Theft of a Trusted Servant
Log Info
- Title: Theft of a Trusted Servant
- GM: Telamon
- Characters: Alba, Dirk, Dolan, Ravenstongue, Rhar
- Place: Noble Quarters, Alexandria / Riverthicket, Alexandros
Hazelyard Estate, Noble Quarter, Alexandria
The Noble Quarter is not a place where shenanigans of the illicit variety occur. The nobility pay very well for their security and safety, and it's probably one of the safest places in the city, at least on the streets. Behind manor walls, well, anything goes.
You have been asked to pay a visit to the honorable Lord Mikhail Hazelyard, and he has not been so crass as to keep you waiting. Indeed, he met you at the foyer, and led you to a simple parlor off the main hall. Trophies of past Hazelyards hang from the walls, heads and teeth of monstrous beasts and old, notched blades. A large family portrait hangs on one wall, depicting an eclectic group: the lord, his half-elven wife, two young daughters as blonde as their mother, a burly half-orc neatly dressed and looking vaguely uncomfortable in it, and a curious-looking wargolem with a glossy black hull and a subtly feline cast to his head, the face dominated by a slit with glimmering red eyes.
The lord himself is broad shouldered with curling brown hair and an easy smile, though his expression is much more sober today. He doesn't waste any time, either. "Someone," he states flatly, "has kidnapped my wargolem assistant and majordomo, Jaguar. I have suspicions as to who, but no evidence yet. However, the timing is curious, as a fellow had come by the day prior inquiring as to his services and asking to 'rent' him." His eyes grow hard. "Jaguar is not property. He is a free person, employed by me, and this fellow's attitude rankled."
Dirk arrived with his comrades at the appointed hour. He's not used to dealing with the highborn, but thanks to time spent with his more refined friends, he's gotten fairly decent at handling himself in polite company. His majestic white beard is freshly brushed, oiled, and groomed. His mythril breastplate is polished to a glossy mirror shine. His goods and gear are similarly spruced up, from the finely tooled and gem-studded bandolier across his burly chest to his spit-polished boots. He carries his thunderbelcher in its scabbard over his right shoulder, and he doffs his tricorne as soon as they're ushered into Lord Hazelyard's foyer.
As they enter within, he gives a soft whistle through his teeth. "Wait out here, Lulu," he says in a quiet undertone. The petite white-faced owl perched atop his shoulder gives an obliging hoo-hoot, taking wing and fluttering over to a nearby windowsill. He trundles after the others into the lord's parlor. Immediately, his gaze gets drawn to the hunting trophies. He regards a taxidermied head, giving his beard a thoughtful tug as he looks it over. But once his Lordship starts to speak, he turns and straightens, clasping his hands behind his back.
The news that one of the Lord's household has been kidnapped--because that's exactly what's happened, regardless of the majordomo's organic status--has the old snowbeard's shaggy white brows furrowing. "Not tae fret, milord," he says. "We'll find yer man an' bring 'im back safe. But please, might ye tell us of yer suspicions? Any notion o' where we might start lookin' fer this bastard who took Jaguar captive?" His cheeks pink up a bit under his gloriously majestic beard. "I probably can track 'em if they're still in Alex proper, though I'd hasten tae add that I'd be out me element. If they're out in the wood, well... that's another story entirely, innit?"
The sorceress Cor'lana Lúpecyll-Atlon had regarded the family portrait with curious violet eyes for a moment before focusing on the task at hand. She frowns a little when she hears the description of the situation from the lord. "Ahh--what was the fellow's description?" she asks. There's a slightly nervous twitch of her hands, followed by a glint in her violet eyes enhanced by the fact she is dressed for war in her adventuring robes, cloak, and circlet.
There's also a Pothy with her. He's looking around for food, blue eyes wide and curious as can be. But he keeps quiet for now.
