Game of Chickens

Take THAT, Most Likely Guide

They go through the portal, chickens kills the spinagon…

Jarlath curls in fetal position around horn.


Dude’s gone!

The Wizard's House
Proctology Acupuncture

Aww, c’mon, Cynd!! Those are arrows, not thermometers!!



We begin with the group setting camp up. Watches are set, and everyone beds down.

An hour into the 2nd watch (Cynd’s), the impossible happens:

All at once, with no transition, the entire party is awake, and standing upright. Everything outside the immediate camp spins in a blur, as if whipped about by monstrous winds. Not a hair on anyone’s head stirs. The fire is frozen in place. Looking above, the clouds and moon spin about in the opposite direction. The owl, crickets and treefrogs all blur into one impossibly layered feminine voice. It has a reverb to it and sound as if it comes from near, far, and everywhere in between all at once. A word is formed. Long, drawn out, both awe inspiring and terrible. The weight of it flattens all reality, and the pressure from the impossible to fathom lips and tongue squeeze all perception into a singular point:


No one recalls standing up, let alone waking. The party stands awestruck.

The spinning stops and the trees grow impossibly tall as the sky draws away. The moon rises in the west and sets in the east, trekking impossibly fast across the sky. The party members appear more and more insignificant to each other as the impossibility around them presses down on their very beings. the moon rises in the south and sets in the north, trekking impossibly fast across the sky. All becomes dark, cold…the fire glows, but sheds no heat or ambiant light. the moon rises in the east and sets in the south, trekking impossibly fast across the sky. A voice compiled from the buzzing of flies, the gasp of fear, shrieks of pain and pleading of terror all thunder into one breath taking word, as deep and soulless as the abyss itself.


Jarlath throws himself flat on the ground. He doesn’t feel real…the scene before him could be another planet, or a speck of dust. All party member appear to be the same size, from Russellbob all the way up to Froderick.

The voices overlap each other and the sinking and spinning begin to overlay each other. Each person is no longer sure whose eyes they are looking from, and which are their own. Their thoughts all intermingle, but are too miniscule to separate from the cacophonous, soul squeezing experience around them as both feminine and masculine voice mingle, separate and combine with each other. The feminine voice swells with determination, even as the masculine voice hemorrages hatred and rot.


Everything stops all at once. The morning is quiet. Though a mild chill pervades the air, a chickadee’s song breaks the silence, along with a symphony of crickets, buzzing mosquitos, the occasional treefrog and the ragged gasping of the group. Everyone stands in place, coated in sweat. The sky is growing orange in the east, and thin clouds move tranquilly across the sky.

Everyone is standing, up and awake. Everyone feels refreshed, rested.

Except Turqeel. He looks pale, as if he has just gotten over a fever. He shakingly bends down and gropes for his bedroll, pulling it up around his nekkidness.

Smoke, and blue bunnycatfrog, lie relaxed as if just waking up. Smoke yawns mightily, tongue curling. Everyone looks at each other in amazement, doubt and a little fear.

Chickens grows more than a little angry at the experience, but then anger turns to relief as the curse only goes off once the entire day, and then to no effect.

Cynd meets a bear, and they sniff butts.

The next day Chickens finds that he has the magical surge coiled in his mind, as if waiting to be released. Even though the travel is slow and painstaking, Chickens travels with a lighter heart until sundown, when relief turns back to despair. As the sun drops below the horizon, the curse unleashes at Froderick. A magical ball of ice and snow is hurled at Froderick, pounding into his chest. Froderick is knocked back, winded and bruised. When he lifts his tunic, he finds a circle of frozen flesh where the snowball struck. The grass on his chest is frozen and covered with frost.

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.

The Downward Spiral Continues

Can anyone cast summon therapist? Anyone?

