The game opens with the players vowing to focus more this session. Strangely, it actually seems to WORK this time…

Normilan: How will the DM pronounce my character’s name this time?
DM: Well, now that you got me all self-conscious about it…

Last time they had left their simple peasant hometown with many an insult tossed behind them, heading off to the town of Grand Mill. The DM allows them to retroactively purchase a mule to bear the gold.

Normilan: The weight of gold has never come up in your campaigns.
Marros: Wait a minute, didn’t we keep one of those sheep to carry our shit with us?
DM: No you didn’t keep a sheep!
Bront: “That’ll do, sheep.”
Marros: I was hoping to have a pack sheep.

The audio briefly craps out for unknown reasons. It is swiftly re-established.

DM: Many of you have never been this far from home before.
Bront: “Cruroar. Wait. If I take one more step I’ll be further away from home than I’ve ever been.”
Normilan: Thank you. I was about to do that myself but I had a mouthful of food…
DM: This isn’t very hostile terrain, though. Around here it’s a lot of farmland. You’re passing a lot of farmers.
Normilan: Dire ground squirrels!
DM: (shrugging) Okay, roll for initiative. Oh, they killed you all. They used their nut crack attack.
Eilnys: Oh, I should be okay, I don’t have any nuts.
DM: You travel for the day, it’s mostly uneventful, and you see the forest slowly creeping in.
Marros: Is the forest creeping in, like, Macbeth style, or are we just getting closer to it.
DM: Ents. Thousands of fucking ents.

The group reaches a lumber camp on the edge of the forest, and burst into songs about lumberjacks who are okay – especially Marros. They discover that a crude fence has been erected around the outpost, and it is being patrolled by cloaked bowmen.

Marros: We’re not being fired on, are we?
DM: Now that you mention it, roll for initiative.
Cruroar: I’m just crossing my fingers for NOT racism. “We don’t like your kind in this part of town, this is only for two legs, two arms, and PALE skin!”
Bront: No, that won’t happen. The DM wants to go to DM heaven.
DM: They command you to worship their altar of the gods, and bring you before a statue of ponies. If you do not sacrifice to the ponies you will be cast out!

They call out greetings to the cloaked figures, who respond with some courtesy and beckon them close. The rangers warn them that they are here to protect the outpost from bandits in the woods. The DM affirms that killing Marros is a good act, if chaotic. The sole solid building in the outpost is the tavern, which is jam-packed with burly woodcutters. The ranger relates that travelers in the wood are being shaken down for money, even in large groups.

DM: “Aye, it’s true! A round dozen of us there were, but yet they numbered twice that! Perhaps thrice!” “Ah, they didn’t number thrice that. There were maybe 20 of them though.” “No, there were twenty-five!” “No, thirty!”
Marros: “How many fingers am I holding up?” (holding up six finger)
DM: “Um! Let’s see! One!” (counting off every finger by flipping Marros off) “Two! Three! A four! A five! Aaaand six.”
Marros: “Well at least he can count.”

The ranger reports that they sent men to report to the baron over a week ago, but it’s a couple weeks’ travel to his manor. A quick Knowledge(geography) roll tells them the forest is a few days’ worth of travel to get through, with Grand Mill directly on the other side. Marros wanders off and many jokes are had at his expense.

Bront: “Well our road lies through that forest, whether we seek to confront the bandits or not. Shall we wait for the baron’s reply?”
Normilan: “That would take too long.”
Bront: “Of course. Resupply and set out in the morning?”
Normilan: “Sounds good to me.”
DM: The girl behind the counter calls out, “The inn’s all full up, but if you care to make camp in the palisade, no charge for it. And there’ll still be plenty of beer’n breakfast waitin’ for ya on the morrow.”
Eilnys: “YAY BEER!”
Normilan and Bront: “Yay, breakfast.”
DM: The beer is the breakfast.
All: “Yay!”

One of the rangers attempts to persuade Normilan to stay and work the patrols. Don’t go into the bandit woods, guys!

