Game of Chickens

Hands And Feet

The struggle continues.

We start with Chickens and company still slogging on to find out about the three clues he was given from Shaghorn. As the troupe toddles along at a pace that would frustrate turtles, the following happens to further hinder their progress:

Chickens, eyes wide in disbelief, has drops Headsplasher and is looking at his hand in horror as the skin on it starts to smoke, blacken and crackle. He drops to his knees, shrieking in agony as his hand blackens as if being burned by an invisible flame. He curls into a ball around it, with it tucked back into his stomach. His screams sound horrible, particularly so since they sound as if they come from his nose. Cues stands looking in disbelief. Froderick runs over and starts pouring the waterskin on Chickens. Chickens screams, “My hand!!! Pour it on my hand!!!” but he won’t uncurl from it to get it directly under the water. Turqeel looks thoughtful for a second, then throws his bedroll over chickens. This leaves him standing nekkid, looking like a young and nearly virile Montgomery Burns. Chickens whimpers underneath the bedroll, but has stopped screaming.
Cynd asks, “Whats wrong with his hand?”
Chickens pokes his head out from underneath the bedroll. Tears streak trails of dirt down the side of his face
Russellbob: “I think the curse hit him.”
Chickens moans “It burnt…like it was on fire. it was the curse. I loosed it on myself, instead of hurting any of you. I..I was kind of hoping it would kill me for good.” He is still groaning and holding to his hand.
Russellbob tries to reassure him, “We’ll beat this curse soon, Chickens.”
“Or die trying,” Cynd mutters.
With a look filled with plaintive hope, Chickens looks to Russellbob. “You really think so? Because I don’t.”
The group exchanges glances at this proclamation.

Chickens pushes the bedroll aside to show Cynd his hand. The hand he pulls forth looks blackened. The skin is cracked, with red fissures running across it. As soon as it is out into the open, Chickens begins to shriek in agony, an ear-piercing pitiful wail that goes directly to the soul. The hand begins to smoke and blister anew
Cynd advises, “May want to have Jarlath look at that, Chickens.”
Jarlath is frowning at it…“I have no healing spells!!! My rest was interrupted. They were never replenished!”
Chickens yanks his hand back beneath the bedroll, weeping anew.
Cynd asks, “Do we have anything to wrap it in? It seems to react to sunlight.”
With his other hand, Chickens reaches for the waterskin from Froderick, and takes it under the bedroll with him. He moves around under the bedroll, and when he reemerges, he is topless, and has his tunic wrapped around his hand. The party winces at the new visual assault. Ignoring this, Chickens is still groaning from the pain and cursing Mandretch under his breath.
“Jarlath” he asks, voice shaking, “Can you please cast Remove Curse on this? Shaghorn was able to remove individual curses.”
Jarlath shakes his head, “I can’t cast that spell yet…I’m not strong enough.”
Chickens nods stoically…soaks the shirt with more water, hands the skin to Froderick, who drinks mightily from it. Grabbing Headsplasher with his other hand, Chickens stands and begins plodding along again, weeping quietly
Turqeel wraps his bedroll back around himself, and follows behind the rest of the group.

The party continues on through the afternoon until Chickens stops warily. When he goes to continue on, he stops again as his feet look to be weighed down. His boots have taken a misty, airy appearance. you can see the silhouette of his feet through them. However, when he goes to move his feet, it takes a surprising amount of effort to lift them. Though his boots appear to be made of mostly air or mist, when Chickens tries to walk, it appears as if it takes much more effort than usual.

After a little while, he is trudging along even slower than Turqeel, who is picking his way on wrapped feet.
Then he stops, and again drops Headsplasher to the dirt.
He looks to the group with a look of resigned disbelief. “I can’t walk…my feet are too heavy.”
With that, he sits down. With his left hand, he pulls his boots off. As he drops them to the ground, they raise a surprising amount of dust. His ugly little gnome feet have knobby toes with nails in need of a trim. He tries to tuck Headsplasher in the crook of his right arm, and carry his boots together with is left, but they are too heavy and he decides just to leave them.
Russellbob asks, “Need some help there Chickens?” as if he will be the one to assist in carrying the boots.
Cynd walks over and grabs Chickens’ boots for him. They are extremely heavy, as if they are made purely of lead.

At this point, there are two barefoot party members trying to traverse the rugged terrain. The pace of the party becomes slower and slower. Finally, near evening time, they reach a rather flattened plateau, and decide to make camp. No noticeable surges happen during mealtime, and the group beds down. Chickens is unable to sleep due to the agony in his hand. As he tries to gain what rest he can, another surge subjects Froderick to the effects of the Wraithform spell, which he reacts to in an expected unpleasant fashion. The spell lasts nearly an hour, then ends, to Froderick’s immense relief. The rest of the night passes without incident.


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