Slain by Elf

The ranger's back, and he gets updated. 'I don't know what you were told, but everything that was on Slain by Elf last week was true.

'...which has got to be a first in its eight year history.'

Oh yeah. I'm becoming legitimate, bitches!

We get the Chelish Crux back to the pathfinder, and retire to a particularly quiet nook before reopening it, where the screaming of a demon head won't draw quite so much attention.

The demon head starts screaming again, and this time we calm it down a little and learn some more history. But mostly we learn that it can't help us. Moving on, there are some more trinkets in the Crux, one being a silver box.

'I'll open the box.'

'It contains four candles.'

'Are they everlasting candles?'

'No. Four candles. 'andles for forks.'

Damn you, The Two Ronnies. Every time the four candles are mentioned we have a giggling fit. We have to light one of the candles, a grave candle apparently, just so that we have three of them and don't continue making the same reference for the rest of the evening.

We are assured that the elf can magically return to us soon enough, which rather disrespectfully gets a few groans in response. 'Or you can hear about his hanging a few days later.'

'Can't we roleplay that?'

'You can fight over who will pull the lever, for all I care. But there will be a second, smaller noose for the elf ranger's pet cat.'

'No, not the cat!'

'It's got to be there, so there is at least a slim possibility that you'll hatch a rescue plan for the elf.'

My door's broken in! There also seems to be a copper standing next to it, and as Brennan, Ganelon, and I are walking back there to meet up with Skelra and Afutavere I am keen to find out what's gone wrong. I'm stopped short, however, by what looks like a homunculus of Skelra, jigging around silently and apparently urging us to stop. It looks like something has gone wrong with opening the Chelish Crux.

We stop in the middle of the street and weigh up our options, as the bizarre little illusion continues to amuse and disgust us in equal portions. And not just us, as the attention of the guard on what was once the door is caught by the unusual sight. 'Careful, chaps, we may be under some scrutiny. Act casual.'

'But not too casual?' asks Ganelon.

'What? No. No! Act as casual as you possibly can. Why would you ask that? What a question.' Thankfully, everyone manages to be casual enough for the guard not to want to come over, giving Skelra time to come across from the other end of the street to give us a proper warning, as well as the glorious tale of the elf's death. We wander off casually to hear more about it over a drink.

The screaming demon head has somehow drawn some unwanted attention. The city authorities bang on my door demanding to be let in. Only Skelra and a rather absent-looking Afutavere are inside the house, and an intelligent wizard and charismatic elf should be able to talk their way out of a simple dilemma that, once the Chelish Crux is closed, has no obvious physical evidence.

But, no. Skelra at least has the sense to collapse the Crux, but what he considers to be the most suitable course of action to take is to turn invisible, leaving nothing for the authorities to find at all. That is, once they break my door down and force their way in.

Oh, except for the elf. Afutavere isn't affected by the personal invisibility spell, and as the character isn't all here talking his way out of trouble doesn't seem fair. Skelra is left with little option but to get Afutavere to jump out of the window to make his escape. Sadly, the elf was really quite badly wounded after the failed attempts to open the Chelish Crux, and jumping from a first floor window drops him from four to negative hit points.

The authorities find our elf bleeding to death in the alley behind my house, the GM apparently overruling my own description of the mountain lake and jetty complete with powerboat as being my normal view. That's okay, as the elf couldn't have used the powerboat to escape anyway, not quite surviving the jump. And, despite the dubious decisions of our wizard, at least bleeding to death in police custody makes a change from the obvious mummy rot that a missing player normally returns to.

Skelra is concerned that the demon head is screaming because it is in pain, being just a head, so he offers it a healing potion. The GM makes him stop and think, though, at which point he is forced to realise a potion of cure moderate wounds probably wouldn't restore the demon's body. Instead, the rest of us get some plot thrown our way.

We are told about the history of the pathfinder lodge in the city and some of the people involved, which includes Bisby's unexpected return. 'I've got that spell', I say, knowing full well that, being a monk, I haven't, but trying to make it look like I've been paying attention.

