All the grues in THIS dungeon have sunglasses. . .
So, a long polearm glaive which you assemble in time to ascend the tight, steep spiral staircase? Good idea! You’re taking up the rear. Ah, yes, you’ve worked it out.
You all start climbing the stairs, one at a time-- they’re very narrow and thay are worn along the middles, as if they have been climbed like this for aeons. Or eons. . . ieo. . . whatever. About 100 stairs up you begin to hear faint noises up above. The smoke from the road flare is rising up the stairs before you.
(Sorry, guys. Mom says I gotta go to piano practice and then AYSO soccer and then Weebelos. I’ll be back in a few hours (must write. Someone else can take over for a while. Dammit.))
I’m in the middle. Because, you know, that’s the most dangerous place to be. Whatever meanie we come across, will be startled by the first couple of guys, then attack the one in the middle.
“Yuh-Huh, it does to make since. I read it somewhere.”
I’m near the end of the group, heading up the stairs, still muttering about ‘nobody wanted to explore the doors that I pointed out… just because he opened a door I mssed…’
Well, we can either topple the organization that created the Weebelos (They really do!) or we can pick a new DM. (I call not it.) Otherwise, we have to hit alert when updated, and wait for capybara to come back from his day’s activities.
As you near the top of the stairs, you hear low, grunting voices, in a non-human tongue-- it sounds like there more than one. You also hear the roll of dice.
I shoulder the useful polearm and keep it in place with one hand while I ready the Anachronistic Pistol Bow with the other, and edge my way forward to where I can see the subhuman grunters. If they look dangerous, I’ll loose off the nitrous round and then scamper back behind Scott so he can take the Sword of Pixelious to them, and then I can do something very brave with the polearm, beginning with snapping the remaining 2’ section back into place…
Patting Scott on the shoulder on the way past, I stick a note to his back saying “Critical Me”.
“No, it’s HIS turn! Counterclockwise!”
“That’s what I said!”
“No no no stop it.”
“Hand them over.”
“Okay okay.” Dice roll. You can’t tell what language this is, however.
They don’t sound hostile, :dubious: so I continue up the stairs, but this time, I am looking a little less like a sword welding paranoid, and a little more like a perfectly ordinary person hold protection.
Malacandra-- peeking around the corner you see 5 figures at a card table-- they are short, greenish, stubby, and ugly. They are wearing bright orange robes. They are playing what looks something like parcheesi.
You let loose with the NO2 round-- they hear the clatter and look momentarily surprised. Then they look very giggly and pleased and snickering, they turn around to look at you. They are giggling hysterically and they are going to kick your ass.
Scott-- one of them says “This feels like. . . college. Let’s kick that one’s ass, hee hee!”
Too late-- malacandra’s notion of dangerous didn’t jibe will with yours. The five shaolin goblins pull out light sabers and get into formation, giggling.
So, they want to play, do they? ::Grins:: I hope backwards, into the stairway, and try my best to play “Whathisname-defending-the bridge” I attempt to chyop off limbs, rather then fight fair. Role for success. I also ask for Malacandra to fire over my sholder.
I was one of them. I quit before I got to the Boy Scout. They really do, too.