163 - The Goblin Invasion (Traps and Dead Ends)

We step into the tower, and I almost slip on the blood on the floor. Inside is Phillipp Dorthana, surrounded by two dozen or so heavily mutilated corpses. He appears tired but mostly unharmed, and glad to see us. He tries to warn us to keep the door open, but we’re distracted by the sheer amount of gore in the room. The door slowly swings shut and magically seals behind us. He begins to explain the trap, and how successive waves of reanimated dead wore down his forces to nothing. Tittlin notices a magical circle, slowly depleting on the North wall. Beneath it lies an invitingly red button. Tittlin moves halfway to press it and looks towards Phillip. He shakes his head and explains Every time the button is pressed, the timer resets and all the dead in the room are re-animated. If the timer is instead allowed to deplete, you can hear ominous machinery warming up behind the walls alongside rushing air. Pressing my hands up against the wall, I can tell it’s a relatively porous stone that would easily allow gas through. As Merric starts examining the spells on the doors and wall, Tittlin passes a pickaxe to Spesoff and he begins to break a hole in the wall. I pull out my spellbook and begin weaving together Leomund’s Tiny Hut, in case we can’t disarm the trap. After Spesof puts a hole in the wall, I take a look and see a magical device preparing what appears to be cloudkill. Tittlin pours half a vial of acid on the machine, and it seems to energize it instead of dissolving it. Running out of time, we sit inside the hut and watch as the yellow clouds slowly roll through the room. Eventually, the timer refills, the clouds dissipate and the doors unlock. Phillip points out the specific tile that triggered the trap and I magically reshape it to indicate the danger. We head forwards and hear voices. Tittlin and Spesof sneak forwards, towards the purple glow leaking out underneath the door. They peer through the keyhole and have a short whispered discussion before Spesof stands up and knocks on the door. Tittlin pipes up “Pizza delivery!” A familiar and doubtful voice comes from within, doubting that anyone would deliver to the inside of a goblin fortress. The door opens revealing 5013 and a warforged titan, with the purple glow coming from the teleportation circle. Spesof hugs 5013, who awkwardly returns it. After a brief reminiscing, Phillip points out that we should split up so we can tackle the trap-laying necromancer and the warlord without either escaping. 5013 and the titan head to the basement with him as they are best prepared for the potential hordes of undead. We head north and check the side passages, revealing a store room and, out of all the things, an art gallery! Tittlin starts peeking and prying around the edges of the room, looking for hidden treasure. I re-iterate that we need to keep the warlord from getting away as Spesof drags the protesting Tittlin out of the room. We head up the stairs and make short work of a small group of hobgoblins, stopping briefly to grab a set of chainmail and, for some reason, a single playing card for Tittlin. I’m not even going to question the desires of elves at this point. As we head forwards, we enter the library and find hobgoblins and an old, scarred man missing an arm. They’re busy moving the contents of the library into a series of portable holes. Spesof begins aggressively questioning the old man, having apparently recognized him from somewhere. After a moment, Spesof’s voice dries out and his eyes widen. The old man stands straight, or at least stands up. Even as his head rises, he seems to hunch over, green scales covering his head as wings sprouted from his back. We all briefly panicked as we realized this was Caylbaid there right before us. Caylbaid acknowledged inevitability of the warlords defeat, stating that he was taking back his lent knowledge. Given how unsuccessful we would be in stopping him, we left him to it and moved on, past several cooks preparing a victory feast. I would have preferred to keep something from the library, but none of it would have been worth a dragon claw rending me in two. (edited) Coming up the stairs, we found the great hall. Empty throne on the dais, a pair of chairs midway before them. The remnants of a feast to the left, a dirty improvised arena of turned over tables to the right, with one giant hobgoblin standing in the center. Behind him, off in the corner there was a set of tables covered in stacks on stacks of paper. Barely visible was a wrinkled forehead with a third eye tattooed on it As papers were slowly discarded onto the floor, a wizened face with a blue nose appeared from behind it. Here was the warlord, not some powerful fighter with god-given strength, but an old man leading by guile and plan. As we arrived, he asked if Phillip was still alive. Much to my surprise, Spesof answered him. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, as he was never one for secrets. At the response, a pile of papers was pushed onto the floor. He continued asking questions, and with every response another pile fell to the ground. At the end were two small piles and one question. Talk, or fight. Considering we had him trapped in a windowless dead end and were already talking, we decided to listen to what he had to say. Tittlin sat on one of the two audience chairs, before finding the dais more attractive and moving up to it, while Spesof stood near the chairs. Seeing our reluctance to sit in the audience chairs, Griebiog smirked and pulled the lever beside him, dropping the remaining chair into a pit hidden beneath the carpet. He then walked forwards and began to speak, recounting the history of how he, a hobgoblin with no strength from a clan of map-makers became the head of a thousand strong war-host. I moved over to one of the feast tables and pulled out some paper and quill, jotting it down in shorthand as I positioned myself to watch the doorway. The sympathetic positioning of himself as a victim of circumstance, trying to stabilize his situation amongst a clan of hostile and aggressive hobgoblins evidently won over Spesof and Tittlin, as they both started to think of ways he could be kept alive after this. However, as Griebiog himself said, it was unlikely any of the nobles would let him live, even if they were inclined to do so. At this, I became a bit frustrated. “You have an entire stack of plan there for if we picked talk, yet you’ve done nothing but let us suggest ways forwards! Didn’t you have something in there other than us handing you over trussed up like a turkey?” At this outburst, he smiled a bit. “Most of this stack was the story I just relayed to you. As for the last of it, it’s right there behind you.” With the advantage of surprise, he dashed forwards and dove down the trap chute.