FH: Goat Gore

[Jim Roberts]

[Feb 5 AM – The Waterworks]

> Finfin held a dramatic pose for a moment, and then made an obscure
> quote in Southern Sindarin, quietly satisfied with his performance.
> From the rear rank, Tramma asked curiously, “Once again I have cut a
> worthless object…?”
>
> The elf nodded. “A phrase favoured by my original instructor.”

Meanwhile, Laquendi had darted forward and flicked a dagger deep into
the stubbornly surviving goat’s flank. It nearly did the job… until a
moment later Laurelin’s flashing blades completed the task.

For just a heartbeat, there were no more goats, though more could be
heard in the darkness. Though perhaps not QUITE as loudly as before.

A moment later, Laquendi stated bluntly, “Five more,” and once again
began her retreat to just behind the Front Line.

All five came barreling down the corridor, and Laquendi noticed that she
was in just a bit of additional danger. Perhaps it was her excellent
night vision, and perhaps it was her Arcanist mind trained to track
moving targets… but regardless of the origin, she suspected that she was
in incrementally a bit more danger now than in the previous Goat Waves.
Something about the four legged menaces’ trajectory suggested that
should it wish to, at least one of the goats on the right flank could
blow past the elven captain and menace HER. If, of course, the goats
were of a sufficiently bloody mindset to exploit such openings. And
that, in Laquendi’s experience, was always a safe bet to make.

But these sorts of risks, if well handled, could also be turned into an
opportunity. Laquendi held her position for just a moment, almost
inviting the incoming goat along the right wall to ignore the two wood
elves and their deadly blades in the middle, and come after her. Only to
slowly and carefully ease herself backwards just that little bit extra
distance. Only a hop and a skip for a charging goat… but just enough so
that the creature would have to run PAST the elven captain to reach her,
something Laquendi suspected the goat would regret. Her positioning trap
laid, Laquendi waited to see how it would play out.

She did not have long to wait. Four goats crashed into the pair of elves
blocking the corridor. Finfin turned aside the two attacking him easily
enough, and one of Laurelin’s nearly tripped over its four feet.
Another, however, rammed into the elven priestess, its horn deflected by
the finely crafted chainmail just as the previous goat’s attack. But two
head butts into the same place were starting to sting. Laurelin hissed,
whether in pain or annoyance was unclear, as she prepared to do more
than return the favour.

The priestess’ sweeping blades arced out and almost slaughtered a goat
before her. Not, however, the goat that had succeeded in its head butt,
but rather, the one furthest from the elven captain. She had faith that
Finfin would take care of the annoying goat that even now was bleating
in a twisted parody of a cackle.

Her faith was not misplaced. After defending himself against his own
onrushing attacks, he gave a mighty sweeping cut known colourfully as
“The Wheel”, or more crudely, as a simple horizontal side cut from right
to left. There, as Laquendi had hoped, the blade intercepted the goat
that had perhaps foolishly decided to ignore the elven swordsman and had
presented the elf with a "free shot" at its undefended flank. Perhaps it
was its own forward momentum combining with the powerful two handed cut,
but the result was a gruesome splattering continuation of the gory
artwork sprayed along the righthand wall.

Allowing for a full “follow through”, Finfin continued the sideways cut,
chopping into and ending the life of a goat before him. Showing that he
was perhaps not ENTIRELY without Wisdom, the elven swordsman opted to
finish off one of Laurelin’s goats, before attending to the last of his.
A quick wrist deflection allowed him to reverse the direction of his
blade into a downward, descending cut, ending the life of the goat that
had dared to ram the priestess. His subsequent slashes at his OWN
surviving goat, however, were far less impressive, and achieved exactly
nothing.

A thrown dagger Jeyshann had purloined from Tramma ended the pitiable
life of Laurelin’s horribly mauled goat, and precisely aimed arrows from
Lomi embedded into Finfin’s remaining foe… but the elven captain’s goat
stubbornly remained on its feet. Until, that is, a quintet of Laquendi’s
Magic Missiles streaked in from behind the melee line, unerringly
stitching into the miserable creatures hide, dropping it in its tracks.

For only a heartbeat, everything was still. But not silent. Perhaps it
was the still fading echoes of the Light Goat Brigade’s hoofbeats and
bleats, but the Abbot’s Team thought that they could still hear
onrushing goats. And an instant later, Laquendi declared, “Two more.
Same distance, charging inbound.”

It would not have been at all unreasonable for these two goats, able to
see the carnage and obscene artwork that marked the passing of twenty
two of their peers, to have decided that this would be a fine moment to
turn tail, run home, and re-evaluate their life choices. But not THESE
goats. They were the Goat Fanatics, the Goat True Believers, and the
Goats convinced that THEY could succeed where so many of their peers had
failed, and that THEY could avenge their fallen. Both goats continued
their charge at the Away Team.

When apprised of their numbers, Finfin mildly suggested “Conserving
resources?”, even as he took a single step forward, his blade dipping
into “The Guard of the Plow” – or a simple “middle guard” for those
averse to the more poetic terminology.

Laquendi quickly strung a shortbow she’d borrowed from Symbala, and sent
an arrow bouncing off of the thick skull of one of the onrushing goats.

The two fanatical goats charged, horns first, directly at the male elf
who had so conveniently offered his squishy self to their Righteous
Wrath. Finfin’s blade forward middle guard easily deflected both
charges, the first goat’s momentum allowing the elf to “pivot thru” and
chop the offending goat down, the follow through practically causing its
neighbour to explode in a cloud of gore, adding its entrails to the
already overloaded splattered display on the nearby wall.

