Caravan Contingent, Part 1
It's rather standard fare for adventurers, who really are just mercenaries that spend more time than average underground. Caravan guard duty. While the weather is not wonderful for it- the roads are already muddied with rain, and the cold wind bites deep- the trade routes do not wait. And so, the adventurers who have accepted this contract are asked to assemble bright and early at Alexandria's northern gates, where the caravan will be waiting for them.
Waiting it is- three wagons, each drawn by a pair of burly aurochs, are lined up on the road waiting for them. Each of the wagons laden with goods, and a handful of passengers, and headed by a driver, bundled up in heavy cloaks and oilskins against the weather.
Driving the center wagon is their erstwile employer- marked as a successful businessman by his portly physique and rather expensive-looking boots.
The Gobbo looks unhappy at the weather. She's bundled up in furs, and wearing sturdy boots, so she's dry and somewhat warm. But her expression is sour and frowny.
But money was offered and the trip promised to be 'not far at all', so here is Murder. Bright and early.
Without a word, she climbs up onto the middle wagon, and settles down beside their employer. The Goblin eyes him up and down, frowning toothily. "At least put a cloak on over your fancy clothes. Ya don't want to be screaming "I'm RICH, come and rob me!" to all the bandits along the way, do ya? No. No, you don't. You want to be saying, "I'm not worth your trouble." She huffs and shakes her head, settling back a little to wait."
Lysos is no stranger to trekking on foot.. her boots are made for walking, after all... the miserable conditions have more than convinced her to squeeze in on a wagon so she can wrap herself up in her cloak while she keeps an eye on the road. And keep her walking boots dry.
Not being an especially large individual, the brown-as-a-berry half-sil has opted to ride the wagons. Better sightlines and dry boots are to be appreciated. Nobody's seen Aimarra for some time, but eventually, the money does run out, and repairs around the camp necessitate some supplies that need to be purchased. So, back to adventuring it is. She swings up on the front-most wagon, traveler's cloak over a treated woolen hunter's mantle, sets her journey-pack down, and seats herself on the side, setting the tension on the complex and well-built bow with an authoritative snap and nocks an arrow from the quiver at her hip.
A shadow passes overhead as a large flying creature circles, squawks, then lands beside the center wagon. It is a fantastical beast, a hippogryph, part peacock and gypsy-horse, resulting in a fluffy and extravagant spectacle of white feathers and red eye-spots. There is a crimson splash across his chest.
"Hola! Master of the Caravan," a matching crimson knight riding the great beast calls out. She is small, encased in heavy armor, with an oddly grinning visor to her helm. A huge fan of weapons is attached to the saddle behind her, she could arm a small squad. It may be compensation for her stature or simple Lucht Siuil generosity. "I am Sister Paenitia, here for the escorting, with the Brave Ramirez. We make the plans of how to guard the caravan, or you have the preferences to share?"
While she awaits an answer, the grinning mask turns to face the goblin sharing the wagon. She overheard. "Maybe his plan is to be like the bright forest frog. 'Look at me! I am so obvious that to attack would be suicide'."
This may even be her plan. The loud little lucht is hard to miss.
If the weather is bothering the Stoutbrew khazad then he's doing a good job of keeping his discomfort to himself! Barclaiigh has replaced his open-toed sandals with a new pair of boots-- boots that leave no sign of his passing as he stomps through the mud. The broad-shouldered tree trunk of a wildman moves under a pile of furs and a heavy, hooded cloak and employs a runed spear as a walking stick. He rambles on with his thick drawl to the bear on his left and his tusk-and-pendant fetish rattles against a woodcarved breastplate.
Porter, meanwhile, allows the druid to monopolize the conversation, content to keep pace and alternate snuffling between the ground and air. The black bear isn't as large as the aurochs but he's more-impressively appointed; boiled leather barding with matte studs and his own cloak of simple brown stitched with an Yggdrasil pattern.
"H'lo!" the dwarf greets one and all with a wide, guileless smile half-hidden behind his bushy auburn beard.
The merchant offers a shrug at the gobbo, "Well, that's what you lot are for, isn't it?" he wonders as everyone shuffles into or around the wagons. He looks towards Paenitia, "Well I'd rather hoped you'd have that in hand. I've a head for coin, not combat. I should think it's obvious that your priority is protecting my goods, staff and passengers. ANd myself, of course!" he adds after a moment.
