing, rabbits were hopping in the grass. Occasionally, one could hear a distant roar of a bear.
A proud deer walked from beneath the tree cover; it smelled some strange, unfamiliar smell and decided to check what was that before running away along with the rest of the herd. It sniffed the air, walking along the ridge, overgrown with moss and reddish grass. The strange smell all but disappeared. The deer was about to turn back and leave the scene, when an arrow flew from behind the bushes, hitting in between the eyes.
“Dinner’s ready,” Sour said, lowering her bow and watching the deer collapse.
“I always thought elves were vegetarians?” Fafhrd the Clueless Barbarian asked.
“Yeah, and we invented archery because we were bored.” Sour rolled her eyes and grabbed the knife. “Let’s skin the son of a bitch.”
“Son of a doe, more like.” Fafhrd chuckled, grabbing a large hunting knife. “Gmork made this one for me. It has some runes built into it, but I’m not sure if it’s for making meat softer or better aim while throwing.”
Sour groaned. “I wonder why Gmork gave Lemon a crossbow with a sighting spell and I got nothing. She can’t even shoot a crossbow.”
“Well, it’s not a particularly good crossbow,” Fafhrd replied, walking to the deer and watching the huge antlers. “It sometimes shoots backwards. Also, I don’t think Gmork will get you anything after you promised you’d feed him his balls.”
“Still, I’d like some upgrades.” Sour looked at her knife before castrating the dead deer with a one, swift motion. “Who knows how many cultists are there.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.”
After the dinner, consisting of roasted deer and scrambled eggs – provided by Lemon who mentioned something about singing with some, unfortunately deceased bird – the party embarked on the further journey. Soon, however, they had to stop as it turned out that Gray Mouser was lagging behind.
“Well, now we’ll have to carry the halfling, I guess.” Lemon shook her head. “Or stay here for night. At least we can throw him at the incoming enemy.”
“Shut up,” Gray Mouser replied. “I’m the rear guard. It seems that someone is following us.”
“I can’t hear anything,” Sour said.
Gray Mouser shook his head. “I sense them on a different plane. They may not be alive.”
“The mayor realised that ‘is executioner and all of ‘is assistants are zombies, huh?” Gmork chuckled. “Well, they probably smell better than when they were alive.”
“Nah, that’s something else,” the necromancer replied. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Then keep guarding our rears.” Fafhrd smirked. “Your head is at the perfect height for that. In fact, we can as well crash here. It’s getting dark.”
“If I were you, I’d sleep with one eye open.”
“Good thing I don’t need to sleep,” Sour said. “If only our artificer would give me something that’d work against the undead…”
“I’m not suicidal, okay?” Gmork rolled his eyes. “I ain’t gonna give you an occasion to rip me arse off.”
“I don’t need an occasion.” Sour smirked in a decidedly un-elflike way. “You’d better watch out, little shi–”
An arrow hit Gmork’s foot, piercing the boot and nailing the half-orc to the ground.
“It wasn’t me!” Sour spun in place, grabbing her bow. She heard a war cry somewhere from behind the bushes and shot there, causing the cry to end in a choke, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground.
Several people, clad in dark coats jumped from the tall grass, surrounding the party. Fafhrd the Barbarian smirked, producing his sword and spinning it around.
“Random encounter!” he exclaimed, attacking the nearest enemy. The cultist parried the first blow with a long, curved blade, and jumped back. Fafhrd followed, but had to back up when the cultist gained momentum and counterattacked, almost giving the barbarian a new scar across his face.
Araralei the Sour Elf yelled something in her native language. To Gray Mouser’s surprise, the cultist also spoke back in Elvish, chuckling in a rather cruel way.
“What’s going on?” the halfling asked Lemon.
“They’re drows,” Lemon replied. “My Elvish is shit, but I think they’re exchanging compliments.”
Sour shot at one of the drows; he dodged, but the arrow hit one of his companions in the arm. He yelled something, to which Sour showed him her middle and index finger.
