Greg freezes like a rabbit caught in the mesmerizing glow of hooded lanternlight afront a cart, the dust settles around him and he does what he always does when caaught doing something he isn't supposed to, he thinks.
The gnome calculates several things very quickly, he accounts for the things that he knows of Endelyn, the things he heard the goblins shouting mere moments ago before his massive cockup, he then clears his throat loudly, "...AND that my fellow actors is what we are looking for! Exemplified before your very eyes! not simply the sweet despair that our good lady is looking for. But a MOUNTING series of MISFORTUNE, a CRESCENDO of CHAOS which builds and BUILDS! until our main character has no way of stopping the dominoes falling and must succumb to despair for there is no alternative! no hope left! gone are the days of flash in the pan hopelessness, WE MUST DO BETTER!"
G'reg however does not calculate that Rowan has made an appearance giving the whole game away.
He gives a little sigh, as if embarrassed by his own outburst. Anyway, if you need a partner, I could… y’know. Play dead. I’m good at that.
Can you do more than play dead? I could use a partner maybe but what is your range?
Mulligan asks this telepathically, of course.
I only just arrived with a couple others. Haven't even had a chance to show anyone our invitations yet. We really don't know the process or what to expect. Besides go for grief and tragedy, what can you tell us?
Mulligan suspects this poor set of bones doesn't know much that will help them but he figures it is worth a try. Perhaps they too started off as a stranger in the land who got a mysterious invitation... Stranger things have happened.
Whump—Thump-Whump-Thump!
Mulligan winces and freezes for a moment, slowly turning his head towards the way he came here from.
That must be Rowan...
Mulligan's telepathic communications don't really convey tone or inflection but it is still obvious to first the marionette and then to the Group Chat that Mulligan is feeling an intense disappointment at the moment. Disappointment caught short when he sees instead g'REgINalD.
Bravo! What an entrance! Bravo!
If Mulligan could speak it would be censored from all but the most salty of salty sailors.
We have to go!
Contrary to what Mulligan "said" to Skeletor and the G'rEGinAlD he doesn't immediately move but instead first grabs up the [Tooltip Not Found] and gives it's bellows a good pumping! (that sounds dirty!). A small cloud of thick smoke pours out in a 5-foot radius from the bellows. ((Each round thereafter, the radius increases by 5 feet until it reaches its maximum radius of 30 feet. If created in this way, the smoke cloud moves with the bellows, and is always centred on it.)). Mulligan figured a nice heavy obscurement of smoke cover might help keep them safe... And in general confuse the situation. He hadn't bothered to consider how a heavy obscurement of smoke would affect him in an area he was totally unaccustomed to and didn't know his way around. Colorful, salty language once more comes to mind but remains "unsaid."
OF COURSE G'ReginalD draws more attention even as Mulligan is trying to obscure it... But what's done is done.
Mulligan tries to grab Skeletor and shove him in his pack even as he tries to make his way towards the g'NoMe so they can perhaps flee together...
--- ((In addition to now trying to pick up the skeleton marionette (no idea if it is doll sized, life sized or what) Mulligan had previously tried to grab "The Champagne bottle and Flower Bouquet should fit easily enough into his backpack though, as well as the Pink Parasol. He quickly adds the Crystal Ball, Deck of Cards, Manacles and Smoking Pipe just because... Just because. Mulligan has passed over the skeleton marionette and is picking up and considering the Cracked Scream Goblin Mask when he hears the voice."
Did Mulligan succeed in grabbing and stowing any/all of the items? I don't suspect it matters much except for future RP but best to ask.))
Barria can't help but laugh when Greg makes his exuberant entrance. She follows behind Rowan, waving to the goblins as well, a grin on her face as she tries to wipe the dust from her clothes.
"Yes, hello there!" she's starting in on her own greeting and is thinking about asking the cranky gnome if he is alright, when smoke starts billowing from Mulligan and she starts a fit of coughing and looks to her friend. Hearing his urgency to get out of there, she lowers her voice and asks him, "Go where?" but is ready to follow him if he actually knows.
