Rolled 2, 15, 15, 6, 11 = 49 (5d20)
>>5696684With a (somewhat-hammy, if you’re critiquing) shriek, and a trailing trill like a death-rattle, Nat lurches away. He falls to hands and feet alike, crawling and scuttling away with serpentine movement and surprising speed for his size. He’s not the strongest flyer among your sons—only Jep really ahs the proportions and knack—but he even hops and flaps his undersized wings a few times to really sell the desperation of his retreat. With a crash and a creak, he smashes a small pine and sends it careening towards the forest floor, hauls himself up and over the collapsing conifer, and is gone into the darkness of the woods.
(Hopefully to stay out of trouble until morning.)
You glance over at your associates—hovering uncertainly behind the human family, as-yet unsure whether they should be attacking your hosts or helping you in some other fashion. You sign to the Duelist, who seems startled that you know that unspoken soldier-language of her kind—to go follow Nat and keep him safe. Aloud, you say:
“Azonia! Chase down that monssster! Ssee that it doess not return!”
The Drow rolls her eyes, but you se the flicker of an amused smile slip through her hard-done-by façade. She’s as entertained by this as your oversized infant child. She leaves without complaint, while you order the rest of your retinue to form a (thoroughly unnecessary) perimeter. For your part, you <Jump> up and, with skillful slice, liberate the little girl from her silk-and-mucous prison, while Olu stands below and catches her. The Archer hands her to her grateful father and mother, who check her over for injuries and clutch her close.
“What was that?” asks the eldest daughter—Clarice, you think it was—with her white-knuckled grip still clinging to her pitchfork.
“Heard rumours of monsters up in the Bloodrise mountains… Big bugs and such…” Cliff mutters, unable to look away from his sobbing little girl, whose hair he comfortingly strokes.
“I’m not from Blackpine,” you say. “I cannot sssay.”
(Both statements are technically, strategically true.)
“You saved our daughter,” Cynthia says, wiping tears from her eyes. “You… You’re a hero.”
You spy Ekaterine—previously staring in dull horror at the remains of the family dog-look at you in consternation. You shrug, suddenly self-conscious about putting any self-aggrandizing propagandistic spin upon this debacle.
“I am jusst a grateful guessst,” you say. “Iss your daughter alright?”
“Some bruises, and she’s scared, but—”
“He talked to the monster!” the small child suddenly speaks up. “Hissed and whistled at it, and it stopped trying to eat me and put down Rusty!”