"If you're all ready, we'll be off. Daylight is burning." He adds, taking a moment to glance around but not really waiting for a reply before he pinches thumb and forefinger between his lips and lets out a shrill whistle. Up ahead, the lead wagon begins to rumble along, wheels sliding against the mud before they begin to turn, and with a flick of the reigns the central wagon follows suit. The rear one is last to begin moving, but follows close enough behind.
Murder seems quite taken with the arrival of the hippogryph and its miniscule rider, and she's partway to reaching out to touch the beast with a hand when Paenitia speaks. The Gobbo blinks and then rolls her eyes. "Three carts and a handful of guards, plus fancy clothes says wealthy enough to be fancy, but too stingy to afford proper guards." A bright and cheery grin replaces her frown, all her teeth on display.
"Hope fluffy here an' you can fight, cause we're definitely getting rolled."
The bear draws her eye then, and she chuckles. "O'course it'd be a Khazad.", she says in squeakily-accented Khazdul. "Did you bring any of your House's ale along?"
She eyes the others who've climbed up onto wagons, and then looks to their employer. "Of course. However, the best way to avoid any nastiness is to avoid looking like a promising target. If you had, say uh... maybe another handful of folks hangin' off the wagons, most bandits would leave us alone," Murder shrugs then, and settles back down in the seat. "Just sharin' my considerable experience."
"Good morning," Aimarra, up on the wagon, returns politely enough to the unfamiliar Barclaiigh, but her eyes are on the Paenitia/Ramirez Show in front of the caravan. She laughs helplessly and shakes her head. "If they do, they'll hit you first, Paenitia. It is good to see you again." Clearly, the half-sil is familiar with at least some here.
"Let 'em come, if they're stupid enough to," she tells Murder. "Otherwise you're likely to be bored."
"Depends! Sometimes they're desperate, not stupid," Lysos opines, trying to keep watch upon the road, but finding herself constantly distracted by Porter. The bear seems to fascinate her. "Hey. Being bored is Oh Kay.." she opines as she catches some bits of the conversation. Not knowing anything about whether you're supposed to feed the bears or not, she reaches into one of her pockets to pull out a small piece of hard cheese which she tosses Porter's way.
"Ha! He is all fluff, there is no fight in him." Paenitia laughs.
'Ruaaaah!' Her hippogryph squawks loudly, his feathers ruffling, head turning to stare at her with a plate sized eye.
The little lucht leans forward and pats him on his long neck, "It is the jape, dear Ramirez, they will see you bloody and glorious."
Sitting back and tall in her saddle, the Red Knight muses, "I suggest I take the flying overhead to watch, that we have one up front and one behind. The bear at the head, he will be the great intimidation. Lysos, Aimarra, you have the good distance with bow and spells, and ride the wagon seems the best idea."
Her head bobs at the ranger's comment, "I hope so! I will feel the great insult if they do not give me the great volley. The stories of the brave knight do not start with them arriving last to the battle."
"Darn tootin,'" Bar answers Murder, putting his walking-spear into his other hand and grunting as he awkwardly attempts to collect the cloak and furs enough to push them aside and display the pony key hanging from his pack behind his rump. A battered mug hangs from his belt, too, amongst the other (less-important) adventuring accoutrements.
"... reckon there's enough blood'n mis'ry goin' 'round," agrees the wildman as he bobs his head at Lysos. He's looking around for someone as he continues. "Bored ain't so bad... plenty'a Gaea's glory all 'round fer ganderin'."
Paenitia's suggestions dwarf his attention, pulling him out of his disappointing search and more to the task at hand. Taking note of Ramirez, the druid's mouth turns to an 'o' and his bushy eyebrows raise-- then he's patting at Porter and jogging up to take point.
The bear turns from eyeing Ramirez dubiously with a snort, wet lips slapping as he chomps the cheese out of the air with all possible efficiencies. A pleased noise rumbles from Porter and he takes a hopping stride that folds into a lope towards the front of the train.
"I have found that quality is often more valuable than quantity." The merchant retorts to Murder. "But, you're welcome to hop off and go fetch me a half dozen hired swords if you're disinclined to take my money. You adventurers don't come cheap, you know." he says, as the wagons continue to roll their way down the road.