Dolan, too, has learned enough from Telamon of how not to look like a complete hick that, while he is clad as an adventurer might, he is, at the least, properly polished and groomed, hair tied back with a leather thong. The family portraits and trophies get only a momentary look, his focus on the business at hand. "What are your suspicions?" he asks easily enough, the two-sided gaze steady on one side, expressionless on the other, remaining standing rather than seating himself until bid.
Alba is not a good fit for a lord's manor. Not even a little parlor off the foyer.
As the lord lays out the details of the request, Alba simply looms in place, occupying a less-lit corner of the room. The cavernous, shadowy eye-sockets of her monster-skull mask fix upon the lord as he lays out his case, finger-razors tap-tap-tapping on the bicep of her other arm.
For now, she remains silent, save for a brusque, businesslike nod to her fellow troubleshooters, waiting to see if the lord's answers lead to any more questions.
GAME: Alba rolls sense motive: (6)+2: 8 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Sense Motive: (14)+25: 39 GAME: Dirk rolls Sense Motive: (7)+3: 10 GAME: Dolan rolls sense motive: (3)+21: 24
Rhar only knows someone is missing. Lost. That isn't good! Everyone should always know where they are. Sadly, Gurr isn't the best for a foyer. Especially a little one. Because he isn't. Since he can't speak trade, Rhar skitters her way inside as his official representative and to ask important questions. "Where is Jaguar?" That seems to be the most important question.
Lord Mikhail sighs and offers Rhar a surprising smile. "That's the question, isn't it? But I have an idea." He pauses to look at the portrait. "The fellow who came by was a khazadi by the name of Urvis Ironshanks. I confess I'd not heard of him, but he presented himself as a wizard and researcher into the nature of golems and constructs. He was incredibly pushy -- didn't seem to understand why I wouldn't order Jaguar around."
"After we'd gone in circles a few times, I finally got angry and told him to leave. He acted like I wasn't even telling him off, and just casually said he'd be back with a better offer later."
This revelation prompts a raised eyebrow and a lifted shamble of a strip of hair from Dolan. "Think I get it," he says. "The sort that thinks he's entitled to whatever he wants and won't take no for an answer. What do you think the odds are that he approaches you with - " He seems to think better of it, cutting himself off sharply. "He say where he was from, at all?"
GAME: Dirk rolls Knowledge/Local: (12)+3: 15
Dirk's brows furrow, his expression turning stormy. "Ironshanks... I know I've heard that name afore," he grumbles softly. He ponders for a moment, then snaps his fingers. "Och, wasn't that brou-ha-ha over in the Warehouse District caused by some chuff named Ironshanks?" He harrumphs, his beard bristling angrily. "Never did like those Ironshanks sorts. Always janderin' about like their shit dinnae stink. An' they will haggle ye tae death over the slightest wee thing." He pauses. "'least, I think that was an Ironshanks. I dinnae pay much attention tae the mountain clans. But I'm sure I heard tell 'bout an Urvis Ironshanks gettin' clapped in irons an' tossed in gaol a while back."
"A researcher of golems and constructs who treats a war golem like something to be studied and not as something with its own autonomy?" Cor'lana asks with a small sneer. "Yes, that does sound appropriate."
"Asshole," Pothy mutters in a mimic of Cor'lana's voice.
"Pothy, please don't cuss in front of the employer, even if he doesn't seem like one to be offended by such," Cor'lana politely requests, and her hand goes to shut the snacks pocket that she normally feeds Pothy from. She raises a brow as Dirk explains his bit. "So our 'friend'... should be before a court and not out and about. Mmm."
Her mouth presses together into a fine line. "I suppose we should expect magic wherever we go. That means scrying for Jaguar might be fruitless. This Urvis might have means to thwart scrying if he's a wizard of skill."
"Hnnnn," grumps the Witch from by the door. "An alternative: Perhaps the servant's quarters house a piece of the servant himself? A creature of flesh will leave hairs on pillows and brushes, perhaps there will be something of its like for a servant of stone and magic? All things desire to be clean..."