“He said he’d cut off the fingers she uses to draw the bow and she showed him those fingers,” Lemon said. “It’s a traditional rude gesture in–”
“I don’t need a lesson in Elves’ culture.” Gray Mouser raised his hand and fired a magic missile at one of the drows. “Go and help Fafhrd!” She pointed at the barbarian, who was trying to defend himself from five cultists surrounding him.
“Okay,” Lemon replied. “Hey, guys, wanna hang out?”
Two drows stood still and looked at her, their mouths agape. This was enough for the barbarian – one of the drows suddenly parted with his head, while the other got nearly cut in half by Fafhrd’s enormous sword.
“Thanks,” Fafhrd said, parrying the blow of the third drow. “Why didn’t it work on all of them? What are they, gay?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’d help them.” Lemon grabbed one of the drows and pulled him away from Fafhrd. “When I seduce you, you’re gonna be seduced, understood?!”
“Hey, don’t seduce me by accident.” The barbarian shuddered, seeing the drow fall limply to the ground with one hand buried in his trousers, while unsuccessfully trying to keep his innards from spilling out with the other. Two other drows backed off upon that sight; it was enough for Fafhrd – he threw the sword at them and when the first one blocked it with his own blade, Fafhrd grabbed the axe and buried it in the drow’s skull.
“Get one alive!” Gmork exclaimed.
“Okay.” Fafhrd nodded and smacked the last of his enemies with a handle of his axe before swinging it and cutting off one of the cultist’s legs. Screaming, the cultist collapsed.
More magic missiles swung in the air, hitting the other drows, as well as the ones hiding on the trees and shooting their bows. Several arrows bounced off Fafhrd’s armour. Lemon dodged them, but one of the arrows brushed her arm.
“Why can’t I use Fire Tornado?” she asked. “I’d fry all those motherfuckers.”
“Yes, and us with them.” Gray Mouser shot another spell at a drow who dropped on the ground right in front of him, and finished the opponent off with a small, silver dagger. “Go and tell Lolth that you got offed by a hobbit with a paper knife. Maybe the old spider will shit herself laughing.”
“No time for one-liners!” Fafhrd exclaimed. He’d regained his sword and was just trying to pierce a drow with a morgenstern with it. “They keep shooting at us!”
“Can someone get this out?” Gmork pointed at his foot. “I need to get to my backpack.”
“No problem.” Sour yanked the arrow out without much care, looked at it for a moment, and shot it at one of the drow archers. “Enjoy your half-orc HIV!” she exclaimed.
“Rude,” Gmork muttered, rushing to the backpack. He opened it and produced some object wrapped in canvas, as well as a box full of black, steel balls. Then he took one of the balls, lit the fuse connected to it and rushed towards the drows hiding in the darkness.
“Okay!” he exclaimed. “This is my new slingshot, firin’ small balls full of gunpowder! Let me show ye its features!”
“You should chill out with youtube,” Gray Mouser muttered. Gmork shot the slingshot. The projectile hit one of the drows in the head and exploded. It wasn’t a big explosion, just enough for the cast iron shrapnel to give the drow a nasty scar and wound a few of his companions.
“That’s it?” Sour asked. “I expected something bigger.”
A dead drow with a morgenstern sticking out of his back landed in front of Gmork, followed by Fafhrd, who looked at the half-orc and yanked the box with bombs out of his hands.
“Gray Mouser!” Fafhrd exclaimed. “Here!” With these words, the barbarian threw the box at the drow archers. The diminutive cleric emerged from the darkness and raised his hands, hitting the box with a magic missile and propelling it forwards.
It exploded among the archers, showering them with remains of the wooden box and iron shrapnel. The tree some of the drows were sitting on burst into flames; Sour shot a few arrows at the burning archers, but then she lowered her bows.
“Eh, no use wasting arrows if they’re frying anyway,” she muttered, watching the remaining handful of archers escape. “Hmm, we need only one to tell the tale, right?” She raised her bow again and shot one of the retreating drows.
“Optimally none of them,” Gray Mouser replied. “Or else they’ll send more of their friends.”
“Well, if no one came back, they’d send another party to see what happened with the first one,” Lemon said. “Does anyone need healing?”
“Me.” Gmork pointed at his foot.
“And me.” Fafhrd examined a few arrows sticking out of his armour.
