Hoard of the Dragon Queen [IC. 2014 rules]

As the cultists begin to leave, Governor Nighthill’s desperate voice echoes from the battlements: "Send out the clerics! Quickly!"

The keep's heavy gates groan open once more, letting out a pair of frantic healers who sprint through the rain towards the fallen hero. Armed with bandages, tourniquets and even some holy water, they slide into the bloody mud and begin treating Montar's worst wounds immediately. Within minutes, their swift hands and desperate prayers manage to slow the bleeding just enough to stabilize the dwarf, snatching him right from death's door.

Thistlewick stood stunned for a moment, seeing Montar go down.  He never thought it would happen but, it had.   With a violent body shake, he moved up behind the clerics working on the dwarf's limp form.  Waiting until the clerics had Montar stablized, he reached down to place a hand softly on his shoulder...

Cure Wounds  4 pts healing     

The spores around Thistlewick seemed thinner than normal as he tried to weave healing energies with the spores.  While it seemed to work, it felt like it was not near enough.

Kneeling, Wick whispered in the dwarf's ear, "You fought like a true warrior -- to the last breath. "

Montar starts awake. He sees and thanks Thistlewick, but his first thought is for the hostages. "Are they okay? Did that coward hold up his bargain? Did we? Why am I alive?"

***Started this, got distracted, other posts followed the last one I read (765) - a post that makes sense to follow.***

Draylin 

The monk has one foot up on the wall, calculating the distance to the ground, and his likelihood for survival when he hears the call for clerics and the creaking of the main gate opening.  Quickly changing plans, the grief stricken half elf uses his full movement, dash, and step of the wind to get to his fallen friend.

His blazing speed has him just on the heels of the healers, sliding to a stop as they begin their work.  Carefully lifting the dwarf's head, he slips his wadded up cloak under it, making the heroic fighter as comfortable as possible.  He quickly steps back, watching anxiously as Thistlewick races to the scene and brings Montar back from the brink of death!

He sighs audibly when Montar sits up, "Welcome back, friend," he says softly.  "Well done, Thistlewick, " he says to the druid, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.  

"Wyrmspeaker was true to his word, your valor spared their lives."

Montar nods, though if he is pleased by the news Draylin conveys, he gives no sign beyond that nod. Shaking off further healing from Thistlewick or the clerics, he picks up his bloodstained maul, seemingly a bit sickened by it. Slowly and silently, he trudges off to a place where he can rest, alone, as he has much to consider. 

As dawn breaks, the air smelling of smoke, burnt stone, and blood, Escobert sighs heavily and wipes his dirtied face with a calloused hand. He quickly dispatches some of the guards to the walls before gathering your group.

"Please, follow me. I'll show ye to some rooms," he rumbles, his thick dwarven brogue heavy with exhaustion. "The healers'll be along to check up on ye, but Governor Nighthill strictly requested ye be given some proper space to rest after everythin' ye've done for our people!"

He leads you to the eastern part of the fortress, which is mostly intact, and presses a couple of iron keys into your hands for two small twin bedrooms, simply furnished but equipped with everything you need.

"Now, get some rest," Escobert nods firmly. "Governor Nighthill'll want to speak wit' ye in a couple o' days, once he and Master Leosin recover a bit and are able to make sense of all this madness."

The heavy wooden doors click shut, blocking out the chilly morning air and the distant, muffled sounds of a ruined town trying to pick up the pieces. For the first time in over twelve hours, the adrenaline fades, leaving your muscles aching and your eyes heavy. The beds aren't luxurious, but the sheets are dry and the rooms are safe.

Montar slumps to the floor, too exhausted even to remove his armor. Deep wounds remain in its gaps, slowly weeping blood as his overtaxed body struggles to heal. The dwarf ignores them, staring instead at the bloody maul that rests across his thighs.

An hour passes like that; then, finally, he breaks. All the pain he's been suppressing since finding the ruins of his clan's home comes back to him at once and, with a great, wracking sob, he begins to weep. Images of Greenest destroyed overlay images of his clan's home; the mighty blue dragon he struck, back when Tymora was favoring him, are interspersed with what he imagines the red who took his home looks like. It is all too much for even a dwarf of his age to bear.

Montar cries out for aid, calling upon Moradin for wisdom and succor. He tears off his armor, then, stripping down to padding, and casts his maul aside. Anger blossoms anew, a rage that threatens to overtake him.

That rage is met by peace. A warmth envelops him, reminding him at once of his mother's arms, his family's hearth, and the forge over which he labored for a century and a half. In that moment, he realizes the gift he's being given, the gift of discernment. His guilt at not being present for his clan led to rage and a desire for vengeance. He wanted to atone for his absence by hunting down and killing the dragon, at any cost. So he searched through all the ancient teachings of his clan, seeking out the lost lore of the giants so as to enhance his own durability and ability to do damage. But that was not him! He was the clan crafter, the one whose steady labor supported his family and clan. He created works to shield and protect. The dragon who took his clan must perish, but not for vengeance. Rather, it must be defeated to protect others from its depredations.