Normilan: “Afraid that won’t be possible. We have business in…” Grand Mill?
DM: Yes. I don’t know how you can’t remember that. “Grand Mill.”
Normilan: I keep wanting to say Big Mill. Sorry. Because we had that old joke where it’s just this humongous mill.
Cruroar: That’s what Grand Mill is. It’s not a city, it’s just a giant mill and everyone lives inside it.
DM: For what it’s worth, it DOES have a big mill, that’s why it’s named that. It is a principle flour and bread producer for the area.
Cruroar: No, this big mill is used to polish one marble at the very bottom.
DM: It is the prime barbarian training center. “March on the Wheel of Pain, five gold pieces per point of Strength.”
Normilan: There’s like 20 Conans down there!

Normilan notices a small man listening to his tale quite curiously, perhaps suspiciously!

Normilan: “YOU, sir! Who seems to take such an interest in our conversation?”
DM: “Me, sir?”
Normilan: “Yes, sir.”
Cruroar: “I was just flexing my ear!”
Normilan: “How’d you like to come with? You can help us fend off the bandits as they’ll no doubt attack us on the road.”
DM: “Come with you to face the bandits? I couldn’t possibly!”
Normilan: “The more the merrier.”
Cruroar: “And if you don’t survive, we can just eat your flesh…”
DM: “But sir, I’m not good in a fight. Surely you need someone who’s a capable warrior to help you, not little old me!”
Normilan: “Yes, this is true. Then I suggest you keep to your own business, sir.”
DM: “Yes… oh, yes, right. You all must be very capable warriors, though. To dare the bandit regions.”
Normilan: “I can definitely say we’ve had our encounters in the past.”
Bront: This guys must be a feeler agent for the bandits.
DM: It’s his accent, it’s automatically suspicious.
Eilnys: Meta! Meta!
Normilan: “We’ve encountered some goblins and kobolds.”
DM: “Goblins and kobolds, where’d you face those? There’re no goblins or kobolds around here, the king’s men keep them out!”
Normilan: “No, they apparently are coming back.”
DM: “I can’t believe that. Show us your proof!” “Yeah, show us some proof of these kobolds.” “Proof of kobolds? Kobolds ain’t around here!”
Cruroar: If you had read my character sheet, you would have realized my character likes to make necklaces out of ears.
Normilan: I was gonna say, “I got a string of ears right here, guys.” (miming a bigass necklace)
DM: “I believe him, I saw a veritable kobold army marching up here!” “Aaaw, you been drinkin’ that day.” “Tell us about the purple elephants next.” “I tell you, there were pink elephants, and they were real!” “And what about the flying man!” “HE WAS FLYING!”
Normilan: “…apparently my voice has nothing to do any more with this conversation.”
DM: Nope, you’ve completely lost control of it. They begin to yell accusations and acrimony about various things they each claim to have seen…
Cruroar: I’m gonna add to it. “I hear they killed a giant!”
Bront: (Mickey voice) Seven with one blow!
Cruroar: “A giant? I hear they killed a Cyclops!” “It was a dragon!” I just want to egg it on more.
Normilan: “Add a minotaur.”
Cruroar: “They were fighting a minotaur as well! They were riding the dragon!”
Normilan: “Took ‘em a while to get there ‘cuz they had to go through his maze!”
DM: Roll a Perform check.
Cruroar: 21.
DM: Very nice. Welp, you’ve managed to provoke this into an all-out argument across everyone, but a good-natured one, fueled by beer and a general refusal to take each other’s shit. Where people are arguing that they did this thing or they did that thing, the tale continues to grow in the telling. One man swears that he choked a baby dragon to death with its own tail, he used it as a garrote and strangled it, another guy is going on about a minotaur, he appears to have taken inspiration from your words, about how he mastered his maze.
Bront: And then someone comes up with an outlandish tale about a sixty-foot fly.

Bront manages to get a very crude map of the forest based on information from the drunken, boisterous crowd. They grab some space for their pair of tents, and their meta PC suspicions lead them to take watch shifts despite the rangers’ presence and the number of other people. Nothing happens on the first couple of watches…

DM: Bront, you need to give me a Spot and Listen check.
Bront: (sighing heavily) 9 Listen, 23 Spot.
DM: Ooh, very nice. Let me see your character sheet real quick. I need one more Spot check from you as well.
Bront: A 17 on the second Spot.

Ominous silence as the DM seems to write things on Bront’s character sheet.

