Turn 159
    We got a foot of snow last night!

    * * *
    Emmett stands his ground, waiting for them to get close enough and then holds the stair. Months of repressed agression at the Hextorian cause makes any awareness of this as a possible escape attempt lost on the half man, who is both trying to defend himself and prevent a threat to his allies upstairs.
    When the scream of their charge meets him, he greets it with one of his own, the blood red light of his eye sweeping across the horde.
    [GM: You have no shame.]
    The stair is fairly narrow; two average-size humans could squeeze down it side by side but would be more comfortable alone. Three goblins come at him at once, waving their makeshift weapons, more right behind them.
    [GM: three hits (why don't I have your hook damage on your sheet?) I think it's safe to assume they it's enough to take down these poor fellows.]
    Without a pause he hews down a fourth (cleave); two try to scramble past but are cut down as they run (AoOs). He lunges down a step to take down the next rank (three more plus a cleave).
    One of the next pair actually makes it past; the other is soon just another corpse. It's already beginning to be difficult for those behind to maintain speed and clamber over the dying, but they seem to think that they're committed now.
    One more makes it through. The rest go down like wheat before the reaping cutlass. Blood pours down the stairs and puddles at their base, black in the red light of his eye. Screams shrink to whimpers and then to silence.
    Meanwhile, not too far away, "Hmm," ibn Hassan says. "Emmett versus goblins." He thinks for a moment, then closes and locks the door and turns to Valarin. "Shall we go, then? Sir."
    "Goblins, you say?" Val asks casually as he checks their escape route for any threats. "Well, he is here to distract for us..." 
    "True. In which case, there *were* two more doors out there in the corridor. Perhaps we should wait for things to quiet down and then look into them?"
    "You didn't mention *that*," Val says, giving the half-elf a nod to proceed. "There might be more to this place yet..."
    Ignoring as best they can the sound of bloodshed down the hall, they move silently in search to find more sumptuously appointed living chambers -- relying it would seem on the dread their underlings must have for the senior priests to prevent any pilfering -- but nothing more of interest to their mission.
    Upstairs, at the sound of horde, Barrend sighs loudly, "That's not what I was hoping to hear." He quickens his pace to aid Emmet and prepares himself for battle. By the sound of the shrieks, it looks like he got himself some more goblins... hextorian goblins. No love for either of them.
    [GM: Remind me next time that you lot have no mercy?]
    "We're coming boy!" he yells.
    Halfway to the stair he's nearly run over by a hysterical goblin, who screams at the sight of him and jinks back towards the door leading to the temple's back yard, plunges through it and toward the gates without pausing. It's followed a few moments later by another one.

    * * *
    Meanwhile, back at the ship.
    "I believe it is a peculiarity of the sex, not the individual or the species." The elf studies her hand with apparent disdain, though Inez has learned better than to think she can read that habitually icy expression.
    "It is not a matter of race or sex. In fact, females of my species are sometimes inclined to..." Yestin's color deepens to a deep purplish-gray. "What I mean is, I am certain that Emmett and the others are fine."
    "Oh, *he'll" be fine," Inez snorts. "Everyone else in the area might not be. He thinks it's fun. Maybe he's part Giff?"
    Yestin frowns. He turns his attention towards Hiro. "The 'cannon,' as I understand it is called from the priestess at the temple of Gond, will, ah, eh..." Yestin frowns. "Did I mention it is very loud and destructive?"
    "So I understand," is the polite reply.
    Satisfied that he has demonstrated the validity of his case, the Giff smiles broadly. He hefts the rune-laden wooden shield he received on Rigol, strapping it to his left arm, and raises a large wooden-shafted mace, the phalanges leering suggestively from the goblin-shaped face wrought into the iron head of the weapon, swinging it experimentally a few times in the open air.
    "I have killed more..." Yestin frowns. "What I mean to say is that death touches us all. Let us not be caught unawares, lest our companions require our blood and find it lacking."
    Nyala gives him a curious look at this poetic statement.
    

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