Lord Mikhail scowls. "Wouldn't surprise me. There was word of some kind of disturbance down in the warehouses some months back. He might've paid his way out and opted to leave the city." He sighs. "He didn't say he was from anywhere, but he wanted Jaguar to come with him to one of the outlying villages. Said he'd set up there to avoid Charnese spies."
At Alba's suggestion, and Lana's commentary, Mikhail spreads his hands. "I'll lead you to his quarters -- he doesn't have much, though what he does have he cherishes. Whatever helps you find him, bring him back..."
The lord is as good as his word, walking you to a small room just off the family bedrooms. Probably a study, repurposed into living quarters for something that might not need all the comforts. The bed is a simple wooden bier, but the desk and shelves are neat and tidy with shelved books on magic and arcane theory. On the desk itself is a heavy leatherbound tome, along with pencils in a cup and a quill and capped inkwell. Several small wooden carvings of cats sit on the desk, and tied to one of the bedposts are dozens of colorful ribbons.
Rhar looks from the Lord to the others as she follows along with the suspicions. "So... find one shiny legs and maybe have other shiny legs! What village? Is den, will find there!" Her investigative abilities are not on par with Gurr's, but she can spot the obvious. Sometimes.
Leading to Jaguar's room is useful, too, though! She quickly scampers in to start sniffing at things. The nose knows what the eyes don't.
Dolan turns his whole body to look at Alba, at the witch's statement, and eyes her warily for some moments, then nods. "Huh. She's right. Wargolems groom, too. Maybe an oil can of theirs or something."
He falls silent, then, and follows the noble to the quarters, leaving the arcanists among them to their work. "Did he say which outlying village?" His eyes fall then on the carvings of cats, and a wide and ready grin spread across the mobile half of his features. "Who made those?" he laughs easily. "I'm to be wed a couple of weeks hence, and my bride would love those. She's in love with cats." He leans in to inspect them more closely.
GAME: Ravenstongue casts True Seeing. Caster Level: 15 DC: 22
Drifting around the room, thin locks of Alba's hair reach out, brushing against the few possessions in the relatively spartan chambers. The figurines, appreciated, the book, given an interested look but left untouched, but the ribbons...
A handful of them are lifted in one curled hank of hair, and the witch looks back to the lord. "These... I would know why he keeps them. Does he like their look, to adorn his sleeping-place? If this is a question you may answer, I listen with both ears."
Dirk follows along with the others. Reading magicked residues and other leavings of golem-kind are far outside the old snowbeard's wheelhouse, so he keeps his peace for now. He does take interest in the carvings of cats, and it softens his dour expression somewhat. "Och, he's quite the talented artist, I'll warrant," he says. "An' that right there's a sure sign that he's just as intelligent as any one of us." A pause. "Well, maybe nae as intelligent as me, Dana knows I'm hardly the sharpest marble in the deck."
"Your cats are sweet creatures. I understand why she loves them," Cor'lana responds with a grin as she steps into the room, too. She murmurs an incantation and her eyes begin to glow, observing the room for a moment.
"There's nothing illusory here," she concludes. "Nothing with transmutation, either. It looks clean, all things considered."
Pothy looks around, too, but is further-denied the joy of snacks. Why would a war golem keep snacks in their quarters, after all? He hangs his head and sighs from his roost on Cor'lana's shoulder.
"My daughters," Mikhail explains. "They like to put ribbons on him -- they did it when they were younger, and he kept them as mementos. He also carves those little figurines, and would give them to the girls in return."
"They gave him the name, you know. Well, they called him 'Cat', because he vaguely looks like one. He liked 'Jaguar' better -- like the great black-furred cats seen in Am'shere. When we rescued him from the Charnese, he only had a number." His eyes take on a briefly hard look. "I like his new name better."
This explanation earns a slow, grave nod, and the hair begins to untie one of the ribbons from its place. "It is not a piece of him," she muses aloud, "but as a piece of his heart, it will serve better than naught at all. I would ask if there is a place we may have quiet, and a large bowl filled with water. It matters not what the bowl is made of, only that it be at least as wide at its mouth, as a head. Two heads, preferably."
