aving freed Ernie from the deepest dungeons of Bert, our heroes
returned to Edwin's shop to determine the next step in saving the
universe. They had only just entered and not even made it to the donut
table when the door swung open. A tall man dressed in black leather
strode into the room looking intently at a device on his wrist. A
label on his coat said "Prophet", though it was not immediately clear
if this was his name or occupation.
Startled, Blackhawk fired the Plasmanator at the intruder. The angry ball of superheated hydrogen punched through the wall to Prophet's left, across the alley and through the brick wall of the warehouse beyond, burrowed through the imported glassware stored within and out the other side, through several assorted dock buildings (scorching the dockmaster's hat as it went by) and was last seen heading south over the ocean towards Emer.
The recoil from the plasmanator sent Blackhawk flying backwards over Edwin's desk. "I like this gun!", he exclaimed as he clambered back to his feet.
At this point Edwin intervened, calculating the astonishing repair bills were Blackhawk allowed to continue. "Ah, Prophet", he said, "I've been expecting you. I believe you have a message for our guest?" Upon hearing his name Prophet looked up from his Nintendo WristBoy, causing him to lose the game of Tetris. He swore under his breath at the inconvenience of having to take these blasted delivery jobs. If it hadn't been for the run of bad luck at the Baccharat table none of this would be necessary and he would never have had to deal with these primitive screwheads on their pathetic planet. He could be back in a holosuite on Cestus 3 surrounded by beautiful women and drinking the best Brevari the universe had to offer. Of course, that isn't what he said. He said, "Yes."
"Right, Pyreforge is being summoned back to the Third Carnal Pit, isn't he?", quipped Fry. "It is as I've suspected all along, the hierarchy of Perdition is part of the conspiracy."
"Um, yes," said Prophet, "What conspiracy?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
Pyreforge came in from the back of the shop and was handed the message crystal. Pyreforge inserted the crystal into, erm, well nevermind where he inserted the crystal. "Jumpin Jimminy Christmas!" he said... Well, actually, that is not what he said but this Chronicler would feel compelled to rate this narrative as unsuitable for the younger members of the audience were he to transcribe what Pyreforge really said. "I've got to get back to Perdition!", he announced, and promptly disappeared in a puff of sulfur.
"Finally!" said Edwin. "Do you have any idea how much he eats!?! Mathilda had to go to market twice a day to keep up with him. Talk about overstaying your welcome!"
Suddenly Chantille, who had not been paying nearly enough attention to the drifting puff of sulfur, coughed and spat as it enveloped her. Overcome by the stench she passed out on the floor. Sasfiry ran over to help, and Shizlink ran out back to fire up the BBQ grill. Fortunately Sasfiry was able to revive her before Shizlink returned to start cooking.
"Could we please get down to business now?", asked Edwin. "You freed Ernie from the clutches of the evil Bert, which is good. Now I want you to go to a stronghold of the Unlike ... "
"Don't you mean a stronghold of the Unlife?", asked Fry.
"No, the Unlike. They are Unlike us, so we kill them. Capiche?", continued Edwin. "I want you to go to a stronghold of the Unlike in the First Pail ..."
"Don't you mean the First Pale?", interrupted Fry.
"No, the First Pail. Its an enormous metal bucket on the north coast of Emer. It appeared there suddenly about ten years ago, though none of the Loremasters can remember precisely when. Of course, that was just after Lysander the Clever threw that party to celebrate his enchantment of the Everfull Wine Cask, and that whole year is kinda fuzzy for us. I want you to go recover from the Unlike a portion of the Fart of the World."
"Don't you mean the Heart of the World?", asked Fry.
"No I mean the Fart of the World. A portion of it in a sealed box was captured by the Unlike. Whatever you do, don't open the box." concluded Edwin. "You can leave after the Gathering of the Ascension tonight. It looks to be quite a bash."
There was a little time to resupply before the Gathering. The party left Edwin's shop and headed for the marketplace. As they passed the warehouse across the street Frisbee noticed an urchin selling fine glassware, slightly melted. She bought a goblet which was untouched save for a tiny hole melted in the side, thinking to play the "give the dribble glass to the half-orc" trick on Urk. Little did she know how fortuitous the purchase of that goblet would be. [Editor's note: that was not foreshadowing. Nope nope nope, not one little bit.]