DM: And morning dawns.
Bront: What has he done?
DM: The sun dawns over you. Bront wakes everyone up, which isn’t a difficult feat—
Bront: That’s what you – YOU FUCKING STOLE MY MONEY!
DM: Bront awakens you all with a shot, as with a reflexive check of his morning goods he realizes that many gold coins are missing. Instantly everyone in the camp is on their feet and alert, facing outwards to see who, what, where? The bellowing half-orc roars out loud and leaps to his feet.
Bront: “HELLFIRE AND BRIMSTONE, THIEF! I WANT BLOOD!”
DM: There is a surge, like a boulder thrown into a pond, a wave of people moving away from him.
Bront: Tipping over the breakfast table!
Normilan: (sleepily) “Huh? Wha’s going… Enlarge Person… Zzzz.” Oh wait, seven Wisdom!
Bront: Is the money that we were carrying to Grand Mill missing?
DM: No, just that.
Bront: Just my money. The one person who didn’t speak to that little—
DM: You assume it was that guy. That’s great. You’re racist against short guys with British accents.
Bront: The only other character that had any kind of specific description given that wasn’t a ranger, and therefore probably above suspicion, is that guy!
DM: Meta! Meta!
Bront: Nor did I like the sound of his voice. In-character.
DM: British racist…

Normilan verifies all the kobold-money is there as Bront continues to rage. Rangers desperately attempt to placate him as he toes a very delicate line of not smashing things.

Bront: “I went to a lot of trouble during character creation to save some money, and now it has been taken from me!”
DM: You see a finger descending from the sky, as if to crush you.
Bront: Oh, so I’m not gonna end up on the Sistine Chapel, then.
DM: The rangers desperately try to placate you and talk you down from your killing rampage.
Bront: “A great deal of—“ I’m not killing, I’m not rampaging!
DM: You’re a half-orc, they’re convinced you’re inches from it.
Cruroar: “We’ll figure it out, we’ll figure it out, we’ll figure it out! Calm down, calm down, no worries.”
Bront: “MY NAME IZ NOT QUAID.”
DM: “Easy, easy, Quaid, settle down.”

The rangers find three people have left during the night – the shady little guy, and two others.

Bront: So now that’s our Macguffin to face the bandits, is get my money back. That’s gonna be our loot, is my money. The group’s loot is going to be my money! Aww man!
Cruroar: What’s funny is the DM has to go through you to get to the door.
Bront: He’s trying to get me angry enough to work on my campaign again.
DM: This is going better than I expected!

The lumberjacks speak up, saying the ones who left were lumberjacks like themselves.

DM: “They never would have done such a thing! They’re absolutely innocent!” “Hey remember that one time Walrist shook that one guy down?” “No, no! He’s changed, he’s changed, he wouldn’t do that any more.” “Kaldor might do it –“ “Okay, but Walrist would take care of it.”
Bront: Walrus?
DM: Walrist.
Normilan: Goo goo gachoob.
DM: Let’s just say he has a nickname. And there’s a reason for the nickname. His mustache. “He is changed and he is working on changing Kaldor! So it can’t be them. They’re certainly not in league with the bandits.” “No, they would not be in league with the bandits. Those two work independently.” “…As lumberjacks!” “Well Walrist did get kicked out of the Thieves’ Guild that one time—“ “No, no, no! He was never in the Thieves’ Guild!” “He refused to join?” “Yes – no! Stop that!”
Bront: (seizing and hefting by the shirt gesture) Each one of them.
DM: There are like four different dudes having the conversation.
Bront: ALL of them. Scoop each one up in a bear hug. “WHO’S THE THIRD!”
DM: “No! No! No! Don’t kill!” The rangers plead with you to spare their lives. “They didn’t do it! They’re just innocent bystanders!”
Normilan: All four of those dudes have a lower Wisdom score than I do.

The lumberjacks try to lay suspicion on the fellow group members, but Eilnys steps forward and vouches for them (her father being of sufficient renown that they’ll trust her word). Marros seeks tracks, and finds sixty dudes’ worth of tracks. The rangers debate whether they can search the forest for the thief, but decide they can’t.

Cruroar: “If we can perhaps have one of you – another person, a tracker.”
Bront: “Golbez, you could help us.” “No, I’m needed elsewhere.”
DM: You HAVE a ranger!
Normilan: Yeah – what were his last tracking attempts like?
Cruroar: “Can we get another one?”
DM: …he lost 20 kobolds and who knows how many sheep for an hour in the forest.