Dolan turns his head towards Cor'lana, grinning. "They're hers, not mine. Think she'd like one, when we rescue him? If he's willing, that is." A quick look at the noble, and he turns away from the carvings and back to the others. "You can scry?" he asks then, of the woman in the mask.
"I can if she cannot," Cor'lana responds, already pulling out a scroll from within the bag of holding. But her expression is warm as she listens to Mikhail talk about daughters putting ribbons onto the war golem. "Little girls can be awfully sweet."
"And stinky," Pothy interjects, in the voice of a lower-toned woman. He looks meaningfully at Cor'lana.
Cor'lana ignores him. "I have the mirror we would need as well," she says. "So, we are fortunate. I can set up as needed. And Brydion--I think she'd love one. Although I think she'd love it even more if you acknowledged those cats are both yours and hers." There's a sly smirk on her face.
Rhar continues her sniffing about, sticking her head up to nod. "Yes! Very stinky!" She doesn't clarify whether its about her investigating, little girls, or other. She eventually completes a circuit of the room to confirm, "Kitty not here." She did hear that others have ideas on where else to look, so she looks between the others to see about their looking.
Lord Mikhail nods. "Take what you need. We... just want him back. He's family." He stares down at his boots, perhaps embarrassed, before continuing, "Riverthicket. Honestly, I'm surprised anyone even lives there, a number of those smaller villages got flattened during the wight invasion and the survivors moved on."
He narrows his eyes. "If he's up to something, though, an abandoned village would be a great place to set up shop..."
That notion gets Dolan's attention, and he turns back to Mikhail. "Yeah, it would be. If Lana and," he nods to Alba, "can confirm where he is, we'll move on it - but we'd better be careful. If it got wiped out by wights, decent odds there's wights still around."
Only then does he take the time to snort back at Lana. "I s'pose I don't get a vote."
GAME: Dirk rolls Knowledge/Geography: (6)+10: 16
"Wights and things beyond them," Cor'lana replies with an expression that's like soured milk. "Riverthicket. If you and I can do the scrying together and we confirm Jaguar is there, then we'll move onto the village promptly."
She looks at Dolan with a small smirk. "Oh, you do, but I think you'll probably be outvoted between you, your wife-to-be, and the cats," she says. Then she looks to the Lord, and her expression turns sympathetic. "I understand. We will get him back."
The sorceress departs to find a room suitable for the process to assist with Alba's scrying.
Dirk's brows furrow once more, and he thinks for a long moment. "Riverthicket," he muses, tugging at his beard. "Aye. I know the place. More a wide spot on the road, really. Blink an' ye miss it. Fair certain it's abandoned now." He looks up and around. "It'd be a perfect spot fer some chuff wi' hinky ideas 'bout a golem's personhood tae do his whatever-the-hell it is he's meanin' tae do." He growls softly. "If there do be wights there, then I can handle 'em easy 'nough. I've gotten right good at huntin' the deadwalkers. An' I dinnae think there's aught they can do tae harm poor Jaguar." He harrumphs softly, his beard bristling once again. "They can have Ironshanks, fer all I care."
"It is good to know this," Alba muses. "But the scry I still wish; if only that the area is better known before we arrive... and perhaps to have the servant warned that rescue comes for him, if indeed the magics take hold. Hn. So."
An appropriate bowl is found, and in short order she follows after Cor'Lana, setting up in a wide, clear swatch of the parlor. A lock of her hair clutches the ribbon, and when the bowl is filled to the very rim, her free hand is held out for the mirror.
Perhaps most disturbingly, is how one of the razors of her weapon hand, comes up to press against the tip of her tongue. Not hard-- but sharpened adamantine oesn't need much pressure at all to draw blood, a bead of which is held over the center of the bowl, the mirror placed at an obscure angle, as though to catch light from someplace not currently providing it.
At the height of the incantation, the blood is allowed to fall into the water, dispersing into a thready cloud almost instantly.
Holding her breath, the witch leans over the bowl, to see if the spell took.