The city market was bustling with activity as was usual at midday. Sasfiry set out on her never-ending quest for coffee (black, with sugar, with cream, any way she could find it), and Sigmund for whatever alchoholic beverages were available. Fry started making Archaeology rolls before he even reached the first curio shop. He made a good roll, so if he manages to locate an appropriate shop it should be a doozy.
Blackhawk and Prophet, having put aside their differences over that little plasmanator incident, went in search of ammunition. Lots of ammunition. Ammunition for the plasmanator, for the Enforcer, for handguns, for rifles. Ammunition for weapons they didn't even own but planned to. The NRA would be proud (if it maintained a branch office on Kulthea, that is).
Wandering through the stalls, in an incredible reversal of statistical probability Shizlink made a long series of 66 rolls in Trading maneuvers resulting in the death of the entire row of fishmongers. "Mmmm, bad shellfish", said Shizlink. Spoiled shellfish is a delicacy amongst Goblins. Shizlink spent almost an hour searching.
Sasfiry was of course unsuccessful in her quest for coffee, and it really bummed her out.
Returning to the shop, the group learned that the Gathering of the Ascension was to be held in Edwin's back yard. "We don't have the budget to rent a banquet hall!" was Edwin's response to any question regarding the venue. The Gathering consisted of those beings sworn to the Ascension serving the side of Like in the struggle against the Unlike. It had all your normal Gathering arrangements: music, food and so on. But the very centerpiece of the engagement was, of course, the aforementioned Everfull Wine Cask. Sigmund personally drank over twice his body weight (fortunately the RMSS lacks an Alchohol Poisoning table). "Y' o'nl' ren' ushka ve!", he said loudly to anyone who would listen, as if anyone could understand that bloody thick brogue of his.
The next day, having no excuses left to delay the mission, the party gathered their stuff and headed into the fields outside of town. Blackhawk and Fry had to carry Sigmund who was still sleeping off the effects of the Gathering. Reaching a large flat clearing they laid down on the ground, waiting for Urk to summon the Navigator.
"I require a Navigator", said Urk in The Most Ancient and Dead Tongue of Upper Fulcrumia (The Bronx Side, not Queens). Immediately the creaking of riggings could be heard as the flying ship approached from the west.
"Wow, that was pretty impressive", said Frisbee, "you got it on the first try."
"Natural 100. Do it all the time.", shrugged Urk.
The ship came to a stop and descended until it was 20 feet above the ground. An ancient High Elf clad in a full suit of plate mail strode to the edge of the deck and called down: "I am Piladon, the Navigator." He made a funny, sortof tearing cloth noise as he walked. Piladon stated the price for a trip to the northern coast of Emer: 50 gold pieces. Feeling that was highway robbery, Sigmund moved into haggle formation. Several trading rolls later the price was 100 gold. Sigmund vowed to never again make trading rolls while hung over.
Counting their monies, the party determined that they could not quite pay for the transport. The vast majority of the wealth gained in their previous adventures had gone to pay off the awe-inspiring bar tab at the Gathering of the Ascension, leaving 98 gold pieces. Two incorrect assumptions made the party decide to take transport with the Navigator anyway: 1. surely Piladon wouldn't quibble over two gold pieces (He would), and 2. he looked pretty scrawny, surely they could take him (They couldn't)
Scrambling up the ladder, the group took off for
Aranmor Emer. The funny tearing cloth sound persisted
whenever Piladon moved, as if he were constantly bursting the seams of
his trousers. They sailed over the ocean, over the fishing boats,
migrating whales, and offshore oil platforms, and within a few hours
caught sight of the coast of Emer. Spotting an enormous structure
glinting in the fading sunlight they directed Piladon to fly over the
edge and descend to land. Piladon, of course, had other plans. Shortly
after crossing the threshold of the First Pail, he made an
announcement.
"End of the road", said Piladon.
"What?", said Urk.
"No more taxi ride. Vamoose. See ya!", said Piladon, "The meter on my dashboard now reads 98 gold pieces, which means you just ran out of money."
"Like, how did you know we only had 98?", asked Sasfiry.
"Multiscanner pass as you came aboard. Now off with you!", said Piladon.
"But, we're at least a mile above ground!"
