2006-04-03 13:07![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digitaldiscipline
digitaldisciplineDay 14: I said "duck," didn't I?
Sybs was cleaning house with Stumpy the Wonder-Dwarf while the Wizard just about peed himself over the book we snagged from that elven asshole, and she wasn't at all happy about needing to mop that up. Pinky got the web wand, and was all kinds of happy that she can use it as a walking stick at her size.
We're really trying to get the slums cleared out, but there are a thousand nooks and crannies in this part of town, and most of 'em are full of two things: jack, and shit, and jack left town. The shit tends to smell bad whether it's moving around [zombies and skellies and kobolds go *splat* real good] or not [though the rat was eyeing the dead guy like Garg looks at ducks strung up in the market].
Of course, some of the not-moving shit hides moving shit, as Fritter (or whatever the rogue's name is) was so quick to discover, in the case of some bugs, which promptly jumped his ass. I guess he's allergic, because he squawked once, and then fell over bleeding and twitching. The rest of us made pretty short work of the bugs, and I stopped his bleeding before we found out what was so exciting.
Apparently, it's a Sword of Chilling, because it gets cold, and then becomes a cool breeze when you try to hit anything with it (more on that later). It's funny watching the halfling two-hand a shortsword that Big G could use for a toothpick.
Sybs was decidedly less happy when we brought in a mostly-dead rogue and she was obligated to perform her cleric-ly duties. By the fourth healing spell, she was saying something about either letting him die next time (more on that later, too) or maybe going to some kind of devotional training to get closer to god. There might have been some bestiality overtones in the poem she was muttering, but I really can't say for sure, though Reznor might be an Orc I'm just not familiar with.
Day 17: No, really. Duck this time.
I led us around town, securing the gates [why the guards can't get their sissy asses off the wall to close 'em in broad daylight is beyond me], and we got jumped by three furblogs in the northwest corner. Fritter wants to try out his Magic Sword of Chilling, and charges in. Okay, there are some style points there, minus several million for good thinking. He swings, and misses. Then he swings and misses. Then, for variety, he catches an axe in the crotch that picks him up and lays him open and knocks his diminutive ass out cold. The rest of us actually make contact, and dispatched 'em pretty quick, and then I scraped up halfling and furblog guts and patched him together. Again.
Since it wasn't even lunchtime yet, and Fritter wasn't bleeding out anymore [besides, there was plenty more blood to dump in him all over the street], the drunk picked up the sword for safekeeping, and we kicked in the next door, and a whole boatload of kobolds wet themselves. Well, except the one that Drunken Master tried to light up with the Scimitar of Eternal Whiffing, which spent more time going into the walls, and floor, and anything -except- the kobold.
Sybs got to pretty much resurrect the halfling again when we dragged his sorry ass back to the house, and was doing some hardcore glowering and muttering.
Dumpy the Dwarf giggled a lot. I don't think we're going to let him fish with that sword, though.
Sybs was cleaning house with Stumpy the Wonder-Dwarf while the Wizard just about peed himself over the book we snagged from that elven asshole, and she wasn't at all happy about needing to mop that up. Pinky got the web wand, and was all kinds of happy that she can use it as a walking stick at her size.
We're really trying to get the slums cleared out, but there are a thousand nooks and crannies in this part of town, and most of 'em are full of two things: jack, and shit, and jack left town. The shit tends to smell bad whether it's moving around [zombies and skellies and kobolds go *splat* real good] or not [though the rat was eyeing the dead guy like Garg looks at ducks strung up in the market].
Of course, some of the not-moving shit hides moving shit, as Fritter (or whatever the rogue's name is) was so quick to discover, in the case of some bugs, which promptly jumped his ass. I guess he's allergic, because he squawked once, and then fell over bleeding and twitching. The rest of us made pretty short work of the bugs, and I stopped his bleeding before we found out what was so exciting.
Apparently, it's a Sword of Chilling, because it gets cold, and then becomes a cool breeze when you try to hit anything with it (more on that later). It's funny watching the halfling two-hand a shortsword that Big G could use for a toothpick.
Sybs was decidedly less happy when we brought in a mostly-dead rogue and she was obligated to perform her cleric-ly duties. By the fourth healing spell, she was saying something about either letting him die next time (more on that later, too) or maybe going to some kind of devotional training to get closer to god. There might have been some bestiality overtones in the poem she was muttering, but I really can't say for sure, though Reznor might be an Orc I'm just not familiar with.
Day 17: No, really. Duck this time.
I led us around town, securing the gates [why the guards can't get their sissy asses off the wall to close 'em in broad daylight is beyond me], and we got jumped by three furblogs in the northwest corner. Fritter wants to try out his Magic Sword of Chilling, and charges in. Okay, there are some style points there, minus several million for good thinking. He swings, and misses. Then he swings and misses. Then, for variety, he catches an axe in the crotch that picks him up and lays him open and knocks his diminutive ass out cold. The rest of us actually make contact, and dispatched 'em pretty quick, and then I scraped up halfling and furblog guts and patched him together. Again.
Since it wasn't even lunchtime yet, and Fritter wasn't bleeding out anymore [besides, there was plenty more blood to dump in him all over the street], the drunk picked up the sword for safekeeping, and we kicked in the next door, and a whole boatload of kobolds wet themselves. Well, except the one that Drunken Master tried to light up with the Scimitar of Eternal Whiffing, which spent more time going into the walls, and floor, and anything -except- the kobold.
Sybs got to pretty much resurrect the halfling again when we dragged his sorry ass back to the house, and was doing some hardcore glowering and muttering.
Dumpy the Dwarf giggled a lot. I don't think we're going to let him fish with that sword, though.
