Ale and Accolades

Summary:

Just as Kalarel melted into waxy blackness and the dark gate sucked him into its curious void, a storm broke outside the walls of the keep. It blew and rained with thunderous fury. The party stepped into the blood pool and carefully climbed through the sacrificial pit, making their way to the exit of the keep. They poked their heads out the archway and witnessed a terrific storm above them. Entire chucks of masonry tore from the walls of the keep as sheets of rain blanketed the countryside. The adventurers eased themselves back into the safety of the keep, hunkering down together for safety and warmth. Hours later, the storm abated. The party once again poked their heads out. Directly above them, blue sky. All around, swirling masses of clouds. They crawled back to shelter and a half hour later the storm resumed its pounding fury.

By early evening, the storm passed fully and the party gathered gear and loot and left the keep. The storm had further dilapidated the once proud structure. Felled trees, broken branches, and miscellaneous storm debris lined the road, hampering travel. The party arrived at Winterhaven in the wee hours of the morning. The guards summoned a bleary-eyed Lord Padreg, who arranged lodging at the local inn and then returned to slumber. Exhausted, the party collapsed in their beds and slept the sleep of the satisfied weary.

The next morning, Lord Padreg greeted the party in the common room. The adventurers debriefed Padreg, summarizing everything that had happened since they last left Winterhaven, including the climatic battle with Kalarel and his ignominious demise. Lord Padreg listened intently, his eyes shining with excitement and relief upon hearing the great evil so close to his sleepy hamlet had been squashed. In the end, he clapped his hands together and said, "Well done, heroes, well done! Please, you must stay another night and day. Let Winterhaven plan a feast in your honor, celebrating the great work you have done this day." The party kindly acquiesced, relaxing in the common room while the townspeople scurried about making preparations.

While sipping dwarven ale and elven wine, the party heard rumor that two brash wheelwrights, Clod and Ben Stiller, had left town yesterday to visit the abandoned shack of the now dead ranger, Ninaran. Well rested and already thirsty for adventure, the party readied themselves and headed out for the ranger's outpost. Except for Gilic. The dwarf barricaded himself inside the inn room, refusing to join the last-minute expedition so he could meditate on the finer points of Shava's parton goddess.

Tucked deep within the neighboring woods, Ninaran's shack was a one room affair with a slanted roof and a surrounding clearing. As the house came into sight, Taegahn and Orchid crept forward to gather reconnaissance. In front of the shack, the remains of the young wheelwrights glistened under the morning dawn. Entrails and dismembered limbs signaled a savage attack. Keeping to the forest edge of the clearing, Taegahn and Orchid continued rounding the shack. Soon, the sound of heavy rustling came to ear. As they came to the back of the house, they observed four drakes bound from a hole in the roof of the shack, calcified talons clicking sharply against the granite slabs that dotted much of the wooded landscape. Trading snarling nips, the pair of guard and needlefang drakes raced each other back to the grizzly remains of the hapless boys. The winning drake plunged its head into the chest cavity of the nearest corpse, gnashing and rooting its fill of entrails, tendons, and meat. The other three fought over the second corpse, tearing loose limbs in the jostling.

Taegahn and Orchid watched the spectacle from the safety of cover. With a nod, they carefully withdrew to make their way back to the party. Only, Orchid unskillfully stepped upon a dry twig. The snapping sound cut through the drake's carnal grunts. The animals snapped their heads straights up and slightly tilted, listening for more. Seconds later, they leaped toward Orchid's position. Taegahn continued making his way to the party. At the last minute, Gilic raced up out of breath. The party stared at him expectantly. Catching his wind, he finally let out, "And my hammer!" Queequeg rolled his eyes as Taegahn came into view, hooting unconvincingly like an owl and motioning the party forward. The adventurers sprinted towards the shack's clearing.


Meanwhile, two of the drakes flanked Orchid, biting grievous wounds into her lightly armored body. She gave as well as she got, blinding one and slicing into the other. Taegahn and Cedric banded together and wrecked horrible carnage upon the two closing needlefang drakes. Gilic, Queequeg, Gareth, and Shava continued sprinting to Orchid's rescue. Shava and Gilic called upon the healing word of their deity's to mend Orchid while Gareth and Queequeg coordinated an attack that felled the remaining guard drakes. The shack turned up empty but for a note that gave directions to track the movements of the party with respect to Shadowfell Keep. Old news. The party bagged the remains of the wheelwrights and made their way back to Winterhaven.