If they haven't answered or said anything since he and Barria greeted them, Rowan changes tack "Looks like a fire. Or at least smoke indicating a fire. Do you have that saying of where there's smoke, there's fire? Whoever came up with that has never burned their toast before but I suppose for the most part it holds true. Here for instance, a storeroom full of painted props and backgrounds is likely to be quite flammable. I would suggest the possibility of a fire should be taken seriously."
With that, he pushes through the doorway and out into the hallway, nudging any goblins to the side, creating a gap for Barria and anyone else following to come through.
Before Greg's entrance... Break-a-leg’s voice rattles softly in the dimness. Endelyn made me, y’know. But she said I was too bright for the stage. Too jolly, too jingle-jangle. Can’t have laughter in a tragedy, eh? So here I am, the happiest failure in the storeroom. He gives a wistful little shrug, his joints clacking like loose coins in a purse. But I still love the stage, you know. So I listen. I learn. Ah, theatre is wonderful. What you could do is...
Crash! Bang! Wallop!
The resulting dust is thick enough to choke on, but Break-a-leg claps and cheers enthusiastically. Greginald recovers with remarkable speed, launching into his best monologue ever, drawing every eye toward himself as thick smoke starts to pour from the far corner. Rowan, unfazed, strides from the haze and addresses the goblins peering in, who only stare back with suspicion and disapproval. Barria bursts through behind him, laughing between dusty coughs.
From the workshop beyond, a sharp feminine voice calls out: Nocturli! The word hangs in the air like a spell. There follows a chorus of shuffling, creaking wood, and the heavy drag of something large being pulled into motion. The smoke from Mulligan’s corner spreads further, curling along the floor and walls.
As the haze thickens, Amidor finally emerges from the tunnel, Glister close behind, his fiery hair blazing like a living torch. The goblins recoil, eyes wide with awe at the sight of the glowing elf.
The goblin crowd parts instinctively as Rowan presses forward through the smoke and clutter, stepping into the adjoining chamber. There, under bright torchlight, stands a tall human woman, resplendent even as her theatrical gown is still being pinned mid-adjustment by a nervous goblin tailor.
Surrounding her is a bizarre menagerie of living props: a stuffed owlbear rears with wings frozen mid-roar; a canvas flesh golem lurches awkwardly; a plaster statue of an elf king waves its scepter at nothing; a stuffed boar with a broken tusk snorts and totters closer; a wooden coffin snaps its lid near Rowan’s knee; a crooked stovepipe sways protectively above; and a wrought-iron gate shuffles across to block the stairway.
On a nearby barrel, a lantern flickers—and inside it, a brigganock stares out, hammering uselessly against the glass.
Surrounding her is a bizarre menagerie of animated stage props, moving with a life of their own: a stuffed owlbear rears with forelimbs frozen mid-roar; a canvas flesh golem lurches awkwardly; a plaster statue of an elf king waves his sceptre at nothing; a stuffed boar with a broken tusk snorts and trots closer; a wooden coffin snaps its lid near Rowan’s knee; a crooked stovepipe sways protectively over the woman; and a wrought-iron gate shuffles over to block the stairway.
On a nearby barrel, a lantern flickers, and inside it a brigganock stares futilely through the glass.
The woman barely glances at Rowan as he prattles on about the smoke. Shut up, idiot! she snaps, then looks beyond him toward the storeroom, her gaze following the goblins’ transfixed stares. Peering over the heads, of goblin, gnome, dwarf, and dandelion, her eyes find the shimmer of Glister’s hair and widen in disbelief.
YOU!
A beat passes. She scans the newcomers again: the dusty gnome, the armed dandelion, the smiling dwarf, the talkative elf. Then, as though the tension were only part of the act, her expression transforms into a radiant, practiced smile that belongs to the stage.
Extending her arms in gracious welcome, she croons:
Rowan watches Greg's entrance with a growing look of amazement and amusement.
He looks back at Glister and Amidor, "Well that appears to have settled it. I believe we have announced our presence."
