"Very good then," he says to the teal haired woman. He holds her eyes with a glance then bows respectfully to her, "I am Tuu'Saayn. If you need additional resources, please let me know. One more thing, where can we find the shop of Artemis Eight-Fingers?" If the most serious of injuries have been treated he turns to his companions.
"Well done," he says to Torm and Gryn, noticing that there are now more people up and walking than laying in broken, bleeding heaps. He gives Gus a bit of a side-eye, "Noted on the tibia; and well said. We could have spent hours talking to folk, you managed the task in minutes." He turned slightly to face everyone. "Perhaps we will find something useful in the shop of Artemis the fence. I am curious about the business of the council as well, they most likely know more than those with callused hands from honest work. Regardless of the outcome of this, we have begun to balance the scales." His face, while still serious, for the moment, has shed the veil of grief. A sense of purpose and support from his new friends seems to have pulled him up and out of his self imposed prison. No interrogator, no matter how skilled, could torture the Tiefling more effectively than Tuu'Saayn himself.
"Thank you for your assistance, Tuu'Saayn, and that of your friends - I am Janet Cornwallis.
Artemis keeps a gaudily striped set of tents, up in the North West corner - you really can't miss them.
As for the council, we gathered here in the central circle because a messenger came with some silly time-wasting from Chancellor Keen..."
And at about that point the party notices a bright light spreading from further North in the market. A heartbeat later, there is a dull 'whuumph' and a low roaring, rattling noise that goes on for several seconds.
"Now just what in the world of all green grass do you think that was?"
Gryn sticks in the 'green grass' phrase to try and add a little levity in hopes it will help diffuse fears and concerns about whatever it is that just happened.
"We should investigate that! It might help overall with figuring out just what is going on around here."
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"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
Tuu'Saayn looks to the north, brows furrowed in thought as he tries to determine the source of the light and ensuing low roar. He glances at Janet with a raised eyebrow and confused look. "Any idea what new calamity that heralds?"
He looks to Gryn and nods his approval. With Janet's insight, guess, or shrug he begins working his way north with Gryn. As they near the source, he eases out of the middle of the road and begins to slink through the shadow like a hunting cat. His eyes dart here and there, right hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger, but his primary focus is the light and low roaring sound.
At the strange sound from the north, Torm tenses. Catapults? Fireballs?Is this a seige?
The paladin moves to the entrance of the tavern turned triage center. Facing the people from the entrance, he dons his shield and says in his gravelly voice, "Good citizens, this is an uncertain time in which precautions must be taken. For your safety, I advise you to muster who you can within these walls. Secure all windows and doors, but ensure you have a means of exit should it be needed."
With that he turns around and exits the tavern, drawing his sword as he walks down the middle of the street, making himself easily visible as a distraction to aid his companions.
The light dies down after a few seconds - and then the smell of smoke and the sound of screaming washes across the market, flames visible to the North, where the middle of the Night Market used to be.
Around the edges, the fire is still spreading in places - leaping from canvas roof to tent wall, though the central blaze has faded, leaving charcoal and thick, swirling smoke.
A man runs past the group, smoke streaming from his clothing, arms wrapped over his head, and collapses at the entrance to the Tavern
[Walls? Windows? You haven't seen a single solid building since you arrived - everything is temporary, canvas-walled and roofed structures, just solid enough to stand up on their own. Plenty of exits, but nothing defensible.]
Gryn is momentarily startled by the man with smoking clothes running by but quickly recovers and begins looking left and right, and all around really, trying to figure out the what and the why for of what just happened.
Gryn's Perception: 12
"Does anybody have any ideas as to what exactly is going on here?"
"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
A venom dripping tyrade of hissing profanity (in draconic) began to pour from Tuu'Saayn's mouth. He grabbs the first semiresponsible person he sees running by that isn't on fire. He locks them in place with his black eyes, glittering with intensity and a most dire purpose. "Find Janet in the tavern. Tell her to get a bucket line going to the heart of the blaze. We can try to slow the spread of flames." He does not wait for a reply, his feet are already moving as he speaks the final word. His clothing flaps wildly on his thin frame as he sprints directly into ground zero.
