Our cast of characters is;
- Ambrose, a Half-Orc Beast Master Ranger Soldier.
- Awf Hornjaw et Loragwyn, a Hill Dwarf Bladesinger Knight.
- Droop, a Goblin Figher and we continue to discover that he’s more than a cook.
- Krakom Hammerstone, a Mountain Dwarf Battle Master with a history.
- Norran Galanodel, a Wood Elf Assassin who may have an impure past.
- Rowan Evenwood, a Human Cleric of Luck who once served in the church.
- Zardos Carver, a Human Warlock with a kickass sword who doesn’t let us know much about his past.
On 28 Tarsakh, 1490 we entered Phandalin. Now, the 9th of Mirtul, 1490 and frankly, a lot of things have happened. The worst part has been spending more than a day inside this gods forsaken cave. That’s Mountain Dwarf business. Our goal was to rescue Nundro and Thraden Rockseeker. Just outside the cave, we learn that Tharden Rockseeker is dead.
The group pushes through the mix of developed stonework and natural cave, trying to find Nundro before he too dies. This presses our resources, and our fate. Eventually we beat many impressive monsters, and some sorry saps that chose the wrong side in this conflict.
As the group makes camp with the Rockseeker brother and his ally/fellow captive, Awf starts fiddling with a small piece of rope. He also puts on his blunt lecture-y tone as he gruffly complains to the group.
“Guys, Rowan, we may want to review what happened in the hallway. Just maybe, mayyyyyyybe, trying to speedrun past a group of bugbears was a bad idea.”
He’s complaining about the fact that he and most participants in the rear guard action went unconscious for a bit. He is also (more than) slightly at fault for that.
“Thank you for the rescue action Rowan, and may your Lady of Luck continue to bless us. I’m making a donation in your name at the next shrine of hers we see.”
Awf grumbles to the side, “we need it.” He starts to enjoy some of the hard cheeses, meat sticks, and dried shrooms that he and fellow dwarf Krakom carry with them.
“Krakom! I was just thinking about that flying leap you took. Impressive idea to jump the bellows to fight a Flame Skull. 9 of 10 for the idea. Could you maybe get all hammer-y on the thing next time you try it?”
The two dwarves get along, mostly. They have that common bond of dirt and stone.
Awf hands Hammerstone a torn bit of the red cloak, scribbles Awf Hornjaw on it.
“When we get back to town we shall enjoy many meads and some ales, on me.”
Awf wearily eyes the captured bugbear the Brigade captured. That’s going to be a problem. A thought pops into his head like one of those phosphorescent fungus that burst into a glowing cloud when you stomp on them.
“Hey, Zardos, how long can you do that charm thing with this single bugbear? Is it good enough to get us back to town? I ain’t a clue how we’re going to keep track of that one. But that trick that got us past all the guards may just do it.”
The bare concept reminds Awf of the pact with the devil-raven. That eventually hurt Awf and may just hurt the others. Probably not good for the others eventually. There’s always a debt to pay.
Out of healing spells, and basically out of potions, Rowan and Awf, the only two trained in medicine, tend the wounds of the group. Norran and Ambrose were nearly as bad off as the axe-wizard.
The bowman, Norran, even with all the bobbing and weaving took a walloping. But it was great work. Ear-dude did a wonderful job striking from shadows. The Hawk Singers didn’t teach that kind of combat. It’s safe.
How did he get so wounded. Awf bandages the half-elf. Gives him a big swig of sweet wine.
“Son,” he says to the young warrior. “Let’s get you a fancy quiver.” And hands him an Awf Loragwyn signed piece of red cloth with the pledge.
On the other hand, the orc-ish looking dude, Ambrose, he’s got some Hawk Singer in him. That dude flings and swings axes with the best of them. Awf is certain he took out a giant spider and a dozen bugbears.
Ambrose tries to correct that dozen number, but Awf is refusing to hear it.
“Dozen. Certain of it.”
Ambrose humbly corrects the number.
“You need a special axe so you don’t throw the last one. I’m buying.” Another signed red cloth.
It’s late, and Awf probably drank too much while telling his friends how awesome they are. He puts his head on his pack, his axe on his chest, and rolls his bedroll around his feet.
“Hey guys, that fireball nearly went off at me feet…” he says, maybe in his sleep. Because now he’s out, dreaming of vengeance on a devil-raven and an actual bed outside of this stupid cave.