The DM, forced to bow to this, grants them an NPC ranger to handle the tracking. Sanward the Ranger joins up (he will be forgotten for anything meaningful, though).

DM: But first, breakfast!
Bront: I already had it.
Normilan: He feeds on rage.
Eilnys: “BEEEEEEEEEEEEER!”

Many an Aragorn joke is made as their ranger companion rolls his tracking. Sanward indicates three sets of tracks lead out of camp. A half a day of travel sees them to a fork in the path; one leads to Grand Mill, the other to a fine grove of trees where much lumber work has been done lately. Two tracks go to the grove, one to Grand Mill. They debate their course. Marros questions Sanward’s trustworthiness!

DM: You challenge the ranger’s trusthworthiness and he draws himself up in affront.
Marros: I rolled a 17 on my Sense Motive.
Cruroar: You sense the motive of him wanting to tell you the truth!
DM: You believe he is being truthful.
Cruroar: He’s a fellow ranger. I love how you turn on your brothers.
Eilnys: “Lad, I think ya owe the man an apology.”
Marros: “I’m sorry.”
Cruroar: You turn on your brothers. Come on, secret hatred against faggots, come on out!
Marros: They never saw me as one of them anyways!
Eilnys: “Lad, he gets a wild hair sometimes, you gotta excuse him.”
DM: “Well CERTAINLY. Shall we continue on, or do you believe this is not the forest I’ve been leading you into, and we’re secretly halfway back to your town?” He continues to bristle as he head down the trail.
Cruroar: Good job, Milnerstein.

They travel onwards! The DM inquires as to their marching order, prompting a furious squabble. Night falls without incident, though the DM bids them select their minis.

Cruroar: Who are you playing as, Normilan?
Normilan: Hmm… give me Iglar.

They set the watch order and the DM starts rolling checks for the people on watch. Eilnys sees or hears nothing! For Cruroar, all seems peaceful…

DM: Till at one point you happen to follow a particularly bright spark as it floats up into the sky, and realize there’s a big sort of blobby thing you can’t quite resolve, just at the limit of your darkvision, up in a tree.
Bront: Damn spiders again!
Cruroar: How far is it?
DM: Almost exactly sixty feet.
Bront: One foot further than you are able to see!
Cruroar: It’s up in the tree?
DM: Yes.
Marros: Get a log out of the fire, hold it up, take two steps forward. “Now you are within my vision!”
Cruroar: I’ll try to sort of creep closer to get a better view of it.
DM: As you stand up and begin peering upwards at it, the blob seems to erupt off, and up into the darkness past the limits of the fire. You hear an immense flap, and then all is silent.

The rest of the night passes uneventfully, and morning dawns!

Normilan: Sandwich is dead, right?
DM: …Sandwich? Sanward!
Normilan: That’s what I said! Sandwich!
Marros: “I like to refer to him as Manwich.”
DM: Offended!
Normilan: He BRISTLES!
Bront: This guy’s gonna end up being our nemesis down the road.
DM: Marros, making an enemy of every NPC he sees.
Normilan: Favored enemy: Sanward.
DM: Favorite enemy: NPCs.

Bizarrely, Cruroar mentions nothing of his watch’s events, so onward they go. An hour into the journey, their NPC stops them, cautioning them of people approaching! They hold their ground in the path, though Marros openly brandishes his sling.

DM: Around the curve up ahead in the path comes a man and a woman. Their clothes are reasonably fine, but they look like they’ve been through hell. They’re very wet and kinda muddy and bedraggled.
Bront: They forded the stream. “Hail travelers!”
Eilnys: “Ach, did the river do a number on you?”
DM: Upon spying you, the woman immediately clutches at the man with a shriek, and his hand strays to the hilt of his sword. “Be you the bandits?!”
Eilnys: “Nay!”
Bront: “We are but men.”
Eilnys: “Rock!”
All: “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooon!”
DM: At your reassurance, his hand leaves his sword hilt, though you question the wisdom of anyone who would just take someone at their word that they’re not bandits. “That is a relief, we’ve been fearing an attack for hours now.”
Cruroar: (apropos of nothing) You know what, we keep talking about doing an evil campaign. We should just take one of this DM’s campaigns and turn it evil.
DM: Off the rails we go!
Marros: “Oh, I thought you guys were the bandits.” “We are now!”
Cruroar: We just go into town, playing along with the game, then I just go, “I, uh, follow my eldritch blast at the mayor.”