It's fairly slow going- the wagons as heavily laden as they are crawl along at the speed of a casual amble. Thankfully, despite the rain and the mud, the roads this near the city are solid enough, wagon ruts filled in often enough and patrolled adequately so the start of the journey is rather uneventful- by and large, simply passing in between the fields and pastures that support the city. The road is quiet, today, given the weather. Not another traveler is to be found until they near a crossroads dominated by an inn.
The wagon takes the path most traveled, given the width and condition of the road- the other way was less a road and more a rough path, as the rising sun does its best to drive off the dark rain clouds overhead. The wind has mercifully died back, but a constant drizzle is testament to the weather's stubborn refusal to turn for the better.
The fields here are interspersed with the occasional copse of woods, the farmhouses fewer and further between.
GAME: Barclaiigh rolls Survival: (7)+17: 24 GAME: Lysos rolls perception: (19)+10: 29 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d20+6: (7)+6: 13 GAME: Paenitia rolls perception: (5)+8: 13 GAME: Paenitia rolls 1d20+6: (11)+6: 17 GAME: Aimarra rolls survival: (1)+15: 16 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Murder rolls perception: (14)+15: 29
As suggested, Ramirez and Paenitia took to the air as the caravan rolled out. They fly about thirty feet up, enough to be over the tops of most trees while still allowing for a good view of the ground and easy communication with those on the wagons. Relatively easy, but the little lucht likes shouting.
Despite that, she is largely silent as they circle. Able to fly faster than the slow caravan progresses, mount and rider circle overhead, leading porter briefly before checking the backtrail and either side as they lap.
The excellent plan suffers from the poor weather conditions. Paenitia has a limited view with her helm, and the drizzle blends a lot of the shadow areas and details together. Ramirez has the sharper eye, but he is a beast, and isn't always on the same page as his mistress regarding what constitutes a threat.
Lysos isn't always the best person to have on watch. It's not that she's flighty. But the mindset isn't quite there, that knowledge of what specifically to look for. More often she finds herself straining to catch glimpses of the bear. She happens to be looking ahead when...
Lysos's eyes narrow a bit as her brow furrows, then she's elbowing Aimarra. Someone she's pegged as being much better at this sort of thing than herself. "Does that part of the road look funny to you?" she asks, pointing to a spot ahead of the lead wagon.
GAME: Murder casts Jump. Caster Level: 9 DC: 14 GAME: Murder rolls acrobatics: (5)+13: 18
Barclaiigh's mood through the first bit of the trip is somewhat soured by the absence of a particular traveling companion. Bits of his conversation with the bear filter back through the rain as they both head up the caravan. It's only temporary, though, and soon he's tormenting any close enough to hear his off-key singing.
The druid stops and looks back at each of the forks and crossroads, turning back to get an indication from the lead driver on which path to take. Then he's off again and either talking low to no one but Porter or haunting the wet wilderness with his wailing.
GAME: Murder rolls acrobatics: (12)+13: 25
The Gobbo's mood has improved over time, to the point of becoming extremely chatty with the driver, their employer. Questions galore about his business, his business practices, how much gold he makes, which towns he hawks his wares in, and on and on.
Her head snaps up at Lysos's caution, Murder squinting ahead.
"It's a trap!!", she squeaks at the top of her lungs. Her fingers weave a small pattern in the air, while she whispers something under her breath. Then, with a standing leap, the Gobbo lands upon the first wagon's awning. "Go around it on the side!"
The elbow in her ribs catches Aimarra napping. Literally. She'd been drowsing on the side of the cart, and Lysos' elbow followed by Murder's shout almost makes her drop the bow and arrow she'd been loosely holding. It'd been a while since she'd been adventuring! "Huh what?" Her head snaps up and she looks around helplessly, still blinking sleep out of her eyes.
At the Gobbo's suddenly shouted warning, the Merchant sits bolt upright, and issues another whistle to make sure the lead driver is paying attention- at the Goblin's instruction, he pulls back hard on the Aurochs' reigns and the beast slow further still, slowly turning the wagon off the path- their progress off the road will be slower still, thanks to the mud. "Look alive, then." the Merchant calls out, "There's no traps without rogues, I think the saying goes." He keeps his own eyes peeled, beads of sweat on his brow despite the cold weather.
