So there they were…
Scheming. With the three DieFi rods, the party, consisting of the gnome druid Whudyalookadah, the tiefling sorceress Comfort, the dragonborn fighter Rhogar, the human monk Turnin, the gnome barbarian Gnofulk, the human wizard Kyllar (and the kobold manservant Kaz) had the means to zero in on the location of the Wizened. Rhogar had made the rounds in Ghallanda Hall at an unimaginable 4 a.m., rousing his comrades and informing them that his friend in the City Watch had spread the word among the patrolmen in Greyflood, and the beat cops had spied a man in orange robes in the area. Rhogar was also excited because the armor he had ordered through Felmore’s Emporium was ready for his final fitting! Finally, the dragonborn could crack heads wearing full plate.
The party, bleary-eyed, munched on a cold breakfast of biscuits and cheese. The rest of the party was convinced to visit Felmore’s Emporium, as both Turnin and Gnofulk also had items that should be ready by now. And maybe that fancy-looking suit of armor Kyllar was eyeing as a conversation piece for their eventual party headquarters might be able to be bought…
Turnin and Kaz each take a rod, and Gnofulk somehow tucks one into is assortment of weapons. Sleepily Turnin excitedly claims his DieFi rod is flaring up, though it may have been a prank by Kyllar. The party ventured out into a cool morning that promised to become a glorious day. Weather-wise. They trudged along the mostly deserted walkways connecting the innumerable towers of Sharn, and soon found themselves beneath a sign bearing the image of a plate-clad minotaur and the words “Felmore’s Emporium (Associated with House Cannith)”.
*ding*
The party burst in on an unsuspecting Felmore, who was just opening up shop, moving from shelf to shelf setting his gizmos, gadgets, and the toy Skull Buddies in motion for the day. Pleasantries were exchanged, as well as the favor scroll for House Cannith obtained earlier. Kyllar noted with some dissatisfaction that the armor he had been eyeing was gone.
Turnin, the human monk received twenty-six smoke bombs, and as Felmore juggled the taskts of making the final fitting adjustments to Rhogar’s new plate armor and explaining the bombs to Turnin, that number became twenty-five, and the monk was engulfed in a rough five-foot cube of dark smoke.
Gnofulk thumbed his ammo warily. The gnome barbarian had asked for special sling ammunition for when raging might be a poor choice of action. (What?!? Bro, do you even barbarian?) Boring a hole seemed like an odd thing to do to a pebble, but Felmore explained that once flung, air would woosh in, and it would sound like the wail of a chain-smoking Banshee. Anyone nearby not in cover would likely be frightened, and anyone nearby already in cover would be quite dissuaded from leavings its safety.
Turnin then remembered that he had left his weird hovering and flaming skull associate, Skull Buddy in the tender care of Felmore, after everyone determined that Skull Buddy wasn’t 1) a toy Skull Buddy 2) a real skull 3) but not a demi-lich. Felmore admitted that the Skull Buddy was beyond his abilities, and his crew of warforged worked were working on it… though they had yet to arrive today. Odd. They are usually so punctual.
*ding*
Turnin claims his rod is acting up, and newly outfitted, the party departs, and arrives in the northern area of the district of Greyflood in the still-early morning.
Viewing this area in the daylight for the first time, Turnin, Gnofulk and Comfort learn a little more about how Sharn functions. A number of small trading vessels travel down the Dagger River, pausing to load and unload cargo, moved by large mechanical cranes looming over the river banks from some of the towers in Sharn. The cargo is briefly handled by these shipping companies, and then sent down the street to transportation companies that sort and disburse it throughout Sharn via porters.
The main thoroughfare – Commerce Road – is getting busy as the morning progresses, becoming clogged with cargo, workmen, sailors, and all manner of pedestrians.
They travel along Commerce Road, and on their right, soon pass by the building of Half the Time Shipping, the almost-certainly-a-front-company for the Halfling mafia. The party briefly considers stopping by, either to talk, or to spy or to fight, but eventually decide against doing anything with the mafia.
Another rough block or so, and they are at the bar known as the Naked Dwarf, and Whudyalookadah is… excited to see the owner Meloria again. But it’s morning still… and the bar is closed. Shucks.
The party, DieFi rods still inactive, decide to duck into the side streets between the towers, and explore the cluster of shops and dwellings just off the beaten path.
An oblivious Turnin, still insisting that his DieFi rod keeps flaring literally stumbles into a shop called “The G-String” – a shop of music boxes, sheet music and mostly stringed instruments. The monk narrowly avoids knocking over the tripod street sign as a hopeful shop keep looks up.