"Having to climb a ladder to board should have clued you in: this is a flying boat. It does that.", explained Piladon, who then spun the ship's wheel causing the vessel to list to starboard. As the ship slowly rolled the party members began to slide down the deck, grasping desperately at whatever handholds presented themselves. Piladon's armor, of course, used a magic adhesive Velcro© on the soles of the boots to keep him firmly attached to the deck, which made the funny tearing cloth noises. He had used this passenger disembarkment technique before.
Clutching desperately at riggings, the party members managed to hold on until the flying ship had rolled completely over, when it began to shake violently. Piladon was moving the wheel back and forth rapidly to fling them off. One by one they dropped away from the ship, plummeting downwards towards the floor of the First Pail nearly a mile below.
"Great, like now what do we do?", asked Sasfiry, not really expecting an answer.
"I've got it! I've got it! All we have to do is embrace the wisdom of Penderack! If we overcome doubt, we'll stop falling!", exclaimed Fry.
Even the GM had to frown at this one. How did Fry know that? It was in his notes only to counter claims from distraught players that he had led them into a certain death situation. How did Fry know about it?
"Wouldn't you like to know", said Fry, to no one in particular.
One by one, the adventurers overcame their doubt and slowed their descent until they hovered in a small group about two thousand feet above the floor of the Pail. All except Sigmund, that is. "Y' bastaaaaaaaaaaaa...." was all that was heard of him as he plummeted downwards out of sight.
Descending slowly, the rest of the party followed Sigmund down. There was a strange, vaguely unpleasant smell permeating the interior of the First Pail. It smelled rather like the morning after a really good fraternity party. The smell grew stronger the closer to the base they went, until it was quite pungent at the floor. There were puddles and shallow pools of a strange amber liquid collected in small dents in the floor of the Pail. Chantille spotted Sigmund's body floating in a particularly large pool of the stuff, and as a group they went over to retrieve it since he was carrying quite a bit of equipment.
"I'T BEER!" yelled Sigmund as he treaded in place, obviously overjoyed. He had landed in a particularly deep pool of it which had broken his fall without injury. The pool had grown noticeably shallower in the time it took the rest of the party to descend. Sigmund can put away a lot of beer.
Unbeknownst to the party, and unbeknownst to the Loremasters, and in fact unbeknownst to anyone save this Chronicler owing to the fact that he is just now making it up, the entire First Pail had initially been filled with a particularly subtle but noxious alchoholic substance. The invasion plan of the Unlike had been to transport the First Pail to Kulthea along with an enormous "Free Beer!" sign. The resulting stampede of eager beer-swillers to Emer would leave the planet defenseless and ripe for conquest (the Unlike had read the history of the Trojan Horse). Unfortunately in one of those cosmic ironies the Pail and sign were sent separately, and the sign alone was affected by an astral burp which reduced it to 1/1000th of its intended size and deflected its course so that it landed outside the Wizards Of The Boast tavern in Mopheus. The resulting mob of thirsty sailors tore the place apart when told that there was no free beer in the establishment and what the hell were they babbling about anyway? The First Pail had begun to leak shortly after its landing, draining its harsh contents into the ocean where the trade currents carried it north to the port city of Bazilar where it had seeped into the local water supply, causing a mysterious Sickness which torments the residents of that fair city to this day.
As Sigmund continued to lower the level of the pond he landed in, Urk noted a bright light off in the distance. Lacking anything else to do the group headed towards it.
As they approached they saw the source of the light was a large fire in the middle of a strange round altar. Standing in a circle about the fire were an odd assortment of creatures: two large red demons with cybernetic arms, a humanoid lizard wearing a horribly stained bathrobe, and a dude in black plate mail. All of them held at arms length a long, thin metal blade which appeared to be made of duranium. The blades dipped towards the flame in unison, evidently in some sort of ritual controlled by the lizard. Planted firmly at the end of each blade and being held over the fire was a largish marshmallow. Occasionally the lizard-man would check the condition of each of the marshmallows by flicking his forked tongue over them. The cyberdemon on the right stiffened slightly when this happened, obviously not appreciating someone else sampling his tasty snack, but said nothing.
Prophet, rather upset at his scant mention in the story thus far, immediately opened fire with his wicked-looking sawblade launcher of doom. The blast ripped through the first cyberdemon, cutting it neatly in two. Inexplicably given its situation, the last thought which coursed through its cybernetic brain was, "Damn, now the lizard's gonna eat my marshmallow."