Rowan steps through the opening, and gingerly steps around the chaotic mess that Greg has created.
He walks up to the goblins and waves a greeting.
"Hi, we came in through the wall there," Rowan says. "Is this the theatre?"
Greg freezes like a rabbit caught in the mesmerizing glow of hooded lanternlight afront a cart, the dust settles around him and he does what he always does when caaught doing something he isn't supposed to, he thinks.
The gnome calculates several things very quickly, he accounts for the things that he knows of Endelyn, the things he heard the goblins shouting mere moments ago before his massive cockup, he then clears his throat loudly, "...AND that my fellow actors is what we are looking for! Exemplified before your very eyes! not simply the sweet despair that our good lady is looking for. But a MOUNTING series of MISFORTUNE, a CRESCENDO of CHAOS which builds and BUILDS! until our main character has no way of stopping the dominoes falling and must succumb to despair for there is no alternative! no hope left! gone are the days of flash in the pan hopelessness, WE MUST DO BETTER!"
G'reg however does not calculate that Rowan has made an appearance giving the whole game away.
Can you do more than play dead? I could use a partner maybe but what is your range?
Mulligan asks this telepathically, of course.
I only just arrived with a couple others. Haven't even had a chance to show anyone our invitations yet. We really don't know the process or what to expect. Besides go for grief and tragedy, what can you tell us?
Mulligan suspects this poor set of bones doesn't know much that will help them but he figures it is worth a try. Perhaps they too started off as a stranger in the land who got a mysterious invitation... Stranger things have happened.
Mulligan winces and freezes for a moment, slowly turning his head towards the way he came here from.
That must be Rowan...
Mulligan's telepathic communications don't really convey tone or inflection but it is still obvious to first the marionette and then to the Group Chat that Mulligan is feeling an intense disappointment at the moment. Disappointment caught short when he sees instead g'REgINalD.
If Mulligan could speak it would be censored from all but the most salty of salty sailors.
We have to go!
Contrary to what Mulligan "said" to Skeletor and the G'rEGinAlD he doesn't immediately move but instead first grabs up the [Tooltip Not Found] and gives it's bellows a good pumping! (that sounds dirty!). A small cloud of thick smoke pours out in a 5-foot radius from the bellows. ((Each round thereafter, the radius increases by 5 feet until it reaches its maximum radius of 30 feet. If created in this way, the smoke cloud moves with the bellows, and is always centred on it.)). Mulligan figured a nice heavy obscurement of smoke cover might help keep them safe... And in general confuse the situation. He hadn't bothered to consider how a heavy obscurement of smoke would affect him in an area he was totally unaccustomed to and didn't know his way around. Colorful, salty language once more comes to mind but remains "unsaid."
OF COURSE G'ReginalD draws more attention even as Mulligan is trying to obscure it... But what's done is done.
Mulligan tries to grab Skeletor and shove him in his pack even as he tries to make his way towards the g'NoMe so they can perhaps flee together...
---
((In addition to now trying to pick up the skeleton marionette (no idea if it is doll sized, life sized or what) Mulligan had previously tried to grab "The Champagne bottle and Flower Bouquet should fit easily enough into his backpack though, as well as the Pink Parasol. He quickly adds the Crystal Ball, Deck of Cards, Manacles and Smoking Pipe just because... Just because. Mulligan has passed over the skeleton marionette and is picking up and considering the Cracked Scream Goblin Mask when he hears the voice."
Did Mulligan succeed in grabbing and stowing any/all of the items? I don't suspect it matters much except for future RP but best to ask.))
Barria can't help but laugh when Greg makes his exuberant entrance. She follows behind Rowan, waving to the goblins as well, a grin on her face as she tries to wipe the dust from her clothes.
"Yes, hello there!" she's starting in on her own greeting and is thinking about asking the cranky gnome if he is alright, when smoke starts billowing from Mulligan and she starts a fit of coughing and looks to her friend. Hearing his urgency to get out of there, she lowers her voice and asks him, "Go where?" but is ready to follow him if he actually knows.