The carnage was nauseating, the smell of charred flesh and screams of pain and panic filled the air. He looked at the enormity of the situation and froze for the briefest of moments. People were hurt, tents and stalls were lost, or about to be if the fire continues to spread...
Tuu'Saayn was not one to ponder too deeply in the face a crisis, he was a man of action. To the casual observer, he looked like a mad man, a highly trained martial combatant with an anger problem. He just started smashing stuff. Hands, feet, elbows, and knees flew in every direction with abandon. At one point, he even had a strip of canvas in his mouth, trying to pull it from the frame as his arms and legs lashed out at tent poles, stall shelves, and anything that wasn't tied down (and a few things that were). Despite the wild ferocity of his smashing, there was a method to his madness. He was systematically pulling down and pushing away things that could burn and allow the fire to spread.
Acrobatics: 6 (natty 1) ugh
His natural resistance to fire made him bold to the point of reckless. Seeing a potential for disaster ahead as the flames danced dangerously close to a book vendor's stall he dashed ahead and tried to leap over a burning table. The snapping of a pole to his right distracted him just enough to catch his foot, sending him tumbling through the flames. He rolled to a halt on the other side, shirt smoldering, one sleeve ablaze. Without a second thought he tore the shirt off and went right back to his abuse of the remaining tents and stalls. No fuel, no fire he said to himself over and over. His knuckles were bleeding, no fuel no fire. His knees and shins were singed and sore, no fuel no fire. His lungs burned from the smoke, no fuel no fire...
Gus Wobblewand freezes mid-step as the whuumph echoes through the market. His head snaps toward the flare of light, eyes narrowed behind soot-smudged lenses.
“That,” he mutters, “wasn’t natural.”
Gus doesn’t wait for a signal. He begins fast-walking toward the source of the blast, puffing as he goes. “Come on, come on, come on…we’ve got a new variable in play, which is not comforting.”
As he nears the outer edge of the blaze, he snaps his fingers and casts Mage Hand, yanking a heavy flap of tent canvas free from a pile of dry crates. “Don’t let the fire touch the spice vendor’s booth!” he yells to no one in particular. “That stuff is mostly sulfur and bad outcomes!”
His eyes gleam. “Time to find out who likes playing with matches.”
Then ,Gus darts into the smoke, cloak flaring like a particularly dramatic tea towel, chasing the mystery like a moth to flame.
As Tuu'Saayn's heroic efforts to combat the fire lead him around the widening periphery of the blast, his mind plays over the events of the last few moments.
He had been talking to Janet Cornwallis in the Tavern - there had been a sudden light in the distance, a searing flare that started high up, from the darkness above the market..
It had streaked straight down, bursting into a vast, dazzling fireball when it hit the roof of the central tent, sweeping away canvas and wood and people alike.
But, just for an instant as the light descended, there had been a shape in the darkness - something lurking there above the market, far above the lights and merriment below.
***OoC: is the central tent where the council was meeting??***
Perception for details on the figure in the sky (dragon shaped, humanoid, any eerie laughing in his head): 7
Seeing little through the swirling black smoke, Tuu'Saayn keeps his focus on the task at hand. His reddish skin glistens with sweat, a combination of exertion and the nearness of a half dozen small fires from burning tarps and tent poles. He continues his aggressive dismantling of the closest tents and stands until the danger of the flames spreading is minimized greatly, or the heat becomes too much to take.
"They locked the gods &@₩€》well gate," he said to nobody in particular. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks dropped by a roc from a mile up. Someone wanted all of this to burn, someone with the authority to pull the Watch and lock the gates. Someone in dire need of a good old fashion ^$$ kicking he thought before he was overcome by a coughing fit.
Then ,Gus darts into the smoke, cloak flaring like a particularly dramatic tea towel, chasing the mystery like a moth to flame.
Forced to cover his mouth to keep out the choking, thick black smoke, Gus' addiction to excitement led him to the blasted centre of the market.
Splintered wooden poles lay still burning, scraps of canvas fluttering in the breeze like fireworks.
There - was that movement? A victim, struggling to escape, or another rescuer?