“And this guy.” Sour pointed at the drow with one leg, who was trying to crawl away. “Where are you going, sweetheart?” she asked, producing a knife. “You have a great future. How long it’ll be depends on what you’ll tell us.”
“Why do we even need to bother with an alive guy?” Gray Mouser asked. “Some of those could be very talkative.” He looked at the nearest corpse. “Not this one. Our friendly neighbourhood barbarian turned his skull into a fucking jigsaw puzzle.”
“When it comes to talking, alive guys are more convenient.” Lemon walked to the drow. “So, here’s the deal: you either talk on your own, or I’ll talk to you. Or, if you’re into this sort of thing, Sour will talk to you.”
The pale drow looked at Sour, who licked the blade of her knife, then at Lemon, then at his eviscerated companion who still had a smile on his face, and then at Lemon again. “If I bleed out, I won’t tell you anything,” he said, pointing at his leg.
“And that’s where you’re wrong.” Gray Mouser chuckled.
“Baboon!” Juniper exclaimed. Lemon and Sour looked at each other and shrugged, turning back to her.
“What?” Sour asked. “I mean, I don’t have anything against baboons, but that was kinda random.”
“I know.” Juniper blushed. “I mean, you were going to torture that drow, so I, uhh… I just kinda said my safeword.”
Lemon chuckled. “You have a safeword?”
“You don’t?” Juniper asked.
“We’re, like, in high school, come on.” Sour shook her head. “Also, who needs a safeword anyway? All in or not at all, huh?”
Sugarcoat rolled her eyes behind Sour’s back. “That’s funny, by the way, because I have the same safeword. I mean, Sandalwood came up with it and he’s your cousin, so–” She furrowed her eyebrows, making some kind of rapid mental calculation. “Fuck.”
“Nice.” Sunny smirked. “I really didn’t need that mental image, but if you all insist…”
“I didn’t even have that mental image before you mentioned it.” Twilight shuddered and finished her beer in one gulp. “Thanks, I hate it.”
“What’s a safeword?” Indigo asked.
“I’ll tell you when you grow up,” Sugarcoat replied, turning to Juniper. “So, about your cousin…”
“The answer is ‘no’,” Juniper replied.
“I need to make a phone call,” Sugarcoat said.
“Does it have something to do with the mysterious drow cult Juniper was a part of before I cut off her leg and left her with Sour the Sadistic Elf?” Indigo asked.
Sugarcoat sighed. “No.”
“Then we should get back to the game,” Indigo said. “Come on, right when the plot thickens, you start to wonder who safeworded his cousin.”
“You mean. we finally started to kick ass.” Sunny looked at her character card. “Also, you owe me a box full of bombs.”
“Bombs?” Indigo chuckled. “That was, at best, a firecracker.”
“I’d say it was closer to a petard,” Sugarcoat said. “The word works in a medieval context and, if Sunny ever gets herself killed with this, we can say she was hoist by her own petard, Shakespeare-style.” She looked at Juniper. “Guess you’d appreciate that. On a side note, did you know that the word ‘petard’ comes from a French word for fart?”
Indigo looked at Sunny and burst out into laughter. “So you’re saying she’d be killed by her own farts?” she asked, almost dropping under the table.
“Mentally, you’re still six years old.” Sugarcoat shook her head and grabbed her phone. “And now excuse me, I need to make this call. Meanwhile, you can torture Juniper, maybe Sandalwood will hear that.”
Lemon and Sour looked at each other and smirked.
“Are you taking notes?” Lemon asked. As a tiefling, she was deeply disappointed by their drow prisoner. Upon seeing her and Sour, he started to quickly tell them his whole life story which, as he was about two hundred years old, turned out to be pretty long.
“So, you decided to tell Lolth to bite her old, spider ass and found yourselves a new master, right?” Sour asked. “Are all of you drows?”
“No, there are creatures of all races there,” the drow replied. “Dwarves, tieflings, orcs, you name it. Our master loves all his children equally.”
“Interesting example of tolerance,” Sour muttered. “What is the name of your master, then? Also, I don’t recall any god who’d use a kraken as his symbol.” She looked into the pouch of one of the dead drows and grabbed a handful of coins, similar to the one Gmork owned.