The rest of the minions of the Unlike spread out and returned fire. The other cyberdemon raised both arms, which were outfitted with an odd-looking attachment of paper-mache funnels and tubes. The cybernetic weapon system was designed to fire a highly compressed energy bolt which encodes the complete and unabridged text to Chaucer's Canturbury Tales. The blast of literary greatness struck Frisbee in the midsection and infused her brain with dense, incomprehensible gobbledygook. The resulting intellectual dissonance would have killed her except that the last chapter was deflected when it hit a peculiar facet of the goblet she had purchased the previous day. [Editor's note: ok, maybe it was foreshadowing] Instead she dropped instantly into a coma while her conscious mind went off to puzzle it all out.
Urk, Prophet, and Fry simultaneously returned fire on the cyberdemon. In this case the pen is not mightier than the sword and the demon bit the dust.
The dude in black plate reached over his shoulder to draw the dreaded fully automatic reciprocating sharp object flinger. He took aim at Black Cross, who strangely had chosen to wear a red turtleneck with a gold Star Fleet insignia on the chest. With a loud roar thousands of razor-sharp utensils poured forth from the weapon, vivisecting Black Cross in an instant.
Despite the combat raging nearby the lizard spellcaster had maintained his concentration on the ritual. Blackhawk put a stop to that through the good work of the Plasma Repeater Rifle; all that remained of the lizard was a smoking pair of boots ("I like this gun!" --Blackhawk). Yes, that last bit was lifted intact from the real adventure. I couldn't improve upon it.
Grinning like a banshee, Blackhawk next levelled the plasmanator at the dude in black plate and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The weapon status display indicated that Blackhawk had already received the maximum radiation dosage for one day and the safety system had kicked in. "Damn", he said, "I gotta get Shizlink to disable that". Dropping the plasmanator Blackhawk reached for his backup weapon, a double-barrelled recoil compensated gyroscopically stabilized fully automatic combat shotgun loaded with self-propelled heat seeking sabot rounds and equipped with laser sight, tuned headers, a glasspack muffler, and fuzzy dice hanging from the trigger guard.
Amazingly, given his inebriated state, Sigmund realized that the flame in the center of the altar was in fact issuing forth from a small metal box at its center. The Unlike had made a hole in the box! He staggered in a more or less straight line towards the pyre which became rather less straight the closer he staggered until he was actually circling it. Determining to stop this circling nonsense he quite deliberately tripped over his own feet and fell, hitting his head on the altar. "Ow, me crania", he said.
Meanwhile Fry, who had known all along that the box had been punctured to release the highly flammable Fart of the World, traipsed lightly through the firefight, dodging bullets and assorted dangerous things, to arrive beside the still dazed Sigmund. "Klaatu, Berada, Niktu!", said Fry, activating the ancient Arcane enchantment on the box which would seal it once again and thus put out the flame.
The Master of Time, Space and Dimension was displeased. How the hell had Fry known that? The third word, Niktu, the word which kept the box from imploding and causing a chain reaction which would destroy the world, wasn't written down anywhere! How did Fry know of it?!?
"Wouldn't you like to know." said Fry, to no one in particular.
The situation looked grim. Multiple blasts from all of the
party's weaponry had proven incapable of scratching the black plate
mail worn by the final minion of the Unlike. Said minion was actually
taunting the party now by mooning each in turn and quickly pulling his
armor back up before being hit by their volleys. However he seemed to
be tiring of that sophomoric prank. As he raised his fully automatic
reciprocating sharp object flinger, a loud retort was heard from one
of the steel panels of the First Pail as it began to glow red from
heat. Suddenly an angry ball of superheated plasma melted its way
through and streaked toward the dude in black plate, striking his
helmet straight on. You see, back in Edwin's shop Blackhawk had
open-ended his plasmanator attack roll 37 times. Even after the
-2000 penalty for the "Only In Your Dreams, Cowpoke" range category
and -1500 for the DB of the black plate mail, there was still enough
left to do 'A' heat, plasma, and unbalance criticals. The black plate
mail negated the heat and plasma criticals, leaving the unbalance
which resulted in its wearer being bowled over and knocked
unconscious.
WILL OUR HEROS ESCAPE THE FIRST PAIL???
WILL SIGMUND EVER SOBER UP?
WILL SASFIRY EVER FIND COFFEE?
TUNE IN NEXT TIME, SAME CHRONICLE-TIME, SAME CHRONICLE-CHANNEL
by Denton Gentry and Lisa Paulick