CLOSED | Nug Quest

[nonvenomous]

WHO: Adrasteia, Holden, Jone, Joselyn, Sawbones, Val de Foncé, Wysteria, and Dick.
WHAT: Poachers run afoul of a Riftwatch research expedition.
WHEN: Cloudreachish. Time is a flat circle.
WHERE: Minranter River, Free Marches
NOTES: Animal cruelty, some gore.

JOURNEY:

Their trek north across the Free Marches to the Minranter is light and mild: Jone’s mule, Loghaine, hauls the bulk of any heavy gear. The wind stays brisk beneath steady cloud cover, only rarely committing to rain, and there’s an inn to curl up in once they reach the river. Have a drink, rent a bunk with a moth-eaten blanket, splurge on the “luxury” suite upstairs.

For those that aren’t willing to cough up the coin, there’s always the stable.

Further into the wilderness, the white noise roar of the river at night makes for restful sleep and long watches, where the crack and rustle of a bear through the underbrush or the sound of approaching horses might go unheard until it’s too late. At times flashing eyes reflect the watch fire from the treeline, only to melt away without incident. Pawprints pressed into the river sand and traces of bone-littered scat hint at the nature of their nightly visitors -- more fascinating to some than others.

DESTINATION:

Vultures spiral overhead -- an ill omen, easy to mark at a distance. Far below, hoof-beaten grass is streaked with gore where a herd of nugs was pursued out onto the river flats, blood still wet despite the wind, one little body left broken underfoot on the trail. They never had a chance.

Ravens squabble and hop between flayed corpses left to stiffen on the beach. Flies zip from haunch to haunch, spoiled for choice.

There are a dozen nugs here, most of them quite young. Their skulls are crushed, the sand churned with tracks where they struggled.

A few still have their hides. The leather is mundane, for anyone who has the heart to check.

Further west across the river, campfire smoke drifts skyward over the trees where the sunset fades orange to purple. A pained squeal carries across the distance, accompanied by the sound of cruel laughter on the wind. Eventually a few of their voices rise in song.

The killers are close, and night is falling.

AFTERMATH:

An earlier drizzle keeps the fire from spreading into the surrounding wood: by the time the battle is dying down and the nugs are freed, the flames have dwindled to a forlorn lick across blackened canvas and crates of supplies. And the corpses: some burnt, some on the beach, one bobbling slowly downriver.

Something should probably be done about those.

The two fade-touched nugs they’ve rescued need tending. They are wild and distrustful, but they are also exhausted, and injured, and desperately thirsty.

Near the remains of the campfire, a spit-roasted nug still has attracted a fly or two, but still has meat on the bone. There are fade-touched nug hides to be found on the wagon that survived.

A few dazed mounts linger where they were tied off at camp or tangled in the woods nearby -- at some point, a dracolisk had plunged past Jone into the battle-darkened water. Like the armor of their previous owners, they’re rugged and diverse -- beasts captured, won and stolen. A great, shaggy white Avvar horse has taken to Adrasteia, lipping at her sleeve.

Let them roam free or round the others up for an easier ride home.

Comments

[heirring]

"Oh, I've an idea. Just a moment."

This, as Wysteria goes careening back toward the fire (the one that's meant to be there, around which a number of the poachers were earlier gathered) and the spit-roasted nug. With a brisk dousing of heat by way of a near to hand bucket of water left comically forgotten in the panic and a judicious crunching application of the heel of her field boots to remove the paltry remains of the creature cooked on it, Wysteria returns with the slightly crusty spit iron raised triumphantly over her head.

"Here, set it down again. If we can get purchase under the edge with the sharp end, we might lever it open. Although we ought to be ready to catch them if either one chooses to try to jump free after."

[kantikoy]

Upon Wysteria's suggestion, Adrasteia does set the nug crate down again, as gently as possible; she unclasps her cloak from around her shoulders and gathers up the corners until she's created a type of billowing basket that can be set around the soon-to-be-open end of the crate to capture any fleeing nugs.

