Adventure 2, Chapter 2: Stoat and the Pass

[Pulpatoon]

The harpies apparently lost track of Mournath, and though he was under the wagon. When he calls out, two wheel around towards him. One harpy with a spear and the harpy with the guard's cocked crossbow are now trained on Mournath's rocks.

The lead harpy, angered by Bürd's words, screams, "PROVOCATION?! You earth-gobbets would speak to us of provocation? You work your foul magics; you war upon us from shadows and moonlight, and you do not expect us to be notice?"


The harpy stomps away. She begins to speak but stops herself. Pacing, she almost begins again. Finally, she masters herself enough to say in a voice of calm officiousness, "I am of a mind to rescind my offer of leniency, and am well within my rights to do so. But in the name of the Justice and the Law of the Aerie, I hold the offer out to you once more. Surrender. If you have a case to make, you will do so at trial, under the open gaze of the sky, before the Lawgivers and Stormqueens."

[mb.]

Bürd coughs under the wagon, "We dunno who y've been tanglin' with lady, but we was jes travellin' north an' burnin' a foe's body. We wasn't provokin' an' we wasn't makin' no magics or war neither."

"From what yer sayin', y'bring our quarry t'me mind - foul magics an' shadows an' moonlight's soundin' like the ones we's after. P'raps we've got a common enemy? Think on it lady. If'n we's powerful enough t'lay a couple of yer sisters low, we c'ld take another one or two of y's with us before we's dead, but I'll swear t'ye, we've got no desire 'soever t'do that. And I reckon we're knowin' aught you'll be wantin' t'know too."

"Y'seem an hon'rable sort. How's about we're makin' a deal? Give me yer word we'll come t'no harm, also no tendon cuttin', an' I'll come out an' we kin talk like reasonable folk. What say ye?"

[mb.]

Just to get a clear picture: last time you mentioned a number of harpies is was 6. One left with the dying guard, so 5. Two are keeping an eye on Mournath, so they'll have to stay on one side of the wagon to do that. That leaves 3 circling the wagon. Right?

[Pulpatoon]

Correct.

The harpy scoffs when Bürd speaks, but then paces for awhile instead of answering. She pulls one harpy aside (leaving two guarding the wagon), and the sends that harpy back and confers with another.

She returns to the wagon.

"You will be bound and disarmed, and taken into custody. You will be given a chance to present your arguments in a court of law under open sky. This is the last offer you will hear from my lips. Accept it or perish."

[bislab]

If cutting my legs from beneath me is still part of that deal, I'd rather die here on my feet. If you are a reasonable being that seeks to redress a wrong done to you, I've enough courage to STAND before your court and prove my innocence.

Mournath is ready to go down fighting if it means he's gong to be ham-strung. You don't heal from that, might as well die on my feet.

[mb.]

Bürd peeks out from under the wagon, "Me axe is Wichtspalt. She were made by me fore-fore-fore-father, an' were wielded since in just an' hon'rable fightin'. Y'kin take 'er if'n yer givin' me yer word she'll be returned t'me, or if I'm dead, y'll deliver 'er t'Anvil Peak where me people's livin'."

"An' as me friend says, no hamstringin'. Have we yer bindin' word? On yer honour?"

[Pulpatoon]

The lead harpy says, "I am Captain and Swiftwing Skolda of the aerie of Éastrodor, and you have my word and bond. You will be taken, bound but unlamed. Your weapons and equipment will be returned to you upon incarceration. What happens to them and to yourselves falls on your shoulders, and whether you can prove yourselves in a court of Law and Justice."

One of the other harpies begins to speak, and from her expression you would guess it is an objection, but she is silenced by a look from Captain Skolda.

[mb.]

Bürd throws the spear softly out from under the wagon, places Wichtspalt on the shield and slides them out too. "Like I says, y'seem an hon'rable sort. I'm Bürd Makelucky a Anvil Peak, first son a Ironlord Dürgo Goblinhew and I'm takin' yer word as yer bond. May th'mountain fall on yer head if yer false."

Bürd crawls out head first and stands up. He places his hatchets on the shield too, and calls out, "Mournath, looks like we got us a ride t'our friends lad!" He lets out a loud guffaw and holds his hands out to the lead harpy, "Captain Skolda, I reckon we's ready when you are."

[bislab]

My weapon has neither a name or a lineage as does my friends, but I crafted her with my own art and she's kept me fed through many a winter. Mournath comes out from hiding and places bow and quiver near Burds weapons.

[Pulpatoon]

Your weapons are collected and bound with rope gathered from the wreckage of the wagon. Then you too are bound, hand and foot, while lying on the ground on your belly. One harpy each picks you up and, beating her wings hard, begins to fly Northwest along the channel of the mountain valley. Below you, the scene of your recent battle quickly diminishes. You see the other harpies continuing to pick through the contents of the wagon.

Being hog-tied and then picked up by the knot connecting your hands and feet is extremely painful and hard on your joints.

Please roll CON. If you fail, then roll 1d4 for damage.

If you're having trouble picturing this, don't run a google-image search on "hog-tie." Apparently the Internet is unaware of any non-porn connotations for the term.

Once the harpies have achieved their desired elevation, they turn to the Northeast.

Feel free to try a WIS-2 roll if you want to try to keep track of where you're going.

