Monday, January 30, 2012

Meet the new bouncers.

On one of Darf's many adventures to Castle Nicodemus the group "befriended" a group of Bugbears. On this last delve Darf reconnected with the 3 remaining members Stinky, Bite, and Hairy convincing them to become his henchmen. Giving them gold helped seal the deal.

In their downtime Darf has convinced the group that working at Le Lapin Bleu as bouncers is a good way to bide their time between dungeon crawling and pick up extra coin. Stinky being the largest of the group considers himself to be head of security. Large, brutish, dumb, and willing to follow orders to a T. They make the perfect bouncers for such an establishment.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Someone nailed this to the door.

Let the Woed Ruckus begin!
Our generous host Vithujin the Elf, the Pantless Pilgrim, the Demon Freezer, and only person to have successfully prodded the Dragon of Dundagel and been remortaled to talk about it; is throwing a party.
Already in attendance are those persons possessing a gentle spirit, quick wit, or firm backside.
Now the rest of you need to show up.
The plan is to fill the Abbey with songs, stories, and seductions for a full week.
St. Emmet's antennae will be flailing wildly. 

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Sit down with Father Jack and he'll tell you another tale. Just buy him a drink

We join our jaunty jaunting jackdaw in his favourite establishment, The Blue Rabbit. 

“Feck off!”

Oh, ho! Yes, he’s in high spirits today, isn’t he? Now we see him bid adieu to this fine house, and exit out into his beloved Cornish countryside. Except, what’s this? It’s changed, and now Jack finds himself in the strange world of Outland. Looking about for a moment, Jack shrugs, unruffled. He consigns the drastically altered view to the trusty old aphorism, ‘If you don’t like the scenery in Britain, just wait ten minutes.’ 

And who do we have here? Why, it’s Scarecrow, a tengu who is perhaps as much bird as he is man. He gives Father Jack a warm welcome to this odd land, and is rewarded in kind. 

“Arse! Drink!”

After such pleasantries, our determined pair set off in a heretofore unexplored direction, accompanied by the Father’s trusty torchier, Garmir, and a newfound companion, Vince Vinton, a local vintner. Striking off to the northwest from the Outpost, it’s only a few miles until they find themselves struggling up and down rough dry hills. By this time, Jack has completely dismissed Scarecrow’s beaky countenance, believing him to be a big-nosed Norman. 

Less than an hour into the craggy hills, our travellers look down into a basin with seven shadowy holes in the hillsides. Discovery! All the holes but one show evidence of steady traffic in and out from some sort of V-footed individuals. Now joined by Doc Sampson, they descend the hill and enter the one trackless tunnel mouth. 

An eight foot round dirt hole burrows away into the hillside. With a call of “Girly! Light!” Garmir sets a torch aflame, and in they go. After several turns, a side tunnel rewards their view with several doors. One offers scratching sounds, and they press on. One door proves locked, and again they move along. A large round wooden door in the side of the tunnel, it’s knob oddly in the centre, opens to their efforts and they are rewarded with a small room. A heavy metal cabinet within is no match for Scarecrow’s masterful ministrations, and they look within. What’s this? Oddities of Outland greet them. One gives its wearer sight in the dark, while another proves ready to blast a smoking hole in the tunnel wall with a blast of flashing green. Extraordinary! 

Taking their newfound swag, they return to the locked door, Scarecrow brimming with newfound confidence in his considerable abilities. His confidence is well-placed, as the lock falls before his efforts. Waiting behind this round portal is a dark and musty dirt descent. Down go our travellers, fathom after fathom. 

Finally levelling out far below, their path takes them into an enormous cavern filled with tables, desks and stands. Every surface throughout the expansive room is covered with bubbling, smoking glassware. Beakers, tubes, flasks, all filled with liquids of a hundred scintillating colours. We see our good father has become quite animated. 


Trusty Garmir settles Father Jack with a few words, and our intrepid band begins carefully and quietly exploring this subterranean laboratory. 

As we will soon see, this is the exhaustive and prodigiously proportioned laboratory of a very unusual man. A man the likes of which none of our travellers have ever seen. His alien skin is jet black, yet he is indeed human. All his varied chemical apparatus is in fact one vast process. Scores and scores of intricately interconnected tubes and glass, flasks and beakers boiling away with a hundred rare reagents, all this vast experiment, all working toward one final precipitate. A tiny drop falls, only one in many minutes, into the final ultimate flask. It boils away in a flashing instant, the smoke dissipating in a colour never before seen by human eyes. Each drop thus leaves only a tiny speck of dust, and the flask, though by no means full, holds the product of untold hours! Here he is now! The exotic jet-skinned master of the laboratory emerges in his white coat! 

So then the party killed him.

And broke the flask. The precious precipitate disappeared all over the dirt.

Doc Sampson is heaving a flask of acid at the furious dagger-wielding onyx-toned scientist! What can happen? It melts his face off! He drops dead. 

Wandering into the ex-scientist’s bedroom, we see Jack discover a horde of glittering jewellery! He shrugs non-committedly. But what’s this hidden away in there? A pouch filled with strange white powder. Following his curiosity, Jack sniffs the pouch to see if it bears some unique aroma. 

Threee. Hours. Laterrrr… <- Jacques Cousteau accent

Here is Jack, but he’s not looking very jaunty. He is struggling back across the dry rolling grass, with Garmir’s help. The craggy dirt hills are far behind. What has happened? Sadly, our narrative depends on the memory of Father Jack, and he doesn’t remember a bloody thing. He is, however, carrying the decapitated head of a gigantic white flower. Looking about, he sees everyone has one. Ah well, such is the way of things in a traveller’s life, and our unflappable Jack dismisses these details with a wave of the hand, and turns his mind to matters ahead. 


