1.Misadventures in D&D.

‘Look, I told you before. You spent most of your share of the gold back in Whitesparrow’. 'Honest' Abba looked sideways at the hulking figure stalking alongside the cart as it rumbled and bounced along the rutted highway. ‘Remember you insisted on buying some weapons or armour or somesuch before you headed out to that bloody cave’. The huge half-orc glared at the diminutive Abba suspiciously. He’d only known the rock gnome for a short while, but already he knew well enough that Abba could tie you up in words as quick as blinking. Ogguebak didn’t really have a frame of reference when it came to smart-mouthed rock gnomes. Back in his tribe, far to the north, any discussion such as this would have quickly devolved into a bloody brawl with the loser usually being left with at least one broken or missing limb, or worse. Og permitted himself a rumble of satisfaction as he recalled many discussions he’d won by the simple expedient of pulling off one of his opponent’s arms. In fact, he was renowned amongst his people as something of a gifted debater. But here in the soft Southlands he knew things were different, that he couldn’t just beat the gnome to a bloody pulp to make his point, tempting though it was. Again Og chuckled to himself as he pictured himself debating Abba to within an inch of his life. Hearing the bass rumble from within his companion’s chest, Abba shifted slightly in his seat on the wagon. He loved outsmarting the ‘Biggers’, as his folk called most other races, but in the case of the half-orc barbarian he knew enough to temper his verbal barbs with a healthy dose of self-preservation. ‘Look, perhaps I might have a few gold pieces I haven’t accounted for in my pack. When we stop to rest, I’ll let you have those. Ok?’ Seeing Og’s smile broaden, Honest Abba grimaced back and returned his attention to the road ahead.

Sourly, he regarded the backs of the plodding oxen pulling the fully-laden cart. They’d been travelling for a couple of days now, and he wasn’t looking forward to spending another night under canvas. He was meant for the finer things the Forgotten Realms had to offer, and nights on the road weren’t amongst them. Grumpily, he whacked the rump of the nearest ox with his whip, and was rewarded by a truly noxious fart that the stolid beast unleashed in return. As Abba gagged and cursed, the figure seated in the rear of the wagon snorted in laughter. Pouldan was seated cross-legged on a sack of grain, reading from his grimoire as always. As he did so, his familiar swooped around his head in the form of a slightly glowing bat. Absently, Pouldan waved the bat-familiar away as he struggled to force a particularly complex magickal formula into his brain, his black hair sticking out from his head even more so than usual. The bat-thing fluttered away and got itself caught in the majestic facial hair of the fourth member of the group. Gleaming in his dwarven armour as he stomped along the road, Dulron Durthane, Cleric of Helm, swore foully as he pulled the squeaking creature out of his beard. ‘Pouldan, if you don’t keep that thing under control you’ll be passing it in chunks for a week, by Helm!’ Hearing the anger in Dulron’s voice, Pouldan hurriedly dismissed the bat-thing to a pocket dimension and smiled weakly at the enraged dwarf. Og the barbarian guffawed loudly with laughter and Honest Abba smirked nastily at Pouldan’s discomfiture. For a moment, the party regarded each other and, not for the first time, wondered what the Hells they were doing together at all.

It was fair to say they’d been thrown together by chance. For their own reasons, they’d found themselves in the market of Whitesparrow just as a group of thugs had attacked a well-dressed old man, passing through the market with his guards. As the rest of the onlookers variously squealed, screamed or placed bets on how long the old man would last, the four of them had drawn weapons, wands or bows and leaped to the old man’s defense. More charitable observers would have said they’d intervened to save a defenseless old man. Others might have said they’d got an eye on a handsome reward from the obviously wealthy old codger. In fact, they’d got more than they bargained for when they became embroiled in rescuing a kidnapped noble brat who, quite frankly, probably deserved whatever he got. Be that as it may, the four of them had managed to rescue the  brat and received a handsome reward, despite having to run away from some undead monstrosity in a supposedly abandoned shrine to some ancient god of murder. They’d briefly considered going back into the not-so-abandoned shrine to retrieve the treasure they’d glimpsed in there whilst retreating at top speed, but saner heads prevailed. Besides, Dulron had an easier opportunity for four likely adventurers that probably wouldn’t require facing down any unquiet dead. He’d received a message from his clan-uncle Gundren, who seemed very excited about an opportunity he’d uncovered and needed some help. Dulron had a pretty low opinion of Gundren. His clan-mates called him ‘Rockseeker’, which wasn’t meant as a term of high praise. In Dwarven parlance, a rockseeker was someone who wasted his time on pointless activities that usually came to nothing.