No. Whatever it was in the smoke, it was much too big to be human.
It already held three bodies in just one of its huge arms, as it reached for a forth. Huge wings drove smoke and air beneath them, beating sparks into his eyes. In the darkness and confusion, he was less than a dozen feet behind this thing as it prepared to take to the air with its grisly cargo.
34
From out of the smoke, something long and low came streaking towards Gus - it swept his legs from under him, throwing him backwards.
As the beast flew upwards, a voice in his head cut though the surrounding din
Gus hits the ground with a dramatic oomph, skidding on his side like a halfling trying to surf a greased baking tray. His hat flies off in a heroic arc, landing in a puddle of something that is, based on smell alone, at least 60% regret.
He blinks. Coughs. Blinks again.
Smoke curls around him in choking tendrils, hot embers dancing through the air like fireflies with a grudge. He pushes himself up onto his elbows just in time to see—
“Oh… oh no. Nope. Nope nope NOPE.”
—a dragon.
Not a metaphorical dragon. Not a big lizard. Not some gang leader named “The Dragon.” A DRAGON. With wings. And teeth. And people. Just… in its arms. Like it’s shopping for corpses.
Gus scrambles backward so fast he forgets his legs are attached. “Okay. Alright. Yup. This is happening. That’s a dragon. We’ve entered the ‘Everything’s on Fire and Someone’s Screaming’ portion of the evening!”
A gust of wind slams into him as the creature beats its wings, sending burning ash straight into his face. He flinches, yelps, and ends up chewing on a piece of smoldering tent canvas. Somewhere between a gag and a cough, a cold, echoing voice slices through the chaos like a knife dipped in dread:
“Not yet, mortal. Not yet.”
Gus freezes.
“Mortal?! MORTAL?! Ohhh no. No, no, you don’t get to ominous-voice me right after a dragon reveal! That’s rule one!”
He scrambles to his feet with the flailing panic of someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re doing but is committed to pretending otherwise. His hands fly out—prestidigitation sparks a burst of light in his palm, a flickering blue flare that somehow makes him look slightly more heroic than he feels.
“RIGHT THEN!” he bellows, voice cracking only slightly. “IF YOU CAN WALK, CRAWL, OR BE CARRIED—TO ME! Come on, follow the magical glowing gnome!”
He whips his hand to the side—minor illusion explodes a crackling sound like thunder, momentarily drawing eyes away from the beast in the sky. “That’s right, distraction first, therapy later!”
Some poor stall vendor stares up at the dragon, slack-jawed. Gus grabs his arm and tugs. “Now’s not the time to philosophize about mortality, friend! We can schedule a crisis of faith after dinner!”
He glances around wildly. “Tuu! Gryn! Torm! If any of you are not currently dragon food, please scream from a very specific direction!”
A sudden gust of wind sent ash, embers, and smoke swirling throughout the charred remains of what was once a grand tent. Over the crackling of splintered wood ablaze and cries of pain and terror he heard a familiar voice call out. Oddly, while Tuu'Saayn worked the perimeter of the blasted area, Gus' voice came from the heart of the chaos, the epicenter of destruction. Not so odd, really, he thought. Gus had a nose for trouble, and seemed to sniff it out like a bloodhound. Placing his fingers to his lips, Tuu'Saayn sent a sharp whistle in his direction before heading that way.
He stumbled through the haze, cut, bruised, and slightly scorched, but otherwise not severely injured. He looked for people as he went, hoping that not everyone in the large tent had been incinerated. By the time he reached Gus he was coughing violently. Tears streaked his soot smeared face and blood ran freely from multiple cuts on his shins and forearms. He tried to talk but just coughed again before stumbling away from the worst of it to regroup with his companions. When he got his first breath of mostly clean air he nearly coughs himself to pieces, pausing briefly to vomit, before pulling himself together and croaking out something indecipherable. He took a long drink from his waterskin and began to survey the situation., pausing frequently to cough and wipe tears from his ash smeared face.