The travelers warn them that the bridge is washed out, though someone put up a rope bridge. They elected to ford the river upstream rather than take it, fearing a trap.

DM: “I almost wish we’d been robbed instead.”
Marros: “We can fix that problem for you.”
Eilnys: “No.”
Marros: “No, no, no, I meant we were going to try to take care of the bandits!”
Normilan: “Please watch your words.”
Marros: “I’m kind of offended that you misunderstood my intentions here.”
DM: I remind you all that killing Marros is not an evil act.
Cruroar: He keeps telling us this…

The travelers helpfully describe how to get to the ford, which is several miles out of their way.

Cruroar: “As much as we’d like to take your advice, we’re trying to hunt the bandits ourselves.”
DM: “You fool! You foolish fool! You can’t take that many bandits, there are only six of you! There are like forty of them!”
Normilan: “The number keeps getting bigger…”

Bront speaks and the travelers immediately go into a low-grade panic over the fearsome half-orc. Marros intercedes and introduces himself, getting their names in turn as Raleigh and Windy.

Marros: “Sweetheart, I love your nails. Where did you get those done?”
DM: “I fell in the river. Scraped them on a rock.” Roll a Spot check.
Marros: 18!
DM: Very nice. You notice that the inner part of her arm is bright red, looks as if it’s been scraped badly. But not a rock or anything, it just looks like something’s slashed across it roughly.
Marros: Like a bowstring?
DM: Possibly.
Bront: Ayup. That’s why they’re sending us to the ford…
Eilnys: “Was that from a rock too?”
DM: “Oh, I don’t even know how this happened.”
Eilnys: Sense motive! 16!
DM: You believe she is telling the truth.
Cruroar: I roll Sense Motive against the DM!
DM: You believe I’m the DM!

The characters are completely suspicious of these two characters, and resolve not to take their advice, instead continuing for the river and the alleged rope bridge.

Bront: “Lead on, Sanward.”
DM: Sanward nods, and leads you on.
Normilan: He BRISTLES!

They advance to the surging river, near-flooded with spring melt. The bridge has indeed collapsed, and a pair of ropes serve to get travelers across. Taking a cue from Oregon Trail, they caulk the mule and ford it.

Bront: Do we send Sandward, or let Marros take a crack?
Normilan: They’re both fodder in my mind.
Cruroar: He goes first. “Give us all your money or we kill him!” “We don’t believe you!”
Marros: Seriously, are you gonna kill Marros before the next town? Let me know now so I can start rolling my next character…
Normilan: Let him play Sanward.
DM: No! Sanward’s second level!

Marros and Eilyns head across with some difficulty, as the DM forces them to confront Zeno’s “Achilles and the Tortoise” Paradox. Three figures approach the group still on the other side – the man and the woman from earlier, and a cloaked, masked figure.

Cruroar: “Finally decided to show your colors then, huh?”
DM: …who are you talking to?
Cruroar: You said it was the man and the woman.
DM: Yeah, they’re not close enough for you to be that casual to. They’re a good 100 feet away…

The DM adopts an accent for the masked man which… he can’t actually do, but hey, whatever.

DM: “Well, well, well, I’m sure you’ve all been expecting this of course, but, at last, your dreams have come true and you are all being held up for your money. Shall we make a go of it then? Because I warn you, you are very well-covered.” He makes a gesture with his hands and on the other side of the river, numerous figures spring up, shortbows drawn and aimed at all of you.
Marros: Sweet, it’s the two of us against the rest of them!

Marros and Eilnys spy the short guy amongst the archers! Bront begs them not to tell him.