The lead carriage has not made it ten feet off the beaten path before up ahead a patch of ground suddenly caves in on itself. A moment later, long segmented limbs and a pair of vicious mandibles emerge from the funnel-like depression in the earth. To the rear of the train, another patch of ground gives way to a similar horse-sized insectoid creature.
GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d20+9+2+2: (4)+9+2+2: 17 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d8+8: (5)+8: 13 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d20+15: (1)+15: 16 (EPIC FAIL)
GAME: Subduction rolls 5+2: (2)+5+2: 9
GAME: Lysos casts Scorching Ray. Caster Level: 10 DC: 19 GAME: Lysos rolls 1d20+8: (14)+8: 22 GAME: Lysos rolls 1d20+8: (16)+8: 24 GAME: Lysos rolls 4d6: (13): 13 GAME: Lysos rolls 4d6: (15): 15
"Well now that'll just go'n spoil a danged lovely day," Barclaiigh grumbles, apparently not having noticed the cold and wet. Or just being a crazy person. Then again... he IS a druid.
Sausage fingers of his free hand take up the fetish hanging around his neck and he worries the boar's tusks, chanting a guttural and secret cant before slapping Porter on the rump and issuing a low-toned command in Khazdul. The pair run in opposite directions; Barclaiigh takes up a guard position on the back of the lead caravan while the bear sprints to meet a burrowing attacker.
Porter issues a bellowing roar at the command, seeming to bulk up at the magic pours into his already-large frame. The black bear rears in challenge, forepaws wide, and then slams to the ground to bound the short distance into the ankheg. Mud and water splash as the two creatures meat, chitin crunches between silvery-glinting teeth and ichor bursts into the open air. The goo must taste awful, though, and Porter cacks a mouthful away instead of taking hold and driving his opponent back.
As Barclaiigh rushes back towards the middle caravan, another insectoid creature bursts forth from the ground to his right, and begins to skitter along the muddy grass towards him. It's mandibles snap at the Khazad, hot on his heels, but find purchase on nothing but the air above his head.
"This was supposed to be boring," Lysos complains, scrambling a little bit on the wagon in reaction to the earth suddenly erupting with several, multi-limbed bug monsters. And they're already swarming. Whipping her head around, she sees some that haven't quite reached the wagons yet.. maybe she can scare them off. "Flambo!" She reaches out with her hand, spearing it with two bars of white fire that leave a brief after image when they dissipate.. and leave two smoking holes in the shell of her target.
GAME: Lysos rolls reflex: (17)+6: 23 GAME: Aimarra rolls reflex: (6)+8: 14 GAME: Subduction rolls 4d4: (10): 10
After getting badly scorched by Lysos, the bug makes a beeline for her and Aimarra- the wounds it sustained prove to be more than it can handle, however, and its legs go limp under it halfway through its charge and it collapses to the ground.
One of the other overgrown insects creeps closer while the pair are distracted, however, and then rears up onto its hind legs. Its mandibles open wide, and a fountain of yellow caustic ichor spews forth from its maw. It sizzles and bubbles where it lands, be that grass, the awning of the caravan, or exposed flesh.
GAME: Paenitia rolls 1d20+9+2: (18)+9+2: 29 GAME: Paenitia rolls damage3+10: aliased to 1d6+2+10: (4)+2+10: 16 GAME: Paenitia rolls damage3+10: aliased to 1d6+2+10: (5)+2+10: 17 GAME: Paenitia rolls damage3+10: aliased to 1d6+2+10: (4)+2+10: 16 GAME: Paenitia rolls 1d6+4: (6)+4: 10
GAME: Murder casts Fire Breath. Caster Level: 9 DC: 15 GAME: Murder rolls acrobatics: (6)+13: 19 GAME: Murder rolls 4d6: (21): 21 GAME: Subduction rolls 3: (12)+3: 15
'Ruaaaah!' The peacock-andalusian spots a big bug and calls enthusiastically at it.
Paenitia takes up the challenge. "Ha! Insect! Let me learn you the story of the birds and bees. It is this, the birds eat the bees. Ramirez! Charge!"
They swoop down the short distance, the lucht cinching her lance tight under her arm and bracing for impact. Her lance shatters through the Ankheg's carapace, spearing through head, thorax and abdomen to penetrate and pin it to the ground. It would be the start of a great beetle collection.