Perception (DIS ADV): 4 for survivors in the blaze (a sweet 1 on that one)
Perception: 6 (overall situation, fires contained? , people needing help, enormous monsters in the sky looking for target 2?) (Good grief, I'm changing dice)
Some poor stall vendor stares up at the dragon, slack-jawed. Gus grabs his arm and tugs. “Now’s not the time to philosophize about mortality, friend! We can schedule a crisis of faith after dinner!”
He glances around wildly. “Tuu! Gryn! Torm! If any of you are not currently dragon food, please scream from a very specific direction!”
[The gods of dice are laughing at us. Eight dice fireball, only seventeen damage - so many ones! Oh well, the Good News is: Your characters now know what a fireball sounds like.]
Alas, Gus seems to be the only living soul close enough to see the creature through the smoke - everyone else in the blast area has either died or fled - and although it brushes the smoke aside as it flies up, no-one else notices. What he thought was a food vendor was no longer among the living - the slack jaw was the slackness of death.
Of course, almost everything looks big to a gnome, but shouldn't a Dragon be...longer.. than that? And have more than two legs? Even if the wingspan is over twenty feet?
['Surprise!' part is over, the creature has flown thirty feet straight up, and now it's Gus' turn.Everyone else can assume they hear him shouting, though the closest is Tuu'Saayn at around 40 feet away]
Quote from Began772003>> He took a long drink from his waterskin and began to survey the situation., pausing frequently to cough and wipe tears from his ash smeared face.
Perception (DIS ADV): 4 for survivors in the blaze (a sweet 1 on that one)
Perception: 6 (overall situation, fires contained? , people needing help, enormous monsters in the sky looking for target 2?) (Good grief, I'm changing dice)
Everyone in the blast area seems to have died - there may be one or two who survived, like the man at the Tavern, but there must be twenty dead in the devastation.
The thick smoke makes it impossible to see more than a few feet, but Tuu'Saayn's covered about a third of the blast perimeter by now, and that part's under control.
He hears Gus' shouts, but nothing is visible through the smoke.
Torm continues charging down the street toward the black smoke billowing to the north. Above the screams of anguish and terror one voice rings out through the rest . . .
"Gus!"
Looking ahead through the chaos, Torm dashes against the steady flow of soot covered and blood streaked pedestrians clearly fleeing from the smoke ahead. His scowl is gone, replaced by a look of determination, as he tries to see through the screen of smoke. Perception: 18(19-1)
"GUS!"
Torm rushes toward the smoke hoping to find the gnome unharmed.
Through the smoke and the bitter reek of scorched stone and flesh, a small shape stumbles forward, singed, soot-streaked, and wide-eyed. Gus Wobblewand coughs violently, one hand clutching the cracked remnants of what was once a perfectly good pickle jar. His other arm curls protectively around the tattered edge of his cloak, shielding his face from the acrid haze. He turns in circles, calling out, voice hoarse, but driven by panic and the desperate need to find his friends.
“Gryn?! Torm! Tuu’Saayn?! Anyone?!”
He stares into the thick gray void around him, eyes stinging. The street is littered with the dead and dying, faces frozen in terror, limbs twisted in final flight. Gus’s breath catches as he stumbles over the charred remains of the food vendor he’d waved to not fifteen minutes before. The smell hits him. He gags.
“Gods… they were just… eating.”
Then, through the swirling ash, a massive shadow shifts above. Wings, not leathery and batlike, but... something else. Too short for a dragon, too sleek. The glint of scale, the unnatural beat of wings that stir the smoke like a predator clearing the table before a feast. And two legs? Just two?
“That’s not a dragon… What in the name of fried eggplants is that thing?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t breathe. Just stares, frozen, as the creature disappears into the thick smoke above. No one else saw. No one else could. He’s alone.
“TORM! TUU! GYRN! SOMEBODY ANSWER ME!”
He cups his hands to his mouth, staggering forward toward where he last saw them, heart pounding, mind racing.
“If you’re hurt, I swear, I’ll—I’ll invent something! A bandage launcher! A flamethrower that only targets monsters! Just, just be okay, yeah?”
He blinks against the tears. From the smoke, from the fear. From the sight of so many people who would never speak again. And still, he pushes on. Gus Wobblewand may be a gnome with questionable judgment, but when it comes to his friends?