“Asmodeus,” the drow replied.
Lemon chuckled. “Please. I know Asmodeus and he’d eat all of you imbeciles for breakfast. Also, I see a distinct lack of humans among your friends…” She looked at the corpses and shrugged. “So unless the old Assie decided to start a Sunday school, you’re not convincing me.”
“Did you just call the Lord of Hell ‘Assie’?” Sour asked. “I mean, I don’t know much about how you roll in Hell, but that sounds–”
“I sang ‘Rock Me, Asmodeus’ during the family gatherings,” Lemon replied. “Being a tiefling aristocracy has its merits.”
Sour shook her head. “One day this bullshit will backfire at you.” She turned back to the drow. “And you, don’t think you can lie to us. Or else Lemon will ask uncle Asmodeus about your sorry ass.”
“He’s not my uncle!” Lemon whispered.
“Still, I’m pretty sure in his big, bad, lawful evil code of conduct, there’s a punishment for pretending to be his follower.” Sour shrugged. “What is it? A thousand years in blasting furnaces of Hell?”
“My master’s prize is worth all the suffering you can bring on me,” the drow replied. “Your move.”
Sour and Lemon looked at each other. “Who said anything about suffering?” Lemon asked.
“What did he say?” Fafhrd the Barbarian asked. He, Gmork, and Gray Mouser decided to wait until Sour and Lemon were finished – not because of squeamishness, but rather because they didn’t want to get hit by the side effects of Lemon’s charisma. Also, in case the guards ever interrogated them, they could all say that they’d seen nothing. Not to mention that, last but not least, Gmork needed peace to search through the items they took from the dead cultists, including several sets of robes.
“The dice hate me,” Lemon replied.
“Welcome to my world.” Fafhrd the Barbarian smirked. “What exactly happened?”
“Who’d know that a leg amputation can weaken someone so much.” Lemon sighed. “I unbuttoned my shirt and he just kinda died.”
“Really?” Gray Mouser asked. “Maybe I could–”
“His head exploded,” Sour said. “I think there’s still some on my shoes. Also, we’d better get out of here. First they sent drows. Next time they’ll send the same thing that messed up Sinbad the Sailor.”
“At night?” Fafhrd asked. “I mean, I have no problems with that, but–”
“Don’t worry, I’ll go first so you don’t walk into a gelatinous cube,” Sour said.
“Yeah, nothing wrong can happen,” Gmork muttered. “Also, what evil thing can await us on this swamp?” He pointed at the road in front of them.
“An ogre telling us to get the fuck out of his swamp?” Fafhrd chuckled.
“Nah, I think he found his princess already,” Lemon replied. “If someone is afraid of darkness, I can sing a song.”
“Yeah, and alarm every creature in a ten-mile radius.” Sour rolled her eyes. “Move your asses, guys. We’d better get across the swamp till morning.”
They walked across the muddy meadow, smelling of dead, decaying plants and a distant note of a campfire. It was quiet; the calmness of the night was disturbed only by the sounds of owls and loud jingling of Fafhrd’s armour whenever the barbarian tripped.
“Could you be quiet?” Sour whispered.
“Unlike you, I can’t see in the dark,” Fafhrd muttered. “Fucking swamp. I wanted gold, not pneumonia.”
“Shut up.” Gray Mouser looked around. “What if the ogre came back?”
“Then I’ll rip him a new one,” Fafhrd replied.
They continued to walk in silence. After an hour or so, they heard an echo of a bloodcurdling scream coming from somewhere behind them.
“Something is feasting on those dead drows,” Sour whispered.
"Crows?" Fafhrd asked. "Drow-eating crows?"
“I have a feeling that this something has friends closer to us.” Gray Mouser looked around. “Maybe we should light a torch or something?”
“I don’t need a torch and I can assure you that I don’t see anything,” Sour replied. “Unless I’m failing a spot check, which is almost impossible.”
Suddenly, she heard a dull, metallic thud. “Fafhrd, you moron, what did you walk into this time?”