Cruroar: My Intimidate check is fairly high. Can you let me modify -- a bit of dark magic, make myself more intimidating?
Bront: “Do not take me for some conjuror of cheap tricks!”
DM: You can make a demonstration if you so desire. Blast off a limb from a tree.
Cruroar: 17.
DM: A branch falls heavily into the ground in front of your attackers.
Normilan: As he does that I lay a hand on Bront, enlarge person. “Rage out, man.”
Bront: I don’t have a rage, though.
Normilan: D-Bu-In character!
Bront: Oh!
Cruroar: 30 on my Intimidate check. “TRUST ME! Your feeble group of Merry Men stands no chance!”
DM: The man and the woman both stop dead in their tracks. On the other side, a visible wave of fear rustles through the shortbows. Their points waver, the men seem to retreat a bit, the only one unaffected seems to be the guy in the cloak.
Cruroar: I knew it! RRRRRGH! I coulda ended this battle!
DM: “What have we here but a conjuror of tricks. All right, let’s make this interesting. I’ll go up against one of you. Any one of you, pick your champion, let’s make this a sporting context. You see, I’m out here for a purpose, and killing you all… not very agreeable to me. So what say we have a gentleman’s duel.”

The two sides banter back and forth a bit about this offer. The PCs are fairly confident they can win this fight and the guy is trying to save face rather than let them slaughter his men and gain the upper hand, but Cruroar recognize the numbers are against them just by virtue of the sheer number of shortbows aimed at them.

Cruroar: “He shall be our champion, then.”
Bront: No, the dice shall be our champion. At level 1, that’s what you have to trust. The Great Equalizer.

The DM begins drawing out the map but quickly lapses into an angry breakdown due to the lack of brown markers. The group passes the time by swapping tales of old campaigns. They abruptly notice the DM has put down about 20 figures to represent the bowmen and revise their plans faster than ever before seen in a game.

DM: Don’t worry, guys, the number’s surely been inflated.
Cruroar: (desperately) We could be fighting against Naruto. They could all be shadow clones.
Normilan: What’s this guy armed with?
DM: As far as you can tell, nothing.
Bront: He’s just got his cloak. He’s probably gonna just cast something stupid on me and this fight is gonna be over.
Normilan: (with the cautious attitude of one who thinks the DM just might be this malicious) I disbelieve the guys in the back.
Bront: Or it’s like three halflings standing on each other…
DM: Roll your Will save.
Normilan: 17.
DM: Ooh, a very nice roll. Sadly, you believe they were real. I would have given you SO much credit…

Combat begins! The DM calls for Listen and Spot checks from those who are not acting. The group debates the wisdom and viability of setting the forest on fire. Bront and the enemy go at the same time, and charge each other!

DM: He went at the exact same initiative and had the exact same idea.
Bront: Really? That’s so unlike one of your foes… I miss.
DM: And he moves forward. As he charges forward, he whips a hand out from his cloak. The brilliant claws on it slash forward at you, dealing six point of damage to you.
Eilnys: And now we’re wishing we had a cleric.

Eilnys and Cruroar spot something in the water – a body! A goblin body! They roll additional Spot checks…

DM: Cruroar, straining your vision to its utmost, you peer further along the bank and you realize that what you’re seeing further down is not just the river moving, it is things on the bank of the river moving. After a horrified second of staring, you realize that’s goblins.
Cruroar: A lot of goblins.
Normilan: How many’s a lot?
Bront: “Three, four… five armies!”
DM: There are enough that he confused them at first for the river.
Cruroar begins some hasty Diplomacy! Bront whacks his foe for 13, but his foe seems to be listening to Cruroar, and holds up a hand!

Bront: “What is this, some trick?”
DM: “It’s your guy doing it, if it’s some trick I’m the one falling for it. What’s with the interruption?”
Cruroar: “No, you know, normally, you’d think I’m trying to fool you, but seriously, there is a large force moving – I thought it was a river at first, you know, my eyes, not so good, the battle going on, but then I took another look, and it’s literally just a wave of goblins moving down the river on both sides, so I’m kind of warning you…”
DM: By the time Cruroar finishes this ludicrous his speech, the goblin army is not only visible to all of you, but audible as it storms down the beach. The green-skinned monstrosities are frothing with rage, weapons held high.
Normilan: Feets don’t fail me now!
Cruroar: See, the reason that took so long is ‘cuz I was talking and moving. (adjusting his mini)
DM: Apparently moving straight for them, I gather…

Their foe agrees to a a truce, as the DM abruptly lapses into a Scottish accent that is entire inappropriate. Bront grumbles about being singled out in order to lure them into this whole trap.

