Norwick's envoys and the goblins of the West Rawlins
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_You travel for several days south and east deeper into the woods. Mark seems more and more distant,aloof the further you travel. Tindra's senses reveal danger every step of the way and..something else..something elusive. A darkness,indescribable and ever present seems to be behind every tree.
Eventually the woods opens up to a clearing before a small ridge. Centered in the ridge is a nondescript cave. Seemingly unused in sometime, weeds now choke the entry way. Mark seems almost pulled towards the cave and walks straight forward across the clearing into the cave.
The cave's darkness hides an old death. Tunnels are devoid of any sign of recent travel and open up to a series of rooms. Brushing back the cobwebs the rooms reveal their contents. Sprawled out on the floors are the mummified remains of goblins intermixed various summoning circles. Old blood stains the grounds. Inspecting the corpses shows a number with holes in their chests or stomach. Most likely the cause of their death.
Further down the tunnels the passage way ends in grand stone double doors. Obviously not goblin work,they are inscribed with a myriad of demonic sigils. The doors swing open with the slightest touch to reveal a large throne room.
Approximately100 feet deep and 40 feet wide the room is lined with Corinthian columns reaching to the 20 ft high roof. The walls and floor are polished smooth and lead up to a stone throne on a simple dais.
Upon the throne sits a shriveled old goblin wearing old robes with a bone crown upon his head. To his right stands a tall woman nearly 8 feet in height garbed in black chainmail. Her unearthly beauty is betrayed by her eyes that glow like hot embers. Her delicate left hand rests on the goblins shoulder seemingly enveloping the entire shoulder.
The room is empty save the 6 goblin statues arranged around the room.
<old goblin=""><g>dance Grak! See how the fool dances! ::laughs:: now bark like a dog! ::laughs:: :: points at one of the statues:: who is in charge now?
((note to the players, the statues do not move))</g></old>_
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Ragnhild's ice blue eyes flash dangerously as she replies in a near growl:
"Karing for vhat you call green-skin is vhole reason I am here, and if you no kan seem to fit name of my kin into thick head yours, I may juss forget yours, dwarf."
She stabs the ground with her spear, then irritably repeats Dwin's gesture, searching in vain for a bottle of ale to cool her temper with as she hears Tindra out. Squatting next to her pack, Ragnhild takes a deep breath and lets it out, before going on in a calmer, almost wry tone of voice:
"You know trip gone on too long vhen I am voice of caution, huh.. onli bad lack of ale cause me to act such. But.. someone or something steer us on now, and use one of us to do so. Vhen darkness invades your dreams, I think it reasonabel to not expekt green fields and rivers of ale at end of road, huh.
I no mean to snap at you Dwin, nor do I ask anni of you to kare in your hearts for me and mine, but I have no doubt troubel avait us. I vish we be prepared right and meet it together. If one mind kan be mess vith, so kan another's, and we be too few to afford mistakes. We go, vith minds warded and arms redi."
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Tindra seems a tad bothered by Ragnhild's description of his problem. She glances around nervously. "Can't say I'm the expert at guarding a mind against dark influences… but I suppose I could offer a spell of warding against evil. Though Dwin's got the right idea. We might as well follow the direction given."
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Mark gets an uneasy look about him and seems to look about as if looking for something. Finally he sighs and points south east.
<g>darkness say go that way</g>
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Dwin looks at the sickly looking goblin with a squint. He starts to ask something, then stops. Finally, he says to the group.
If this little greenskin can show us where to go, then lets be on our way! Caring for green-geenskin's aint gonna help us at this point. Ask him to draw a map if we dont think he's gonna survive these night-tremors!
After his little tirade, Dwin steps back and looks around the group, as if he thinks they might be watched. He then sniffs the air and goes back to his pack searching for a non-existent last bottle of ale.
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"Marrk say he know vhere Kal'Vargen lair is now, say darkness khum at night and tell him, tell to hurri also. Everi night it khum to him, turn air cold and probabli make sleep hard. I fear his mind be under some dark magicks, someone or something sneak into his dreams, but let's hear him out firrst. Belin, Tindra, kan check if something wrong vith him?"
After translating this to Spitter, Ragnhild turns her attention back to Mark, doing her best to calm any worries he might have about the attention of the others.
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Arms folded, Dwin watches the exchange between Rag and her pet.
Whats wrong with the run-..er, the smaller one, Rag? It sick or sumtin'?
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Ragnhild frowns in concern, quickly making a sign to ward off evil over Mark's head before squeezing his shoulders reassuringly.
<g>"No fear, you are Bloody Tooth tribe. Vhatever darkness fall on you, is mine also, and you know no darkness of sound mind vould pick on me, right?"
She grins wide and confident, trying to conceal her inherent superstitious fears as she takes Mark's hand in hers, pulling him along like a child.
<g>"Come, we best tell the others. Tell more of voice, too, if remember detail, like vhen first appear, how sound like, vhat say? And no worri, nothing and no one vill harm you vhile I live."</g></g>
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Mark seems to crumble under the weight of Rag's gaze. His shoulders slump and he seems to grow even smaller.
<g>I didn know before…the darkness come at night and tell me. Says need hurry. It comes every night, make air all cold.</g>
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Setting Mark down, Ragnhild crouches infront of the clearly reluctant goblin, resting her hands on his bony shoulders.
<g>"You know? But.. how? Vhy not say before?"