At the same time, Ramirez lashes out, snapping with his razor sharp beak and crushing its head.
"Ole! One down! Who need the assist?" Paenitia is pulling her lance free.
GAME: Aimarra rolls weapon1-2: (13)+11+-2: 22 GAME: Aimarra rolls weapon1-2-5: (17)+11+-2+-5: 21 GAME: Aimarra rolls weapon1-2: (18)+11+-2: 27 GAME: Aimarra rolls 1d6+3: (1)+3: 4 GAME: Aimarra rolls 1d6+3: (4)+3: 7 GAME: Aimarra rolls 1d6+3: (2)+3: 5
"Depends on the size of the birds and the bees!", the Goblin calls out. Hopping from the awning of the wagon, she lands on the road with a splat, pausing to huff in annoyance. "It may be stinky, but at least Alexandros has decent cobblestone roads." Murder takes a moment to eye the battle, and then runs a few steps towards one of the giant creepy crawlies. Suppressing a shudder, she calls out, "This one is mine!" Mashing a bright, hot pepper into her mouth, she spews out a gout of flame over the critter.
GAME: Subduction rolls 5: (3)+5: 8 GAME: Subduction rolls 5: (11)+5: 16 GAME: Subduction rolls 2d6+4+1d4: (10)+4+(3): 17
Still taking a moment to rub sleep out of her eyes, Aimarra's only just able to dodge aside, protecting her face from the spray of acid that burns down the back of the arm and shoulder shielding her face. "All right, you little shit," she mutters, bolting to her feet and taking aim at the creature who just left something nasty down the back of her sleeve. "You wanted boring, you're in the wrong line of work!" she calls, snapping off three arrows in quick succession. All land squarely in the thing, piercing carapace and finding joints in the exoskeleton, leaving ichor to drip down its side.
GAME: Subduction rolls 11: (4)+11: 15
Having been bitten by the bear, one of the Ankhegs reels as its foul-smelling blue-grey fluids spill forth from the wound. It snaps its mandibles at Porter, but aside from a tuft of shaggy fur it fails to land its bite in return.
The one singed by Murder, its chitinous carapace blackened and bubbling, fares better. It lurches forwards, and its mandibles open wide, dripping with yellow ichor. It clamps them down on the goblin's shoulder, drawing blood, blood which quickly smokes and blackens as it comes into contact with the creature's secretions.
GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d20+9+2: (14)+9+2: 25 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d20+9+2: (4)+9+2: 15 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d20+9+2: (12)+9+2: 23 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d20+9+4+2: (5)+9+4+2: 20 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d8+6+2: (1)+6+2: 9 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d6+6+2: (1)+6+2: 9
GAME: Subduction rolls 5: (5)+5: 10
GAME: Barclaiigh rolls melee+2: (7)+8+2: 17 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 2d6+5+1: (2)+5+1: 8 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls CMB+4+4+1: (5)+8+4+4+1: 22
GAME: Lysos casts Scorching Ray. Caster Level: 10 DC: 19 GAME: Lysos rolls 1d20+8: (8)+8: 16 GAME: Lysos rolls 1d20+8: (10)+8: 18
Porter continues to wrestle with the wounded ankheg, posturing and probing and batting at each other until the burrowing creature swipes awkwardly and slips in the mud. The bear plows in, taking hold of its sparring partner at the throat and driving it backwards. Both tumble to the ground and Porter continues to push with his snout even as he drives a paw into the monster's torso and tear backwards. The ankheg comes apart in a wet mess.
Barclaiigh, meanwhile, wards off his attacker with the green-glowing spear. His crooked, bulbous nose twitches and he wonders of the ankheg "Y'all ever been t'the jungle?"
The druid's form explodes, the auburn hair cascading across his body to devour the Khazadi man's clothing. Great paws decorated with black talons splash into the mud as he falls to all fours. A great pair of tusks glisten in the rain as he bends his back low and tosses his head up in a primal roar.
Then the monster tries to flee! That massive jaw shoots forward, tusks anchoring through the insectoid plating and barring the creature's retreat.
GAME: Lysos rolls 4d6: (12): 12 GAME: Lysos rolls 4d6: (15): 15
The ankheg facing off against Barclaiigh may have been taken by surprise as the Khazad transforms into a dire-tiger. It certainly flinches in its attack, a momentary lapse that is all the Druid needs to avoid it. The Ankheg seems to decide to take the fight to its home turf, and begins clawing at the ground with its forelimbs, seemingly attempting to dig away from the dwarf, but it's for naught as Barclaiigh catches one of its limbs in his tiger jaws and holds it fast.