DM: I love how evil Bront thinks I am.
Bront: You have a shirt that talks about how evil you enjoy being as a DM!
DM: That’s Eilnys’s shirt!
Eilnys: That’s my shirt.
Bront: You’re not wearing it right now, but I’ve seen you in it.
DM: That’s Eilnys’s shirt.

The bandit mooks form lines – and Marros drops into formation right near the thief, planning to slay or rob him. The DM nearly kills Cruroar as he asks for like the fifth time how far the goblins are. Windy fires an eldritch blast at the goblins! The mooks fire arrows in the goblin horde as said horde storms forward! Using dice for miniatures, the DM puts out solid walls of goblins on the riverbanks.

Marros: Man, it would’ve been a lot more fun if we’d just straight-out attacked all those bandits first and THEN the goblins showed up.
DM: I woulda laughed.
Marros: He woulda been like, “Wow, I actually got a player wipe. And they brought it on themselves.”
Normilan: Four points of damage with a magic missile!
DM: Magic missile? That was your contribution?
Normilan: Look, man, I’m a first level wizard, I don’t have that many spells.
DM: You strike the goblin, and it roars in screeching pain and continues on.
Normilan: You really know how to take the self-esteem out of a a player character. Thanks a lot.
DM: Cruroar and Eilnys?
Eilnys: Can I see the whites of their beady little eyes?
DM: They’re not in melee range but you could charge them.
Eilyns: I don’t have the charge feat.
DM: Eilnys, how long have we been playing D&D?!

Eilnys wisely refrains from charging. Cruroar fires an eldritch blast!

Normilan: Really. That’s your contribution. It’s the same thing I fucking did!
Cruroar: Well that’s all can I do.
DM: He can do it more than once, Normilan.
Normilan: I can do it twice, thank you, memorized it twice, bitch.
DM: Well someone’s boner just increased three sizes this day.

Their side continues to fire at the goblins. Their opponent tears off his mask, revealing scales around his mouth and lightning breath that demolishes an entire line of goblins. The goblins on the far side back up on the lone roadblock that is Eilnys, dealing four points of damage to her.

DM: Normilan.
Normilan: Hold.
DM: Normilan does nothing.
Normilan: He made me feel bad about casting magic missile, I’ll just stand here. Fuck you. No, I’ll pull my quarterstaff out.
Eilnys: I just critted with my greataxe. It was beautiful. Natural 20, natural 20.

The goblins swarm over the defenders, but pound for pound each warrior is a match for the green-skinned foes. Normilan clobbers one to death.

Normilan: This is sad, I do more damage physically than with my spells…

Everyone realizes they’ve been forgetting Sanward this entire time; no one particularly cares. The battles rages on, and damage begins to accrue to the PCs’ side!

DM: Windy, knock her over. She’s been knocked unconscious and is bleeding out—
Cruroar: Opportunity for goodwill has arrived! I have a wand!
DM: Five points of damage to Normilan.
Normilan: Since we go at the same time, I do nine points of damage, then drop.
Marros: “Cruroar, let that bitch die, save Normilan!”
Cruroar: “I got time for both!”

Despite his words, Marros makes an untrained Heal check on the lone fallen mook on the far side – and succeeds on his roll for the first time in the entire combat. Cruroar smashes the DC 20 UMD checks on the wand, healing both Normilan and Windy.

DM: Silence falls over the battlefield as goblin corpses bob by in the river. Wilhelm swiftly looks over to see the numbers on the other side, and sees amazingly – amazingly from my perspective too – that all of the mooks are still alive!
Cruroar: That’s because [Eilnys] stood in front of them!
DM: And absorbed the wave, yes. Eilnys was a one-dwarf roadblock on the charging path of doom. “Well… that was something.”
Cruroar: “Now you die!”
Marros: Oh man, I sure hope they turn on us.
Cruroar: Cruroar jumps for safety!
Marros: Zero kills…
DM: “Well. You all want a place to camp for the night? As far as I’m concerned the slate is clean between us. We’re battle comrades now, I’m not going to attack you.”
Cruroar: We join the bandits forever.
DM: Hey, if you guys want to, I’ll make adventures for whatever you guys choose.

The players seem to think this is a brilliant idea! The bandits take them to a depression in the ground where a great tree once stood, which they are using for a camp now.