"Poor things," she murmurs and then gestures for the spit iron. "Here, let me at least heat the tip, it'll make it easier for us to get into the wood."

It'll be great for them, certainly, to smell something that has been used to roast their kin. Obviously.

[nonvenomous]

The nugs stagger with the sway of the crate on its way back down in Adrasteia's arms, their guinea pig squeals lifted in chorus with every shift and wobble. The more boisterous of the pair rams blindly into one of the walls of its prison, rocking the boat while his (her?) compatriot scrabbles to bury itself in a mass of hay at the rear.

The carpentry of the box is rudimentary, better-suited for transporting chickens than nugs, and should be easily levered apart by iron.

Pounding hoofbeats mark the retreat of a dracolisk dead center through the camp behind them, running from the river; it leaps to clear a burning tent. The figure astride its back is hard to make out through the smoke, but leaves a parting gift in the form of a crossbow bolt that thumps hard into the ground at Wysteria’s feet.

A second pair of hooves batters confused after the first, and a third, riderless mounts taking scope of the fire, whirling in place, and peeling off in opposite directions.

[heirring]

Thwack!

The punch of the crossbow bolt striking the earth prompts her to pause, a comical frozen moment where the spit iron has been extended toward Adrasteia in wordless acceptance of her suggestion (Sure! Why not? The animals are already panicked; what's a little more anxiety?)--

"Well," she announces, all sing song nerves. "So long as we're quick about it."

[kantikoy]

Well shit, that was startling. The elven woman hisses her annoyance at how close that came to putting a bolt through Wysteria's toes. In order to avoid being struck by any other unforeseen bolts or attacks, Adrasteia casts a protective bubble around herself, Wysteria, and the nugs with a wave before taking the offered spit iron and heating the metal with a touch.

At least that way, no one should get hurt unexpectedly without her having time to do something about it.

Once Wysteria has pried the crate open she's ready with her repurposed cloak to wrap the two squealing nugs up and then treat their wounds with small, warm hands (but not as small as the nugs' hands, that's for sure).

[nonvenomous]

Between the two of them and a hot poker the frame will split with a sharp crack, allowing the smaller and pinker of the pair to tumble out blindly into Adrasteia’s cloak. It’s a little bit like throwing a blanket over a small, angry goat -- there is much in the way of thrashing and kicking in her arms, the knock of its noggin back against Adrasteia’s buffered by cloth and the leather muzzle bound snug around its nug mug.

Its weird little hands squeeze at her fingers when she finds them, and it seems to lull in its struggle as healing magic takes hold, easing its hurts.

She can still feel the pounding of its heart through its back against her.

Nug #2 is still burrowed into the back of the box -- a dark, trembling lump with shredded hay stuck to its wounds. Someone will have to winnie the pooh in there to drag it out, or upend the crate to spill it out into the chaos.

[heirring]

Wysteria, who has officially exerted all of her upper body strength by prying open the crate regardless of whatever mechanical advantage was lent by the levering the spit iron, makes some small sound of irritation and sympathy both at the sight of Nug #2.

"Oh, its very stupid," she declares, in the way one might remark on some charming quality. "Or at least is frightened out of its wits. Come here, you silly thing—"

Even with the thrashing having settled, Adrasteia's cloak is clearly rather full to capacity. And so Wysteria very gamely thrusts her arm and shoulder and maybe even her head inside the crate. She latches on to whatever part of the remaining nug comes easily to hand, dredging it out into the open are with all the grace of a child yoinking a frightened cat out from under a sofa by its tail. Assuming it remains in some panicked catatonic state, the topmost layer of her skirts can be bundled about it.

[kantikoy]

"Probably a bit of both, they are essentially prey animals."

Everything that eats meat seems capable of eating nugs, certainly. She keeps one hand on the chest of the nug that had thrashed and struggled in her arms until it got a chance to grip her finger like an infant; pulling her finger away is probably most sensible but she doesn't think the poachers are coming back so she keeps her hands where they are until Wysteria makes her way out of the crate. She's sure they have something back at their own camp that can hold the nugs.

