The Prophecy of the Group

May 17th Recap

A Kobold Poem

An ancient looking Kobold climbs the steps of a stage in an unknown village. His back hunched, his step slowed, he takes position down center. The reptilian form clears his throat, reaches his arms to the heavens, pans over the crowd and begins;

Veterans, working folk, Poor and Rich!
Gather round; Gather round, for a tale from the lip.

I dare not say their name, in fear for my life, a group who has known far too much strife.

You see this group, whose name I leave unmentioned; did pass through the Kiln with heroic intentions.
Defeating gelatinous cube, and kobold alike, the cunning of our party held strong in this fight.

It looked like the heroes were trapped, a blocked path, the encroach of a gastrointestinal tract.
An ordinary man would run and hide, but these men dare not retreat, they dare not desert their pride.
They held fast, weapons drawn, preparing to fight, the defeat of said cube, felled by a Dragon-Borns might!

Dear citizens! I tell you: Jello was the least of their problems; you see our friends had other issues and needed to solve them.
A chance encounter with injured rust riders, stuck between pathways, like flies in the web of a spider.

Was it fate?
Was it the smile of death?
Folks… Even to this day; I do not know what circumstances lay these poor Kobolds to rest.

Oh;
This group does not negotiate, they do not banter, one moment awry and they cut the problem out like a cancer.
I cannot overstate this enough, but soon it will be extremely clear, that our company of heroes should be something to fear.
They felled their foes with combat so graphic I fall sick just describing; they removed jaws, ripped limbs and brought faces colliding.
Silence soon set into the room of that cave fortress, as the first of the dead Kobolds set into rigor mortis.

They gathered together, safe at last, the characters of our story in a room of reflective glass.
A large mirror spread on the far wall, a shrine in the center, upon looking through both they spot a door they might enter.
With minds spinning from combat they search for their exit, but unfortunately so, their thoughts were too hectic.
A battle so fierce had left one from the group nostalgic, warping his form using graceful changeling magic.
Now a familiar herbalist from the North he stared into the mirror, he placed his hand on his father’s; but was not in the clear.
His hand stuck to the glass, surprise in his eye, he turned for what could have been his last and prepared his goodbye.
But a helpful caw from the corner did spark a notion, and with the group in agreement, a blade swung down in a clean fluid motion.

Our heroes thoughts aren’t thought through, they’re acted upon and later state; “what else was there for us to do!?”
You see this group is one of a kind, they rush head first, some would say almost even blind.
But that’s what makes these men true heroes; they do what other men would only dare do, for a few extra zeros.

The adventures, still in the room full of pillars, but now standing in front of them a freakish grey killer,
A mimic, so large it would make the giants of Xan-drik weep, but even so… it’s nothing the Bastards couldn’t handle in their sleep.

Yes, the Bastards… Their name rings true, I can tell you this much cause I was able to view, the death of that monster who had no clue what to do, as the Bastards charged forth, ran up and cut through.

The heroes walked past and collected their prize, some gold, some loot and a sword of balanced size.
They continued their trek, leaving the mountain behind, a happy jaunt in their step, and a peace in their mind.
This peace suddenly broken, ahead of them a fort, seiged and still smoking
Scouring the rumble for survivors and loot, the group did stumble on a man in a coyote fur suit.
Illifsung, four members’ two ladies two men, awkwardly bartered for a turn with a plate and deaths hand.

You see my dear audience; I was one of three lizards, a companion in tail of many who wanted to see our innards.
Meepo was one, not a friend, an acquaintance he seemed to the group like he was far too much maintenance.
So a simple transaction of coin and an exchange of happy glances, a platter raised and brought down like table wear lances.
The poor Meepos death wasn’t quick, it was painful and panicked but that’s what you get when you mess with a group full of manics.

…. So you see this is where my story comes to a close, the heroes of Threshold with worries that grow. Cause a raven fell from the heavens, descending on fire, no member knowing what future troubles might occur, might transpire.

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Castanza

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