Tuu'Saayn continues to work his way towards to sound of Gus' voice, his own gagging cough ringing out through the haze. When they link up, he tries to talk, but just keeps coughing and motions back the way they came, hoping to trip over Torm and Gryn in the thick smoke as they stumble out of the inferno.
Perception: 20
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"Very good then," he says to the teal haired woman. He holds her eyes with a glance then bows respectfully to her, "I am Tuu'Saayn. If you need additional resources, please let me know. One more thing, where can we find the shop of Artemis Eight-Fingers?" If the most serious of injuries have been treated he turns to his companions.
"Well done," he says to Torm and Gryn, noticing that there are now more people up and walking than laying in broken, bleeding heaps. He gives Gus a bit of a side-eye, "Noted on the tibia; and well said. We could have spent hours talking to folk, you managed the task in minutes." He turned slightly to face everyone. "Perhaps we will find something useful in the shop of Artemis the fence. I am curious about the business of the council as well, they most likely know more than those with callused hands from honest work. Regardless of the outcome of this, we have begun to balance the scales." His face, while still serious, for the moment, has shed the veil of grief. A sense of purpose and support from his new friends seems to have pulled him up and out of his self imposed prison. No interrogator, no matter how skilled, could torture the Tiefling more effectively than Tuu'Saayn himself.
"Thank you for your assistance, Tuu'Saayn, and that of your friends - I am Janet Cornwallis.
Artemis keeps a gaudily striped set of tents, up in the North West corner - you really can't miss them.
As for the council, we gathered here in the central circle because a messenger came with some silly time-wasting from Chancellor Keen..."
And at about that point the party notices a bright light spreading from further North in the market. A heartbeat later, there is a dull 'whuumph' and a low roaring, rattling noise that goes on for several seconds.
17
"Now just what in the world of all green grass do you think that was?"
Gryn sticks in the 'green grass' phrase to try and add a little levity in hopes it will help diffuse fears and concerns about whatever it is that just happened.
"We should investigate that! It might help overall with figuring out just what is going on around here."
Tuu'Saayn looks to the north, brows furrowed in thought as he tries to determine the source of the light and ensuing low roar. He glances at Janet with a raised eyebrow and confused look. "Any idea what new calamity that heralds?"
He looks to Gryn and nods his approval. With Janet's insight, guess, or shrug he begins working his way north with Gryn. As they near the source, he eases out of the middle of the road and begins to slink through the shadow like a hunting cat. His eyes dart here and there, right hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger, but his primary focus is the light and low roaring sound.
Stealth:14
Perception: 20
At the strange sound from the north, Torm tenses. Catapults? Fireballs? Is this a seige?
The paladin moves to the entrance of the tavern turned triage center. Facing the people from the entrance, he dons his shield and says in his gravelly voice, "Good citizens, this is an uncertain time in which precautions must be taken. For your safety, I advise you to muster who you can within these walls. Secure all windows and doors, but ensure you have a means of exit should it be needed."
With that he turns around and exits the tavern, drawing his sword as he walks down the middle of the street, making himself easily visible as a distraction to aid his companions.
The light dies down after a few seconds - and then the smell of smoke and the sound of screaming washes across the market, flames visible to the North, where the middle of the Night Market used to be.
Around the edges, the fire is still spreading in places - leaping from canvas roof to tent wall, though the central blaze has faded, leaving charcoal and thick, swirling smoke.
A man runs past the group, smoke streaming from his clothing, arms wrapped over his head, and collapses at the entrance to the Tavern
[Walls? Windows? You haven't seen a single solid building since you arrived - everything is temporary, canvas-walled and roofed structures, just solid enough to stand up on their own. Plenty of exits, but nothing defensible.]
Gryn is momentarily startled by the man with smoking clothes running by but quickly recovers and begins looking left and right, and all around really, trying to figure out the what and the why for of what just happened.
Gryn's Perception: 12
"Does anybody have any ideas as to what exactly is going on here?"
OoC. Just lost a whole post pn my phone. I'll repost in 2 hrs or less.
