As a crowd of caravaners, cultists, and cunts milled about the courtyard this morning, I made my move to surreptitiously slip into the storeroom, to pick the lock to the strong-room, so that we might make our way into the tunnel and after the loot. Tegan supplied a distraction by rousing the ire of one of the cultists, a deformed old veteran with a chip on his shoulder.
Suddenly, the mood shifted as the ugly cultist drew his blade on the bard. Tegan sought to back him down through fear, but the veteran’s response was to fight, not flee. From the other room, I heard Gunx try to break up the fray, but the moment he tried to intervene, the other cultists drew their swords and joined the attack. I quickly picked the lock to the strong-room, and threw open the trap door, then ran back to join the melee.
Bog Luck and the cultists’ captain, Larion Keenblade, held back the crowd of bystanders. Ardred Briferhew and Jamna Gleamsilver cheered from the sidelines as the cunts squared off against the cultists. At long last, we had licence to bewitch and butcher this cultist crew into utter oblivion.
After, amongst the carnage of cultist corpses, we confronted Bog Luck about his part in their plans. He claimed to be merely a middle-man, which seemed plausible. We left him with the understanding that his continued existence was a gift that we had given him, and that in turn he now owed us a favour: a debt to be repaid at a future time of our choosing.
We took our leave of Caravan Master Briferhew, discarded our teamster uniforms, and headed down the secret tunnel. After twisting and turning through the long, slimy passage, we eventually emerged in a dense stand of trees in a boggy forest. Gunx spotted the lizardfolk tracks in the mud, their footprints deepened under heavy load. We followed these tracks for hours until, nearing evening, we came to a rustic campsite on a patch of drier land, with four wicker lean-tos and three dugout canoes.
Just then, we heard the sounds of oars splashing, and voices on the water, as we saw three more canoes, and nine lizardfolk paddlers, heading towards the camp. We scattered to hide, but Brick was caught out in the open, so he brazenly waved to the reptilians. Casting a Comprehend Languages spell, I joined Gunx in understanding the Lizard-speech, and overheard their sibilant chatter, mocking their “dragon-kneeler” cultist employers, and seething about their bullywug enemies.
Gunx, in his guileless wisdom, strode forth and greeted the lizardfolk in a spirit of friendship. He informed them that we were not cultists, but that we needed a guide to take our group to them. I followed the monk’s lead, and offered them my recently acquired amethyst bauble, appealing to their evident love of shiny trinkets. The lizardfolk were well pleased with our peaceful overtures. They drew us a map, taught Gunx their trail waymarkers, and invited us to spend the night at their camp.
Mistress of Misfortune, hear my prayer of gratitude. Your capricious nature has led me to the unlikely hospitality of a tribe of lizardfolk, who welcomed me with open arms. I thank you for this unexpected turn of events. May your blessings continue to guide me through the twists and turns of fate, and may I always find a way to thrive in the face of adversity, klaatu barada nikto amen.