"Ah, not the face!" screams Lysos, ducking and turning. Thankfully her cloak seems to take the worst of it.. a garment she quickly sheds lest the acid spittle eat through and start eating her. She follows this up with another, "Flambo!" and spears the arrow-peppered Ankheg with two more bars of fire. This time the bug drops, smoking, with the faint smell of cooked bug meat.
GAME: Paenitia rolls weapon3+4: (17)+13+4: 34 GAME: Paenitia rolls 1d20+9+2: (10)+9+2: 21 GAME: Paenitia rolls damage3: aliased to 1d6+2: (3)+2: 5 GAME: Paenitia rolls damage3: aliased to 1d6+2: (6)+2: 8 GAME: Paenitia rolls damage3: aliased to 1d6+2: (3)+2: 5 GAME: Paenitia rolls 1d6+4: (6)+4: 10
"Okay! He is yours, but I give it the little prick to help out." Paenitia laughs cheerfully, her voice echoing out of her grinning visor. "Ramirez! Charge!"
'Ruaaah!' The great white beast soars inches above the ground, gliding in as his little mistress aims her lance. The tip is well placed, cracking and shearing through the thorax. It is followed by such a peck, as Ramirez pokes his beak into the hole and pulls something stringy out.
The ankheg drops as they land. "Ole! You soften it up for us, the kill is yours." The Red Knight concedes happily.
GAME: Murder rolls weapon1: (3)+0: 3 GAME: Murder rolls weapon8: (3)+13: 16 GAME: Murder rolls 1d10+3: (5)+3: 8
GAME: Aimarra rolls weapon1-2: (3)+11+-2: 12 GAME: Aimarra rolls weapon1-2-5: (8)+11+-2+-5: 12 GAME: Aimarra rolls weapon1-2: (7)+11+-2: 16 GAME: Aimarra rolls 1d6+3: (2)+3: 5
Murder yelped as the critter bit her in return for her crisping it well-done, and she glanced at the blood seeping into her leather and furs. "You JERK, I just cleaned these!" But before bloody revenge could be had, the creepy crawly gurgles and dies under the fluffy steed riding Lucht.
"HEY! I said that one was mine!" She eyes tiger fighting with the last, remaining ankheg, glances back at Paen, "Thanks!" Turning, she runs over to lend Barclaiigh-kitty a hand, smashing one of the critter's legs with her great (to her anyways) sword.
"Good shot!" Aimarra calls to Lysos, then turns and surveys the battlefield. Sadly, there's only one left, and the effort to avoid hitting a grappling khazad, though, two of the arrows go wide, and the third only skims the giant bug on the far side. "Damn it."
GAME: Barclaiigh rolls melee+2-1+1: (15)+8+2+-1+1: 25 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls melee+2-1+1: (10)+8+2+-1+1: 20 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls melee+2-1+1: (5)+8+2+-1+1: 15 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 2d6+5+1: (4)+5+1: 10 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 2d4+5+1: (6)+5+1: 12
With a gobber running around a wagon into view and a hail of arrows passing him from behind, the massive Bargal Tiger is doing his best to keep the retreating fiend from escaping without swallowing any of the awful, simultaneously thick and oily internal fluid gushing into his maw. Hind legs dig in and shove back, pulling the ankheg out and away from its hole enough that it's safe to surrender his grip, lunge, bite again, and shake his head. Then comes the paw, short digits curling so the claws extend like wicked sickles and end the monster.
"Y'all... augh..." the cat coughs and sputters, whiskers flaring above the tusks as the tongue juts out curved into a tight U-shape. "Blagh... hack... agh!" His shoulders shudder and he retches, padding away from the broken ankheg. "Reckon that's... that's the worst thing I done ever tasted..."
Lysos falls back onto the seat, scrambling for a waterskin which she promptly uncorks and starts upending over the acid burn on her neck. "Ow. ow." She grits her teeth, looking up at Aimarra. "Thanks.. it was pretty big and hard to miss, though. They way you slashed it with your arrow while it was being mauled by a tiger, though? That was amazing!"