Sharp blue eyes look straight into his as she awaits a reply, no anger, reproach or suspiscion apparant on her features, just an intense scrutiny which leaves very little room for evasiveness.</g>
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Mark looks uncomfortable for a few minutes then sighs deeply when Karn begins questioning him.
Mark <g>I know where need to go, where Kal'Vargen lair.
Not so far away from the camp a black armored figure mutters.
<d>Farking takin them forever.
The figure raises a black gem before his eyes and peers into it with great intent. It had taken him days to find the right dead goblin,the goblin that knew where the lair was. It was much quicker bringing it's essence back, much to his surprise it was no ordinary undead. No matter, it followed orders well enough. Moving the gem to his left hand he takes a long pull from his tankard wiping his mouth with his cloak.
<d>Tell them already ye stinkin excuse for a throw rug</d></d></g>
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_Dwin mostly keeps to himself, besides the occasional mutter to Bel'in. Fighting alongside greenskins goes against pretty much every bone in his stout body. Several times during skirmishes as he cleaves through mutliple foes with his singing axe, his mind deep into the battle-song, he imagines one extra slash or chop that might send one, or both greenskin heads flying.
Friends or not, they are still greenskin, and will eventually betray the group.
Knowing that he might not be able to control himself if Steel-cutter is singing loudly, he tends to position himself as far from the goblins as possible. Not so far, however, that he hasnt been impressed several times with the abilities of Spitter. A fine duel partner he would make, and an even finer trophy, but not yet.
The other goblin seems to be losing steam. Maybe its sick or lame in some way. Rag and the others seem to have noticed as well. If this Mark can't keep up with the group, we'll have to make it a quick, painless death; out of respect to Rag of course. She obviously cares for him, perhaps as a pet. We can't afford to let him go and betray our position to anyone or anything else.
During the times where the group is traveling, Dwin stops every once in a while and scans the woods, while holding his helm firmly on his head. He then usually stops and inhales deeply through his nose, as if searching for an odor or a scent._
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_Ragnhild seems to take both pride and joy in the battle prowess of her tribesman, eagerly throwing herself into each fight that comes their way with Spitter at her side, clearly counting him as a brother in arms. The combination of her long-reaching dragon-toothed spear and Spitter's sharp battleaxe prove rather nasty to anyone deciding to try their luck against the rag-tag group - not to mention what the rest of the party are capable of.
While food is likely replenished by hunting as the trip drags on, the once generous ale supply soon shrinks to a single bottle in Ragnhild's pack, carefully and painstakingly set aside for "emergency". While this obviously doesn't please the tall blonde, any aggressions due to the shortage are thus far only taken out on the unfortunate hostiles encountered, at least on Ragnhild's part.
Mark's increasing absent-mindedness seems to actually worry Ragnhild more than the lack of ale, and she frequently dashes off to intercept his wandering, sometimes resorting to carrying him on her shoulders like a child. On one such an occasion, she rests a soothingly warm, strong hand on the skinny goblin's leg as she strides on to catch up with the others, mumbling a soft enquiry:_
"Marrk, vhat be matter vith you? You seem like have head in clouds, have eaten strange berries or mushrooms? You sick, or something on mind have? Either vay kan tell me."
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During one camp break, Tindra decides to rest up in a tree. She needed a break from dwarves and goblins. Dwin and Belin weren't bad people, but as with most dwaves the werecat has met, they don't share the connection to nature that Tindra's grown used to from living with druids and rangers. And the goblins… well, she was sure it was no secret she didn't care for goblins at all. For much of her live she's been at odds with goblins. She saw the goblin race as a stinking, crude, and disgusting infestation of the Rawlinswood. It didn't help that they tended to kill everything on sight and abuse the land.
She had to admit, perhaps begrudgingly, that she was finding respect for Spitter. Partly, it was his tenacity and skill in battle that impressed her. Most goblins were push-overs. What impressed Tindra more was how dedicated he was to protecting Raghnild. When this trip began, she was doubtful of Raghnild's claims of being adopted by goblins. Spitter put those doubts to rest.
Mark worried her though. He easily fit in the "push-over" category, though that didn't worry Tindra as much as his recent behavior. Something troubled the greenskin. Tindra looked down from her perch at Mark. She should keep an eye on him, she reasoned.
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_It seems quite apparent that something is disturbing Mark. The last few days the goblin seems more and more distant and distracted, often walking into trees or wandering off.
Spitter on the other hand seems well at ease and keeps a strict vigil over Rag and whenever a fight ensues positions himself to Rag's right. His combat prowess is quite impressive from what everyone has seen from previous goblins (12thlvl barbarian) and quite often just shrugs off injuries as he throws himself into the fights.
After a few weeks of traveling the party is no where nearer their goal it seems._
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((if we want to rewrite this to somehow help Norwick with the Bugbears, thats fine with me!
))
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//Narfell and timelines being a mindwarping concept altogether, I'm willing to leave that up to you Salsa. The thread began way back when the eastern woods were crawling with tainted goblins though, so I had assumed to head roughly in that direction, unless we were to happen upon signs leading elsewhere. Wild stabbing in the dark here, basically
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(I am assuming this whole story is a flashback at this point since it happened during the tainted plot.. so i think "are and were" are probably the same. make sense?)
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(clarify, are you going to where they are or were?))
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Belin watches Rag's back as she begins to walk towards the cave mouth.
<d>I hope she doesn't mind when this spitter fellow spits his last. Farkin green skin.
mutters about keeping up and being out of ale as she trots off after the long legged woman.</d>
