Meta Ruins of Myvolia

Survivors? I think not...

The battle continues

The post battle hush in the narrow ravine is broken by the jubilant cheers of the goblin’s ex-captives. Grown men weep into the night air with unbridled exhaustion as they see the beginning of their new lives emerge from the blood spilled. Others writhe in uncontained ecstasy at the unbelievable turn of events that have altered their lot. Though, as the cheers die, the tarnished look of deep fatigue paints their tired faces.

With the enemy dead, or in retreat, the party converges around the wagon, bandaging wounds, and taking the first good look at the prisoners in the cart.

Running down the hill like a ghost appearing out of the darkness, Matrim waves his hands erratically and emphatically chastises the caged men in a hushed whisper to keep quiet lest they attract more notice. Using a scrap of cloth and some salves from his pack he tries to staunch the steady flow of blood from Lornaal’s under arm. The northman is solemn, almost distracted as the ranger applies his technique. Matrim’s worried look to the rising smoke seems to spur him further doubling his speed.

Holding the inside of his arm tight against his belly, Terrence, is unable to shirk the temptation of a fresh looting. Quickly scanning the two bodies closest to him he notices far more pouches and items on the sneaky goblin. Ducking down a wave of nausea and pain wrack through his brain as his abdominal muscles contract again reflexively making his stomach feel like it has a mind of its own—twisting and turning.

Noticing the ring on the goblin’s finger and the light magical mace on the ground, Terrence deftly pockets the ring and reaches for the mace. Gripping the small mace causes the weapon to crackle with dark lightning almost like it is trying to bite him and get away. Terrence feels an intense pain that radiates through his body coupled with an overwhelming heaviness that weighs him down. (-1 effective level, -1 skill and ability checks, -1 att/save rolls, -5 hp) After a second the pain subsides; but, he still feels drained. The whole party notices Terrence with the mace; but, misses the ring.

Talton, his chest ragged from the claws of the devilish orange goblin, nods gratefully to Sebastian as the bard draws his wand and burns a charge to repair some of the damage. He quickly moves to aid Terrence who sports a vicious wound across his stomach. Lumbering to his aid, Talton moves aside the rent cloth of the dandy’s tunic and blanches at the deep wound that he sees.

Placing his hands over the cut, the priest lifts his head and mumbles into the night:

Pelor, Shining Lord of Light, hear your servant and in the name of the blessed Saint Lucius, heal this man’s hurts acquired in the service of your name.

His hands glow a golden light and a warmth spreads from them to Terrence’s wounds. Muscle knits and flesh closes as the divine power flows through his body.

He then looks at Terrence sternly and says

That is an unholy relic. I would advise you not to touch it. We should wrap it in an oiled sack and dispose of it at our nearest convenience.

While Talton moves to offer the same healing to Lornaal, the rest of the party pauses to consider the men held captive in the wagon.

A ragged, but swarthy group of men with the dark hair and thick chests of Thents they cluster at the bars, watching expectantly for their freedom. As a group they are bruised and battered with most sporting blood-crusted bandages.

Drawing from a pocket a set of picks Terrence moves to the rusty iron lock, working at it for a moment before opening it with a swift pull. The door opens with a metallic shriek and the men quickly help each other out.

There are six of them all together, each dressed in leather and furs. One of the men, older than the others by some years, has been badly injured. A younger man, who could be his son, helps him stand.

A man of middling years with a barrel chest and a thick, grizzled beard steps to speak for the group in thickly-accented common.

My thanks. These beasts had bad intentions fer us. We was workin’ a boom on t’a river near Hellup when th’ bastards set upon us. They killed three an put tha rest of us in that damn wagon. They kept talkin’ about some ceremony that they was takin’ us to. I don’t imagine it was t’a watch.

He turns and kicks the body of one of the dead orcs.

I am Hogan Kellerman, foreman of this here crew. We owe ye our lives.

Talton Heals Terrence: 18 hp

Talton Heals Lornaal: 13 hp

Terrence picks the lock: 6(d20)+13 = 19, successful


Wild_Gazebo Wild_Gazebo

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