Marros: All of a sudden the forest fire flashes up. One of the alchemist’s fires that Marros had readied fell from out of his pocket!
Cruroar: That would’ve been hilarious if you actually had used that, and rolled a 1. Dropped it right in the middle of everybody.
Marros: I was thinking more like this: I uncapped it, and THEN started shaking it. Just scorching the guys behind me.
DM: They quickly set up a camp that is fairly impressive considering it was nothing a moment ago. They use some canvas and tarps they produce from their backpacks, lash together some crude frames, and it’s basically a nice little blocked-off thing you’ve got going. Safe from the elephants – elephants. What the hell, brain?
Cruroar: Jungle elephants!
DM: I don’t know where the hell that came from,
Marros: Handle Animal!
Bront: “Cruroar! It’s an olliphaunt!”

The bandits tap kegs of ale and a victory party of One Piece-proportions erupts! Bront does not participate…

Bront: Are there any familiar faces amongst the bandits?
DM: Yes, the short guy is there.
Bront: Well then. I’ll fill my mug, which I don’t drink from, and promptly work my way over to him.
DM: As promptly as you’re working your way over to him, he’s sidling away through the crowd.
Eilnys: And this is where I’m like, “Ach lad! How ye doin’?” to the short guy.
DM: He ducks behind a keg.
Cruroar: Do I talk to the warlock, or do I find other women to talk to? I’ll let the dice decide.
Eilnys: “You can’t hide from me behind a keg, lad!”
DM: Both of you roll a Spot check… never mind. I rolled his Hide check. As he ducks behind the keg it falls on him.

The short man resignedly gives Bront his gold back. Windy gives Cruroar a replacement wand in gratitude for his aid.

Cruroar: “We sadly do not have a healer in our group, and these wands have become a priceless commodity.”
DM: “We’re in the same straits. We keep hoping to attract a friar, but for some reason it hasn’t happened.”
Curoar: I dunno, I think it’d be kind of interesting to join up with the bandits.
Normilan: I would take the mule and go on.
DM: Shh, don’t mention the mule. I was hoping you guys wouldn’t think of it till you realized you couldn’t get it across the river.
Normilan: How DID we get it across the river?
DM: The answer is ‘shut up’, okay?

The short man tells them, with some pressure, that Wilhelm has taken arms against the Duke. Cruroar sits bolt-upright, then seizes Normilan’s shoulder.

Cruroar: We could be joining Robin Hood and his Merry Men. WE COULD BE JOINING ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN RIGHT NOW.
Normilan: “You guys happen to have a… sheriff, after you?”
Marros: I’m roaming around, drinking, looking for any other… gay men, in the bandit party.
DM: Roll Sense(gaydar).
Marros: 45.
DM: Natural 1. You are convinced Windy is a gay man. If you want to find companionship for the night, you can, but I am not doing you the dignity of roleplaying it for you.

Cruroar chats up Wilhelm, still intent on digging into his motivations. Wilhelm darkly warns them that the Duke is responsible for the failing borders of the kingdom, by virtue of holding up the king’s men who would maintain them.

DM: “Why I couldn’t tell you. But I know it to be true.”
Eilnys: “Oy, lad! What’s with the – ya ain’t wearin’ yer mask now, what’s with the scales?”
DM: “That tends to happen when one of your parents is a dragon.”

Wilhelm talks a bit about his father the dragon --

Marros: “Your mother take yoga? I’m trying to picture this…”

--and the fact that taxes have risen lately. Normilan’s Knowledge(local) roll tells him that the baron is already quite rich, even as the taxes continue to rise. Wilhelm grows briefly maudlin, bemoaning the fact that his path is not particularly good or kind in the end, but resolute in the knowledge that he has no other way to draw the duke’s attention. Cruroar desperately seeks a way to get Normilan on-board with the bandit idea.

Cruroar: “You all have a mentalist here? Someone who can rewrite memories?” It’s a permanent charm person…
DM: His Wisdom is so low that it wouldn’t be hard to get off. “Yes, this is definitely lawful!”
Cruroar: We get all the way to the baron, return the gold, he’s gonna throw us in jail. The DM’ll be like, if you had joined the bandits, this wouldn’t have happened…

The DM bitterly bans Bront from effectively doing any accent the DM is butchering, and on that note Bront has to leave for the night. The game winds up with the players not joining the bandits, and Marros rolling up a cleric because his flaming stereotype is getting even on the player’s nerves…