Rowan looks back from the goblins to the smoke.
If they haven't answered or said anything since he and Barria greeted them, Rowan changes tack "Looks like a fire. Or at least smoke indicating a fire. Do you have that saying of where there's smoke, there's fire? Whoever came up with that has never burned their toast before but I suppose for the most part it holds true. Here for instance, a storeroom full of painted props and backgrounds is likely to be quite flammable. I would suggest the possibility of a fire should be taken seriously."
With that, he pushes through the doorway and out into the hallway, nudging any goblins to the side, creating a gap for Barria and anyone else following to come through.
Before Greg's entrance...
Break-a-leg’s voice rattles softly in the dimness. Endelyn made me, y’know. But she said I was too bright for the stage. Too jolly, too jingle-jangle. Can’t have laughter in a tragedy, eh? So here I am, the happiest failure in the storeroom. He gives a wistful little shrug, his joints clacking like loose coins in a purse. But I still love the stage, you know. So I listen. I learn. Ah, theatre is wonderful. What you could do is...
Crash! Bang! Wallop!
The resulting dust is thick enough to choke on, but Break-a-leg claps and cheers enthusiastically. Greginald recovers with remarkable speed, launching into his best monologue ever, drawing every eye toward himself as thick smoke starts to pour from the far corner. Rowan, unfazed, strides from the haze and addresses the goblins peering in, who only stare back with suspicion and disapproval. Barria bursts through behind him, laughing between dusty coughs.
From the workshop beyond, a sharp feminine voice calls out: Nocturli! The word hangs in the air like a spell. There follows a chorus of shuffling, creaking wood, and the heavy drag of something large being pulled into motion. The smoke from Mulligan’s corner spreads further, curling along the floor and walls.
As the haze thickens, Amidor finally emerges from the tunnel, Glister close behind, his fiery hair blazing like a living torch. The goblins recoil, eyes wide with awe at the sight of the glowing elf.
The goblin crowd parts instinctively as Rowan presses forward through the smoke and clutter, stepping into the adjoining chamber. There, under bright torchlight, stands a tall human woman, resplendent even as her theatrical gown is still being pinned mid-adjustment by a nervous goblin tailor.
Surrounding her is a bizarre menagerie of living props: a stuffed owlbear rears with wings frozen mid-roar; a canvas flesh golem lurches awkwardly; a plaster statue of an elf king waves its scepter at nothing; a stuffed boar with a broken tusk snorts and totters closer; a wooden coffin snaps its lid near Rowan’s knee; a crooked stovepipe sways protectively above; and a wrought-iron gate shuffles across to block the stairway.
On a nearby barrel, a lantern flickers—and inside it, a brigganock stares out, hammering uselessly against the glass.
Surrounding her is a bizarre menagerie of animated stage props, moving with a life of their own: a stuffed owlbear rears with forelimbs frozen mid-roar; a canvas flesh golem lurches awkwardly; a plaster statue of an elf king waves his sceptre at nothing; a stuffed boar with a broken tusk snorts and trots closer; a wooden coffin snaps its lid near Rowan’s knee; a crooked stovepipe sways protectively over the woman; and a wrought-iron gate shuffles over to block the stairway.
On a nearby barrel, a lantern flickers, and inside it a brigganock stares futilely through the glass.
The woman barely glances at Rowan as he prattles on about the smoke. Shut up, idiot! she snaps, then looks beyond him toward the storeroom, her gaze following the goblins’ transfixed stares. Peering over the heads, of goblin, gnome, dwarf, and dandelion, her eyes find the shimmer of Glister’s hair and widen in disbelief.
YOU!
A beat passes. She scans the newcomers again: the dusty gnome, the armed dandelion, the smiling dwarf, the talkative elf. Then, as though the tension were only part of the act, her expression transforms into a radiant, practiced smile that belongs to the stage.
Extending her arms in gracious welcome, she croons:
Welcome to Motherhorn, friends...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Here's a map. This is not to suggest a battle, but just to get a picture of the scene.
How does a red dragon blow out the candles on its birthday cake?