GAME: Alba casts Scry. Caster Level: 12 DC: 19
The water in the bowl clouds up immediately as the spell takes hold, and for long moments there is nothing. And then, slowly, the clouding begins to recede...
The scene is of a cross between a prison cell, and a mechanical abattoir. Several war golems lie sprawled around in various states of disassembly. Hard to tell if they are all dead -- some still stir, and faint metallic groans can be heard, some garbled, others disturbingly like those who are flesh and blood.
In the center sits a black armored, very familiar war golem, missing his left arm at the shoulder and his left leg at the knee. He's propped himself up, and is talking quietly to another war golem whose face is a ruin and is missing its eyes.
Abruptly, Jaguar -- it's clear it IS Jaguar, despite looking a bit worse for the wear -- looks right at the 'view' of the scrying portal. A red gleam pulses left to right and back across the armored slit in his face, and a soft voice comes from him. "Riverthicket. Be wary. No undead, but the wizard is doing something with our parts. Send help quickly."
Cor'lana's face is solemn as the scrying results come to pass. She looks around at the group and says, quietly, "We are the help. And we're coming quickly."
She looks to the group. "I'm confident I can teleport us to that sight within the scrying," she says, holding out her hands. "Everyone form up and I can cast the spell." Yes, she even gestures for Alba to come join. She doesn't seem so perturbed by the witch, but Pothy's clearly a little hesitant, as he suddenly switches the the shoulder opposite of where Alba's standing.
Dolan, who had shut up at some point in the casting process and listened, scowls as the picture comes clear. "Fucking wizard," he remarks, the profanity slipping from him unheeded. "All right, we know where he is. Let's get in there." Hearing Lana offer the teleport, he moves to the side Pothy just jumped to and puts a hand on her arm. "You can ride with me, Pothy. Right shoulder, please." Indeed, the leather cuff on his left shoulder is fairly tight.
"Yes," Alba murmurs. "Speed is of the essence."
She looks up to Lord Mikhail, mask falling back into place. "Still he lives, and is in company, though all are, at the least, direly injured by the wizard. He will be returned to you, and his kidnapper shall come to understand what horrors he has wrought upon himself."
This last, is said with a slow, killer's grin, that only widens as Pothy decides to opt for the other shoulder. A red-banded viper slithers out from under her hair, staring at the raven and flicking its tongue, once, before retreating to its unsettling nest. Her free hand falls in Cor'lana's shoulder, her razored one extended out, knives curled under her hand in a loose approximation of a fist. It would not do, after all, to cut one's allies.
Dirk's face turns white as milk as he surveys that horrific scene. "Beards o' me fathers," he whispers in a horrified tone. But the moment is swiftly replaced by fury. "Lana, can ye magick us there? I'm only an armorsmith, I dinnae ken if there's aught I can do fer those poor lads, but... we have tae move fast." He reaches up and over his shoulder to draw his thunderbelcher, racking the slide with a satisfying CHK-CHAK. He leans over to the window and whistlers sharply. "Lulu! C'mon lassie, we're goin' huntin'!" He's answered by a hoo-hoot from outdoors. Moments later, Lulu comes fluttering in through the parlor door, settling on her master's shoulder. She twists her head over towards Pothy, then over to Dirk. "Hoo! Hoo-oo!" The little owl sounds downright indignant. Dirk grunts. "Because I dinnae ken if owls were allowed tae come in. This is a fancy house, innit? Now shush, we've got a wizard tae handle. Get yer game face on." That's all Lulu needs to hear. She puffs up her feathers and fans her wings out behind her like a cloak, hissing softly as she click-clacks her beak.
"We go!" Rhar knows they're going, if not the fanciful nature of how they're going. She can press herself up to the others easy enough, though. Nearer Alba and her very fancy hair. Rhar's goes every which way, but she can't make hers move like that. Yet!
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Greater Teleport. Caster Level: 15 DC: 24
You get that strange sensation of traveling without moving. But there's no sense of hesitancy or instability in it. Within an instant, you're no longer just outside Alexandria but now inside a dimly lit prison cell.