He knows then that his proper role is that: to create and protect. Montar prays with everything that he is that Moradin will hear his prayer and allow him to correct his mistake and take on his true role. Hours pass, but Montar does not notice, neither eating nor sleeping in his vigil. Scabbed-over wounds ache, but the dwarf cares not, offering himself to Moradin completely.

As dawn breaks, the barely conscious dwarf experiences a vision. His forge is there, glowing with heat, but it is not his forge, and the one working at it is not him. Montar, his hands grasped yet shaking in supplication, croaks only, "Please." Then he collapses to the hard floor, pushed beyond his limits and unconscious at last.

When he finally wakes, nearly twelve hours later, he is not the same dwarf he was. Yet he is not confused. First he turns to his little-used greatsword. Crafted in the days immediately following his clan's destruction, it was a tool only of intended vengeance, meant to bleed the dragon. It would have no role in his new life. He prays over it for an hour, calling upon Moradin to transform it as Montar himself was transformed. When the hour has passed it is no more. In its place is a gleaming shield, emblazoned with Moradin's holy symbol in gold. Protection, rather than violence. Montar is pleased, and rests for another hour, recovering more of his strength.

The dwarf turns then to his maul. A work of fine craftsmanship, melding stone and metal expertly, it's his most prized creation. But it is too big and unwieldy, and needs to be smaller to work alongside the shield. Another hour of prayer solves the problem, transforming it into a near-identical warhammer.

Finally satisfied, Montar polishes and dons his armor, grasps his shield and warhammer, and opens the door to his new life.

The Siege of Greenest changed Tam Merriweather in ways no byline ever could. She had come to the town as a reporter, prepared to record terror, sorrow, and heroism with steady hands and a clear mind, but the dragonfire and ruin left something deeper than memory in their wake. In the aftermath, Tam felt a hardening within herself — not a loss of compassion, but a sharpening of purpose. The world had shown her its cruelty without ceremony, and in response, she grew more guarded, more exacting, more relentlessly focused on the truths beneath the surface.

Her spirit, once quick with charm and ease, became quieter and stranger to itself. There was a dissonance in her now, a war-ravaged ache that made old comforts feel distant and superficial. Tam no longer had the luxury of relying on wit alone or on the polished confidence that once carried her through interviews and crowded rooms. Instead, she turned inward. She studied. She watched. She listened harder than before. The dragon cult had not merely attacked Greenest — it had awakened in her a need to understand the forces behind such destruction, to learn the language of power well enough to name it, challenge it, and perhaps someday expose it.

During those uneasy days in Greenest, Tam found a book — worn, half-forgotten, and strangely preserved amid the ruin — that spoke of the fundamentals of magic. It was not a grand grimoire or some legendary tome, but a practical, deliberate guide: the kind of book meant for someone willing to learn through discipline rather than destiny. Tam read it as she would a witness statement, a ledger, a secret correspondence. Page by page, she realized that magic was not unlike journalism. Both demanded observation, precision, pattern recognition, and the courage to ask the forbidden question. What began as curiosity became study, and what began as study became practice.

She transformed her reporter’s notebook into a spellbook, the margins filling with arcane notes, copied symbols, and careful transcriptions of incantations. The same hand that once chased quotes now traced sigils. The same mind that once organized facts now arranged spellforms. Her Intelligence, once devoted solely to investigation, became the foundation of a new discipline, while the harsher trials of Greenest had tempered her body and reflexes as well — her Dexterity now honed by necessity, no longer merely the gift of a quick pen and quicker feet, but the result of hard-earned survival.

Tam is still an investigator, still a reporter in her core. But now she pursues the truth through two lenses: the factual and the arcane. She has not abandoned her old self. She has armed it.

Thistlewick eyes closed before his head even hit the lump left as a pillow.  The stress of the last day (had it only been a day?) had pushed the gnome to his limits.  Which may have explained his feeling of 'being thin' when he attempted to heal Montar after the duel.  Though his body and mind needed this much deserved repose... the spore never sleeps.

In calmness there is strength, in peace there is clarity.

Draylin woke early, the sun just beginning to disrupt the dark night sky.  He stretched leisurely, allowing his mind and body to completely wake up.  When he felt loose, he eased into a comfortable seated position on the floor to meditate.  His awareness opened, inviting in the wisdom and knowledge that permeated the planes.  With patience and focus came knowledge, with knowledge came power.

He felt as if he were falling!  The sudden rush of wind in his face and lurching of his stomach threatened to break his concentration, but his training grounded him within himself.  He focused on the sensation of his clothing flapping and smacking his skin, the weight of his body being pulled to the ground.  Fear was pushed aside by understanding, his body ceased to fight or resist.  Slowly, he opened his eyes.  

The ground came into sharp focus immediately.   He realized that he could not overcome gravity without magic, but he could ease the shock of impact.  He subtly shifted his body, lining up his feet with the ground, body (down to his toes) pointed out in a straight line.  From here, timing was everything...

