Brawwk Brawwwk!

The Admiral erupted with unusual ferocity.

“Great blathering blatherskites! “

As has been his wont throughout this narrative, Woodpecker-Smythe pointed out the obvious

“He thinks he’s a chicken, you know gallus domesticus”

And, with that impeccable sense of timing so necessary to drop in on the most embarrassing aspect of this pitiful scene, Sir Bocking strode in with his henchman Zimbar in tow.

“Ah, I see I’ve missed the high class luncheon featuring ..” And here he paused to lean over and survey the remains on serving dishes.

“…. Almond Chicken ala Binky .. simply delightful”

The Admiral quickly regained his composure.

“Actually, I was aiming for a Coturnix coturnix japonica theme but I had to act quickly after Captain Stupid over here nearly spilled the proverbial beans about the sacking.”

“Who’s Captain Stupid?” Zimbar asked.

“You, that’s who” replied Bocking

“Now listen carefully, I understand that Lord Toranaga is not only a high-level mage but also fancies himself to be a top-flight chef and designer of haute couture, 8th level. If I am sure of anything, he’s no doubt got his wedding banquet already laid out and Lady M is probably the main course.”

Woody looked ashen.

“Will we have to face him in a fashion feud?”

Bocking turned on his heel, his hand on the hilt of his +5 shiv.

“Quite likely, quite likely I’m afraid. And it might even include a bake-off as a tiebreaker.”

Zimbar cut in and place both palms on the dining table. He looked exceptionally grave.

"Then we had better hope to Heimdall that chicken isn't the secret ingredient."

"Bawgawk Bawgawk!" seconded Turnips

Writing Frightening Verse to a Bucktooth Girl in Luxembourg

Hannon/Turnips was in a deep funk.

He sat at his spartan bunk gazing through sunken, red-rimmed eyes at his two adventuring mates, Woody the Half-Elven Illusionist and the Admiral. He absentmindedly twirled the magical dodecahedron in his fingers.

Lord Turnips/Hannon clearly re-emphasized that whilst the Good Party enjoyed many outstanding adventures and had blasted to smithereens, rendered unto dust, dispatched with make-do monster vertebrae flails, and generally smoten . . . many a foe, they had done so under the banner of lawful goodishness.

He also raised a point about the appropriate casus belli that led them to sack the Temple of the Daughters of Odin and Count Grimani’s Castle.

But, it was more than this, it was more than Salina or the imprisoned Lady M or the creepy pair of characters constantly building coffins in the ships’ hold.

Woody hesistated at first but decided they had to do something, “Look Turnips, you know what I do when I when I’m feeling down in the dumps like you? I compose another brilliant poem!”

The Admiral sensing an opening added “And I write entertaining stories in my logbook in which I visualize outcomes to my liking!”

“Sure” Woody added, “And look at old Bocking, he composes rude songs about people when he’s not planning their murders. That’s how he takes his mind off his troubles.”

“I’ve actually started one” replied Turnips as he showed them his own notebook.

Inside was indeed an introduction to a poem. It went as follows: “The day is gone and all its sweets are gone, soft voice ..”

Woody broke in sounding annoyed, “No, no, oh no, not all gooey like that! You need to write poems about dragons, dirks and lances and vanquishing wicked Lichs!”

“Now wait a second Woody, I’ve seen some of your stuff about certain ladies and its just like that” the Admiral chided.

“What were you doing looking in my personal poem book Freebooter?” said Woody, hands place petulantly on his hips.

“Well, it just so happens that I’m the Captain of this vessel..” but the Admiral was unable to finish his statement because both he and Woody somehow found themselves in a slap fight with Turnips caught between the two - each launching highly ineffective blows on the other.

“I think I’ll go talk to Cash and Vardaman” said Turnips as he escaped the cabin.

The Temple of the Daughters of Odin

The 11 adventurers had marched through the Wild for two days in their search for the temple. "Temple" was a misnomer, actually, as the place was more like a fortress. Had to be in this part of the world.

It had been 10 days since Turnips had started having his dreams. Or, at least, since he started telling us about them. Then they got worse. It wasn't just during the height of battle or while sleeping that Turnips would assume his Hannon persona, with its strange Northern tongue and accompanying Berserker battle rage. This certainly wasn't something that was advertised when the Admiral signed Turnips up for the "sugar cure." There must be something else afoot. And, while having a Berserker was defnitely handy in battle, we were now in real danger of losing the Turnips identity for good. This could not stand.

