They Met in a Tavern 33: Into the Cold Desert

Who's looking out into the cold, arid geography from the Temple of the Pass?

• Chris: Thorn, dwarf Wizard
• Dan: Kiara, elf Ras Godai
• Rick: Bjorr, 1/2 orc Paladin
• Seana: Zanegar, 1/2 orc Sea Wolf
• Dave: Darkmist, elf Thief
• Michael: Lubach, 1/2 orc Basilisk Warrior
• Bob: Opchel, human Thief

Michael has joined on and off to one-shots in the past, so is familiar with my flavor of chaos. Bob was a first timer at my table, and to Shadowdark, and picked a PC off the pile.

The party looked out over the rocky outcrops, scrub, and sand. The cold, arid wind blew sand into their faces. The basilisk warrior wondered what the problem was.

Before departing, water skins were filled, and Sigwald was questioned regarding possible old streambeds. Sigwald pointed northwest, as he'd found some while exploring.

Off they went.

Riding northwesterly, the party left the Badlands behind, entering more distinctly open desert. Cresting a rise into the sand, they found a basin filled with sand fused into shattered green glass. They cautiously investigated. Darkmist had heard of a similar glass before, and understood it to be created from great heat and energies. He wrapped some up for later study or trade. In the meantime, Zanegar became nauseous, and appeared to be suffering a slight sunburn. Better move on.

shiny!

As the party traveled on, they were ambushed by a serpent-folk patrol from their foxholes (snakeholes?). A couple of PCs took arrow damage before the party was able to identify the threat. Some strong initiative rolls, and a Nat20 spell roll by Thorn, and the survivors of the initial clash were webbed.  Most serpent-folk refused to surrender to the "monkeys" although two were swayed... They were protecting their territories from the trespassing monkeys, who had become more numerous recently. Although they weren't familiar with any lost cities, they were sure it was also part of their territory.

These two serpent-folk were secured, while the party recovered some supplies and a "nice sword." Zanegar, recovering from her nausea, was gifted it.

The surviving serpent-folk were employed to guide the party away from other patrols and hazards. This worked fairly well until a pair of hazards found them, slaying Opchel's horse Buttercup, and nearly Opchel, himself.

A Curse of Demons - Some Toren Atkinson Inspiration

After F'Norp's misadventure, I explored a bit more of Toren Atkinson's portfolio, and borrowed these fine individuals for a bit of hellish creativity:

General:
Of the five lovely specimens below, all have demonic resistances to normal weapons, requiring silver or magic to cause damage (in addition to whatever other physical resistances they may have). All take half damage from non-magical fire. 

Soth'tath: The Hound-Headed: 

Appearing to wear the oversized skin of a flayed victim, this multi-limbed "Hound of Draglemol" acts as a servitor-porter and tracker that retrieves the damned, both on the Abyssal planes, and without. Its mole-like nose scents out fugitives from the dark places and unpaid pacts. Two or more are typically dispatched to hunt down their prey.

Running on bird-like feet, or scrabbling along walls and ceilings, the demon moves at the same pace on any surface. Upon catching prey, they are often seen portaging them away, grasped on their backs with their posterior claws.

HD: 4+1; Armor: as Chain; atk 4x claw (1d6 ea), if two or more attacks strike, the target is grappled, taking 1d6 automatic dmg/round until freed.

F'Norp's First Flight

Haven't written off a prompt for entirely too long, but this image came across my feed, and I decided this hapless fellow needed a story...

Via Toren Atkinson

F’Norp looked at the rickety contraption bodged together by the goblins. F’Norp always tried to be a good tribe member, but this made his guts twist uncomfortably. The breeze made the unevenly cut and stitched hides and fabric flutter and ripple. His guts burbled and he let loose a nervous fart. The goblins tittered.

“Now, Fnoop, or whatever your name is – just like we talked. This fine contraption will waft you like a leaf on the breeze above the Baron’s camp, and you let fly with my little gifts. They’ll never know what hit ‘em!” The bald, twitchy softskin conjurer waved his bony fingers at the fragile flier. Jorgagu had called him an alkimest or something like that, deemed too crazy for the softskins, so he sold his crafts to Lord Az'gezan and the horde instead. All F’Norp knew was that the little guy was pushy and that his tent smelled of acrid brews. One goblin assistant had lost a hand in a blast, and a second was blinded by some fetid spray. If the conjuror hadn’t been useful and under the protection of Az'gezan, he would have found himself wearing his guts as a hat.

F’Norp looked over the edge of the cliff. The treetops sure looked a long way down. He poked at the flier. A goblin smacked his hand away. A raven cawed.

A cart squeaked as two of the conjuror's surviving goblin assistants gingerly trundled their load up to the launch site.

“All right, Fjord, ready for your day as a hero? Ohh, this is going to be glorious!” The alkimest started to juggle a number of corked vials and bottles filled with viscous fluids. The goblins cringed a bit. “Now hold still, very delicate, you know. Get plenty lashed on and some spares on the craft. Ooo, this will be a show!”

F’Norp was a bit concerned. After all, the vials didn’t appear to be easily untied. Perhaps they’d give him a blade. But there sure were a lot of bottles.

Lord Az'gezan approached. This was the first time that F’Norp had ever been this close to His Putrescence. It was a heady experience. His voice boomed, “Minion, you are The Chosen Bombardier! Great Glory to you! You will Rain Discord in the camp of our enemy, Sowing Much Destruction and a Victory for The Cause!”

Arrayed with the vials and bottles, F’Norp was assisted into the flier. “Now lean in the direction you want to go, and you will be like a great bird of prey, Fneed!” crowed the scrawny alkimest. 

With a push and a heave, F’Norp found himself tossed from the clifftop. The spindly flier spiraled for a moment, caught a thermal, and suddenly climbed.

F’Norp realized that in the intoxicating moment of being addressed by His Putrescence, that he had forgotten to ask about releasing the bottles of reagents. They sure seemed bound securely to the frame of the flier, and to his limbs. Oh, and how to land. That would have been good to ask, too.

As the flier began its unstable descent toward the softskins’ battle camp, F’Norp felt the wind through his unruly mane, and heard its rush past his ears. He was flying! Terror passed to momentary exuberation. That crazy conjurer was right about one thing. It sure was a glorious sight up here.