The instant his toes touched the turf his body began to collapse upwards.  Toes, feet, ankles and knees all buckled, absorbing the blunt force.  He continued to fold up, tucking his knees to his chest and allowing the momentum to roll his body in a tight somersault.  The nimble monk knew how to finish that maneuver, popping lightly to his feet.

He stood in silence for many minutes, replaying the newly acquired insight, absorbing it into his mind and body.  When he drew his focus back to his surroundings the sun was already cresting the horizon.  He smiled, an acknowledgement of the dawn of a new day as well as his own growth.  

Soon he was cleaned up and off to find his companions, and hopefully, a pile of breakfast fit for a giant!

A few days pass.

For the first couple of days, your bodies seem to have completely given up on you. You realize just how exhausted and spent you truly were after getting ambushed, breaking out of captivity, and fighting in such a massive battle. On the third day, you finally feel well enough to stretch your legs and move about the keep while you wait for Leosin to recover.

The aftermath of the raid becomes clear in the first 48 hours after that fateful night: over half of the buildings are heavily damaged and much of the town's wealth was carried away. But thanks to your efforts, the vast majority of the citizens are uninjured and alive.

Montar, after your dramatic brush with death, you turn inward. While you are still coming to terms with what happened, you receive a word from Olav. His tavern's roof has collapsed at one end of the building, but he managed to salvage most of his fortune. His offer for a drink and a story still stands, but more importantly, as a gesture of gratitude and kinship, he gifts you something from his past: a set of Mithral Armor, stashed away in the heavy chest his staff hauled to the keep on the day of the raid.

Tam, your sudden interest in magic gets noticed by the Governor, who graciously allows you to peruse the keep's library as much as you wish. Noting your diligence and resolve, on one of these post-battle afternoons, he presents you with an old staff brimming with magical energy that previously belonged to an old friend of his. Upon closer inspection, you realize it is a Staff of the Python. "Please accept this as gratitude for your coordination and dedication to our town," Nighthill says warmly.

Thistlewick, on the day after the raid, you come across Adam, who has been looking all over the keep for you. When he finds you, he sighs in relief and offers you his funny, red hat. "I've always said it's my lucky hat! I want you to have it. And this, too," he says, pulling out a deck of strange-looking cards. "Ma always said 'tis magical, but I don't do no magic. Maybe they'll be of better use to you. Thank you for saving my life." As he pushes the deck into your hands, you feel the magical energy coursing through them. (Deck of Illusions)

Draylin, when you return to training, you reunite with another monk you are acquainted with - Nesim Waladra. "I heard you saved Brother Leosin from assured death. Please, accept this token of gratitude," he says, handing you a beautifully embroidered pouch containing three tightly sealed glass vials filled with what appears to be fine, glittering sand. "If you or your friends ever get into a tough spot, this can pull you out of harm's way." (Dust of Disappearance - 3 uses total)

As the sun begins to set on the fifth day, a young guard approaches your group with a respectful bow. "Governor Nighthill sends his regards. Master Leosin is awake, and the Governor requested your presence in his study whenever you are available. They are ready to discuss what comes next."

Montar gladly takes Olav up on his offer for both drink and story. He accepts the armor with reverence. "It is beautiful, friend Olav." he says in their shared native language. "Its metalwork is exquisite. I would be honored to wear it."

After the drink and story, Montar offers his services to the town. Between his own skills and Moradin's gift, he should be able to fix most metal-related things in a very short time. He'll work 16 hours a day until Nighthill calls him in. During this work, he is uncharacteristically (well, relative to recent events) joyous, and he sings off-key dwarven children's songs as he works.

Thistlewick is oddly pleased with the gifting of the odd red hat.  He gave Adam a low, sweeping bow in thanks for the unexpected gifts... though he was a bit surprised at gaining a partial deck of cards.  (( He may have to spend some time 'alone' with the deck to get a better feel of what he had fall into his hands.)

Inspired by Montar and the others, Wick too tried to help as he could.  First and foremost, he helped with bodies.  Helping the townfolks with their kin -- utilizing his newly gained Gentle Repose to make preparations easier.   

And using spores to eliminate the kobolds and other creatures that had attacked the town, making fertile the once scorched grounds.

Sadly, as a Circle of Spore practitioner, Thistlewick did not have the potent spells of rejuvination and rampant growth that might have help green the grasses or renew the surrounding farmlands.   Nor, twine vines to bolster beams.    He sighs a small sigh when he thinks of all that would help but is not available.... yet.

Draylin

Draylin accepts Nesim's gift with a respectful bow.  "Your generosity is well recieved, brother.  It was a great honor to aid one who has so often offered guidance.  Speaking of the same, I hear the Leosin is back on his feet.  I should find him quickly, he is likely to be on another mission my mid-day!"  With another nod of gratitude, Draylin was off to meet with the governor, Leosin, and his new companions.

***If Draylin was feeling well, he would always try to tag along with Montar to offer an extra set of hands.  While not skilled himself, he knew where good work happened and tried to lighten the load by acting as a gopher or climbing up to check on stuff as directed.***