A Tunnels and Trolls® play-by-post adventure run by shindorim7
A few weeks after the mystery of the Lizardmen has been solved and the treasure divied up between you bounding looters, you find yourselves on a bit of a bender down at ye olde Blue Frog Tavern as to your wont to do. (Cripes, do you even have homes?)
Insert mirth here: drinks are bought, drinks are bought in return, women, men and livestock are ogled. All the good things in life befitting stalwart and now comfortably bourgeois adventurers are swirling around you in a warm, cozy soft focus. Unfortunately, time and tide wait for no man, woman, Orc, Hobbit (Halfling?), or wode-bedazzled Elf.
Much to your chagrin and much to Jack the Bartender's great relief, the hourglass on the wall has given up its last grain, has turned over, and tips off the counter weight to a nifty Rube Goldberg contraption recently installed. At the end of a complicated sequence of mousetraps, bowling balls, inclined planes and "piss boy" fountains, a dapper little ball-peen hammer gingerly strikes the sad old brass ship's bell. Ding. Closing time.
In spite of your protests, both gracious and otherwise, Jack ushers you all towards the door and out on to the street, the crossroads of a night on the tear. It's cool and breezy out, almost perfect. Good night for a walk home or anywhere for that matter. You stroll lazily down the darkened road, chatting, arsing around, taking in the city at night and communing deeply with the spirit of idle life.
Until the stars start dripping.
Constellation spotting: Look! There's Balthus the Alchemist! There's Oolloothes the toad! There's Sahir the Harlot and Scrote the Goat! And there's Wheedler the Cooper's son... but... uh... didn't he have four stars in his belt? What the....
What were once single points of light in the Belt of Wheedler, in the Horns of Scrote, are now seemingly everywhere slurred. Distinction between one and another seems to obscure as streaks of light condense like drops of water on the outside of a beer mug, until, becoming too heavy, they stutter, shake and begin to run. Slowly, at first, then faster. It may be a trick of perception, or the whisky at the Blue Frog, but aren't the rivulets running this way, i.e., closer, i.e., downwards? The sky is falling, ladies and germs....
What do you do?
I scream like a school girl and stand frozen like a deer caught in a magical lantern light, as only a true Hobbit can!
Cool.... I'm a PC now! Wait, what's a PC?
I think over all the prophesies I have heard about things coming to pass "when the stars are right", then I realize I haven't heard a single one about when the stars are "wrong." I cynically observe that at least now all the romantic fools who swore "to love her 'till the stars fall from the skies" are off the hook. All the good it does them is for naught, since very probably we're all going to die a horrible death very soon. I knew I should have ordered one more round. Oh well, at least when I'm dead I won't have to hear the Hobbit screaming like a school girl any more....
Ruth a'Guerré looks up at the sky, her hair spilling like a golden waterfall over her shoulders. She frowns, then says to the others, "I'm going to get some stuff. I'll be back in a few minutes."
She runs off to her apartment to get her armor, the rest of her weapons, and traveling gear (while in town, Ruth carries only her rapier and a misericorde at her side).
The stars streaking, albeit downward, remind the SniperOrc of the time he spent speeding through space and time in Gristlegrim's cube; Taran sighs at the thought. Then he realizes that the falling stars also remind him of his last sight before he was cremated by a falling, flaming Balrog; Taran grimaces at this second thought. Not having the time nor the mental capacity to recall much else, Taran looks at his brother, shrugs, and wipes his mug face clean with a swipe of his tunic's shoulder piece. If he's going to start another adventure, better start it off the right way---with tusks cleaned and glistening with anticipation.
He then realizes that Shippy's [sic] been screaming the whole time. "Don't worry, Hobbo, any falling star's gotta get through me first before squishing you." Taran flashes his furry friend a trademarked Dracon tusky-grin. "Buckle up," he addresses the gang as he watches the woman known as Ruth (he overheard her that night in the bar) depart for parts unknown. "We got us another adventure, argh!"
Taran awaits nervously what is to befall him and his friends this night.
"Ack! <choke, cough>" I stop screaming, my voice spent like loose change on a cheap harlot. "Right, good idea Taran," I move behind Taran, using him for an Orc-like shield. Peaking around the meaty Orc, I say, "I remember back when a Hobbit's scream meant something. I sure miss those Goblin-chasing days."
After hiding my coins in my groin area I check my buckle and wonder to myself if Ruth will notice the protrusion.
"Don't look, Ethel!!" Jax yells, recalling the legend of the Body Snatchers. He draws his EverSharp™ blade, which goes "Schwing!" in the night, and he hisses through his tusks toward his brother, "Something tells me that party time is over, T."