[mb.]

CON 13: Bürd rolls [1d20] = 8 It's certainly not comfortable, but Bürd will survive.

WIS 15: Bürd rolls [1d20] = 1 Apparently Bürd falls asleep during the flight.

[Pulpatoon]

WIS 15: Bürd rolls [1d20] = 1 Apparently Bürd falls asleep during the flight.

Worse than that. Bürd is absolutely confident that he knows the lay of the land. He has no doubt that he can lead the party back to the Pass.

[mb.]

Oh, that should prove entertaining.

[bislab]

While the bonds are tight, Mourn bears the pain. [1d20] = 17 [1d4] = 1
in damage

While trying to keep track of where they are going [1d20-1] = 10-1 = 9 (I have tracking X2 and survival IF either would add a bonus to that)

[Pulpatoon]

Mournath: You are able to follow the lay of the land reasonably well, and think you might be able to find your way back to the Pass and Stoat.

After what seems like several vertiginous hours, but is probably been less than thirty minutes, the harpies begin to descend towards a mountaintop.



There is a fairly large clustering of stone and wood buildings atop the mountain—a village at least as large as Kirkwald, the largest village in the Olfdene. The air above and around the village is dotted with other harpies. Several fly briefly parallel with flock bring you in, taking in the sight of captives.



Notably, the harpies around the village are dressed in brightly colored folk-costumes, including decorated hats, bibs, aprons, and garments that mostly resemble skirts, only cut for avian hindquarters.


At one end of the village is a large circular arena. Its open center reveals a sand pit. And it is here the harpies are headed.

You are lowered into the arena, face-down in sun-hot sand. The bonds are cut, and blood rushes back into your limbs, bring a fresh wave a pain with it. There are few moments of undignified flopping around before you get enough feeling and control back and can turn yourselves over and begin to stand up. Your equipment sits in a bundle, nearby.

The arena seems deserted. High above, harpies can be seen flying over.

[mb.]

Bürd massages his arms and legs and does some almost comical stretching exercises, before slipping his hatchets back into his harness, and lifting his axe to his face where he plants a kiss on each of its blades. He shouts up into the sky, "Captain Skolda, yer as good as yer word, an' I thank ye!" He thumps his axes' head into the sand and leans on the haft.

Looking around at the arena he says softly to Mournath, "Ah but it be good t'ave solid earth under me feet agin. Flyin' suits me only slightly better 'an sailin'. What're y'reck'nin' comes next lad?"

After a few moments of careful inspection, does Bürd notice anything worth noting about the arena?

[Pulpatoon]

The sandpit is about 50 feet in diameter. There is a ring of fairly flat sand about ten feet wide along the perimeter. Inside this ring, the pit slopes steeply downwards to the center, which is about thirty feet lower than the outer ring.

Surrounding the sandpit is a circular stone wall, and twenty feet tall. It has four doors of verdigris bronze, evenly spaced. All are closed.

Feel free to try a WIS roll for more info.

After a few minutes, a male harpy, much smaller than the females you've so far encountered, pokes his head over the wall. He inspects a wooden tablet in his hand, and then calls out, "Proceed through the southern gate. You will find food and medical supplies. Your trial will be held on this spot on the morrow."

Without waiting for a reply, the harpy disappears behind the wall.

The green doors of the southern gate creak open.

[mb.]

After surveying the arena, Bürd focusses a suspicious eye on the center of the sandpit. "Why d'ye reckon it's all slopin' down t'there?"

With a WIS of 15, Bürd rolls [1d20] = 10

After Mournath gathers his gear, Bürd stomps off towards the open doors...

[Pulpatoon]

Bürd:

Looking at the disturbances in the sand, you see a number of depressions and tracks. It appears your companions, taken previously by the harpies, were also dropped in this pit. Their tracks lead to the Western gate.

You are unable to get a view down into the conical pit, because the sand is loose enough to collapse and slide down under your weight as you approach the edge.

Entering the open doors to the south, you find a stone corridor sloping downward into a long cell. There are blocks of stone set out which can be used as seats or tables. The floor is covered is straw. Dim lighting comes from a few small holes punched through the ceiling. At the far end of the cell there is a stack of wooden bowls and a lukewarm pot of flavorless meat and gruel. A basket contains medical supplies: linen bandages, sinew thread, curved needles, and a variety of unguents in open pots. None of it looks especially fresh or clean.

[mb.]

Bürd fills a bowl, hands it to Mournath, fills himself one and sits cross-legged on a stone block. "Fightin' makes fer hunger, an' flyin' even more so..." he looks down into his bowl with a grimace, "least there's meat in there somewheres." Bürd spoons the slop into his mouth in silence until the bowl is empty.

"Y'any good wi' needle 'n' thread, lad? Them bitches tore us up right bad. I'm not likin' th'look a them needles, but I'm likin' th'idea a fightin' like I am less so. Ain't no choice but t'try an' patch each others up as good we kin I reckon."

Bürd takes out his runestone carved with "FIRE" (Burning Hands), sets it down, and piles all of the needles on top of it, and focusses his concentration on it, mumbling in Dwarvish. Although the spell is spent, he tries to raise enough heat from the stone to sterilise the needles...

If necessary, here's a roll on Bürd's 15 INT: Bürd rolls [1d20] = 3