Or… tries to. Despite a normal haircut otherwise, the elf lad has incredibly long bangs hanging over his eyes, and he spends much of the conversation flipping them back or throwing his head in small nods in a persistent and futile attempt to see his potential customers.
Gnofulk is intrigued, as he is proficient in one musical instrument of his choice, and begins to browse, trying to remember which oddity he remembers how to play while Kyllar and Turnin talk to the owner, trying to find their lost “friends” a guy in orange and a gnome named Mort.
Sadly, neither has been seen by the shopkeeper. The party also learns that business has been slow for the little ironically-named music shop. The elf thought more people would chuckle and browse… but the sailors especially have been very disappointed in both his selection and sense of humor.
The party suggests that maybe marketing isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s the merchandise. Or maybe some combination of the two. Why not have a bar with attractive… entertainers, where everyone sings and jams? An idea takes root in the mind of this shopkeeper as the party walks away…
They continue on in these little alleys between the towers, and find a market of fresh street food being sold, and Gnofulk’s primal senses are piqued by the fragrant street meats. The barbarian’s hunger is roused, and he hungrily stalks from vendor to vendor, getting angrier and angrier at each inferior morsel. The best the gnome can do is “fish on a stick,” which is decidedly unusual and unappetizing to this forest-dweller.
The rage is kept in check, and the fish choked down... and Gnofulk finds that it is surprisingly good. Kyllar and Whudyalookadah also order one, and chat with the vendor as the food is prepared. The party is keen to know his business model, which Kyllar guesses as “1) Catch Fish 2) put on stick 3) profit.” The vendor points out that he adds a “seasoning” step in there too... but concedes that his operation is pretty straightforward.
With half the party snacking, they continue to poke around and explore these side streets, bouncing from one cluster of shops to another, with a fair amount of apartment complexes in between.
A long sign swings languidly in the breeze, reading “Coupling Bunnies” with a picture to drive the point of the establishment home. Two large saloon-style doors stand shut before the party. Turnin swings both doors open –
-and blushes a bit. A little ways into this section of the tower stands a lady orc wearing a white lacy dress standing behind a maître d’ stand. She winks at the group, and the doors shut. “The doors work.” Whispers Turnin to himself. “Just checking.”
Some doors are better left closed, but the party decides “why not?” and waltzes in, and quickly confirms that this place is exactly what they expected. The orc’s voice is a little heavier than the party would expect at a place like this, and also find out that she hasn’t seen any wrinkled guy in orange robes. Comfort doesn’t recognize the establishment, but knows sleaze when she sees it. At the suggestion of the tiefling, the party tells the orc to check out the music shop a few blocks north – and depart.
They continue exploring these seedier areas, and eventually sneak up on “Da Club” and walk in. The shop is one large room, and its walls are lined with clubs, small axes and cutlasses and such. A small multi-faceted and glittering ball is suspended from the ceiling, slowly turning, and with an arrow protruding from it. The orc eyes the bauble with dislike, and then welcomes the party.
The orc came in here once, was disappointed in it being a dance hall, and bought the shop to rectify people’s expectations. He caters to visiting sailors and thugs mostly.
Kyllar offers to handle the glittering ball if the orc would answer a few questions? The orc enthusiastically agrees, and the wizard’s mage hand procures a knife and swipes at the cord suspending the orb.
It falls.
Turnin is ready though, and arms outstretched, it lands atop one hand, rolls down both arms of the monk, coming to a stop with a flourish in his other hand.
The orc tells the party that he hasn’t sold anything to a guy dressed in orange, but had seen a guy down a bit south, along the main road, and the party departs.
They eschew traveling along the main road, bypassing the busy Rock Steady Shipping, Everything Goes Transportation and Marsh Shipping towers, and continue along the back streets, coming up on a market for reagents from a less-traveled angle. Eyes of a newt, pinecone dust… you name it – it’s here, but the party doesn’t have need of anything. They see a book market across the street, and Kyllar demands the party travel there next.
They exit the reagents market onto the main street, and as they pass a derelict-looking transportation company. The swing slowly. “5 Orcs and a cart Transportation.” But the 5 has been crossed out and replaced with a 4, and then that replaced with a three. The whole text is crossed out, and a “Closed” sign hands beneath the company one.
As they pass the shuttered company, their DieFi rods begin to glow. The party spreads out, trying to triangulate and soon the rods furthest away wink out. This looks to be the place…
The party takes a stop off the main road, and fans out to regard the building. It appears to be a stout warehouse, taking up the entire level of this skinny tower and being about 60 feet tall.
