Post by Grimm on Jul 12, 2021 8:28:26 GMT -5
Say this is a stick and I will beat you with it.
Say this is not a stick and I will beat you with it.
Now, what will you say?
-- Way of the Open Hand Koan
They walked beneath a vault of lead, the sun shining as a mere smudge in the sky. The dying of an autumn’s light. Grimm smelled it on the air. The Killing Frost would descend one night soon, and not long after that, the Starving Time for many. He remembered those winters in the hills. Seemingly endless cycles of chopping wood and carrying water. Wading through snow in efforts to clear paths for the House of Two Hands.
Grimm shivered.
He brought up the rear as they walked through the grass in their usual marching order, all having agreed to avoid the High Road and to skip over Triboar Trail in hopes of drawing as little attention as possible on their way back to Phandalin. They’d already encountered the Black Hand’s emissaries during their journey, and its watchers and spies would only increase now with them edging ever closer to Wave Echo Cave.
That blasted cabal and its legions of black spiders. It would be some time before Grimm wasn’t suspicious of a mote of dust in a tavern room or a floater squiggling its way across his eyes. Longer still until he could simply lead other spiders out of doors without having to fight the urge to stomp them into oblivion.
Grimm walked with his hands out to the side, fingers brushing the tops of the grass. Grabbing handfuls of seed and letting them fall. Always watching. Assuming it was only a matter of time.
The party slowed to a stop as a copse of trees emerged from the horizon’s haze. It was wide, but they could see both east and west edges. The prudent choice would have been to go around the trees, for who knew what manner of creature might lurk there in days such as these. But they did not have the luxury of reasonable choice. Stormm had become quite perturbed upon hearing that the Black Hand was near to having the Forge of Spells in its possession. He insisted they stop them. Time was of the essence. And so they continued forward, as the crow would fly.
Entering the woods, they moved within strands of birch trees. The odd turn of the day’s light gave the sheets of silver and yellowing bark a distinct glow. Similar to the woods in which they had sought out Alexa Black, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. It was anyone’s guess as to what secrets this wood held.
It did not take long. A hush fell over them. Grimm caught a scent that had troubled his dreams.
Showtime.
They moved into position, some more swiftly than others. Grimm rushed through the trees to their right and found the enemy, one of which had already succumbed to sleep (the work of Rick Majors, he assumed. The wily veteran did not waste any time). The Hangtown Horror engaged the Pest closest to him. Tapping into the life force energy of his ki, Grimm unleashed a flurry of blows. Alas, only one found its mark. A punch to the jaw, which staggered his foe somewhat, but not well enough.
Grimm would have to do better than that if he hoped to make up for the debacle that was the last Trauma. No one had truly expected anything substantial to come of that match, but even so, Grimm entered the ring with certain expectations each and every time. No matter the stipulation, or lineup, or…
Just then, a most upsetting thwack distracted him from thoughts of missed opportunities. Grimm blinked, and saw Showtime leering at him, perfect smile and all, with his great axe wedged in that meaty spot just below his ribs. He saw the look of recognition in his eyes, that accusation of ‘blood traitor,’ and what an honor it would be to haul this particular head back to his Hollywood mansion. He grinned. Grimm swayed.
He saw Granny conjuring good berries and swinging that peculiar wooden sword of hers.
Ruth sidling up to an enemy, piercing it here, there, and everywhere, and the unwary opponent hitting the ground before it knew it was dead.
Rick Majors throwing magic missiles hither and yon, but only after lulling the targets to sleep.
And Billy, his brother, swinging his maul and sword with abandon.
Friend, you better snap out of it.
Grimm turned in such a way as to disengage the axe, accompanied by a rather unpleasant squelch. He remained on his feet but a patch wet and warm spread across his side. Showtime’s grin faded. The Man Without Peer bounded up and swung, leaving a clean slash across the front of the Lord of Misrule.
This was not going as well as he had hoped.
Grimm grit his teeth and brought his quarterstaff down in a definitive arc atop the Pest’s head. Several important things inside that noggin shattered to pieces, which in turn shifted to strange places they were not meant to be, wreaking havoc on the most vital of inner bits and bobs. His at-times stalwart partner, other-times fiercest enemy, stood still for a moment as the light faded from those confused-yet-somehow-still-full-of-hate leading man eyes. One final exhale as foul as the miasma released from a demolished ash zombie, and he crumpled.
Broken but not defeated, Grimm retained enough wherewithal to call upon Step of the Wind and withdraw back to the clearing. Once there he took the opportunity to inspect his wounds. Bracing himself with his staff, he noted the chest slash was no worse than anything he’d received before. That blow to the side, though…he’d have to pay close attention to that one. That axe had probably been speckled with rust or old gore or worse. Then again, he could count on his friends to heal him. If he lived long enough for that. And if he did, thought Grimm with his own grin, this would leave a magnificent scar.
Several flashes of light in the direction he had come, and he heard the familiar hum rise and fall in pitch as Majors’ magic missiles found their mark. That opponent had no chance. As the rest of the fellowship reconvened around him, Grimm knew those other wretches had met similar fates. And they’d be left where they fell. Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms.