Froderick, Cynd, and Chickens lie on the ground in a neat little row of varying states of mostly unconsciousness. It is nearing dawn. Froderick weakly uses the second, and last, healing potion that they got from Shaghorn prior to leaving Tinkerhaven. Jarlath has no new spells for the day, and is unable to assist in healing. Turqeel, nude except for his bedroll that tries to keep wrapped around him, casts Cure Light Wounds on Cynd. The party has an ethical debate about whether or not to cast healing on Chickens, as he can’t loose random magic when he’s unconscious. They decide that leaving him wounded is wrong, and Turqeel also casts a healing upon Chickens. However, Turqeel pointedly casts no healing to help Froderick. Smoke continues to hold the blue rabbit hostage to her mothering instinct. The rabbit occasionally frog-croaks in protest, but finally just accepts it. Chickens morosely moves over towards the fire, and waits for the rest of the group to be ready. At one point, he seems to be ready to speak on something, but then changes his mind with a minor shake of his head.

Though still greatly wounded, the party sets off again. Turqeel, barefoot, slows the pace of the party down greatly. Chicken plods forward like a zombie, looking neither right nor left, nor speaking to anyone. His shoulders are slumped as if he carries the weight of the world atop them. The party watches Chickens with concern and Turqeel with increasing impatience. After nearly an hour on the rough, stony path, Turqeel is picking his way slower than ever, and his feet are bleeding. Froderick pushes the idea of abandoning Turqeel, causing Russellbob to speak up and proclaim that they don’t leave people behind. Finally, Cues borrows a dagger and cuts strips of cloth from the hem of his robe to wrap Turqeel’s feet in.

Travel is a little quicker, and if there are any magical curses, they don’t make themselves evident.

Just before midday, the party is walking in an area where the road is wide and vegetation is sparse. Yellow grass blows in the wind on the rocky hills. Ahead of the party, the land opens before them. They can see the rocky, rolling landscape still sloping in the mountainous terrain. They also see the large winged lizard-like form flying high in the sky on the horizon.

Froderick flinches when he sees it, and stops short. His eyes are clenched shut. He rubs his temples with shaking fingers…breathing slowly.
Russellbob asks, “What is it?”
Froderick says quietly, with a too-steady voice. “We need to take cover. If that’s dragon, we can’t let it see us.”
Cynd: “I don’t think it’s a dragon…”
Chickens is looking at it intensely, muttering, “Curse…curse…come on…”
Froderick, not looking up, says, “Oh ya? Why?”
Cynd, peering at it through elven eyes, says, “Look at its body…can’t see two sets of arms and legs plus wings. I only see wings and legs.”
The rest of the party gathers, murmuring “oh..ya..huh…” like tourists at a zoo.
Cynd says, “Well, no sense worrying, let’s keep walking…if it gets closer we will figure out what to do.”

Froderick is standing stock still, eyes clenched shut. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face. It’s the first anyone has seen since the grass hair curse started.
Attempting cheer, Russellbob says, "Come on, horsey! Giddy-up!” This has no effect.
Becoming concerned, Cynd says: “Uhh, Frod…”
Smoke has put the rabbit down, and is trying to clean it and keep it from running off at the same time.
Jarlath is eyeing Froderick closely. Then he asks Froderick, “You’ve seen a dragon before, haven’t you?”
Froderick flinches at the word “dragon”. Ghost white under the green grass, Froderick slowly shakes his head, and whispers…“No…It never…No…”
The flying noun is heading perpendicular to the road south, off to the west, growing smaller
Froderick leans over suddenly (nearly dislodging Russellbob, who shouts “HEY!” in surprise) and dry heaves on the side of the dirt road.
Turqeel, at that moment mentions, “Oh yes…we haven’t eaten yet today. Since we’re already stopped why don’t we break for lunch?”
Cues looks at him in revulsion. The party discusses the best course of action, and given Froderick’s condition, decides the best idea is to stop and allow him to rest. Chickens takes no part in this discussion. Froderick shakingly takes a very long drink, but refuses food. The rest of the group eats.


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