[IC] The Ruins and Goblin Camp
Carefully, the group creeps as close to the camp as they dare, getting a glimpse of their destination through the trees, the east side of the ruins.
Though it was the intention to come in downwind so as to avoid the wolves barking to give away your presence, perhaps that might not have been the best of plans, at least for the sake of your noses. Goblins stink. And not in the manner of Volsh's relative indifference to regular bathing, no they honestly, truly, horribly, stink.
In the crumbled corner where a building once stood, a pack of five goblins are slumbering in the shade of the wall, an awning of vines, leaves, and women's dresses providing further shelter. One more goblin is staying awake to tend the fire, toasting a slug on a stick. The goblin is typical of his kind, a head almost too large for his body, little piggy eyes, a too-large mouth full of too many teeth, and enormous ears that stick out prominently on either side of his head. He's wearing a small barrel as clothing, with a fine hat of three sparrows stuck together with pins and then tied to his head with a bright red ribbon.
Craning your necks and looking around, you can see a couple other goblins near some of the fallen columns, with their own awnings of forest gleanings and human clothing pressed into service, along with the occasional bit of canvas or a pelt. Some of the goblins snort or wriggle in their sleep, and one is actually singing a little ditty about all the ways to eat a puppy. ("Roasted and toasted and burnt and fried, smoked or salted or freshly died. Catch 'em all wriggling and barking and nice, throw 'em in the stewpot with a fresh bunch of lice!")
It's catchy, if not appetizing.
In the middle of the ruins you can see the tall temple with its columned entrance. The bulk of the goblin young cage is off to one side, and a throne of broken wagon wheels, old quarried stones, and flour sacks has been set up outside by the fireplace. There's a young goblin in a leather tunic painted bright orange, a watermelon rind on his head, poking the flames and occasionally adding wood.
You cannot spot anyone that looks like the shaman from here, at least not from this distance. Sir Aberlayne nods, and points off to the south, indicating she's ready to go. She holds up five fingers, asking for a little time to get into position before Volsh makes with his distraction.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:49, Tue 15 July 2014.