As the guard stood down, Ranar let out a sigh of relief and collapsed to the floor. “Aiyow.” Pain and exhaustion had taken their toll. He hadn’t the energy to check on the others, could only hope that what the shaman had said was right, and that they really would be ok. That seemed likely given that Blue Hawk had figured out how to stop the guard.
And that guard… He’d seen some tough warriors, but one so easily able to take on 6-to-1 odds with such overwhelming success was always a bit awe-inspiring. “Too bad that guard’s not on our side.”
Leaning back, he felt around carefully for any bleeding spots to patch up and looked sadly at the dents in his armor.
Thwip sits with Archmage Eyegouger dozing noisily beside him. He is staring at the cosmos above. There’s something dancing there. Some shape. If only he could see it. He stands up and tries to stretch his awareness towards it. The movement. Like a dance? A wave? Hands? He stretches himself even further, becoming elongated and thin. The world… it’s no longer important. The answers. The true answers. Not the clever maths of the pinkies. Not the mystical wish fulfillment of the mages. Those are all just slivers. Partial answers. Here Thwip can start to see the true shape of reality. The tools of God. He is thin now. Little more than a string. Strings. Those are strings. He sees an instrument being played. A needle sewing. A game played by children. He is unaware of the yelling Eyegouger is doing.
“Stop it yah idjit! Dreams are tha place in between and yah gonna pass on!”
Thwip grows thinner. Perhaps to understand the vibrations he must become one? He continues to pull himself thin.
“It’s okay, ancient one. I got this.”
Eyegouger grits his teeth. He addresses the hooded figure that had been watching them the entire time, “Yah better wait another minute til I solve this or yah won’t be happy with what I do to yah!” There is no response and the wizard expected none from the ferryman. It took all of his skill just to delay his passage and get this one last visit and he’s not going to have it end with another loss.
Archmage Eyegouger, one of the Great Five Exiles, holder of the secret of black powder, dwarf tosser of fireballs with no compare, and now panicking spirit, resorts to a long-used Dawrven emergency maneuver. Passed down to him from his father, who gained the knowledge from his father, back into eras long-forgotten. Eyegouger lifts his robe, cocks his leg, and swings his foot with all the strength a ghost can muster. He places a heavy boot up what he is confident is Thwip’s backside.
“WAKE UP YAH!”
Thwip becomes aware of the cold stone he is lying on and the sounds of his companions. He remains lying there, unmoving, eyes closed. Attempting to shut out all of reality.
– I didn’t get to say good-bye again.–
If the others see the tears seeping out, he doesn’t care.
Hawk leans heavily against the wall. That was not pleasant, and just the attempt to get this far has drained most of his spiritual resources.
Keeping close against the wall, the tribesman makes his way back towards the others. He keeps an eye on the Gladiator, ready to command it back again if it decides to resume its attack.
Until the others wake up, he thinks, I need to teach Ranar enough Arabic to command it. At the moment, I’m the only one who can.
He must see to priorities, first though. A shaman’s first duty is to heal, not to attack.
“Ranar,” the shaman says, “If your wounds can wait, I will look after a short rest. How are the others?”
As much pain as he’s in, Ranar can see how exhausted the shaman is, probably doesn’t have enough left to ease the pain much without burning himself out. “Ay, my wounds’ll be here when ye wake. The others… they seem to be - somehow, better than us.” Turning toward the doorway, “C’n somebody check on Aronn?” Dozing lightly, he thinks to himself “we just earned some pay. better not lose the paymaster.”
The sound of a dwarven voice rouses Thwip from his dark well of regret.
“C’n somebody check on Aronn?”
– Eyegouger? No. Just a dream. Just a dream and nothing else.–
He pulls himself up giving no thought to his lack of a wound simply because his experiences had pushed them from his mind. Perhaps when the shock passes he’ll have time to have an anxiety attack over it. At the moment his mind is on seeing to Aronn.
“Gittin weimu, yi kin.” he mutters in Goblinese to no one in particular as he drags himself past Nic to check on their employer. He’s not the healer Blue Hawk is, but he did earn his merit badge in Emergency Preparedness when he was in the Griffon Scouts.
– I hope he doesn’t need a bandage. I didn’t bring any. –
As Thwip gently shakes Aronn by the shoulder, the elf’s eyes snap open. He immediately screams, slaps Thwip’s hands away and scuttles backwards with a panicked expression.
Gradually regaining his calm, he looks around at the slowly reviving party.
“That could have gone somewhat better. Nevertheless, thank you all.”
(Player cue: anyone up to having a look around? Your only current light is Jibril’s torch; Nic’s lantern might be relit, but the glass is gone; it’ll be very vulnerable to being snuffed out by motion)
Hawk jumps at Lord Aronn’s shout, but when it is clear that no one has been seriously harmed by the Gladiator, Hawk relaxes and lets himself slump to the floor.