And then… there were none. There was no sound, beyond possibly the
steady drip of blood from the nearby wall. Finfin paled, trying not to
be distracted by the evidence of his handiwork as he looked for other
threats. His bladeform had been honed for years against armored
opponents; its impact on unarmored goats was gruesome. Vaguely, he felt
that this moment would be immortalized as what would be hereby called
“The Goat Tests”.

Behind him, Tramma was having a harder time not being nauseated by the
awful gore. To try to distract her mind from the carnage, she began to
recite a short little nonsensical ditty.

When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride

But a gag ended her attempt at self distraction. Another tack was
clearly needed… now, lest she lose her breakfast. Which, admittedly,
would perhaps have improved the awful display all around them. Nodding
weakly to the gore festooned wall, she commented weakly, “That looks
like something that demented artist… Bollock would come up with.” She
choked, and added, “Maybe right out of a slasher tale by that director,
Sam…. Something Rather.” Clearly, the silver haired “know it all” really
WAS feeling ill.

“Rainy?” Lomi suggested weakly, remembering her fellow Wild Woman’s
frequent spontaneous lectures.

“I’m thinking more PeckInPaw,” Tramma sighed.

Finfin, too, was looking rather green at the gills as he contemplated
the nearby wall that had been mostly his “creation”. “I may not know
Art,” he mentioned weakly, “but I know what I like. And that is NOT it.”

The small Drow stood motionless and nearly invisible with an arrow
nocked before she started to advance through the piles of destruction,
ready to let loose a final shot into anything that moved. Although
Laquendi thought nothing of it, the red sprayed from the dead goats
through her silver hair combined with her dark clothing made Tramma
think the tiny mage as an apparition.

“I believe,” Finfin stated uneasily, “that I would benefit from a
Prestidigitation cleaning.”

“You would, Fin,” Tramma agreed, her voice still uneasy. “But save it
for when we’re outta here. We’ve barely begun, and I think Mithi would
thank you for it.”

The elven officer nodded, and instead confined his cleanup to finding
one of the less gory goat carcasses to use to wipe the blood from his blade.

Meanwhile, Laquendi pointed to the copious amounts of blood that were
pooling, and beginning to mix in with the pervasive damp, flowing into
sluices and drains. The two more paranoid of the elves eyes’ met, and
both nodded. “I believe we should be moving along,” Finfin agreed with
Laquendi’s unstated suggestion. “Now.”

“First things first,” Laurelin gently reminded him, and began to
unbutton her outer robe, and then shrugged out of the elven chainmail
shirt that had protected her not once but twice from getting gored. Only
when she began to untie her undershirt did Ben turn bright red and turn
away, leaving the Valyan High Priestess some privacy.

And after a moment, so too did Finfin, though this reaction caused the
lady elf to giggle just a bit. It wasn’t as if Finfin hadn’t seen what
was under her shirt on many occasions. Once the area was uncovered, both
priestess and the other ladies in the group could see a livid bruise
just over Laurelin’s ribs.

“Let’s tend to that quickly,” Lomi suggested practically.

“My thoughts exactly,” Laurelin agreed, pulling out some choice herbs.
Working together, they soon had a fine herbal poultice prepared, and
Laurelin gave a small sigh as Jeyshann helped her wrap it over the
bruise. “Feels better already.”

Meanwhile, Lomi had dug through her own kit, and returned holding a
wineskin. Laurelin’s nose wrinkled. “Thurl?” she asked dolefully.

“Thurl,” Lomi replied grimly. Some hardened adventurers, or more often,
those who wished to APPEAR to be hardened adventurers, claimed to
actually LIKE the taste of Thurl tea. And while its healing properties
were never in doubt, its value as an enjoyable beverage was… debatable
at best. Laurelin in particular found it rather bitter, with a nasty
taste that liked to lurk in the back of one’s throat. But it was a
valuable curative, all the moreso as the herb was rather common, and
preserved quite well. The only practical limit was how much one could
stand to carry… and drink, with all of the expected complications
massive tea consumption out in the field might cause.

When she’d had as much as she could stand, the elven priestess grimaced,
and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Now, let us ask the Lady
of the Stars for a bit of help.” Laurelin chanted a simple little prayer
in Liturgical Quenya, her hands tracing a pattern of glowing red lines
that hovered over the covered bruise. She then smiled, and pulled away
the bandage. Between the effects of the poultice, the Thurl, and above
all, the small healing prayer, the ugly bruise had completely vanished.

“I believe Valya Starkindler did not LIKE those goats,” the priestess
observed mildly. “Certainly, her priestess did not.”

A moment later, Laurelin had replaced her undershirt and was shrugging
into her finely crafted elven chainmail shirt. The priestess did not
really need help getting the chainmail to sit properly on her shoulders,
but assistance did speed the process, and both Lomi and Tramma were
willing and able to help. Neither Wild Woman wore chainmail shirts
themselves in the recent past, taking advantage of Finfin’s open offer
of a Mass Mage Armor for any lady who wished, but both had used such
protection in their not too distant past.

So it was only a matter of moments before Laurelin could call out
lightly, “Oh, boys? Thank you for guarding the corridor, but you can
look now.”

And now they could set off into the deeper depths of the Waterworks,
opening up the range between themselves and the blood soaked battleground.