“A boulder,” the barbarian replied. “Some slimy, awful boulder.” She knocked at the rock a few times. “Strange. It seems like this rock is filled with jelly. Funny, isn’t it?”
Sour’s eyes widened when she looked at Fafhrd. “If you don’t stop poking it, either I’ll kill you or it will,” she whispered. “Now, for the love of Solonor Thelandira, back off, quietly.”
“What is it?” Fafhrd asked.
“A chuul,” Sour whispered. “You just poked him in the ass.”
“Well, shit.” The barbarian backed off a bit too quickly and slipped in the ankle-deep water. Sour only sighed when he fell, splashing the water around and landing right in front of another chuul.
“I prefer ogres!” Fafhrd exclaimed seeing two large pincers right above him. He grabbed the axe and rolled away, getting on his feet. The chuul hissed, trying to reach the barbarian with its tentacles. Two arrows bounced off its carapace.
“Damn!” Sour exclaimed. Gray Mouser raised his hands and shot the magic missile at the chuul. More hissing followed from everywhere around.
“Congratulations, you woke up all the chuuls in this valley,” Gmork muttered, diving for his supplies. In front of them, Fafhrd managed to hit the chuul with his axe, but it got stuck in the pincer. What was worse, the other chuul woke up and the barbarian decided to flee.
“Do you have something stronger?” he asked Gray Mouser. “A fireball or something?”
“Throw me at them,” the halfling replied.
“Wha–”
“I said, throw me at them!” Gray Mouser exclaimed. “Before Lemon comes up with something dumb like seducing a chuul.”
“Can I do that?” Lemon looked at the beasts in front of them. “Or not. Gotta have standards.” She shrugged. “If I only could cast Fire Tornado…”
“Oh, fuck it.” Gray Mouser ran at the chuuls. “Here I am, fuckers!”
One of the chuuls raised its pincers, trying to nail the halfling to the ground, but he slipped out of the creatures’ grasp and grabbed one of its legs.
“By the power of Tharizdun!” Gray Mouser exclaimed. “I inflict wounds upon thee!”
The chuul hissed, waving its leg and dropping the halfling on his back. The armour in the place touched by Gray Mouser turned dark; it cracked in a few places, causing ooze to leak from the wounds.
“For the Chained God!” Gray Mouser grabbed the beast’s neck. Sour shot a few arrows in the tentacles of the other chuul, but more were coming; she could see them crawling out of the darkness.
“We’d better run,” Sour said.
“Wait, we can kill at least one!” Fafhrd exclaimed, piercing the chuul’s chest with his sword; it didn’t do much, but cracks appeared around the wound. The barbarian dodged the tentacles and yanked the sword out.
“You won’t loot it anyway!” Sour aimed at the chuul Gray Mouser was riding, but she lowered her bow; the chuul was staggering erratically, its limbs and torso decaying in many places. Still, however, it was dangerous. It managed to shake the necromancer off and raised its pincers to kill him, when it suddenly froze and started to make a sound that could only be described as laughter – assuming the giant mutated lobster could laugh.
Sour looked at Lemon. “Did you just cast Hideous Laughter at it?”
“Why not?” Lemon shrugged. “Now someone kill it before it shakes the spell off.”
“We should run to the hills,” Gmork said. He’d been peppering the chuuls with crossbow bolts, but with not much effects. “Less water there. Also, I’m gonna leave ‘em a surprise.” He grabbed a barrel of gunpowder.
“Yeah, we’d better get out of here,” Sour replied. “Come on, Fafhrd, we’re leaving!”
“I need to escort the halfling to safety!” the barbarian replied, swinging his sword in a desperate attempt to fend the incoming chuuls off. Next to him, Gray Mouser was running between the creatures, barely avoiding their pincers and tentacles.
Suddenly, the necromancer missed a beat and staggered for a moment. One of the chuuls charged at him, smacking him with a tentacle. The monster hissed triumphantly, but Fafhrd ran to him, cutting some of the tentacles off and causing the chuul to back off with a terrible screech.
“You okay there, Sugarcoat?” the barbarian asked.
“I may have convinced him to become Tharizdun follower,” Gray Mouser whispered and collapsed with the distinct sound of a failed constitution roll.