The adventurers diplomatically dropped off the bodies to the concerned family. Amid their sobbing, Taegahn handed them a bag of silver. The wheelwrights had been penniless in death, but Taegahn lied and said he found the pouch on one of the bodies. The family thanked him profusely, knowingly.

That night, Winterhaven launched a legendary feast in honor of the heroes. Lord Padreg gave a speech espousing the heroic virtue of the heroes before him. He referred to them as the "Heroes of Arabel." The adventurers glanced amongst themselves uncomfortably. Clearing his throat, Taegahn rose from the table and interrupted Padreg's speech. "Uh, pardon my lord, but we've been through the town of Arabel but once. If we are to be heroes, perhaps we should hail from somewhere, someplace, or something more closely related to our exploits." Shava, Taegahn's lovelier sister (in every way) rose too, a radiant light emanating from her. The entire town turned their view to hear, gazing with admiration and affection. Shava's voice rang out clear and true to the farthest corners of the hamlet, "The Victors of Shadowfell Keep!"

"The Victors of Shadowfell Keep!" the town shouted back and the adventurers smiled in return. Gilic now rose from his chair, his head just peaking over the well-laden table. He swayed back and forth unsteadily, his eyes glazed over in intoxicated glee. Dumping over his goblet of elven wine, he slurred, "Winterha-hic! I coo keel yoo awl. Hic! Yoo pets. Yoo wee childin. Hic!" He flung his arms wide and screeched, "Everting!!! Hic!" Before the party could intervene, the dwarf stumbled back into his chair and then fell face first into his plate, full of roasted mutton and spiced potatoes. The dwarf began to wheeze out a rumbling, rhythmic snore.

The crowd looked back in mute horror, the rest of the party chuckling politely. It was Lord Padreg's turn to clear his throat, once again taking center stage to continue his homage to the party. Soon, the celebration turned to music and dancing. Amid the revelry, Queequeg called for the melodius sounds of Taegahn's dulcet harp. Through gritted teeth, Taegahn angrily plucked sweet strings while Queequeg barked out a dragonborn song that had the crowd looking at each other uncomfortably and clapping politely and off-beat.

Not long after, Gilic awoke and rose again, a chunk of mutton snugly stuck in his beard. "Deed ah eva tell yoo da tale of my turd wife? Hic!"Sha had da booshiest tail yoo eva seen and afta I shod her, she rode like da wind. Hic! Sweet ridin' in da day, even sweeter riden' in da night, sha was da enva of the parish, dat one." Five adventurers swarmed Gilic before he could say more. Cedric mashed his face back into the plate, full into the potatoes. Gareth meanwhile procured another goblet of elven wine. He handed it to Gilic who once again pulled his head from the plate, mashed potato embedded in his eyebrows. He smiled contentedly as he took the wine, mumbling, "Aye, dats da stuff laddy. Come to daddy sweet nector. Hic!"

The rest of the evening past uneventfully and in the morning, the party assembled and then headed out of Winterhaven. The morning crowd lined the narrow streets, blowing kisses and shouting cheers of thanks. The Victors of Shadowfell Keep said their final goodbyes and then hit the road southeast towards Arabel.

That night, a pack of dire wolves and worgs attacked the party's encampment. Queegqueg and Orchid sounded the alarm. The battle was pitched. Queequeg nearly sucumbed to horrible bite wounds. If not for Shava's healing prowess, and his own inate ability to mend wounds, he surely would have died. VoSfK ultimately prevailed, slaying two of the dire wolves, one of the worgs, and sending the rest yiping into the dark of night.

To Be Continued

Phat Lewts:

Epic hangovers

Lines(s) of the Night:

"We're a team!" - Sean to Blake after the dynamic duo tag-teamed a ferious drake.

"We are not a team" - Blake's immediate response to Sean.

"Apparantly we're not a team, so I killed it." Sean, clarifying the bragging rights for said slain drake.

Rule(s) Clarification of the Night:

Megan teaching Craig the finer points of charging.