"Ole! It is the good work by all! We prevail." Paenitia cheers, flicking her lance to clear some of the gore from it as Ramirez steps back and bites at the grass, implementing his version.
"Who have the injuries?" The little knight asks, as she makes a patrol around the caravan, "And who have the good understanding of these. They often make the road traps or there is maybe the bait have been laid to get them here?"
The immediate fight may be over, but she's still on look-out. "Merchant man, you are safe too?"
GAME: Aimarra rolls knowledge/nature: (15)+12: 27
Murder pats at Barclaiigh's arm. "Yes, they do taste terrible. Sadly, usually you only get to learn this the hard way. If wizards writing in their tomes about different monsters would simply SAMPLE the monsters in question, we could be forearmed. I've yet to bite into any monster tasting like chicken." She looks over her shoulder at Aimarra and Lysos, "Good shooting the both of you. You made quick work of them."
The Gobbo pulls her pack from her back, and opens the flap, reaching in with both hands to rummage around. "I've got a few uh healing pot - ow! - potions in here." Murder pauses and laughs. "I think we have lucked out, if the uuuugh bugs had been lured here, certainly those people would have attacked us by now, while we were distracted?"
Aimarra lowers her bow and sets it down, looking over her arm and straining to see the acid burn that's still stinging down the back of her arm. "I would have gotten a better shot if he hadn't grabbed it," she grumbles, watching Barclaiigh retch. "They're ankhegs. Probably not lured here. They were created by magic, but the tunnels they can dig underground are incredible. They're pretty common on the fringes of farmland, but if they had trapdoors in the road, spread the wagons out and travel less close together. They've probably got tunnels underground, and running the wagons too close might make the road collapse into a sinkhole."
GAME: Barclaiigh casts Cure Light Wounds. Caster Level: 7 DC: 16 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls 1d8+5: (1)+5: 6
The Merchant, who had taken cover inside the rear of one of the wagons when the fighting broke out crawls back to the driver's seat. "Ah, is it over?" he grunts, flustered, as he looks for the hat he lost in his tactical retreat. It's fallen into the mud, and he elects to leave it there. "Well done, well done." he offers, looking about the field. Nose wrinkles at the smell.
"Ankhegs, you said?" he looks over to Aimarra, "I've heard their carapaces can fetch a decent price with the right buyer." he muses, pondering over it for now. "If you don't mind taking a brief respite, I'll have my folks see if they can't salvage some of it. Of course, I'll up your fee, and I'll honor the original contract if you'd rather press on."
"Can't even trust the ground.." Lysos grumps, dabbing at her neck with the remains of her cloak. "I remember hearing stories of entire caravans of the people going missing, swallowed into the earth. Maybe that's what these were?" And then the wagon driver reminds that the journey isn't actually over yet. She groans, but softly, muffling it in her cloak before she holds it out before her and regards it sadly. "I hope it doesn't rain."
Porter walks back closer to the caravan, sweeping his head low and high as he snuffles and snorts. He takes quick, one- or two-step detours towards each of the holes and corpses just to make sure there aren't more offending underground critters lurking nearby. Eventually, he ends up next to the wagon with Aimarra and Lysos. His wet, black nose works as he sniffs the air before the Tsura woman. Cheese.
The Bargal Tiger drops its feline head, shoulder blades pressing up in a facsimile of a shrug. "Got a sweet little bit'a healin', miss, iff'n y'hold still," there's a soft purring punctuated with a brief chortle. Bar raises a paw the size of the gobber's head and delicately baps her shoulder to relay the spell. It's not the best healing spell but she's sure to be feline better now.
The druid can't help a moment of strutting in the large, powerful form. Passing behind one of the carts he crouches low, looks left and right, and then reaches up to push a pack off the back of the wagon onto the ground. Then he casually struts away.
Lysos's mood improves drastically when the friendly bear comes sniffing by, and more cheese is happily provided.. a few pieces tossed, mostly so Lysos can watch the large ursine snatch them out of the air.
"No, you can't." Paenitia turns her ever-grinning mask towards Lysos, "This is why Ramirez and I, we dance in the sky. We are okay for the salvaging the carapace, we keep the watching over while this is done."
The Red Knight and her Ivory Steed continue their aerial patrol, eyes on the ground for similar weak spots now that they know what to look for.