I would like to play an Elven Sorceress with martial arts skills. Not too much huh? She's a tall, lithe and willowy creature, about 5'10" with surprisingly strong ethereal white hair, almost translucent alabaster skin, and eyes of the palest blue. Her wispy clothing and seductive walk is almost hypnotic.
Well it's a thought, what do you think?
"I think, uh, er, uh..." <mouth agape in hypnotic stare>
"Snap out of it Taran, we have an adventure to play!" <thwaps brother>
"Uh, right! I'm an Orc anyway. Why would I be, uh, slobbering at the sight of a tall, uh, pale, Elfy gal with, er, wispy clothing, a seductive walk...." <mouth agape again>
"Close your mouth Taran, we are not a cogfish!" <thwaps brother again>
The lady had class, a voice like honey, the kind with the bees still in it. She asked if she was too much. With Taran looking at her the way a Hobbit eyes a roast goose, you could make three of her and it still wouldn't be too much.
Besides we could always use more Elves.
As Jax swings about, senses keen to detect approaching danger, he is nearly bowled over by a large unkempt figure in leather and chain mail who staggers from a nearby doorway.
"Yer a biggun aincha!" remarks Blodwydd, staring back up at Jax through strands of greasy red hair from her now undignified position sprawled at his feet.
"Hey", she further observes pointing over his shoulder, "I usually hafta have a few more drinky-drinks before the stars start to do that..!"
I give a nauseated "Hail!" to everyone, readying my scimitar and putting my back to the wall of a nearby house/shop/etc., wishing that I could step into the Deathtrap Equalizer....
Michael of the Midnight Magics joins the others, obviously quite pleased with himself. His newest spell, Summon Game-Unbalancing Number of Wishes has worked, as falling stars seems to be everywhere. (No comment on his lack of eyelashes. Every major spell requires a material component.)
"Quick everyone, join in! I'm not sure what the duration of the spell will be. And the wish only counts if you get it out while the star still falls!" Looking up at the sky, he rapidly glances from starstreak to streak. (Lousy pigeons.)
"Argh, not Michael of the Midnight Magicks [sic] again...! <slaps own forehead as only a Hobbit can.>
"Ah, Michael of the Midnight Magicks [sic]!" Taran cries with surprise, not realizing he has correctly spelled the Warrior who would be a Wizard's name correctly (with the "k") while Shipy and even Michael himself failed to spell it right. [Note: the correct spelling indeed omits the "k"! --ed.] "Welcome back to the party!" Taran looks at the streaking stars once again, and whispers to Michael seriously between wishes. "You never did finish teaching me how to spell back in the sewers. If you get some time---"
At this, Taran is interrupted by an impatient wave of Michael's hand and another round of wishing. "At least he didn't start quipping," Taran thinks.
And now for something completely different. For those who missed Michael's last adventure, here's a special quote, nostalgically submitted by me:
"My theory is that we were attacked by a heffalump from behind while I was busy rescuing us by pressing the history eraser button. Then our unconscious bodies were chained up here by klangroos until we give them the secret of reaching the north pole."
--Michael of the Midnight Magicks [sic], 5/13/2000
(See "Goblins in the Mist".)
I wish M3 had come back sooner.
"I wish I had not left all my adventuring stuff at home. I wish one of those bar slugs would have come with me---I sure could use a hand getting this armor on."
"I could help you put that armor on Ruth!" I quip, flexing my cheap cop-a-feel™ Hobbit fingers.
Stray cats go running off down blind alleys to escape from the ear-piercing screams of the all too effete Shipy. The star streaks come barreling down faster and faster, until KABOOM!! they hit home, shaking the ground under your feet like an earthquake, blasting the heck out of trees near by hovels, and actually blowing in (goddess forbid!) the roof of the Tavern itself. The whole street erupts into a terrific conflagration with you all at the center of a ring of fire, though nothing actually seems to be consumed by it. Your neighbors are tossing their worldy possessions out of second story windows and are rappelling down the walls on bed sheets in utter panic.
From out of the burning blast craters, luminous figures materialize. Tall, overly long, overly thin arms and legs, their heads are masses of flickering flames with dark jagged cuts of absence for eyes and mouths. They stride out of the rubble on all sides of you with a quick unnatural gait closing in. One steps forward and chuckles at your apprehension.
"You'll be coming with us now, fleshy ones.... It seems you have an appointment! HAHAHAHA! ATTACK!!"
With that, the star-men, numbering about 20 or so, leap forward quickly like insects, screaching blue bloody murder and coming straight for the whole party.
In her apartment, Ruth rushes about, tossing off her fancy clothes and throwing on practical stuff. Looking at her fancy new Lamellar, she thinks, "That stuff's too heavy, and I've got to run," so she fastens on her old leather armor and grabs her adventuring pack, battle axe, and crossbow, leaving the rapier behind (never can figure where to carry that thing). Speeding back to the BFT, Ruth dodges a newly-formed crater, turns the corner, and sees the crowd surrounded by glowing figures. She recognizes the two Orcs, but most of the others are new to her. When the sparklies attack, Ruth charges into the fray, battle axe in one hand (amazingly light, for such a weapon), bich'wa in the other. Her only battle cry is, "I hate being late!"
