The name's Nibbler, and lemme tell ya, I seen more action than a bookie during a Waterdeep Derby. But what went down at the Oozing Myconid last night? Fuhgeddaboudit. That was some next-level whack-job insanity, capisce?
So there I am, nursin' my fungus brew in the corner, like a good little deep gnome. The Myconid's a real swanky joint, see? Purple flame sconces, carpets thicker than a Thayan's accent, and a back pool where the made guys dock their boats. Real upscale.
I'm ear-wiggin' on some of Jarlaxle's crew, right? These jamooks are jawin' about this job they're gonna pass to some surface mooks. Get this, these schmucks gotta waltz into Sorcere and boost some magic rod piece from Archmage Gromph himself. GROMPH! The guy who could whack you just by givin' you the stink eye! Bregan D'aerthe's just playin' fence here, settin' up a meet with some mage named Veserin Devis at the school.
That's when tonight's main event strolls in through the back pool.
First up, we got this broad, and I'm usin' the term real loose here, who's seven feet of "I'll-rip-your-head-off-and-use-it-as-a-grindstone." Black armor topped with a helmet that's screamin' like a banshee at her own funeral. And she's luggin' a glaive bigger than a spelljammer's oar.
Then you got this mook who looks like he robbed some surface bard's wardrobe. Blonde hair, leather vest, ripped jeans, guitar on his back like he's gonna play the Yawning Portal after he's done crackin' skulls.
There's this goblin dame, with them dead eyes, you know? Like she's already casin' your funeral and figurin' which pocket your wallet's in. Real professional, like them Zhentarim assassins.
And last, this elf who's got peepers that see everything, smooth as aged Evermead and twice as dangerous. Never takes his green hood off, movin' like a shadow dancer through Skullport at the witching hour.
They park it at the bar, orderin' drinks all casual-like.
Little later, door busts open like a Harper raid, and in struts Tekina and her sister from House Hunzrin; spider-kissin' priestesses with about a dozen drow muscle who look like they bench press umber hulks for fun. She's lookin' for Jarlaxle like he owes her. Probably does, to be honest.
Brelen tells her he'll pass the message along. Shoulda known better.
"Seize them," Tekina says, pointin' at the surfacers. "Insurance until Jarlaxle shows."
Two of her goons start movin'. The rocker shoots a look at death-mask dame and makes a face like he just remembered he left a portable hole open. He knows what's comin'.
Glittergold's beard! She goes from zero to murder-machine faster than my cousin Wulbren Bongle after someone mentions his hairpiece. That glaive starts screamin', or maybe it's just her, and suddenly we got a two-for-one special on drow parts. Badda-bing, badda-boom, she's across the room, introducin' Tekina's face to the wall real violent-like.
The rocker whips out that guitar—except it ain't no guitar, it's some kinda magic axe—and lays down a power chord that'd make the Underdark Turnpike look smooth. The whole front of the joint? Fuggedaboudit. Rubble.
The goblin broad grins and, I swear on Tymora's dice, turns into a cloud of pissed-off bugs. Just dissolves into this swarm that makes a drow disappear faster than a snitch in Skullport. Meanwhile, green-hood's over the bar puttin' arrows in wise guys left and right. Some demon ape shows up, but the elf's already turned it into a pincupine.
Tekina's sister summons this yochlol, all grabby tentacles and bad attitude, like my mother-in-law at Midwinter Feast. It starts slappin' everybody around with poison whips. Tekina freezes green-hood stiffer than a corpse in Icewind Dale.
The rocker's bleedin' like crazy but hits this chord that sounds like a harpy in heat. Suddenly Tekina's bent over laughin' like she heard the one about the paladin and the succubus. The elf pops free.
Death-mask dame tilts her head at the cacklin' priestess like she's doin' math. Then she's there, like she deleted the space between 'em. That glaive starts howlin' its murder song, and Tekina's laughter gets cut short along with everything else.
Meanwhile, goblin's goin' at the tentacle thing like it insulted her clan. Pop! Demon explodes like a bag of holding full of alchemist's fire.
Dead quiet.
The last sister takes one look at the slaughterhouse, points at death-mask, and books it up the stairs screamin' "DEMON! DEMON IN THE MYCONID!"
Whole thing? Forty-five seconds, tops.
Brelen surveys his ruined joint and says real calm, "Youse guys gotta scram. Now. Before House Hunzrin comes back with an army."
Me? I stayed under my table for another hour, then paid my tab, it's about respect, and got outta there.
These psychos are headed to Sorcere to rob Gromph? After what I just witnessed, I'm thinkin'... Gromph better update his will. These maniacs are about as subtle as a tarrasque at a tea party.
