Stone Hall Recon (17/09/2019) + level up narrative
Sept 19, 2019 8:57:25 GMT
Grimes, Sunday, and 4 more like this
Post by Milo Brightmane on Sept 19, 2019 8:57:25 GMT
Milo moved like a construct, absentmindedly going through the motions of stoking the forge fires. More charcoal. More air from the bellows. More poking with the fire iron. Charcoal. Bellows. Iron. Repeat. Eventually he stopped, sank onto a stool, and watched the flames flicker, like snake tongues tasting the air.
"There’s too much happening," he spoke aloud, his voice hoarse from lack of use over the last day since that moonlit flight from Fort Stormbreak. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Too much. Rumours of ancient temples, and ancient, forgotten gods. The people here mean well, but the road to the Hells is paved with good intentions. And the Hells! Fiends bent on attacking Daring, if Sunday’s warning is true. Could this little town stand against the Hells?”
He watches intently as a white flake of exhausted charcoal breaks in the heat and floats to the floor of the forge. The flames here give him comfort – their purpose is creation, not destruction, like the flames he imagines inthe Hells.
"Then there’s the Giants. They won’t reach here, but K’ul Goran is an old nation filled with cities and people. Good people." He thinks of the young, hopeful minotaur Tynam, and tries to imagine he survived the assault on the Fort. "Parts of Faerun are still recovering from the last Giant uprising, and that wasn’t even organised. I can’t let it happen here... but then it’s not up to me. I did what I could, destroyed their wagon of explosive boulders, but I don’t know how much that helped. They’ll find others, and there’s so many of them, nothing could stand in their way.”
He stands up again, taking up the iron in his hand, poking aimlessly at the burning charcoal. "I... I don’t know what to do. I need help."
The flaming black charcoals shift out the path of the iron. He pauses. He tries again, and sees the coals move without the touch of the iron. Then they begin to tumble over themselves, the fire sparking and spitting from the movement, and in the crunch and the crackle of the flame and the fuel a voice speaks to Milo saying
You Shall Have It
The swirling, tumbling movement stops, before one by one, individual lumps of charcoal roll their way inelegantly to the front of the forge, perhaps a dozen. A second of silence before a crack appears in one, then another. From the first an arm, tiny but muscular, breaks the surface. The charcoal crumbles as the being pulls apart its cocoon from the inside, then stamps on the crusty remains. A man stands on the edge of the forge, Dwarvish build except for the overall size – Milo might hold his entire body in a single hand – with skin of bronze and hair of flame. He looks Milo up and down, then spits, unimpressed. “’Chu lookin’ at pal?” Around the tiny figure, others are erupting from the coal with various levels of aggression. “Wassis? A Giant’s forge?” “Pesh off ye gobshite, we’re tiny!” “Don’ ye call me a gobshite, ye great dobber!” A scuffle breaks out between two of the little fiery dwarves. The first one to hatch yells out to them “Shut it, both o’ yez! Here on business, aren’t we? So be profeshunul, ye bawbags.” Looking up at Milo, he announces, “You! Wee man! We’re here cuz the Big Man sent us, ye ken? We dinnae like ye, ye big wetty, but we’s got jobs tae do. Ye get in any trouble, any dobbers get up in yer face, ye call on us, yeah? And we’ll do ‘em in!” He bursts into a wheezing, cackling laugh, causing tiny sparks from his flaming hair to fill the air around his head.
“Uh...” Milo stammers, unsure where to start. “I’m grateful for your help, obviously, but I think the things I’m likely to be fighting are a bit... out of your reach?”
“Bigjobs is it? Dinnae fash yeself aboot that lad. Just cuz we’re little doesnae stop us. Ye wouldnae want a rat gettin’ in yer skivvies, eh?” The figure grins. “Besides, we’ve got these.” Two fiery wings, the size of a sparrow’s, glisten into existence on the miniature Azer. As the others see this, they too sprout wings, and together they lift off the edge of the forge, circling Milo in the air. The main speaker so far drifts inwards, getting to within a foot of Milo’s face before stopping. “We may be little while we’re here, but flyin’ doesnae half make up for it. Remember wee man, ye call on us, and we’ll take care o’ yez.” He grins again, brass teeth reflecting the light from his beard, eyes glowing like the last flare of dying embers.
Spirit Guardians (3rd level conjuration) (V, S, M - a holy symbol)
You call forth spirits to protect you.
They flit around you to a distance of 15 feet for the duration. If you are good or neutral, their spectral form appears angelic or fey (your choice). If you are evil, they appear fiendish.