'Not in Pathfinder, you haven't', points out Brennan, 'as it would be just Unexpected Return now'. It's a good point but still somewhat irrelevant.

Basil Exposition continues, and we learn that before Bisby could return, a rodent died. 'That doesn't sound too bad.'

'No no, Aroden died. Aroden was a god.'

'Ah, yes. That is a bit more dramatic.'

It's back to the screaming demon head in my bedroom, who calms down enough to mention a name. The name sounds familiar. 'Is that the mayor who imprisoned the demon with the glaive?'

But we're not supposed to mention the glaive, it being intelligent and evil, as our paladin doesn't think he can hear it being referenced, let alone be in the same room with it. This is the same paladin who is aiming to make a pact with a demon and become a blackguard, so why he's making such a fuss over this weapon is beyond me. Even so, mention of the glaive gets his standard denial of, 'what glaive?'

Brennan picks up his cue. 'The glaive with the power.'

'What power?'

'The power of voodoo.'

'Who do?'

'You do.'

'Do what?'

'Remind me of the glaive!'

We either need to get out more, or less. It's hard to say.

We've fallen back from our advance positions and are now back in the heart of the village to protect it from the goblin army. Along with the villagers, we have some militia from a nearby town, a few druids, and a, um, 'why is there a Mummy Lord here?'

'Oh, that's me', says Thamir. 'I couldn't find my miniature.'

'You realise that you have, by default, Mummy Rot', says Periwinkle, thus satisfying the criteria that in each of our adventures either someone suffers from the disease or we open a gate to hell.

'Mummy Rot? Don't stand next to me, then!' But Brock's concerns are dwarfed by the goblins swarming through our makeshift defences. Thamir, Mummy Lord, gets in to the thick of the action.

'I'll shield-bash one of the goblins. I hit armour class 21.'

'That'll hit the goblin', says the GM. 'In fact, that will hit all NPCs.'

I'm stunned, as 'that's one hell of a hit!'

'I do 7 points of damage', says Thamir.

'...that emanates from the shield to hit every NPC on the battlefield! BOOM!' Sadly, that's not what the GM meant, as Thamir's hit only affects a single goblin after all, leaving all the others standing after the shield bash, and the fight continues.

Thamir is undeterred, though. A few more rounds pass, as he uses a reach-weapon hammer and his combat reflexes to flatten any goblins moving in to melee combat with him, until a fluffed roll causes him to miss. 'Ah, I got confused and tried to hit him with my shield.'

'What? Why would you do that?'

'Actually, I think he simply just missed. What's caused the general confusion amongst us is that he tried to roleplay it.'

The goblins are coming and the ogre is drunk. A couple of the party members are beginning to regret trading the ogre's cooperation in protecting the village for beer, particularly when the quantity turned out to be all that the local inn had. 'I was going to take Craft (Beer) but apparently the required skill is Profession (Brewer), and that's not a class skill for me', Brock says, seeing the drunk ogre.

'Is there not a dwarven trait that makes Profession (Brewer) a class skill by default? If not, I'm sure we can make one.'

'It doesn't matter now, as I've spent the skill points. I wasted them in Perception.'

'Well, that's your own shortsighted fault.'

The advancing goblin horde gets close enough for their rank and file to start charging towards our defences. Davor takes this as his cue to transform! He quaffs a potion of enlarge potion and grows to be pretty big indeed. And still he tries to hide behind the barricade as the goblin archers continue to rain arrows towards us.

'I think we could have made it tall enough for a large creature to crouch behind', he says plaintively.

'Speaking as a gnome who has been shooting over the barricade, I don't think so.'

So Davor's exposed, but it's not a disadvantage for long. The goblins close to melee range and Davor starts swinging away. His large size gives him reach, and his high dexterity and combat reflexes lets him attack pretty much all the goblins that try to get in close.

Periwinkle is surprised at this tactic from our half-orc. 'You've got combat reflexes?'

'Yes. It was intentional.'

'Well, we didn't think you took it by accident.' Then again, as his orcish double-axe fails to hit just about every goblin he swings at, maybe he did.