“The team is doing great,” Fafhrd muttered, holding the sword with one hand and grabbing the unconscious halfling by the legs with the other. Then, seeing as more chuuls emerged from the darkness, he decided to do the only reasonable thing left – which was fleeing.
On his way up the hill, he saw a barrel rolling in the opposite direction. He shrugged it off; the barrel was not a chuul, so it posed no immediate threat. For him, at least – he only managed to run a few more steps uphill, when the powerful explosion threw him on the ground.
“That’ll show ‘em!” Gmork exclaimed.
“It certainly showed me…” Fafhrd muttered, getting up and trying to climb. “My armour got charred.”
“Behind you!” Lemon screamed.
Fafhrd turned back to see the only chuul desperate enough to follow them up the hill. Judging by the decaying, burned carapace, full of cuts and cracks in the plates, with several arrows sticking from it, it was the same one Gray Mouser had been riding earlier. It was limping and half of its left pincer was missing, but its mouth was still full of tentacles and it was out to get them.
Fafhrd looked around and realised that his sword was lying in the grass a few feet away from him. He had the axe on his back, but then he realised he had a better weapon at hand.
Letting out a powerful war cry of the barbarians, he charged at the chuul, raising his arm and smacking the chuul over the head with the unconscious body of Gray Mouser. Something cracked. The chuul twitched and staggered, dropping on the ground and rolling down the hill, crushing the bushes on its way. Finally, it hit a large boulder and twitched for the last time before resting limply with its legs spread at weird angles.
“Did you smear me against its tentacles?” Gray Mouser whispered before passing out again.
“Maybe.” Fafhrd shrugged. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Just as the sun rises, you cross the ridge and see that down in the valley there’s a village,” Twilight said, yawning. “Just a few straw huts and a wooden inn–”
“Well, I can’t see anything, because I’m unconscious and down to one hit point,” Sugarcoat muttered, turning to Indigo. “Are you mental or what? Hobbits aren’t an improvised weapon.”
“Hey, this worked.” Indigo chuckled.
“Also, for the last time, you’re a halfling.” Twilight rolled her eyes. “Unless you want a C&D from Tolkien’s estate.”
“I identify as a hobbit,” Sugarcoat replied.
“For me, you can even be a kender.” Sour Sweet rolled her eyes. “Just the one who steals bodies instead of money.”
“Shut up, Sour,” Sugarcoat said. “If you call me a kender once again, I’m gonna turn you into a zombie.”
“What’s a kender?” Juniper asked.
“The black sheep of the hobbit family,” Sugarcoat replied. “They steal, wander around being annoying, steal more, sing songs, and play accordions.”
“Don’t you think it’s very suspicious?” Sunny asked, walking into an empty inn. She looked under the table, but only found some empty bottles of beer. “Cultists are swarming in this place like kenders around a bag of coins, there’s a swamp full of chuuls right behind the hill, all the merchants wind up dead and yet there’s a village here. Unburned and everything, complete with an inn.”
“Yeah, very odd,” Indigo muttered. “But we need rest and healing, so we may as well take a peek.”
“Famous last words,” Lemon said.
“Maybe,” Indigo replied, looking at her phone. “But I guess it’s something for the next session. If we stay here any longer, it’ll turn into a sleepover.”
“Why don’t we have sleepovers anymore?” Lemon asked.
“Because we’re not thirteen,” Sour Sweet replied. “Though I must admit it was quite fun when we were playing Truth or Dare in my house and my sister walked in–”
“Which one?” Lemon asked. “Because if Sweeten Sour, then it was indeed when we were thirteen. But if it was Sweet Dreams, then it was two weeks ago.”
“Yes, but we weren’t playing Truth or Dare two weeks ago.” Sour blushed. “And it was just the two of us. And, uhh… I’ll stop digging myself deeper.”
“History never repeats itself, but it often rhymes.” Juniper chuckled. “Do you often forget about locking your door?”
“I can’t lock my door since the twins took over Sweeten Sour’s room and she ended up in mine.” Sour rolled her eyes. “Also, didn’t you hear that curiosity killed the cat?”