A venom dripping tyrade of hissing profanity (in draconic) began to pour from Tuu'Saayn's mouth. He grabbs the first semiresponsible person he sees running by that isn't on fire. He locks them in place with his black eyes, glittering with intensity and a most dire purpose. "Find Janet in the tavern. Tell her to get a bucket line going to the heart of the blaze. We can try to slow the spread of flames." He does not wait for a reply, his feet are already moving as he speaks the final word. His clothing flaps wildly on his thin frame as he sprints directly into ground zero.
The carnage was nauseating, the smell of charred flesh and screams of pain and panic filled the air. He looked at the enormity of the situation and froze for the briefest of moments. People were hurt, tents and stalls were lost, or about to be if the fire continues to spread...
Tuu'Saayn was not one to ponder too deeply in the face a crisis, he was a man of action. To the casual observer, he looked like a mad man, a highly trained martial combatant with an anger problem. He just started smashing stuff. Hands, feet, elbows, and knees flew in every direction with abandon. At one point, he even had a strip of canvas in his mouth, trying to pull it from the frame as his arms and legs lashed out at tent poles, stall shelves, and anything that wasn't tied down (and a few things that were). Despite the wild ferocity of his smashing, there was a method to his madness. He was systematically pulling down and pushing away things that could burn and allow the fire to spread.
Acrobatics: 6 (natty 1) ugh
His natural resistance to fire made him bold to the point of reckless. Seeing a potential for disaster ahead as the flames danced dangerously close to a book vendor's stall he dashed ahead and tried to leap over a burning table. The snapping of a pole to his right distracted him just enough to catch his foot, sending him tumbling through the flames. He rolled to a halt on the other side, shirt smoldering, one sleeve ablaze. Without a second thought he tore the shirt off and went right back to his abuse of the remaining tents and stalls. No fuel, no fire he said to himself over and over. His knuckles were bleeding, no fuel no fire. His knees and shins were singed and sore, no fuel no fire. His lungs burned from the smoke, no fuel no fire...
Gus Wobblewand freezes mid-step as the whuumph echoes through the market. His head snaps toward the flare of light, eyes narrowed behind soot-smudged lenses.
“That,” he mutters, “wasn’t natural.”
Gus doesn’t wait for a signal. He begins fast-walking toward the source of the blast, puffing as he goes. “Come on, come on, come on… we’ve got a new variable in play, which is not comforting.”
As he nears the outer edge of the blaze, he snaps his fingers and casts Mage Hand, yanking a heavy flap of tent canvas free from a pile of dry crates. “Don’t let the fire touch the spice vendor’s booth!” he yells to no one in particular. “That stuff is mostly sulfur and bad outcomes!”
His eyes gleam. “Time to find out who likes playing with matches.”
Then ,Gus darts into the smoke, cloak flaring like a particularly dramatic tea towel, chasing the mystery like a moth to flame.
As Tuu'Saayn's heroic efforts to combat the fire lead him around the widening periphery of the blast, his mind plays over the events of the last few moments.
He had been talking to Janet Cornwallis in the Tavern - there had been a sudden light in the distance, a searing flare that started high up, from the darkness above the market..
It had streaked straight down, bursting into a vast, dazzling fireball when it hit the roof of the central tent, sweeping away canvas and wood and people alike.
But, just for an instant as the light descended, there had been a shape in the darkness - something lurking there above the market, far above the lights and merriment below.
***OoC: is the central tent where the council was meeting??***
Perception for details on the figure in the sky (dragon shaped, humanoid, any eerie laughing in his head): 7
Seeing little through the swirling black smoke, Tuu'Saayn keeps his focus on the task at hand. His reddish skin glistens with sweat, a combination of exertion and the nearness of a half dozen small fires from burning tarps and tent poles. He continues his aggressive dismantling of the closest tents and stands until the danger of the flames spreading is minimized greatly, or the heat becomes too much to take.
"They locked the gods &@₩€》well gate," he said to nobody in particular. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks dropped by a roc from a mile up. Someone wanted all of this to burn, someone with the authority to pull the Watch and lock the gates. Someone in dire need of a good old fashion ^$$ kicking he thought before he was overcome by a coughing fit.
