Slain by Elf

'This last mook is going to have a futile hit against...'

<clink>

<fizz>

Ah, the sound of a die being haphazardly thrown in to a glass of coke behind the GM's screen.

'In theory, I can do damage.'

Somehow, theory turns to practice. Duncan's ×4 critical scythe and twinked multi-classing gets a massive hit, adding up to 72 points of damage before the small damage reduction takes that down to 69 points.

Of course, he does this against a mook with a handful of hit points left, and not the 'dragon' we're supposedly meeting a couple of encounters further up the hill, but at least he does it.

'Help! Help! My baby is missing!' Another citizen in distress, as sections of the city are burning and there is panic in the streets. We must help him.

'Cat or dog?'

'Weasel!'

Whatever floats your boat, I suppose. We can still help. I cast speak with animals and start calling out in weasel for the weasel not to be alarmed and to come back to the comforting embrace of his owner.

A quick fluke on a diplomacy check, and a weasel comes running from somewhere and up his owner's trouser leg, probably. Now Lord Brewswain Iounman Cumbersnatch III must away! There are more citizens in need of rescuing this dire evening.

The city is on fire! We sort of learn what the weird noises were, and why a few of our ambushers were alight, when we escape capture and flee outside to see many houses on fire. Some large, flying creatures appear to be setting light to the city, or are at least assisting.

We have to get to our next contact if we are to aid the resistance, but making our way through the streets passes many people in need of assistance. We can't say no, not to the man who is badly burnt and falls unconscious nearby.

Aggar heals the man, bringing him back to consciousness, at which point the man asks us to take his children to the safety of the temple. Of course we can do that.

Further down the road, a woman is screaming out of a third-floor window, the whole building in flames below her. A bit of quick thinking and improvisation gets a blanket stretched out by some strong volunteers, mostly our party. We encourage the woman to jump, she does, and she is caught safely in the blanket.

Another citizen saved. Now Lord Brewswain Iounman Cumbersnatch III must away! There are more citizens in need of rescuing this dire evening.

As the fight continues, our new ally, the contact for the resistance, starts to cast a spell. No one in our party recognises the spell, perhaps because our fearless gnome illusionist has ducked out of the side door and is pretending to be a barrel for survival purposes. It's working so far, but it means the rest of the party doesn't know what's about to happen.

It is perhaps unfortunate that our ally looks familiar, the miniature plucked from the box being the one used long ago in a different adventure. Our current GM was not present for that adventure, and so doesn't know the history of that miniature, the character it stood in for turning out not to be our friend, as promised, but a glamoured Erinyes devil who inevitably betrayed us.

The familiarity and history of the figure is having an effect, more on the GM of that old adventure than the rest of us, apparently. Now playing Thrak the barbarian, the mistrust that he instilled in us with every NPC betrayal is working at his psyche. Offered a saving thrown against our resistance ally's spell, he accepts, saving against the spell's effects. The spell, as it turns out, is bless.

Both Salvador the duskblade and Aggar the cleric gain a bonus +1 on a few rolls, including attack rocks. Thrak goes without. So it goes that, a couple of rounds later, Thrak attacks a prone opponent. His barbarian class, chosen weapon, and swinging at someone on the floor means that 'as long as I don't get a 3 I'm going to hit.' He rolls a 2.

Oh, if only he didn't seed such paranoia within our little group when GM, he may have taken that bless spell in the spirit with which it was given.

We connect with a contact in the resistance, but our meeting place is rumbled. We find this out when we hear a voice outside the front door commanding someone, probably multiple someones, to burst in. A massive thud signals our first taste of action in the threatening war.

Not only does the front door get bashed open, a few other people armed with saps run down the stairs. For some reason, they're screaming and one is on fire. Never mind, we have to get out of here.

The two people at the front door are despatched easily enough, and the two behind us are held in place. The leader, still outside, sends his dog in to attack.

Salvadore, bane of all animals, uses his glaive to hit with an attack of opportunity as the dog rushes snarling in to the building, narrowly missing a critical strike but still cutting down the dog brutally before it even gets close. This kind of slaughtering of innocent creatures comes naturally to our duskblade.

'It's just a shame he didn't get to cast colour spray on the beast first.'

An army is marching on our town that happens to be situated in a strategically good pass. Word reaches the town that the army has sent a vanguard of inquisitors, whose intent is to root out any and all spellcasters hostile to the new empire.

'If I were a spellcaster, I'd be worried about this', says Thrak the barbarian.

I'm glad he pointed that out to me, as being a wizard with a high innate intelligence I had trouble working it out for myself.

At the top of the spire is an Ork Nob, heavily armoured and looking to be controlling the transmission equipment sending out the Ork signal that we are here to halt. We see him, he sees us. We fight.

In the skirmish, the Nob pulls out his rifle, aims, and presses a button on the side. A small rocket swings in to position and launches.

'The good news, Brother Democritus', says Lucian, 'is that you're in cover'.

'No, the good news it that he's shooting Brother Gadriel.'

Clearing the bottom floor of the spire is just the first step. Thankfully, we find not one but two ways to get further up: a lift and an escalator. With Ultramarine Brother Lucian in command, naturally we take the lift.

Of course, since we didn't manage to turn the alarms off before we started the lift's ascent, the lift shudders to a halt about half-way up the shaft, somewhat stranding us.

'We should have taken the escalator.'

'I dunno, if they've been stopped too we'd still be stuck.'

Alarms are blaring in the spire, possibly because we're assaulting it. An Ork voice comes on an intercom, in Low Gothic, getting frustrated about this being another one of so many pointless drills.

Sensing the opportunity to save us some bother, Brother Democritus uses his technical abilities to try to turn the alarms off, to make it look like it really was just another pointless drill.

As it turns out, Democritus has the Tech-Use skills of a gnome, resulting in him pressing all the buttons multiple times in random order. Oddly enough, this doesn't just end up in failure to stop the alarm, it also locks him out of the system. 'Damn.'

Democritus puts in a help-desk call. 'Uh, hi. My account is locked-out, I need to reset the password.'

'Okay, we've done that for you. Your new temporary password is WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!'

Democritus sighs. 'How many 'A's is that? And which one has the umlaut to satisfy the requirement for a special character?'