This would become a most haunted wood in ages to come.
Right.
Off we go.
Say this is not a stick and I will beat you with it.
Now, what will you say?
-- Way of the Open Hand Koan
They walked beneath a vault of lead, the sun shining as a mere smudge in the sky. The dying of an autumn’s light. Grimm smelled it on the air. The Killing Frost would descend one night soon, and not long after that, the Starving Time for many. He remembered those winters in the hills. Seemingly endless cycles of chopping wood and carrying water. Wading through snow in efforts to clear paths for the House of Two Hands.
Grimm shivered.
He brought up the rear as they walked through the grass in their usual marching order, all having agreed to avoid the High Road and to skip over Triboar Trail in hopes of drawing as little attention as possible on their way back to Phandalin. They’d already encountered the Black Hand’s emissaries during their journey, and its watchers and spies would only increase now with them edging ever closer to Wave Echo Cave.
That blasted cabal and its legions of black spiders. It would be some time before Grimm wasn’t suspicious of a mote of dust in a tavern room or a floater squiggling its way across his eyes. Longer still until he could simply lead other spiders out of doors without having to fight the urge to stomp them into oblivion.
Grimm walked with his hands out to the side, fingers brushing the tops of the grass. Grabbing handfuls of seed and letting them fall. Always watching. Assuming it was only a matter of time.
The party slowed to a stop as a copse of trees emerged from the horizon’s haze. It was wide, but they could see both east and west edges. The prudent choice would have been to go around the trees, for who knew what manner of creature might lurk there in days such as these. But they did not have the luxury of reasonable choice. Stormm had become quite perturbed upon hearing that the Black Hand was near to having the Forge of Spells in its possession. He insisted they stop them. Time was of the essence. And so they continued forward, as the crow would fly.
Entering the woods, they moved within strands of birch trees. The odd turn of the day’s light gave the sheets of silver and yellowing bark a distinct glow. Similar to the woods in which they had sought out Alexa Black, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. It was anyone’s guess as to what secrets this wood held.
It did not take long. A hush fell over them. Grimm caught a scent that had troubled his dreams.
Showtime.
They moved into position, some more swiftly than others. Grimm rushed through the trees to their right and found the enemy, one of which had already succumbed to sleep (the work of Rick Majors, he assumed. The wily veteran did not waste any time). The Hangtown Horror engaged the Pest closest to him. Tapping into the life force energy of his ki, Grimm unleashed a flurry of blows. Alas, only one found its mark. A punch to the jaw, which staggered his foe somewhat, but not well enough.
Grimm would have to do better than that if he hoped to make up for the debacle that was the last Trauma. No one had truly expected anything substantial to come of that match, but even so, Grimm entered the ring with certain expectations each and every time. No matter the stipulation, or lineup, or…
Just then, a most upsetting thwack distracted him from thoughts of missed opportunities. Grimm blinked, and saw Showtime leering at him, perfect smile and all, with his great axe wedged in that meaty spot just below his ribs. He saw the look of recognition in his eyes, that accusation of ‘blood traitor,’ and what an honor it would be to haul this particular head back to his Hollywood mansion. He grinned. Grimm swayed.
He saw Granny conjuring good berries and swinging that peculiar wooden sword of hers.
Ruth sidling up to an enemy, piercing it here, there, and everywhere, and the unwary opponent hitting the ground before it knew it was dead.
Rick Majors throwing magic missiles hither and yon, but only after lulling the targets to sleep.
And Billy, his brother, swinging his maul and sword with abandon.
Friend, you better snap out of it.
Grimm turned in such a way as to disengage the axe, accompanied by a rather unpleasant squelch. He remained on his feet but a patch wet and warm spread across his side. Showtime’s grin faded. The Man Without Peer bounded up and swung, leaving a clean slash across the front of the Lord of Misrule.
This was not going as well as he had hoped.
Grimm grit his teeth and brought his quarterstaff down in a definitive arc atop the Pest’s head. Several important things inside that noggin shattered to pieces, which in turn shifted to strange places they were not meant to be, wreaking havoc on the most vital of inner bits and bobs. His at-times stalwart partner, other-times fiercest enemy, stood still for a moment as the light faded from those confused-yet-somehow-still-full-of-hate leading man eyes. One final exhale as foul as the miasma released from a demolished ash zombie, and he crumpled.
Broken but not defeated, Grimm retained enough wherewithal to call upon Step of the Wind and withdraw back to the clearing. Once there he took the opportunity to inspect his wounds. Bracing himself with his staff, he noted the chest slash was no worse than anything he’d received before. That blow to the side, though…he’d have to pay close attention to that one. That axe had probably been speckled with rust or old gore or worse. Then again, he could count on his friends to heal him. If he lived long enough for that. And if he did, thought Grimm with his own grin, this would leave a magnificent scar.
Several flashes of light in the direction he had come, and he heard the familiar hum rise and fall in pitch as Majors’ magic missiles found their mark. That opponent had no chance. As the rest of the fellowship reconvened around him, Grimm knew those other wretches had met similar fates. And they’d be left where they fell. Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms.
This would become a most haunted wood in ages to come.
Right.
Off we go.
