Goblins in the Bushes - a Co8 'FanFic' with no walk thru

Part the Second: The Path to the Moathouse

Based on a true story.

The Ranger noticed the band of goblins in the bushes ahead only moments before the battle would be joined. They were a small, ragtag group, foraging about for grubs and insects to eat. Their patchwork armor was battered and listless, their weapons broken and dull.

"Goblins ahead," he whispered. "Five, maybe six. We can still fall back and avoid them as they pass."

The cleric and leader of the group looked up and ahead through the underbrush, his own armor sparkling by contrast, his mace solid and sure, his belief in St. Cuthbert sound and unfaltering.

The goblins be damned. They were on a mission to investigate malfeasance at a backwoods ruined garrison somewhere off in the swamp ahead, having been directed hither by the village elder of Hommlet. The assignment to deliver Hommlet from the clutches of a recent bandit plague had been commissioned by the Directing Oligarchy of Greyhawk himself. Who were a lowly band of goblins to stand in the way of justice? They had likely commited crimes against the citizens of Hommlet themselves, one way or another, and they were certainly an undesireable element in the land.

The cleric strode forward. "Goblins be damned! Hail, lowly miscreants! Prepare to receive St. Cuthbert's vengeance, swiftly and with great pain!" Behind him the rest of the group - two warriors, a wizard, a sorcerer, a rogue, and the ranger - followed.

The goblins suddenly rose to attention, the grubs and insects forgotten for the moment. They maneuvered quickly into a battle formation, no more impressive with their insignificant little scuttling and screeching. Behind them two larger hobgoblins emerged from the brush.

"Bah!" shouted the cleric, "Today you all shall perish!" He waded into their midst, his mace cocked back like a mighty coiled spring, and he released it in a vicious arc aimed at the head of the nearest snivelling creature.

The air in the swamp seemed to crackle with holy energy as the weapon travelled, it's path sure, it's target helpless to avoid it. The warriors looked at each other with confident pride. This battle would be short, swift, and immeasurably enjoyable.

The mace rode high over the goblin's head, missing it's mark by no less than 10 inches. The cleric felt something give in his shoulder as it overextended, and he toppled for a moment. No matter, the warriors were behind him. The ranger and the rogue notched arrows in preparation for flight. The spellcasters remained relaxed in the rear ranks, judging their involvement yet unneccesary.

The intended victim of the mighty blow looked momentarily surprised, but countered with short jab into the cleric's midsection that seemed to resonate with an impossible certainty. His expression of surprise turned to one of glee. The cleric was staggered for the moment, as much wounded by this sudden, unlikely turn of events as by any injury. "Foul beast!" he howled. "Your end is at hand!"

In support of the cleric's threat, the two fighters launched mighty swings of sword and axe of the own. Neither did these meet their mark, however, to the bafflement of all involved in the skirmish. The second and third goblins scampered around to flank the cleric. Each followed with slight, weak-armed attacks that nonetheless found their mark, resoundingly, on the cleric's back.

By this time the pain had become more significant to the cleric than the surprise. His body was a knotted fist of misery, his muscles straining from the blows. He fell to one knee. "Vermin . . . !" he repeated, somewhat falteringly.

The rogue and the ranger, seeing an unexpected need for a change in momentum, loosed their arrows. Each sailed harmlessly into the brush beyond. The spellcasters quickly began intoning the verbal elements of their respecive spells, lamenting what would have appeared a waste of resources only moments ago.

The fourth and fifth goblins attacked the cleric from the front. The first blow was errant, but the second scored with a certainty outmatching all those prior to it. The two hobgoblins closed and jabbed with spears, each making it's mark within the kinks of the cleric's once impervious armor.

It was as though some outside, undeniably evil force was at work in that lowly swamp. The tide, once surely in favor of all that was good and right, had shifted in a matter of moments in such a way that no random chance could account for. Yet the noble party of adventurers were helpless to stop it, and even less able to explain it.

The sorcerer's magic missile shot through the air and struck one of the hobgoblins. The beast grunted angrily but maintained his position. The wizard's attempt to put the creatures to sleep caused a pretty display of twinkling particles, but none of the goblins succumbed to slumber.