"Protect the party leader!" I yell. "That's me! Form a fighting circle people! Over here!" With people tossing their worldly possessions out of windows, a less than ripe pomegranate ricochets off my head, causing me to stagger to and fro. "Ouch!" It's a drive by fruiting, I think to myself as the battle begins. I cling to Taran for protection like a slow-witted marsupial opossum.
"Ah Frak, and I just cleaned my scimitar!" Jax laments, bounding into the fray.
Methinks I'm always bounding Jax into the fray---I've really gotta come up with an original way of writing that!
The fem that just slammed into Jax would have to wait for a proper introduction while he introduced their assailants to his vorpal wit/blade. ("Your mother was a hamster and your fath---snickersnack")
"T, cover me! I'm goin' in!"
As Jax leaps into action, he passes by Triple M Mike. "Hey dude! How's it hangin'?"
Blodwydd staggers to her feet, clawing out her hand-and-a-half sword. Firelight gleams off finely polished steel as she swings the point in a somewhat unsteady circle, glaring at the approaching figures.
"Dincha ever learn ta say please when you invita girl over?"
Drat! This adventure sounds like a lotta fun. Wish we could join in. We have both practically been living at work lately. It's Mike's busy time of year,and a coworker of mine fell ill, so I was reluctantly dragooned into a lot more hours than I wanted. I think Domina is going on vacation. Maybe Desuma's working on her rock collection, or something equally exciting. Hopefully after the holidays, we can drop by the tavern for a brew. Shippy [sic], thanks for a fun adventure. I've been reading faithfully, even if I haven't been responding. Have fun, guys and gals---remember,the D&D girls are watching you!
I run up to the clot forming around Shipy, hopefully worming my way into the center (if only I was a little shorter), and for fun and kicks, I'll throw a bich'wa at the nearest of those freaky star-beings <I rolled a 3 + 4 = 7>
Drawing my broadsword in one quick move, I rush up beside the odd little Hobbit (i.e., Shipy) who just yelled that he was the party leader, and I join the circle forming around him. I hold my ground as the creatures approach.
Yes, I know some are these actions/comments aren't valid anymore. I don't care, this is MMM we're talking about. The boy's just not all there....
Spells: All spells levels 1--2
Selfish. You're the one who's been holding out all this time.
Ok, the revised cast list seems to be this: Michael of the Midnight Magicks [sic], Shipy the Cunning, Taran (SniperOrc) and Jax (BlurBlade), Ruth a'Guerré, Blaen, Blodwydd, Restu the Sneaky and Freya Dragonbane. Cripes! What a crowd!
Yes, but MMM isn't exactly a combat multiplier.
"Argh, not Michael of the Midnight Magicks [sic] again...! <slaps own forehead as only a Hobbit can.>
I, for one, think it can be done by anyone, and I'm willing to put that to the test. (slaps Shipppppy [sic] aside the head multiple times.) Join in everyone! Prove it can be done!
"Ah, Michael of the Midnight Magicks [sic]!" Taran cries with surprise, not realizing he has correctly spelled the Warrior who would be a Wizard's name correctly (with the "k") while Shipy and even Michael himself failed to spell it right.
Taran is of course forgetting that as an all-around smart-guy, Michael knows many languages. That's how it is spelled in Porker. But gee, if it'll make things easier on ya, I'll switch back to boring ol' Common.
"Welcome back to the party!" Taran looks at the streaking stars once again, and whispers to Michael seriously between wishes.
I wish pigeon hunting was in season all year 'round!
"You never did finish teaching me how to spell back in the sewers. If you get some time---"
Always time for a friend. B-A-C-K. W-a-i-t, don't I hate Orcs? I keep forgetting.
As Jax leaps into action, he passes by Triple M Mike. "Hey dude! How's it hangin'?"
Or was it just this one? My head hurts.
Hey, these guys are talking to us! I'm great at parlaying! I approach with open hands (while readying a Death Spell #9½, mentally of course), and say "Greetings, noble dwellers of deep caverns, may we help you?" Regardless of their response, or lack thereof, I say "It's okay, Gary sent us."
If I'm still conscious, I cast the Death Spell #9½, and bring my boot down, crushing an unfortunate insect.
I'm sure this will terrorize the foe. I quote: "With that, the star-men, numbering about 20 or so, leap forward quickly like insects, screaching blue bloody murder and coming straight for the whole party."
Obviously, there's some kind of bug-relation here.
I wish these flaming bug-things won't stain my boots!