Forced to cover his mouth to keep out the choking, thick black smoke, Gus' addiction to excitement led him to the blasted centre of the market.
Splintered wooden poles lay still burning, scraps of canvas fluttering in the breeze like fireworks.
There - was that movement? A victim, struggling to escape, or another rescuer?
No. Whatever it was in the smoke, it was much too big to be human.
It already held three bodies in just one of its huge arms, as it reached for a forth. Huge wings drove smoke and air beneath them, beating sparks into his eyes. In the darkness and confusion, he was less than a dozen feet behind this thing as it prepared to take to the air with its grisly cargo.
34
From out of the smoke, something long and low came streaking towards Gus - it swept his legs from under him, throwing him backwards.
As the beast flew upwards, a voice in his head cut though the surrounding din
"Not yet, mortal. Not yet."
Gus hits the ground with a dramatic oomph, skidding on his side like a halfling trying to surf a greased baking tray. His hat flies off in a heroic arc, landing in a puddle of something that is, based on smell alone, at least 60% regret.
He blinks. Coughs. Blinks again.
Smoke curls around him in choking tendrils, hot embers dancing through the air like fireflies with a grudge. He pushes himself up onto his elbows just in time to see—
“Oh… oh no. Nope. Nope nope NOPE.”
—a dragon.
Not a metaphorical dragon. Not a big lizard. Not some gang leader named “The Dragon.”
A DRAGON.
With wings. And teeth. And people. Just… in its arms. Like it’s shopping for corpses.
Gus scrambles backward so fast he forgets his legs are attached. “Okay. Alright. Yup. This is happening. That’s a dragon. We’ve entered the ‘Everything’s on Fire and Someone’s Screaming’ portion of the evening!”
A gust of wind slams into him as the creature beats its wings, sending burning ash straight into his face. He flinches, yelps, and ends up chewing on a piece of smoldering tent canvas. Somewhere between a gag and a cough, a cold, echoing voice slices through the chaos like a knife dipped in dread:
“Not yet, mortal. Not yet.”
Gus freezes.
“Mortal?! MORTAL?! Ohhh no. No, no, you don’t get to ominous-voice me right after a dragon reveal! That’s rule one!”
He scrambles to his feet with the flailing panic of someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re doing but is committed to pretending otherwise. His hands fly out—prestidigitation sparks a burst of light in his palm, a flickering blue flare that somehow makes him look slightly more heroic than he feels.
“RIGHT THEN!” he bellows, voice cracking only slightly. “IF YOU CAN WALK, CRAWL, OR BE CARRIED—TO ME! Come on, follow the magical glowing gnome!”
He whips his hand to the side—minor illusion explodes a crackling sound like thunder, momentarily drawing eyes away from the beast in the sky. “That’s right, distraction first, therapy later!”
Some poor stall vendor stares up at the dragon, slack-jawed. Gus grabs his arm and tugs. “Now’s not the time to philosophize about mortality, friend! We can schedule a crisis of faith after dinner!”
He glances around wildly. “Tuu! Gryn! Torm! If any of you are not currently dragon food, please scream from a very specific direction!”
A sudden gust of wind sent ash, embers, and smoke swirling throughout the charred remains of what was once a grand tent. Over the crackling of splintered wood ablaze and cries of pain and terror he heard a familiar voice call out. Oddly, while Tuu'Saayn worked the perimeter of the blasted area, Gus' voice came from the heart of the chaos, the epicenter of destruction. Not so odd, really, he thought. Gus had a nose for trouble, and seemed to sniff it out like a bloodhound. Placing his fingers to his lips, Tuu'Saayn sent a sharp whistle in his direction before heading that way.
He stumbled through the haze, cut, bruised, and slightly scorched, but otherwise not severely injured. He looked for people as he went, hoping that not everyone in the large tent had been incinerated. By the time he reached Gus he was coughing violently. Tears streaked his soot smeared face and blood ran freely from multiple cuts on his shins and forearms. He tried to talk but just coughed again before stumbling away from the worst of it to regroup with his companions. When he got his first breath of mostly clean air he nearly coughs himself to pieces, pausing briefly to vomit, before pulling himself together and croaking out something indecipherable. He took a long drink from his waterskin and began to survey the situation., pausing frequently to cough and wipe tears from his ash smeared face.