A number of the still-alive war golems jerk upright in surprise at your arrival, writhing around, trying to stand while missing limbs or components. Jaguar himself definitely looks startled, his crimson eye flaring, before he says, "Well... it seems Lord Mikhail isn't messing around." There's an urbane, polite quality to his diction. "At least, I hope he sent you. Pretty sure Ironshanks didn't."
It takes Dolan a moment to reorient himself, once teleported, and he staggers, standing still for a moment to regain his bearings. "Yeah," he tells the wargolem absently. "Where's the wizard?" His tones are terse and clipped, but calm. "Are we locked in?" The questions are asked of all of the wargolems present.
Rhar is used to running really fast, or sometimes flying. This 'moving without moving' thing is ...weird. She blinks once. Then she blinks again, slowly, in case she might be somewhere else-else when she opens her eyes again. "Rhar!" she introduces herself to the onlooking golems with a rapidly waving hand. "We here. Get you free. Get you home!"
Then she looks to Dolan at his question. That's an important one. "Find door!" She moves and looks around for that, because that's also important information.
"If this is so," Alba says, amused, in answer to Dolan's question, "it is not a truth that will survive for long." To supplement this statement, she idly rubs two of her fingers together, cricket-like, the adamantine razors producing a moment of tooth-spikingly sharp 'music.'
"Peace," she says to the war-golems who try, mutilated as they are, to rise to feet that may or may not be there. "To the corners, all of you. Hide and protect yourselves as well as you may. If there is fighting, small targets are less likely to be in the way of a misaimed spell."
"He sent us," Cor'lana says quietly. This is followed with a murmur of an incantation, the sorceress going beginning to fade out of existence. Pothy, who hitched the ride there on Dolan's right shoulder (and offered the inquisitor a meaningful look in the process) to be free of the creepy Alba and her snake, rapidly flaps over to Cor'lana's shoulder, benefitting from the invisibility.
"Perhaps we can ambush the wizard," Cor'lana adds as she finds a hiding spot, herself, her footsteps the only clue where she's going. "He has to walk in here eventually, after all."
This is followed with a quicker incantation, one that grants her protection.
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Greater Invisibility. Caster Level: 15 DC: 21 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Mage Armor/Quicken. Caster Level: 15 DC: 22
Dirk grunts softly as his boots touch down. Like dealing with highborn, traveling via teleportation is something the old snowbeard's gotten used to. Immediately, he's scanning the surroundings, his thunderbelcher tucked into his shoulder as he sweeps the room. "Lulu, up top," he instructs. The owl hoots an affirmative and wings up into whatever rafter or shelf she can find. Won't she be a big surprise for anyone coming in, unawares? He looks back to the golems, nodding his head. "We're here tae get ye out o' here, lads. Not tae fret. We'll get ye all took care of, right as rain."
The golems drag themselves, and those of their kin who cannot move, to the sides. Jaguar nods. "I knew he wouldn't forget me. The door's locked from the outside. Ironshanks, the wizard... he's not terribly interested in us once he's gotten his 'spare parts'."
The golem tilts his head. "We haven't seen much, but we've heard him doing something outside. Hammering, shouting, cursing, singing badly..." He seems to realize Dirk is there, and winces. "Sorry. But he really does not have a good voice for singing."
"Then he probably isn't going to come back for a minute." Dolan sucks in a breath, and turns his whole body to stare at Alba. "You think those claws of yours can get through that door? Or have you got some other way?" Having Pothy launch off of his shoulder makes this movement easier. "Any of you pick locks?"
"I can disintegrate the door if nothing else, but I'd like to keep my spellworking handy to feeblemind that wizard," Cor'lana says quietly. "It would prevent him from doing much of anything that he'd studied, unless he's got something up his sleeve. And I do imagine he's got something up his sleeve."
Unseen, the sorceress holds her hands in wait for just the spell in question, to be cast if the wizard happens to be on the other side of the door.