The gods have recorded your enthusiasm for battle in the great cosmic book of celebrity felons as you bound forward to intercept the charging star-men. Four of them leap into the air and (appropriate yet undisclosed saving rolls made) tackle you, two a piece as you're engulfed in a great sphere of star-fire. You lose consciousness. The last words you hear: "Hmmmmm... this one's pretty cute, but the other could use a shower!" In your sleep you self-consciously mull over who's who....
One of the star-men, a tall long-faced one with a tattoo stating simply, "sucker" on his forehead, stops in his tracks and asks if you're a Jehovah's witness, whatever that is. Although the death spell doesn't seem to have any effect, he does take a step back as you stomp a passing roach. "Ewwww! Yucky!" he says before turning his attention back to brave Shipy and his circle of groupies.
Restu's bich'wa goes flying, true to the mark, but sails straight through his blasphemous target, producing no noticable effect. It strikes the ground next to an irate Grandma Withers (one of the Blue Frog's most venerable neighbors) in the process of fleeing from her hovel. She spots Restu in the crowd and starts hobbling on her cane from across the street with an "I'm gonna give that whipper snapper the beating of his life" look on her face.
Up front, you watch helplessly as your vanguard, Ruth and Jax, are tackled by the oncoming star-men. They struggle for a second before erupting into a tremendous burst (keep it clean gents!) leaving no trace of them or their alien adversaries. The remaining star-men, still screaming, continue their charge down the street.
Grandma Withers continues her somewhat less energetic charge from your right. The fires still burn fiercely in the surrounding buildings, though still nothing seems to be actually burning down for all the fuss.
What do you do?
Jax mulls in blissful unconsciousness, "Dude, Desuma and Domina made me shower last week!" His K.O.'d face twitches with the implied insult. "'Cute'?! Oh, the Orcity!"
Taran watches as his brother disappears. "Hey, now that ain't right," Taran shouts to Shippy [sic] above the din of the chaos. "Jax's supposed to rescue me, not the other way around!"
As the fire creatures approach, Taran addresses them, stepping in front of Shippy [sic] and the other huddled kindreds. "What manner of beings are you?!" He raises his fist menacingly, knowing weapons won't save them, but hoping boldness will; he plants his boots firmly and braces for the impact.
Ha ha! "Take That You Fiend!" I yell as I stomp another roach. "Don't worry, I've got them on the run now! I wish Shipo (one p) was covered with fire ants so everyone has some to stomp!"
As the fire creatures approach, Taran addresses them.... "What manner of beings are you?!" He raises his fist menacingly, knowing weapons won't save them, but hoping boldness will; he plants his boots firmly and braces for the impact.
Oh sure, everyone wants to get into the parlaying act now. Obviously my stunning success has convinced him of the merits of diplomacy. Taran, for only a small contribution to my latest political campaign, I promise to get you an ambassadorship somewhere.
I spit on a fire. (It's better than a spitted over fire any day.) Is it helping any?
As a Hobbit, I'm thinking of fleeing about now, but with my circle of groupies I resist, keeping my thoughts in check. "Fight to the last Hobbit! If someone has to go last it must be me!" I yell.
Seeing Taran move in front of me (as he has been well taught) I pat him on the back and say, "We'll miss poor Jax, but don't you still have another brother?" I touch my pocket where it holds Jax's fake WILL with his prominent "x"-like signature. Like girl scouts, Hobbits are always prepared just for such a loss. I can't help but hear the Shipo (one p) comment and immediately check for ants and uncles.
My only true loss is Taran was standing in front of me during the entire battle, for when the painting of this epic battle is released (and it surely will be), the true party leader will not be seen. Woe is the life of a Hobbit.
I boldly step forward, throw back my cloak and yell "Boo! Now go away! I already bought one, I gave at the office, I'm not the droids you're looking for!" With the spiked hair, tattoos, filed teeth and "Wild-elf-insane-gleam-in-the-eyes" (pat. pend.), it usually works on everyone, even door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen.
Taken aback by the takedown and sudden disappearance of the fellow she had tripped over mere moments before, Blodwydd senses the seriousness of the situation. Shifting her sword to a one handed grip, she unclips her dirk and confronts the foe she feels most capable of handling:
"Slow down there Gramma!"
"It's alright, this is not your fight. I've dishonoured this venerable beauty; I alone must face her well-deserved wrath. Remember me always...."
I drop frantically to my knees, wimpering "Please... no... please," and thinking that I can perhaps use that pleasant old lady as a human shield from an extra-terrestrial attack.
"Oh mama I've been years on the lamb
And had a high price on my head
Lawman said get him dead or alive
Now it's for sure he'll see me dead."
Ruth gets some beauty sleep.
(Tara's interlude: Why Can't Guys Be Funny?)
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