Perception (DIS ADV): 4 for survivors in the blaze (a sweet 1 on that one)
Perception: 6 (overall situation, fires contained? , people needing help, enormous monsters in the sky looking for target 2?) (Good grief, I'm changing dice)
[The gods of dice are laughing at us. Eight dice fireball, only seventeen damage - so many ones! Oh well, the Good News is: Your characters now know what a fireball sounds like.]
Alas, Gus seems to be the only living soul close enough to see the creature through the smoke - everyone else in the blast area has either died or fled - and although it brushes the smoke aside as it flies up, no-one else notices. What he thought was a food vendor was no longer among the living - the slack jaw was the slackness of death.
Of course, almost everything looks big to a gnome, but shouldn't a Dragon be...longer.. than that? And have more than two legs? Even if the wingspan is over twenty feet?
['Surprise!' part is over, the creature has flown thirty feet straight up, and now it's Gus' turn.Everyone else can assume they hear him shouting, though the closest is Tuu'Saayn at around 40 feet away]
Everyone in the blast area seems to have died - there may be one or two who survived, like the man at the Tavern, but there must be twenty dead in the devastation.
The thick smoke makes it impossible to see more than a few feet, but Tuu'Saayn's covered about a third of the blast perimeter by now, and that part's under control.
He hears Gus' shouts, but nothing is visible through the smoke.
Torm continues charging down the street toward the black smoke billowing to the north. Above the screams of anguish and terror one voice rings out through the rest . . .
"Gus!"
Looking ahead through the chaos, Torm dashes against the steady flow of soot covered and blood streaked pedestrians clearly fleeing from the smoke ahead. His scowl is gone, replaced by a look of determination, as he tries to see through the screen of smoke. Perception: 18 (19-1)
"GUS!"
Torm rushes toward the smoke hoping to find the gnome unharmed.
Through the smoke and the bitter reek of scorched stone and flesh, a small shape stumbles forward, singed, soot-streaked, and wide-eyed. Gus Wobblewand coughs violently, one hand clutching the cracked remnants of what was once a perfectly good pickle jar. His other arm curls protectively around the tattered edge of his cloak, shielding his face from the acrid haze. He turns in circles, calling out, voice hoarse, but driven by panic and the desperate need to find his friends.
“Gryn?! Torm! Tuu’Saayn?! Anyone?!”
He stares into the thick gray void around him, eyes stinging. The street is littered with the dead and dying, faces frozen in terror, limbs twisted in final flight. Gus’s breath catches as he stumbles over the charred remains of the food vendor he’d waved to not fifteen minutes before. The smell hits him. He gags.
“Gods… they were just… eating.”
Then, through the swirling ash, a massive shadow shifts above. Wings, not leathery and batlike, but... something else. Too short for a dragon, too sleek. The glint of scale, the unnatural beat of wings that stir the smoke like a predator clearing the table before a feast. And two legs? Just two?
“That’s not a dragon… What in the name of fried eggplants is that thing?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t breathe. Just stares, frozen, as the creature disappears into the thick smoke above. No one else saw. No one else could. He’s alone.
“TORM! TUU! GYRN! SOMEBODY ANSWER ME!”
He cups his hands to his mouth, staggering forward toward where he last saw them, heart pounding, mind racing.
“If you’re hurt, I swear, I’ll—I’ll invent something! A bandage launcher! A flamethrower that only targets monsters! Just, just be okay, yeah?”
He blinks against the tears. From the smoke, from the fear. From the sight of so many people who would never speak again. And still, he pushes on. Gus Wobblewand may be a gnome with questionable judgment, but when it comes to his friends?
He'd walk through the fire again........probably.
Perception to try and find is friends: 6
Tuu'Saayn continues to work his way towards to sound of Gus' voice, his own gagging cough ringing out through the haze. When they link up, he tries to talk, but just keeps coughing and motions back the way they came, hoping to trip over Torm and Gryn in the thick smoke as they stumble out of the inferno.
Perception: 20