“Behind the warrior is written, ‘I will obey.’ I said ‘Eabd’ and an order in Arabic, and it obeyed. I think it is for training — like fighting with blunt spears.”
That said, the northman begins to pull forth the power of the spirits to refresh him. “I rest now. Explore if you wish, but try not to be hurt again.”
Thwip is still feeling mentially discombobulated and is having trouble keeping his Goblinese accent from dominating his otherwise flawless Anglish.
“Duwee haffa farst aid kytt soas I kan see t’ Rhanarr’s injrees?”
His knees remain unsteady as he stands up. The experience of solid stone still seems as if it was a life time ago. Hopefully it’ll pass sooner rather than later. He staggers over to Ranar to do a visual inspection of the dwarf’s wounds.
Half asleep, Ranar blinks at Thwip appreciatively, moans and fumbles at undoing the straps of his collar and shoulderpads with one hand, the other holding his cracked collarbone. “He c-c-couldn’t have hit that hard, but he did.” Looking up at Thwip, hope in his eyes, “Ye kin fix it?”
While Thwip tends to Ranar, Jibrīl geta unsteadily to his feet and steps into the room with the Gladiator in it to retrieve his torch. He takes a look around.
Inside Eabd’s alcove, weapons line the walls; about a dozen in all. Swords, spears, polearms, maces, axes. They represent a mix of Wazifi, Megalan and Aralaise styles, although the workmanship and decoration appears to be of Wazifi origin for all of them.
Although Jibril is not enough of a cutlery expert to instantly evaluate their quality as weapons, they look very much like the sort of thing that would be worth stealing. Very shiny workmanship.
Looking up at Thwip, hope in his eyes, “Ye kin fix it?”
Having a focus on something has done wonders for Thwips mental space. He tries to remember his lessons on bedside manner as he sees to Ranar’s injuries.
“A goblin waks in t’ a house a healin’. He sez to t’ healer, ‘Mader, I brock my arm in tree places.’ She sez, ‘Stop goin’ t’ tem places.'”
Attempted smile.
“T’ good noose is tat I wass able t’ keep yi collarbone from slidin’ around more. But tis is beyond mi ability t’ set and wrap rite now. Don’t moof ifin yi kin.” Thwip gestures over his shoulder back at the over-worked healer. “T’ bad noose is tat win Blue Hawk is dun fixin’ yi I tink he’ll be nappin again.”
He gives Ranar an awkward thumbs up. Then he makes his way over to Lord Aronn.
“M’lord. Ranar wass torn up pritty good. And Blue Hawk has bin runnin’ himself raggid fir us. I think we shouldt R&R while tose off us tat kin shouldt infessitgate Eabd furter t’ see ifin we kin make use off it.”
De Courcy retrieves his weapon and the shattered lantern from where they fell.
Tucking them away the swordsman begins working out the small knots that formed in his muscles from laying in an awkward, unconscious heap in the shadows of Jibril’s torch.
Eabd would make an excellent training tool, he thinks as he mentally revisits the skirmish, or worth a lot of money to the right buyer.
“Would that thing work outside this vault?” he ponders aloud, walking over to join Jibril in the alcove.
He begins assessing the weapons lining the alcove walls, paying particular attention to the Aralaise-style items. The inspection is hindered a little by de Courcy cautiously avoiding touching anything.
His nose crinkles slightly whenever he comes across a particularly heavily decorated weapon. A barely discernible expression of mixed distaste and amusement, that’s quickly gone.
Despite his flair for flashy clothes, when he has the coin, his taste in weapons has always been more utilitarian. Gemstones set in hilts in particular could trigger long drunken rants when he’d had occasion to attend parties among the upper class as a guest instead of on duty.
Weapons are tools, the hammers and saws of the soldier’s trade. He could think of few things more ridiculous than a bejewelled saw.
“I can’t speak to curses, my friend, but these seem…shiny, at the least.”
The weapons appear to be of very good quality; nice workmanship. The Wazifi-themed decoration shows that they were intended for high-status users, but it isn’t excessive.
The full collection consists of:
Thrusting Broadsword
Tulwar
Mace
Morningstar
Duelling Halberd
Spear
Edged Rapier/Main-Gauche set
A matched pair of Throwing Axes
Cutlass
Sabre
To properly judge them as weapons, you’d need to give 'em a swing.
“Lord Arron, if I may ask, could you check these for magical traps? I’m sure Jibril could cover the more mundane variety.”
,
Once he gets an all-clear, he’ll begin a closer inspection of the weapons.