“Strange, I always thought it was Indigo’s motorbike.” Sugarcoat shrugged and got up from her seat. “Okay, let’s go before it turns catastrophic.”
“So, am I driving everyone home again?” Indigo asked.
“Well, since you’re conveniently not drinking…” Twilight looked at the empty bottles in front of her. “Why did I even drink this? I’m gonna be sick tomorrow…”
Indigo only sighed.
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“What’s a kender?” Juniper asked.
“The black sheep of the hobbit family,” Sugarcoat replied. “They steal, wander around being annoying, steal more, sing songs, and play accordions.”
I thought that was boggies.
Isn't Twilight going to remark on people still circulating the myth that certain rude finger gestures supposedly originated as a threat directed at enemy archers? I thought everyone knew better in this day and age. I mean, Snopes debunked it way back when it still played midi tunes and flash banners.
And before anyone says she's drunk, it is my experience that being tipsy only increases pedantry.
I just noticed that Indigo Zap has been taking raised eyebrow lessons from Applejack.
Some cracking good action and quite the funny banter. Another great chapter, Samey. :)
I love this story. It reminds me of every gaming group that I've been apart of.
Ah yes, a +2 tenderizing dagger. A must for any high-level chef.
Homebrew is subject to the GM's approval, Lemon. Bards can't be trusted with massively destructive AoE spells. And by "bards," I mean "you."
Wait, pale drow? Isn't their whole schtick that they have an incongruously high amount of melanin for people who live underground?
Oh, right, Twilight's DMing. Probably slipping in bits of scientific accuracy where she can. Or it's a relative thing given how the drow's being threatened by a party of psychopathic murderhobos. And missing a leg.
I'm not touching the cousins' shared safeword.
You'd think his blood pressure wouldn't be high enough for that kind of thing.
Everything's an improvised weapon, as long as you can swing it. Heck, Pathfinder has rules for weaponizing halflings.
Good to see this playgroup has a designated driver. Irresponsibility in the game world can be fun. Irresponsibility in world without ressurection spells less so. Looking forward to more.
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Well, as they say, nothing is more terrifying than a kender saying "oops". Also, I guess trying to tell Sour Sweet that she's wrong about archery is a sure way to get shot (though it's Lemon who says that, but Sour makes the gesture).
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I guess there has to be such a person in every group.
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Thanks ;)
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Does your group have a Sugarcoat?
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I guess in D&D world, Hell's Kitchen may involve literal hell. With Gordon Ramsay as a demon.
Yeah, things involving Sandalwood are better left unsaid (in the story I'm currently writing Wallflower remembers meeting him, but not any of the details, implying she used the memory stone on herself).
Especially given the lack of a leg. Though then, Lemon is basically a succubus, I guess the blood pressure problems are a common thing among people she meets.
Speaking of, I once saw an instruction how to build a nuke in D&D, which involved, among other things, locking a dwarf inside so he can trigger the chain reaction. I guess a halfling would do for tactical nukes (though then, it probably doesn't count as an improvised weapon).
Indigo is a great designated driver as she never drinks (I actually borrowed this headcanon from kul when writing It's the End of the World as We Know It).
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Yes we do actually. In our current game of Vampire I play a necromancer that practices a type of voodoo.
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Nice (I'd ask if you're a lesbian vampire posse, but I'm not sure if I want to know the answer).
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Lmao
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Nukes in DnD? I would like to read about it! My DM will laugh his ass out.
“I always thought elves were vegetarians?”
“Yeah, and we invented archery because we were bored.”
I wonder if you are aware this technically not wrong. Flipping the bird originated from English longbowmen mocking the French soldiers they just escaped after the French tried to cut their middle fingers off.
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Well, middle finger alone was apparently known in ancient Rome. The gesture longbowmen allegedly used was the V-sign, but with the back of the palm facing the enemy.
So, that Baggins (I think her name was Ophelia but don't quote me on that) that stole Bilbo's spoons.
Mimics.
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Don't be silly, Gordon Ramsay isn't some nameless demon. Don't tell anyone but word on the street is Asmodeus got bored and decided to get paid to yell at humans.
Hey I Watch that Chanel