All morning the landscape was strangely silent. There was no sound nor sight of flying birds or ground creatures, both large and small. The land itself seemed to have lost some of its color. There was a faint charred smell to the air. The group was in a subdued mood, and even Bocking the Bard's songs could not rouse their spirits. In addition, for the past mile there was the strangest glow in the sky ahead of them. The orange glow would start then quickly fade. This would happen several times a minute.

Now there were faint, but growing, sounds of battle.

Not wanting to be taken unawares, the Admiral had ordered the fighters to the front of the group, in the Standard Adventuring Tactical Formation (SATF). Then came the theives, bowmen, and Zimbar the Halfling Paladin. In the rear were the healers and spell casters, as far away from melee weapons as was possible. Turnips was in the front line, as it was assumed that, during any combat, his Hannon Berserker persona would take over.

Rossaroni looked over at his friend, Turnips, as they trudged up the hill, whose summit must surely reveal to them what was afoot. Turnips was dressed in a leather jerkin, +1 enchanted chainmail (softly glowing green in the dim sunlight), an iron helm atop his head, and the famous Seven League Boots on his feet. On his back was the Bag of Holding, which contained all the Fellowships food and bedding. And a couple of ponies too, I think.

The Admiral remembered how Turnips had begged him not to interrupt the journey to Toronaga's Island for his sake. Rossaroni was adamant though. They had already lost Fedor. Another loss must be avoided, if possible. So the Planetary Sovereign put in to Woolly Bay, left the ship in the capable hands of the Chief, and made tracks for the Temple of the Daughters of Odin. Surely, the reknowned Sisters would know something about Turnips' Nordic affliction.

When they reached the summit a most unnerving sight greeted their eyes. Half a mile away stood the Temple, its sturdy polished granite walls rising twenty feet into the air. But surrounding the fort was an attacking army. Behind the army was a small hill, obscured by fog or smoke. Just then a orange glow flared up inside the mist and a glowing fireball flew towards the fort's wall, sending splinters of stone in all directions as it hit.

"Penna the Younger," ordered Rossaroni. "Come up here and tell me what your young elf eyes see." "Half-elf, Admiral," he joked. Even the sight in front of him could not douse his good humored nature. "On the left I see skeletons, perhaps 20 or 30 of them. The center has a troop of orcs. I reckon about 80 of them. On the right are 2 dozen earth elementals. And surrounding the hill are a dozen centaurs, galloping in a loose skirmish formation."

Undated picture of Penna the Younger

"I say, other than the chap with the fireballs, this lot doesn't look all that bad," Woodpecker-Smythe interjected.

"It's that 'chap' I'm worried about, Woody," replied the Admiral. "A low level sorcerer who can only summon elementals and skeletons could never throw fireballs like that. And they don't attack well defended castles either."

"So what's he up to then?" P the Y asked.

"Good question, my lad." The Freebooter responded. "Well, if he's not showng his entire hand, neither will I. No offensive magic until I give the word. Woody, can you whip up an illusion to hide or disguise us?"

Woody nodded and started rummaging through his pack. "Sure thing, boss. Give me a minute to find the blasted scroll."

The Admiral continued rattling out instructions. "Zimbar, you and the Padre are in change of dispelling those summoned creatures. You take the skeletons and the Padre will tackle the elementals, as they are a bit tougher to take down. Padre, keep your eyes open for any life-suckers. If that sorcerer is as bad as I think he is, he'll have a few liches or ghasts hanging about. And make ready with your bows, gentleman... and ladies," he said with a nod toward Lady Lyme-Weoghe, perhaps the best shot of the group, "I don't want those centaurs to get within 100 yards of us. Woody, are you ready?"

W-S closed his eyes, chanted quietly for several seconds, and the group faded into near invisibility. Only a slight shimmering in the air betrayed their presence. The Admiral hoped it would be good enough to get close to that hill before whatever was in there noticed them.

The Admiral looked over his motley group. "Alright people, no attacks till we're spotted. Stay alert for surprises."

"Follow me..."