It was a valiant battle, it raged for hours.
The afternoon was wearing on when we met a most unusual Dwarf named Lazlo, I think we may have partied together back in Vegas during the 70s. That, however, is another story for another time. He was a friend of the good proffessor, traveling to consult him on matters most dire. His death seemed to come as a shock, although he quickly recovered at mention of the “The Whispering Way.”
He seemed to share my…panache, penchant, call it what you will…for the slaying of the undead, so we manned up and set off for Harrowstone in a quest to destroy evil. There was the good priest and my trusted partner, Grigore, as well as Lazlo, and Vannter the dwarf eating snake thingy, what have you. We were a manly group, set out to do manly things in a manly way, and still be home in time for dinner.
Our number was four and four was the number we needed to smite evil that day my friend.
Evil found us faster than Aretha Franklin finds fried chicken, we were swarmed, almost overwhelmed by thousands of rats. The battle was long, the bodies many, Vannter snacked on them.
I, of course, was glorious. Long may the bards sing to my glory.
But, that was only an appetizer for the feast of evil smiting we were about to indulge in. We were attacked by a most nasty and pernicious broom; it was seventeen feet long if it was ten, on one end was a vicious seven foot razor sharp blade-rusted by the blood of it’s past victims, and it tried to sweep away the sweet dust of our righteousness.
Let them call it what they will, a scythe or what have you, but I know a broom when I see one.
We would not be swayed, for hours we traded blows. I took a short break for some Potion of Healing and a smoke. Lazlo, did some site seeing. Vannter and Grigore were relentless in their pursuit of divine justice. Then, our spellcasters ran out of spells. It was a dark time in the belly of the beast that only seasoned adventurers would understand as our mortality danced a wicked game of do see do with the grim reapers own house cleaning item. In the end the evil broom was destroyed by the mercy of the gods themselves, that and a blow from my Flail of Missing All the Damn Time.
Now we are tired, I need a cigarrette and a beer. I wonder what is for dinner. Surely, there must be a feast in our honor tonight. Let the bells of Iomedae’s divine blessing ring through valley and mountain. Let them sing, “The Broom has fallen.”
Editors Note: Upon further fact checking it appears certain aspects of the afternoons outing may have been greatly exagerrated, particularly anything involving the Paladin Named Slickback.