Unfortunately, the local libations prove too much for our far-ranging friar, and he falls afoul of jurisprudence. As well as several other kinds of prudence. He awakes in a barred cell, not long before his release is arranged. He is less than happy about the arrangement. 


And now, his purse emptied of all coin to pay his fines, and many of his possessions confiscated to make up the remainder of his debt, he falls asleep in an alley of the outpost. He reaches for his trusty Neverending Rumflask. Knowing what the future holds, the faithful Garmir plugs his ears. 


It is gone.

Thanks to Jeremy for a great game! :)

Posted initially at The Grumpy Old Troll by Father Jack's player Migellito

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Father Jack sitting at the bar tells his tale

Jack at The Blue Rabbit

Being a record of some of the exploits of the good father, related during what literary drunkards often refer to as a moment of clarity. 

Well, we headed out onto the moors today. There’s been talk about this beast roaming around out there. Some say it’s a devil cat. At any rate, there’s a reward, so it seemed like a good way to spend the morning. 

On the way we passed by some peasants, and I gave them the good word, letting them know they would most likely end up burning in purgatory. They were very appreciative, and let us know about a sorcerer who had been seen round the countryside, causing anxiety through his Spanish countenance and scaring the sheep. Now, I believe this turned out to be an unlucky choice of words on their part, calling him a sorcerer, as you will see, but I don’t blame them, as they’re all just a lot of ignorant Cornish.

They had told us this Spaniard had been spied about hangman’s hill, so that’s where we made for. Sure enough, three crows started following us almost straight away, and not a one of us failed to see this as an ill omen. One got away, and we probably should have sworn it all off as a bad job and went back to the abbey there and then, but on we pressed. I walked up to the gallows and someone noticed one of the stretched fellows there had recently gone missing a hand. After a stroke of luck, I saw wizard tracks heading off into the moor.

Following the tracks, we arrived at a hut made of bones. The others decided to walk on in, and realizing their godless ignorant ways, I knew it would be pointless to cry out against it. Inside, we found that body’s cut hand covered in wax and burning from the fingertips, all written round with sorcerous designs and eldritch patterns. There was also a pot on the boil, but none of us tasted it.

I left a note, letting him know he should lay off bothering the sheep. We continued to track him, and before long we saw him walking the moor. Finn headed out to get round behind him, and the rest of us approached. He held out his hands to let us know he had no weapons, and I started talking to him in Latin. His Latin wasn’t the best, but after all he was only a Spaniard. Before we’d gotten past the niceties, the ghostly skinned skeleton woman approached a bit closer to the Spaniard so she could be ready for anything. Now, I don’t blame her for this. Mostly because of how she filled out her robes. It’s not all bones under there, let me tell you. Well, he got a bit nervous and was showing us his hands again. Then Finn hit him on the head from behind. I’m guessing that’s where it all started to go pear shaped. I put the light of our Lord in his eyes, and he held up his hands and buggered off. Just like that, quick as a wink. He’s there and then he’s not. 

Without much else to do, and a bit worried he might be upset now that one of us had stuck him with an axe, we went off following more tracks. These led us to a pond. After a bit of prodding, the ghostie woman managed to pull out a few human skulls and other bones, which was a bit unlucky as my hired man, Girly, had just had a drink from it. 

Oh yes. Sometime before that, we’d found a net made of fog laid out on the ground, with a big joint of meat in the middle. My guess was the Spaniard was trying to trap the devil cat. Scary, the ghostie lady, ate the whole bloody thing. I couldn’t believe it. Then, somebody wrapped the misty net on a stick and brought it along. 

So, at any rate, here comes the Spaniard again whiles were at the pond pulling out bones. He’s got out some kind of crystal ball, and he looks none too happy. Flip goes the net, and Bob’s your uncle, the Spaniard’s bagged. Then ghostie hit him with her axe again. We carry him back to the abbey, and go to see the abbot. Completely ignoring all the trouble we’d taken, and the risk to our own bodily health as well, not to mention the bloody sheep, the abbot was bound and determined to fix his eye on how the Spaniard might have been trying to capture the devil cat, and how we’d then been a bit rough with him. Well there’s thanks for you. 

Later on, we went back out to the Spaniard’s bone hut and knocked the hand out of the magic circles, purely by accident, let me assure you. There started rising a bilious smoke out of the earth, so we scarpered off back to the abbey. I’m pretty sure the diabolical laughter I heard coming from the direction of the hut was something unrelated. 

Now here I am taking my ease at the Blue Rabbit. There are some unfortunate ladies here in desperate need of my charity, so I’ve agreed to give them a few coins for their hard works. I may also have a bit of drink.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Let me show you around

                  Some of our more attractive patrons and this is after you're a couple tankards in.

At this moment La Lapin Bleu is a modest tavern. Housing a bar that can hold several patrons and their drinks. If you're lucky a stool might even be available.*

The ale wives will make sure you have the finest ale that Wessex can offer.

For entertainment we have a lovely stage housing the best on local bawdy raunchy, and unsanctimonious theater this section of England can offer. So lewd you'll have to go to confession on Sunday twice. Our stage is the size of honest country fair but don't let's its modesty fool you of the quality of its shows.

For those in need a foreign diversion Darf F-M, co-proprietor of this establishment, will regale you in tales of the Dwarf-Land. Come here tell you the tale of Granny Grimtits, here of strange lands where Dwarfs live in titanic boots, hollow trees and hillside smials!

And if that's not enough there is more! Watch as the lovely ladies three dance to the music of a most strange and foreign beat. Don't be shy gentle folk these ladies are working for a living. Let the coin rain down on them as if you had just defeated the last dragon in England.

* stools broken during bar fights will be put onto the patrons tab.