There are two sections of large double doors covering areas about 40 feet wide and thirty feet tall. An “In” door for receiving shipments and an “Out” door for the orcs and their cart. Both are shut, and secured with chains and a lock. The party decides to go in through the out door. Non one expects such blatant disregard for the rules!
Comfort procures a small lock picking kit – and proceeds to do what the party rogue cannot.
The small padlock clicks open, and the chains loosen. The party gingerly snakes them free, and stealthily opens the door.
It’s shady inside, but not unbearably dark.
A small labyrinth of boxes stand before them, nearly all large (10’ x 10’) crates standing ready for transport. In the back of the room appears to be a 60’ tower and controls for a descending claw arm, rigged to scaffolding and metal runners from the ceiling. The claw holds a large pallet of crate boxes from the ceiling.
There is enough light to see, but shadows abound. Turnin hops up onto one of the walls of crates as Kyllar’s familiar scouts the room, finding nothing. The labyrinth turns out to be full of potential paths, and no actual dead ends.
Just lots of big crates, ready for transportation.
The party sets out, aiming to close in on the control tower. Rhogar’s new plate and Gnofulk’s weapons clatter loudly as the party moves; Rhogar, Kyllar and Kaz and Gnofulk, Comfort separated by a crate wall with a very stealthy Turnin atop. Whudyalookadah shapeshifts into a hawk, and flies up to the control tower, but sees and does nothing.
Turnin wants to see what’s in these crates, and two crowbars are tossed up to the monk. The first crate is broken open, revealing a bunch of soap bars.
The party moves closer, still clattering, and from somewhere in the warehouse - no one can pinpoint where – the breaking of wood is heard. The rods flare to life, but the party can see nothing.
Turnin jumps over to another crate wall, and drives the crowbar in. With a mighty press of the bar, the wall of the crate breaks, splintering wood.
Hearing the noise, Kyllar rounds the corner to the lane where Gnofulk and Comfort in time to see a small mountain of zombies spill forth from the wrecked crate and into the path. Kyllar calls forth flame and ignites the crate, reasoning that he could always snuff it out later. The dry, preserved zombies in and around the crate start to combust.
Crowbar in hand, and seeing Gnofulk and Comfort in danger, Turnin leaps to another crate wall, and picks a new box to try to smash. The monk fails, and only manages to get the crowbar stuck into the sturdy wood case.
Hot on the heels of Kyllar and Kaz, the plate-clad Rhogar stomps around the corner and starts shoving and battering the zombies surrounding Gnofulk as they try to stand; shoving one and battering another with the dragonborn’s sturdy shield.
The mass of zombies paw, scratching Comfort and Gnofulk as the parched undead, modified with metal blades, attempt to stand.
Enraged, Gnofulk and Comfort tear into the mass of limbs from two sides. The gnome barbarian with an uncouth series of attacks with a great axe and scimitar, and the tiefling sorceress seizing the dead with electrifying caresses.
Whudyalookadah, still in hawk form, dive bombs the mass of zombies, and is rewarded with a beak-full of gross. The hawk spits. Gross.
Kyllar unleashes seven hawk’s worth of fury into the swarm, fanning the flames. Kaz, tries to watch his masters back, and shrieks as the Wizened appears.
A blur of orange appears behind the wizard; wrinkled fists pummel the wizard as a shriveled tongue murmurs the forms. The last thing the wizard hears is “Scythe cuts the Wheat” as his body seizes up and he falls to the ground, knocking on death’s door. The Wizened withdraws.
From atop the crates Turnin sees his comrade fall and the victor flee, and the monk catapults himself towards the orange robes, imploring his quarry not to go anywhere. The normally talkative Turnin is rather stoic today; not even bothering to ask actually anticipated questions like “what’s with all these boxes? Why are you here, and who are you working for?” and proceeds to simply smack the Wizened with the cool staff, though his shriveled opponent shakes off the ki-focused attacks. “Ignorant fool,” whispers the inconvenienced Wizened.
Rhogar continues to batter the zombies with mace and shield, and Gnofulk with axe and scimitar. The zombies scratch at Gnofulk, but the barbarian seethes through the most of it, and the dragonborn’s plate proves nigh invulnerable.
Comfort considers a necromantic attack, but decides to rip a devastating line of enhanced lightning at the back of the Wizened, igniting the dust and crates nearby, and adding to the growing inferno in the warehouse.
Both monks easily evade the attack with a mandatory twirl, though the skin of the Wizened starts to char and smolder under the ambient heat of the blast.
Whudyalookadah, still as a hawk, swoops down to Kyllar, returning to Gnome form, and taking the wizards hand, tenderly tells the wizard to nut up.