So it was that the four had travelled to the city of Neverwinter, where they’d arranged to meet Gundren in a harbour dive called ‘The Salty Seahorse’. As usual, Gundren was excited about something he’d uncovered in the mining town of Phandalin, a few day’s journey to the south. He planned to head off with one of his human acquaintances, and needed someone to escort a wagon of supplies intended for Phandalin’s general store. After haggling Gundren up to the meagre sum of 20 gold each for the job (five now, fifteen on delivery), the four unlikely companions found themselves escorting the supply wagon down the trail to Phandalin, and finding out just how much they annoyed each other to boot.

As the companions rounded a bend, they entered a section of the trail where the woods on either side seemed to press in more closely than before. As the trees loomed over them,turning the sunlight to a green twilight, Abba’s well-developed sense of self-preservation began to whisper to him. Hauling on the reins, he brought the cart to a stop and stood up to get a clearer view of what lay ahead. Some hundred paces ahead, two mounds lay across the path, black feathered arrows sticking up at odd angles. ‘Dead horses; goblin work, by the look of it’. Hearing this, Ogguebak and Dulron hefted their weapons and moved towards the slain horses. Pouldan hung back at the cart, preparing to unleash his magick in support of his comrades. Meanwhile, Abba slunk off the cart and moved towards the trees. To Pouldan’s amazement, Abba’s form almost seemed to shimmer and become one with the trees, so stealthy were his movements. As he crept through the woodland, Abba’s gnomish senses were at their sharpest, so he quickly caught sight of a group of goblins hunkered down at the edge of the forest. As he watched, they drew their primitive bows and began to pepper Dulron and Og with black-feathered arrows. Nimbly, he climbed to a vantage point in a nearby tree and waited for an opportune moment to pick off a goblin or two.

Roaring in rage, Og charged forward and decapitated the first goblin with a swing of his axe. As his clan-mate’s blood spattered across his face, a nearby goblin looked up and opened his mouth to yell a curse. The curse was never heard, however, as one of Abba’s arrows planted itself firmly in his open mouth. Grinning, Abba took aim at another target and let fly.

Meanwhile, Dulron spotted another group of goblins to the south of the path. Charging towards the foe, hammer held high, he uttered a prayer to Helm. In response, his god caused a glowing blade to shimmer into existence next to the goblin warband. As his charge hit home, the glowing blade struck the foul creatures from the rear. The sudden assault by the heroes did its work; soon, only one goblin remained, fleeing northwards, screams echoing in its wake.

Whilst Dulron remained at the cart and Pouldan patched his wounds, Og and Abba moved cautiously northwards, following the trail left by the fleeing goblin. After avoiding a couple of primitive traps, the pair found a cave entrance within a forbidding black-veined cliff face. A short while later, all four of the companions were hidden in the trees, watching the entrance. With a word, Pouldan summoned his familiar and sent it towards the cave with a thought. Closing his eyes, he reached out to the bat and saw the world through its eyes (or ears). Quickly, he became aware of a group of goblin sentries huddled together in some bushes near the cave entrance. Returning to his own body, Pouldan whispered to his comrades and, within a few moments, the goblins lay dead. As Og cleaned his axe, the group moved towards the cave entrance. The bat-familiar moved ahead as before, and Pouldan became aware of a pack of chained wolves, snapping and snarling to the right of the entrance. As Abba and Pouldan drew their bows and began to methodically pepper the creatures, Dulron and Og moved further into the cave, their feet splashing through a shallow stream, trusting their darksight to show them the way. Suddenly, a dull roar echoed through the cave. As Dulron and Og looked at each other in puzzlement, a huge wave washed down the passageway. Shouting in alarm, Abba, Dulron and Og were all washed out of the cave entrance and were deposited in a wet, cursing heap just outside. Battered and bruised, they began to rise to their feet and looked back into the cave. Whilst they had been washed away, Pouldan had leaped up onto a ledge away from the rushing water. Congratulating himself on his lightning reflexes, he became aware of a low growling and snapping coming from behind him. Turning slowly, he saw many pairs of yellow, feral eyes glaring at him through the darkness; in his haste, he’d jumped up onto a ledge alarmingly close to his erstwhile canine targets, and it seemed they were not too happy to see him…
(To be continued…)