When you cast this spell, you can designate any number of creatures you can see to be unaffected by it. An affected creature’s speed is halved in the area, and when the creature enters the area for the first time on a turn or starts its turn there, it must make a Wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, the creature takes 3d8 radiant damage (if you are good or neutral) or 3d8 necrotic damage (if you are evil). On a successful save, the creature takes half as much damage.
"There’s too much happening," he spoke aloud, his voice hoarse from lack of use over the last day since that moonlit flight from Fort Stormbreak. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Too much. Rumours of ancient temples, and ancient, forgotten gods. The people here mean well, but the road to the Hells is paved with good intentions. And the Hells! Fiends bent on attacking Daring, if Sunday’s warning is true. Could this little town stand against the Hells?”
He watches intently as a white flake of exhausted charcoal breaks in the heat and floats to the floor of the forge. The flames here give him comfort – their purpose is creation, not destruction, like the flames he imagines inthe Hells.
"Then there’s the Giants. They won’t reach here, but K’ul Goran is an old nation filled with cities and people. Good people." He thinks of the young, hopeful minotaur Tynam, and tries to imagine he survived the assault on the Fort. "Parts of Faerun are still recovering from the last Giant uprising, and that wasn’t even organised. I can’t let it happen here... but then it’s not up to me. I did what I could, destroyed their wagon of explosive boulders, but I don’t know how much that helped. They’ll find others, and there’s so many of them, nothing could stand in their way.”
He stands up again, taking up the iron in his hand, poking aimlessly at the burning charcoal. "I... I don’t know what to do. I need help."
The flaming black charcoals shift out the path of the iron. He pauses. He tries again, and sees the coals move without the touch of the iron. Then they begin to tumble over themselves, the fire sparking and spitting from the movement, and in the crunch and the crackle of the flame and the fuel a voice speaks to Milo saying
You Shall Have It
The swirling, tumbling movement stops, before one by one, individual lumps of charcoal roll their way inelegantly to the front of the forge, perhaps a dozen. A second of silence before a crack appears in one, then another. From the first an arm, tiny but muscular, breaks the surface. The charcoal crumbles as the being pulls apart its cocoon from the inside, then stamps on the crusty remains. A man stands on the edge of the forge, Dwarvish build except for the overall size – Milo might hold his entire body in a single hand – with skin of bronze and hair of flame. He looks Milo up and down, then spits, unimpressed. “’Chu lookin’ at pal?” Around the tiny figure, others are erupting from the coal with various levels of aggression. “Wassis? A Giant’s forge?” “Pesh off ye gobshite, we’re tiny!” “Don’ ye call me a gobshite, ye great dobber!” A scuffle breaks out between two of the little fiery dwarves. The first one to hatch yells out to them “Shut it, both o’ yez! Here on business, aren’t we? So be profeshunul, ye bawbags.” Looking up at Milo, he announces, “You! Wee man! We’re here cuz the Big Man sent us, ye ken? We dinnae like ye, ye big wetty, but we’s got jobs tae do. Ye get in any trouble, any dobbers get up in yer face, ye call on us, yeah? And we’ll do ‘em in!” He bursts into a wheezing, cackling laugh, causing tiny sparks from his flaming hair to fill the air around his head.
“Uh...” Milo stammers, unsure where to start. “I’m grateful for your help, obviously, but I think the things I’m likely to be fighting are a bit... out of your reach?”
“Bigjobs is it? Dinnae fash yeself aboot that lad. Just cuz we’re little doesnae stop us. Ye wouldnae want a rat gettin’ in yer skivvies, eh?” The figure grins. “Besides, we’ve got these.” Two fiery wings, the size of a sparrow’s, glisten into existence on the miniature Azer. As the others see this, they too sprout wings, and together they lift off the edge of the forge, circling Milo in the air. The main speaker so far drifts inwards, getting to within a foot of Milo’s face before stopping. “We may be little while we’re here, but flyin’ doesnae half make up for it. Remember wee man, ye call on us, and we’ll take care o’ yez.” He grins again, brass teeth reflecting the light from his beard, eyes glowing like the last flare of dying embers.
Spirit Guardians (3rd level conjuration) (V, S, M - a holy symbol)
You call forth spirits to protect you.
They flit around you to a distance of 15 feet for the duration. If you are good or neutral, their spectral form appears angelic or fey (your choice). If you are evil, they appear fiendish.
When you cast this spell, you can designate any number of creatures you can see to be unaffected by it. An affected creature’s speed is halved in the area, and when the creature enters the area for the first time on a turn or starts its turn there, it must make a Wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, the creature takes 3d8 radiant damage (if you are good or neutral) or 3d8 necrotic damage (if you are evil). On a successful save, the creature takes half as much damage.