"Here," she says, offering her still tightly-wrapped cloak and the slightly fussy nug to Wysteria. "Hold onto the fabric tightly, so it doesn't get away, and I'll take a look at the other one."

[heirring]

The juggling of two equally shocked nugs between two wrapped lengths of fabric is a clumsy thing. A fire is burning. Smoke sweeps across the camp and there are shrieks and terrified calls from the nearby lines of picketed animals. It is a less than ideal environment for much of anything, much less an attempt to keep animals calm and wrangled. But Wysteria doesn't think twice about taking the bundled cloak into her possession. She gathers it fiercely under one arm, grip very sure, and maintains a similar hold on the other animal wrapped up in the top layer of her skirts so that Adrasteia might simply work her magics on it there.

"I'll be very cross if you bleed on my skirt," she informs Nug #2.

On the far side of the camp, something bangs loudly as it catches fire. It's probably fine.

[nonvenomous]

The smaller and fussier of the babushka nugs squeals in (muffled) protest at this rearrangement, grasping after Adrasteia’s collar, ears, nose as she’s pulled away into Wysteria’s care. She gives a spirited kick or two against Wysteria’s side, but her hold on her is quite firm, and Nug #1’s energy gives out with her hind legs twisted one way and her head rolled back over her shoulders, both hands pushed stubborn up into Wysteria’s armpit.

Nug #2 continues to tremble while he bleeds on Wysteria’s skirts, weird little nug hands clasped over his ears, face buried away, flecks of bloody hay bristled like quills along his back.

Bang, something bangs, and a horse whinnies shrill through the smoke.

The nug under Wysteria’s arm jolts: the muzzle hiding her face blackens, glows, and bursts outward, leather charred all to ember and ash. For an instant that seems like that’s likely to be it: she hiccups and blinks, smoke trickling from flared nostrils as the muzzle falls away. She paws the air.

She belches out a five foot stream of napalm flame in whatever direction Wysteria happens to have her business end pointed.

[kantikoy]

She comes around to Wysteria's side in order to sweep the hay away from the cowering nug's back and make soft shushing noises in his direction. "You're safe, you're okay." The body of the nug is so small that it takes very little effort to heal its wounds, and Adrasteia tries to be as soothing as possible.

(She'll deal with Wysteria's bloodied clothes later. Possibly by virtue of making her new ones, it'll depend.)

It's a good thing she moved to the side, though, all things considered.

The bang has Adrasteia's shoulders jumping but in the meantime, all the good curses that Adrasteia knows? Are in Orlesian, not in Trade, and thus the words out of her mouth when the nug under Wysteria's other arm belches fire are "mère des démons et des boules du Fabricant dans un panier!" The nug she's touching flinches back and covers his ears again but she continues petting him while looking at Wysteria with an expression that is clearly meant to say 'what the fuck do we do about that?!'

[heirring]

Bang!

The heat is distinct, sharp given the proximity. Wysteria, drawn very pale and staring with abject alarm, stands absolutely stock still as the nug under her arm (facing behind her, for the record) belches out a great torrent of fire. When the heat fades, her eyes--all very big and extremely round--lock with Adrasteia's. She doesn't dare look behind her.

It's fine.

"Perhaps you might take the second one now?" Is a strangled, high-pitched sort of question. "And point it away from you? And then we will carefully take our leave to the edge of the camp?"

[nonvenomous]

There’s a little fiery toot at the back end, just to round things out -- a butane lighter snap of flame, after the primary eruption has waned. Then Wysteria’s nug (Nug #1) sags loose underarm, content (past some residual squirming) to be ferried backwards across the fringes of the fray.

If lifted, #2 will not want to be pointed, but neither does he seem in danger of scorching through his muzzle. The worst of his shivering eases at Adrasteia’s touch. As long as he is kept close and can hide his ears, he seems content to be wrapped up and carried. The more baby-like, the better -- at least until the fire dies down and the fighting stops, and the group can decide how best to handle these fade-touched bundles of joy.

And the bodies.

There are so many bodies.