GAME: Alba casts Cone of Cold. Caster Level: 12 DC: 20 GAME: Alba rolls 12d6: (33): 33
"If a project he labors upon, then best he not be given time to complete," Alba says, moving in front of the door. "Back. Everyone. Everyone."
Digging into her pouches, she fishes out a cone-shaped piece of glass, murmuring whispered, mind-twisting syllables as she caaaaarefully carves knifelike shard designs into the object. As the incantation draws to a close, she holds the etched glass up to her mouth, and blows sharply upon the point.
The cone splits apart, a sudden blast of frigid air driving jagged shards of ice into the reinforced door... but the door holds.
Muttering disappointed aspersions against the door, its lineage, and possibly its recreational preferences, Alba slinks back to a corner to pout.
GAME: Dirk rolls Melee: (18)+12: 30 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d4+1: (3)+1: 4 GAME: Dolan rolls melee: (9)+11: 20 GAME: Rhar rolls 1d20+melee+5: (12)+19+5: 36 GAME: Dolan rolls 1d4+strength: (2)+3: 5 GAME: Rhar rolls 1d2+strength+5: (1)+4+5: 10
Dirk takes a step back as Alba works her magicks. The arctic winds blast his cloak back and ruffle his beard. He scowls at the frost-clad door, still standing after the icy assault. Just standing there. Staring at them. Judging them. "Well, let's get to it, then!" he growls. He stomps a couple steps forward and lifts his boot to kick the door in. THUD! The door shakes. Stares. Judges. It does not break. Dirk's jaw drops as he hops back on one foot, seeing the door still standing tall. "Ohh, piss up my arse!"
GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Perception+4: (1)+19+4: 24 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Dolan rolls perception: (11)+17: 28 GAME: Alba rolls perception: (10)+14: 24 GAME: Rhar rolls perception: (16)+21: 37
Rhar doesn't need to do much to be a small target as Ravenstongue suggested. She does move to the side (and BEHIND Alba at her warning). She readies her big around stick on one arm and her sharp pointy stick in her other paw. Then Alba freeze-dries the door. Then Dirk kicks it. Then Dolan. And finally she bonks it with her big round stick to help finish knocking it loose!
It's a pack effort and she grins at Alba moping at the side. "You loosened it!" It's a reassurance, and the truth!
Dolan is swift to move on the door once Dolan is done, and without hesitation puts a firm, metal-shod boot into the door. Chunks of frozen wood splinter away, and iron squeals in protest, but still it holds - until Rhar sets into it with her stick, amdn it crashes down with a splinter and a roar of twisting metal.
"I think we just announced ourselves," he tells no one in particular. "Let's get up there, before he's got a chance to prepare any nasty surprises."
With the door lying in frozen chunks, the hallway beyond is dimly lit. At a guess, you'd expect this used to be the jail or drunk tank for the village, as there's only a short hall leading to stairs leading upward. Beyond, you can vaguely hear some clunking sounds, and barely audible speaking. Sounds like someone upstairs is busy.
"He's upstairs," Dolan adds, quickly. "Let's move before he can lay down any nasty little welcomes. Move it!" he calls to the others, taking off at a run down the hallway and reaching for the harness that holds the greatsword to his back. Not dropping it, no. Not yet. Closer.
Without comment, Alba lopes after Dolan, hair streaming out behind her, and writhing completely against the momentum of her passing. All that can be seen of her face is that killer's grin, once more. They have a target, and that target will be sorry they dismantled a child's favorite friend.
"Go, pack, go!" Rhar goads everyone on in a empathic not-yell-not-whisper. She can't move as fast on only two legs, but she moves up with Dolan and others as fast as those two legs will carry her.
As Dolan initiates the movement, Cor'lana responds, "Moving with you. Providing a spell of haste." She murmurs an incantation to make the group all the faster in their footwork, followed by an incantation to further bolster her defenses.
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Haste. Caster Level: 15 DC: 20 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Shield/Quicken. Caster Level: 15 DC: 22
-- To be continued.