Reeling, but sensing that an infusion of strength from St. Cuthbert had entered his body to deliver him from this madness, the cleric swung his mace back around in another wide arc at the nearest hobgoblin. The attack missed.

Incredibly, the first two goblins repeated their succesful attacks, and the cleric fell full to the ground, his vision blurring, the life slipping helplessly from his body. He had time to reflect that a life spent scribing scrolls would have seen longer years than this miserable end at the hands of these small, swarthy beasts. Yet some bizarre fate had interviened where it shouldn't, and in so doing had brought to a pathetic conclusion his glorious service to the will of St. Cuthbert. His last dying thought was to wonder if St. Cuthbert would even receive him at the table of the gods for his sudden, inexplicably less-than-spectacular service.

What in god's name had just happened here? wondered the ranger with unconcealable alarm as the two warriors missed with uninspired and timid attacks. The rest of the party exchanged glances of unmistakeable fear, looking grotesque on faces where just moments ago absolute cetainty of purpose had reigned. The unspoken consensus was to flee for their lives.

As the lowly group of adventurers fled back through the swamp the way they had come, leaving their inglorious hero and leader's corpse behind to be gutted and consumed by their seemingly other-wordly powered foes, the ranger voiced the panicked question out loud: "What in god's name just happened here?!"

No one spoke. The faces of the rogue, sorcerer, and warriors betrayed only their inner despair. But though he said nothing, the aged mage had an idea, one he dared not utter aloud but knew in his heart to be true, something so awful that to speak it audibly would forever shatter the psyche of each of his younger comrades: the party had on this day undoubtedly fallen into the bottomless, remorseless, inscruteable bad graces of that dark angel of death, the Mersenne Twister.

End The Game

:suprised:

:grin:

(Okay, so I'm no Old Book . . .)

 

Maybe your not Old Book, but that was funny. :evil_laug

Perhaps someone should script a new spell that guarentee's only the lowest possible number can be rolled on any dice for creatures that are caught in the area of effect for a lengthy duration? We can call it Mersenne's Twister of Doom.

 

I would have liked the ranger to have shot at an exposed, flanked goblins back, with the critter having no idea it was under attack...

only for the Ranger to take -4 shooting into melee and miss (with no bonus for flanking the gobber or shooting from behind).

But who am i to complain? Bravo Gaear, every word rang tragically true! :clap:

 

Watching the rolls breakdown window too closely can be maddening. I've actually documented entire battles that way before, just for the satisfaction of exposing the RNG as un-random.

My favorite RNG staples:

1. Any raging enemy must roll exceptionally well on their first attack. I'd say over all the months/years I've played this game, 50% of all raging first attacks have been criticals, 40% have been in the 15 - 19 range, and 10% have been below 15.

2. When stealthy fellows are on the map, they must roll excellent initiative so they can take out your spellcasters in the flatfooted round. In my experience, stealthy fellows roll first initiative at least half the time, regardless of what type of dexterity/reflexes/initiative my PCs have.

3. The first character in your lineup (leftmost spot) must roll for extremely low HP at levelup.

4. Any character with high skill levels/ability scores must roll consistently low in whatever abilities are related to those scores. I.E., fighters with 18 strength must roll critical misses with dramatically greater frequency than others; spellcasters with Spell Penetration and Greater Spell Penetration must roll very poorly on enemies' Will/Reflex/Fortitude checks, effectively making them less effective spellcasters than those without the feats.

Completely believeable. Just this evening my 4th level rogue nearly died trying to repeatedly disable an 18 DC trap. His rolls:

5 1 3 4 2 1 4 9 17

:evil_laug

 

QFT. It seriously wouldn't surprise me if there was something in the raging code to make first strikes hit, because as u say, its just monotonously regular. I've played the inside-moathouse bandits with raging leader encounter dozens of times for various tests (and ranted about it many times), and that bugger hits as accurately as an Olympian sharpshooter. (Mind u, he is very easy to charm).

Then again, as a one-time professional gambler, I would say clumping is the norm for random events - an even spread is just not random, its a clear pattern.