Kyllar coughs as he regains consciousness, and looks deep into the eyes of the surly, ill-mannered gnome. The wizard murmurs a sweet nothing…
….and the gnome starts to change.
He turns scaly, and toothy, and begins to grow.
In only a few moments, the polymorphed gnome towers over the crates as a regal, murderous lizard. Massive jaws snapping, tail thrashing and tiny arms flailing uselessly. The gnome’s now tiny brain starts to try to make sense of it all. Is he really a.... a... T-Rex?
The Wizened whispers his forms, one wrinkled fist connecting with Turnin’s chest-
-and the other unexpectedly grabbing the cool staff. With a look of contempt, the Wizen plants his feet and flings Turnin into the air, whispering something about meddling and weak fung fu.
Turnin flies and crashes into crate suspended by the iron claw, and the force of his impact breaks it open, dropping zombies down into the room and growing fires as it swings back and forth.
The monk is able to recover quickly from the throw, and manages to regain his footing among the rafters. He briefly glimpsed the Wizened darting through the crate scorched by Kyllar, and decides to jump from the rafters, aiming for the other side of the crate. The monk guesses correctly, and lands close enough to the Wizened to continue the fight.
The numerically reinforced shambling horde swipes at what it can, and the newly arrived members attempt to right themselves and join the fight.
Rhogar and Gnofulk continue to batter the horde, cleaving apwart what is left of the original group and moving on to the new arrivals, while cool-headed Comfort takes a wide stance and twin-casts a spell, blasting apart two control zombies, enhanced with those DieFi rods, but there is still enough rods to keep the horde in motion.
Whudyalookadah the tyrannosaur blinks, and then spits. The old gnome is still in there somewhere. The wheels turn, and the beast lunges forward, swatting teetering zombies off the top of crates with his massive scaled tail, and smashing through other piles of boxes. Merchandise and flaming splinters are flung throughout the warehouse as the dinosaur makes his way towards the last thing that really caught is attention: Turnin throwing himself from the rafters.
The lizard tears through two rows of crates before he happens upon the monk duel, swatting zombies out of the way. The former gnome cannot remember what he is supposed to be biting, and ends up snapping at at Turnin, the bright dragonmark at the back of the monk’s head just too alluring apparently. Fortunately, the massive jaws miss the party's monk.
With the tyrannosaur rampaging about this largely enclosed space, Kyllar proceeds to start more fires, hurlling a fireball into the "zombie pinata." The crates explode, and a half dozen more immolated zombies fall to the floor, while splinters of flaming timber are scattered throughout the room.
A brutal Ki strike against Turnin inflicts grievous necrotic damage, and the muscles of the young monk seize up. The Wizened withdraws a bit, keeping the young monk between him and the dinosaur... but the old bones and shriveled flesh are starting to give, and the aged monk, skin still smoldering, does not make it far. Even with cramping muscles, Turnin is able to keep pace with his quarry, and even manages to outdistance him slightly, making the Wizened closest to the dinosaur now.
With a huge expenditure of effort, Rhogar sprints, crashing through what is left of the crates left in the wake of the tyrannous Whudyalookadah, spanning much of the warehouse and closing with the weakened Wizened...
...only to miss his strike.
....and interpose himself between the dinosaur and the Wizened. Rhogar, is now closest to the dinosaur.
Whudyalookadah is still adjusting to the polymorph, his dinosaur brain urging him to eat. The former gnome regards the situation, and in a moment of critial clarity, dives at the Wizened snout first. Not quite used to being a Tyrannosaurus Rex, Whudyalookadah eschews the obvious jaw attack, and opts to surprise his jerky-like prey, and uses his mighty jaws to pin the monk to the floor while his tiny arms tear, faster and faster at the robes and dry flesh.
The tiny arms windmill around and around, shredding the aged monk. Miraculously the pilfered Bag of Holding is torn free and flung aside unharmed, and soon the claws scrape nothing but stone, the shredded form scattered behind the T-Rex like dirt from a digging puppy.
The inferno spreads; and the zombies continue to stumble about attempting to fulfill their final commands, but as most are on fire, are quickly dispatched by Gnofulk's weapons and Comfort's magics.
The blaze entirely out of his control, Kyllar implores Turnin to loot what look he can from the Wizened, and everyone starts stumbling towards the exits.
Keeping low to avoid the smoke, Whudyalookada batters through the doors, and stands victorious as the fires continue inside this level of warehouse. A mighty roar is loosed as the rest of the party stumbles out in the wake of the dinosaur...
... and back out onto the bustling thoroughfare of the district, on a simply perfect afternoon.
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